by Tessa Clare
“It does to me,” April replies, looking away. “Look, I’m only nineteen. If you’re old enough to be my dad, that’s going to be weird to me.”
I shake my head. “I’m not old enough to be your dad.”
“Then you should have no problem answering the question.”
“Twenty-five,” I say. “I turn twenty-six in November. I haven’t even stopped my aging.”
April laughs, but she appears more relieved than amused. “You might want to do it soon. My mom says that it’s all downhill once you reach the age of thirty.”
I look away. The primary reason why I haven’t stopped my aging is that I can’t afford it. Immortality is a luxury that my wages from the Divinity Bureau are, ironically, not enough to cover. I also don’t want to end up on the Divinity Bureau’s Election List. But it goes deeper than that. I want children; and in a world where overpopulation is an issue, I feel selfish for it. But even if I had the option, I don’t think that I can bring myself to do it.
“I’m not there yet,” I reply hesitantly. “I’m not sure if I want to be twenty-five for the rest of my life.” I pause. “Maybe if twenty-six ends up being a good year, I’ll do it.”
April shrugs. “It’s up to you. Though as a cautionary tale, my mother was forty when she decided to stop her aging. She vomited up everything she ate, lost a lot of weight, and fainted a few times. She had to be hospitalized for a week.”
My stomach suddenly feels queasy. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to finish my panini, but the idea of wasting food makes me cringe – and there’s no way that I’ll be able to bring it into the tower. Once I feel recovered from my coughing fit, I pull off my mask and stuff it down; then I take the garbage from April’s hand. I ask her to save my spot while I search for a trash bin, which I oblige. When I come back, I find that she has moved a few feet forward.
“It looks like we’re finally moving,” I note.
April shakes her head. “I think our wait just got a little bit longer.”
She points to the entrance door, where a small group has formed a second – and smaller – line. The group consists of a group of men wearing tuxedos and women in ball gowns. The smaller line gets into the building without a second thought.
“Is it a private event?” I ask.
“Looks like it,” April says dryly. “We’re never going to get in.”
“Yes, we will,” I say, brow furrowed in determination. “We’ve already waited for over an hour. If we leave now, it’ll all have been for nothing.”
“Roman, I…”
I cut her off, knowing that she’s going to want to leave. “I have an idea. How about if we play a game?”
“I can’t. My Mobiroid will die if I spend three hours playing –”
“Not those kinds of games,” I interject, even though a part of me wishes that I had thought of that earlier. “Have you heard of Two Truths and a Lie?”
April shakes her head. “No. What is it?”
“Okay,” I say, as I attempt to gather my thoughts. “I’m going to tell you three statements. Two of them are going to be truths, and one of them is going to be a lie. You need to guess which one is the lie. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” says April, but her face indicates that she isn’t. I’m sure she’ll catch on.
“So, the first statement is that I have a cat named Neville – who, by the way, is the greatest cat in the world.”
“That’s a lie,” April blurts out quickly.
“You might want to wait until I give you all three statements to make your guess,” I tell her, though her determination is endearing. April’s cheeks redden. I continue, “The second statement is that I have a Bachelor’s degree in History. The third statement is that I used to be a blonde.”
April takes a moment to contemplate her answer. “The second statement is a lie. You have a degree in computer science – or something technical.”
I shake my head. “Actually, that’s a truth. I initially went to school for History, but it ended up being a terrible major. I couldn’t get a job that I could use it in, so I went back to school and got a Master’s degree in Information Technology with a specialty in Network Security.” I smile, unable to resist throwing a moment to brag. “I went to school at Western University and got admitted into a specialized program for Network Security. I spent a year learning how to hack any computer on the planet, then another year learning how to safeguard against those hackers. I graduated at the top of my class.” I pause. “I was never a blonde, though.”
“Why would you major in History?” April asks skeptically. “Especially in this economy?”
“That’s a question for another time,” I say, unwilling to admit that it was because I was an eighteen-year-old idiot that just wanted to escape the life as a farm boy. “You’re up, Miss McIntyre.”
April glances around, as though she’s hoping that her surroundings would give her a clue on what information she should share. She begins slowly and hesitantly, “Okay. The first statement is that I’ve had dinner with the Prime Minister.” My jaw nearly drops in disbelief, though April continued, “The second thing is that I was a cheerleader in high school. And last, I have six trophies from playing the piano.”
As it turns out, April was never a cheerleader.
She did, however, meet the Prime Minister; and when I stare at her in disbelief, she reminds me that she’s from a family of politicians.
The story was that she was twelve when her father had been invited to a fundraising event for one of the Prime Minister’s backers. In an attempt to sway her into following in his footsteps, he had brought her along. Instead, his plan had backfired. Rather than persuading her into a career of power and money, April had thrown a tantrum, and the two of them were forced to leave early (“That’s when I realized that I shouldn’t be a politician when I grew up,” April admitted sheepishly). She joked that her father had never forgiven her for embarrassing him in front of the leader of the free world, but a part of me wonders if it still bothers her.
