by Masha Leyfer
“Yes. Alright, gang, let’s move.” The four riders rev their snowmobiles forward, leaving behind a trail of disturbed snow. As they leave, my thinking begins to clear again.
Dear lord, I think coughing as my lungs fill with gas. I just let the Rebellion into Hopetown.
CHAPTER 3
When I return to Hopetown, the gate is still closed and the snowmobiles wait in front of it. One of the watchmen leans over the wall and shouts at me.
“They say you let them in. We thought they killed you.”
“No, I’m still alive,” I say with the same disbelief as the watchman.
“They say they’re on a mission from the CGB headquarters. Is that true?”
I glance over at the man on the first snowmobile and he nods.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You better be really goddamn sure about this!”
“Yeah, I am,” I say absentmindedly, still looking at the snowmobiles.
“Okay, then,” the guard stands suspiciously. “Stand back. We’re opening the Gate.” We move aside as the Gate creaks and rises up. The snowmobile rider turns around and smiles at me. Then, the four of them ride inside, leaving a trail of snow.
“You better hope to God they don’t screw anything up!” the guard shouts at me.
“They won’t,” I say, and run inside. I run to my house, not paying attention to everyone else. I know they’re all looking at me anyway, stares filled with eager accusation. They need someone to blame. Why not let it be me?
But in this situation, it really is me.
My mother is waiting for me at the door of our house, her hands crossed, biting her lip in anger. Her normally calm gray eyes are clouded with the same accusation as the rest of the townspeople.
“Molly, what did you do?” The vehemence in the voice I’ve always associated with calm and comfort draws me back into the reality of the situation and dissipated the godlike feeling that came with the events of the last several minutes.
“What?” I say, dodging her gaze. “We’re all supposed to support each other, right? They seemed harmless. They just want lodging.”
“No! You have no way of knowing that. If anyone gets hurt, it’s on your head.”
“I know, mom.”
“Do you? Are you ready to accept that responsibility?”
“They won’t hurt anyone.”
“Really? How can you be sure?”
Because they’re the Rebellion, Mom. Don’t you see? They can’t hurt anyone. They’re the only ones that can help us.
Because if they do, I’ll lose all of the hope I had left, and that can’t happen. It won’t happen.
“You don’t even know who they are!” my mother shouts. I falter. Somehow, telling her their identity would be betraying them. She sees the hesitation in my eyes and starts shouting at me again.
“You do know who they are! What aren’t you telling me, Molly?”
I falter again. But after all, she’s my mother. What harm could come of telling her? I throw a glance behind me to assure myself that no one can hear us here.
“That’s the Rebellion.”
“The Rebellion? Molly, they’re just a myth, for Christ’s sake! A myth you have to stop pretending exists!”
That hurts.
“Actually, you can clearly see that they’re not a myth. And they’re here, right now,” I spit out venomously and turn away from our house. I run back to Centre Street, still stung by my mother’s words. Most of the people have gone back inside and closed their shutters and I am alone on the street except for the drunks, and even they seem quieter today, as if they sense the uncertainty of the situation.
I run back to work. Maybe the monotonous action of pouring drinks will take my mind off of-
No way.
Parked outside the door are the four snowmobiles.
I stop. Should I enter?
The two opposing instincts of safety and curiosity battle inside of me. Nobody would miss me if I didn’t return to work today. In fact, I’m not sure I’m welcome back at all. I bite my lip in indecision, but the choice has already been made. Of course I should. The Rebellion is here. How can I miss it? They will only be here for one day. And what happens today is inconsequential; after all, I’ll never see them again. I enter.
Our usually busy bar is now completely empty except for the Rebellion. They are all sitting in a spot of grimy illumination at the edge of the bar. I move myself into one of Thirty One’s many shady corners and observe them from a distance. I don’t want them to know that I work here, for some reason.
The Rebellion is composed of two men and two women. They are all pretty young, not much older than I am. I wonder if this is all of them. That seems fairly unlikely to me—could four people make that big of a difference?—but then again, how much do I know about the Rebellion? Anything could be possible.