“What made you start working at the coffee shop?” I ask. I’m curious why a girl from a wealthy family would spend twenty hours a week serving coffee for minimum wage. Even if she had been cut off from her trust fund, she still had to be living comfortably.
April looks away. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, we’ve got nothing but time.”
April shakes her head. “Actually…”
In the time that we’ve been talking, we’ve been pushed from the outside corner of the building to the interior. I can see the ticket booth in front of us, and we’re close to hitting our destination.
“What time is it?” April asks.
I glance at my Mobiroid. I can’t believe how much time has passed. “Half-past four.”
April’s eyes widen. “I thought they said that the wait was only going to be three hours?”
I haven’t minded the wait. It’s been a great excuse to spend more time with April and get to know her better. She’s beautiful, fascinating, and our conversations have been intriguing. With newfound bravery, I find myself grasping her hand. “Didn’t even notice.”
We’re still holding hands when we finally make it to the ticket counter. I buy two tickets, but April has to coax me out of spending the rest of the money I made in overtime on a guided tour.
“Alright, time to see what this observation deck is all about,” I say as we present our tickets to the ticket checker. I turn my attention to the checker. “Is the view worth the three and a half hour wait?”
The checker shakes his head. “You won’t be going to the top of the building yet. There’s a presentation about the history of the observation deck, which has a line. Also, there’s a line to get into the elevator.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” April exclaims. “We waited in line for three and half hours, just to pay to wait in more lines? What do I need to do to get to the ob
servation deck?”
I pull her forward before the man has a chance to answer.
“It won’t be for much longer,” I promise. “We already made it this far.”
She groans when she sees the line for the presentation, but the trivia on the wall soon captures her attention. We take turns taking silly pictures in front of a cut-out of the world’s tallest man before a passerby sees us and offers to take a picture of us together. We’re in the middle of posing for a photo when we’re ushered into a dark theater.
The presentation is a movie projected on a screen that details a history of the building. A monotone narrator explains that the building was designed to house a major corporation and accommodate its rapid growth. We take turns attempting to mimic the narrator’s voice – deep, to the point that it sounds cartoonish – bursting into laughter until we’re nearly kicked out by a security guard.
The narrator finishes the presentation by explaining that the building’s rich history is what brings us there, and how he’s so happy to have everyone there (though he sounds anything but enthused). When the movie ends, the staff ushers us into another line to the elevator.
“This is it,” April says with a grin. “After an entire afternoon of waiting.”
“Yeah, no kidding. We’ve been here for five hours now.”
When it’s our turn, we’re crammed into an elevator with a group of tourists. The elevator has two hundred stories to reach, and I prepare myself for the change in elevation. It takes another twenty minutes for the elevator to make it to the top, and we stand in silence while we try to avoid getting trampled in the crowd. April and I exchange glances as we wait to reach our destination.
When we get to the top, specks of orange, purple, blue, and pink give us a magnificent greeting. We’ve arrived just in time to see the sunset, as it sets under the horizon and illuminates the city in an array of colors. The buildings – many made of glass – reflect these colors back, painting District 200 and brightening it like a paintbrush on a blank canvas.
“Wow,” I breathe.
April nods. “Yeah.”
I grab her hand and take her near a window. The city buzzes to life underneath us as we watch in complete awe. From above, we can see the millions of people flittering about, going through the motions of their lives in oblivion to the beauty that’s surrounding us.
“You know,” I say lightly. “From up here, it’s hard to believe that we have an overpopulation problem.” April is wistful but silent. I ask her, “What are you thinking about?”
She looks back at me. “I just had this crazy thought.”
“Which is?”
She turns her attention back to the window. “Look around you, Roman.” I turn my attention to the window. April continues, “Below us lie the lives of 350 million people, spread across the Confederal Districts.” I can see it. “Some of them will live forever. Some won’t even live to see a day. But they’re all people that touch someone’s life in some way or another.” She closes her eyes. “I get it: 350 million is a lot, and more than our world can sustain. But I just had this thought that maybe if we all had good intentions – if we all decided that we wanted to leave the world a little better than before – it can be our greatest strength instead of our greatest weakness.”
I don’t know what to tell her. With those words, she just altered my view of the world; and I don’t know if there’s any way that I can turn back.
April looks back at me, a smile crossing her face. “Thanks for taking me here. It was definitely worth the five-hour wait.”
My insides feel like pudding. “No problem.”
She turns her attention to her wrist and starts sifting through a series of prompts on her Mobiroid. “Let’s take a picture.”
My Mobiroid doesn’t have a camera, but April’s does. She attempts to take the picture from her wrist until I’ve deemed that her arms are too short. After struggling for another moment, she removes the device from her wrist and passes her Mobiroid to me. She gives me a brief tutorial, and I keep my finger on a digital button that she claims will take the picture.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m going to count up to three. One…”
“Just take the picture already.”