The young man who I had argued with earlier is taking puffs from his cigarette. One of the girls–she has straight, shoulder-length, blond hair and is very tall –sits next to him, muttering what sounds like reproaches for smoking indoors. Next to her sits another young man, seemingly younger and also good looking, by my standards, at least. Not that it matters, I remind myself.
At the end of the bar and slightly distanced from the others, sits the fourth member of their party. This is the one that analyzed me earlier. She has light golden curls spilling over her shoulder and holds herself very straight. They all sport black leather jackets and wear their helmets around their necks. They look as if they don’t belong here, although I can’t place what it is exactly about them that suggests that.
The bartender brings them four glasses of white wine, and they clink their glasses together.
“To victory,” the young man who appears to be their leader says.
“To victory,” everyone else echoes and then drinks. I wonder if they know what victory means in this town. If they know how taboo it is and how afraid everybody is of rebellion and change. I wonder if they know that everybody here has long stopped believing in anything other than survival. Or maybe they haven’t been in a bar in so long, they’ve forgotten that the walls have eyes and the floor has ears.
The young man says something indistinct and everyone laughs.
“Shut up Mike, you can’t hold your liquor,” the tall blond one tells him. The other man snorts.
“The only thing he can hold is liquor.” They all laugh, except for the curly haired one. She just produces a reserved but sincere smile. They continue their chatter and I understand that the two young men are brothers. The curly girl leans over to the one apparently named Mike and whispers something. I can’t help thinking that she’s whispering about me. Has fifteen minutes in the limelight really made me that conceited? She hasn’t even looked in my direction or done anything to suggest any reason to show interest in me. Mike nods slowly and says,
“You’re probably right. We shall see.”
See what? I wonder. Their voices become hushed for a moment as they continue discussing.
“Mike, listen, are you sure about this? It’s a pretty big leap of faith,” the blonde one says. Mike shrugs.
“Anna says it should be fine. I think we could benefit a lot from something new. Why? Are you afraid?”
“Well, I can’t help but be nervous. You are planning to put your trust in a stranger. You never know how that will end up.”
“You’re right. But I think we should take the chance. You guys want whiskey this time?” Mike asks. They all nod. “Hey, sir,” Mike says addressing the bartender. “A round of whiskey, please.”
The bartender, an old, bent-over man with one clouded eye, responds with a nod. He too has been watching them the entire time, absentmindedly washing the same glass the whole while. His rag moves around the inside of the glass creating a strange swishing sound that seems oddly appropriate to the situation.
Swish, swish, swish.
While pouring the Reb
ellion their whiskey, I can hear him muttering to himself.
“Sir? To hell with being a sir.” He hands them all the drinks.
“To new chances,” they toast.
“To new chances.” They continue ordering alcohol and making toasts until the curly haired one speaks for the first time. Her voice is quiet and musical.
“You’re all drunk. Let’s go.” They are all drunk, except for her, although she drank as much. Surprisingly, this delicate-looking young woman can hold her liquor better than the rest of them.
“But, Anna, this is so much fun.” I recognize the familiar slur of drunk syllables. Who knew that the Rebellion could have something in common with the people of Hopetown? Although I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that much. We are all human, after all.
Anna smiles at her drunk companions.
“We’ll have more fun back at camp. Besides, we have to decide, and you should be sober for that. Let’s go.”
They go up the stairs where I assume they rented rooms. Decide what? What are they talking about? Why are they here? I wish I hadn’t told them to leave the next day. I am jealous of everything, every small detail of their life. What I envy the most isn’t even the fact that they are changing the world and I am serving liquor. I am jealous of their snowmobiles and their sleek-looking helmets. I am jealous of how close they all seem to each other and how they all have their own unique personalities that are so different from the type of person Hopetown has made all of us into. I am jealous of the fact that they get to drink alcohol instead of serving it. I am jealous of Mike and Nathan for knowing what it is like to have siblings. I am jealous of the air they breathe and the sky they see and the sun they wake up to, because the fact that it is theirs makes it different somehow. I am jealous of wherever their home is, because anywhere is better than here, but I’ll never get out.