“Two.”
She glances up at me, a grin spreading on her face.
“Three.”
My thumb has barely grazed the button before I capture April’s lips on mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
APRIL
T he last two weeks have been the most surreal of my life.
Our makeup date ended well. We spent the rest of the evening watching the sun dip into the horizon until a security guard told us that it was closing time. He parked my car in my garage before he kissed me goodnight. The next day, we texted each other back and forth from the moment we woke up until we went to sleep. We talked about everything, from the monotonous details about our days (like the fact that Autumn still snores) to the big picture discussions (I asked if he finds it strange that we’re not allowed to travel outside the Confederal Districts).
On Monday, it’s back to reality. Roman went back to work, and I had another appointment with Dr. Gray. Dr. Gray, of course, chose this day to inquire if I had anyone “special” in my life. I tried to deny it, but the blinking red light went off. I confessed that I was indeed seeing someone (which she noted diligently).
I saw him again on Wednesday. He texted me the day before to tell me about a free concert that was happening at a community theater. We ended up spending most of the time throwing popcorn at a rowdy group of teenagers seated in front of us.
Replaying the last week is making my stomach churn. I’m starting to like Roman – really like him. He’s sweet, intelligent, and considerate. He never fails to put my needs first and make me feel as though I’m the only person in the room – which is why, even though it’s only been two days since I last saw him, I’m anxious to be in his arms again.
Still, I should be grateful for the time apart. Roman has been occupying most of my thoughts lately, so I haven’t had the chance to focus on my schoolwork. I’m starting to fall behind. But I don’t want to give him the wrong impression, which I’m not sure I have the tact to do – especially right now when he’s texting me with an invitation to go out for happy hour drinks that night.
ROMAN: 1 sterling beer!
ME: I can’t. I’m not old enough to go into a bar.
I hit send before turning my attention back to the classroom.
I’m currently in my history class – ironically, the subject of Roman’s first degree. A professor named Mr. Eastwood is presenting a timeline of the Confederal Districts’ history on a projection that stretches across the front wall of the classroom.
“Can anyone tell me the name of the country that the Confederal Districts emerged from?” he asks.
Twelve hands shoot into the air. Mr. Eastwood selects a boy that’s sitting in the front row.
“The United States of America,” the boy answers immediately.
That’s only partially correct, I think to myself. My dad once explained to me that a good portion of the United States sank underwater, thanks to rising sea levels. During the Great War of the Confederal Districts, they absorbed two other countries on the north and south respectively.
“Excellent,” says Mr. Eastwood. He directs a red cursor to the front of the timeline. As he does, a photograph of a rowdy crowd burning a parchment of paper emerges. “A lot of you may know it as the United States, America, or – quite plainly, the USA. And, as a lot of you know, the Confederal Districts emerged on the day that the United States Constitution was burned. Does anyone know what lead to these events?”
I nearly volunteer to answer, but my Mobiroid vibrates before I get the chance to raise my hand.
ROMAN: I completely forgot you were only nineteen. When's your birthday? It must have recently passed.
“Corruption,” a girl sitting in the front row answers. “The USA’s government was centr
alized in modern-day District 1 with a few hundred representatives making all of our decisions for us. When Citizens United passed, these officials were frequently bought out by corporations – many of which didn’t have the country’s interests in mind. The Confederal Districts wanted to bring power back to the people.”
Mr. Eastwood nods. “Very true. But what was the biggest issue that triggered all of this?”
ME: What makes you think that it recently passed?
My birthday is actually in a few days, but I don’t want to share that information with him yet. The anniversary of my birth falls on April 30th, which is the thirty-day deadline for those elected in the first quarter. In my case, it was the anniversary of my dad’s death. I doubt that I’m doing to be in a celebratory mood.
“Overpopulation,” the girl answers. “This came with the invention of BIONs, which allowed people to stop their aging, eradicate disease, and become immortal.”
“Good,” Mr. Eastwood nods in agreement. “Now, why was overpopulation such a huge issue that it resulted in the collapse of the United States?”
Every person in the room has raised their hand, except for me. I’m still contemplating on how I’m going to tell Roman that I have no desire to celebrate the coming of my twentieth year. My Mobiroid vibrates again.
ROMAN: Well, your name is April. My best guess is that you were born sometime this month.
“Miss McIntyre,” Mr. Eastwood calls out, causing my head to shoot up in surprise. “How about if you put your Mobiroid away and tell me the side effects of overpopulation?”
I stare at the professor in contempt. I’m a bit annoyed that my conversation was cut short, but I put my Mobiroid on sleep mode anyways.
“Food shortages,” I say without a second thought. “Water scarcity. Lack of housing. Global warming. Overcrowding. Conflicts. Wars between the wealthy and poor.” I pause, feeling a bit dramatic. “My dad was a Member of Parliament – so none of these things are new to me.”