I sigh.
I suppose I’m destined to stay here forever.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
The next morning, the entire village is gathered around Thirty One Center Street. The roads here are packed enough to walk on without falling through. I creep up to the back of the crowd, making myself as small as possible, but the person standing in front notices me and steps to the side. Immediately the whole crowd has parted in front of me, leaving a clear path leading to the door. I understand that they want me to go in. Probably because half of them don’t expect me to come out alive.
Carefully and painstakingly slowly, I walk to the door. I am uncomfortably aware of the awkward crinkling of snow beneath my feet. It is the only sound breaking the silence. I want to run inside quickly, or better yet, run away completely. But instead, I walk in what I hope is a dignified way, adopting a prouder stance with every step. They want me to fail? Well, in that case I’ll prove them wrong. Them and myself both.
I open the door.
The four rebels in full attire are walking down the stairs at that moment.
“Come to wish us a farewell?” Mike says.
“I came to make sure you would keep your promise. So you can go now.”
Part of me really does want to see them go, so that I could forget my taste of another world and return to the repetitive lull of Hopetown. I can’t bear any more of this false hope. Just a little more and I’ll be at their feet begging them to take me along, and I wouldn’t be able to handle their rejection.
“We’ll be gone very soon. I promise. But,” he smiles a little, as if he knows something I don’t and my heart catches in my throat. I breathe out softly.
Say it.
Say that I’m worth it.
Say that I’m worth bringing along.
Please.
“You know, you could come with us.”
My body breathes out in relief, fear, and electricity.
He did it.
I can’t believe it, but he really did it.
And I can’t believe it, but-
My heart stops and I hold my breath as I am torn in half. I don’t trust this Mike character, I can’t. He could be lying and he probably is, because things like this don’t happen, and he’s probably just a spy, and he must be taunting me, and why would they ever want to bring me with them, but-
But, my goodness, I want to believe. My chest hurts from how much I want to look at the faces in front of me and call them the Rebellion. How much I want to look at my own face and call myself the same.
Come with us.
I have absolutely no idea how to respond so I just stand there with my mouth open.
I throw a glance around the bar and out of the single grimy window. This—all this—has been my home for almost thirteen years. Most of my life has been lived out here. Most of my memories are from here. Everything I am now originated here.
Would I even survive in a different world? I am so carved for life here that I might never be able to make it out.
My heart rises to my throat.
The truth is, I want to say yes, I want to go. More than anything else in the world, I want to get onto one of the snowmobiles and ride far, far away from here and not come back. Every molecule in my body protests against staying here. Every breath I take begs to leave. And here it is, the chance to do it, placed right at my feet.
But the scale of that decision stops me from agreeing.
So instead I say, “No.”
I think my voice must be shaking.
“Why not?”
Check.
“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you do. For all I know, you could be CGB spies. I don’t trust you.”
Your move.
“Don’t you? What’s your name.”
“Molly,” I respond automatically. Why did I tell him my name? You don’t trust him, remember? I remind myself. But it is too late.
“Aha!” He cries triumphantly. “So you do want to come with us!”
“What?” I cross my arms across my chest, attempting to express an emotion I can’t explain. “I never said that!”
“Didn’t you? Why did you tell me your name then?”
Because I do want to come, more than anything else in the world, and I despise you for knowing it.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, though that is not a real answer and my tone of voice is so unconvincing, even I don’t believe myself.
“That means everything,” he objects. He thinks for a moment. “Fine, if that doesn’t convince you, tell me this: what do you want more than anything in the world?”
Checkmate.
I could lie, of course. I could tell him that I want to settle down and live a peaceful life with my family, and watch the ocean winds wear Hopetown to the ground. I could tell him that I never see the faces of the Rebellion ever again. I could tell him that this means nothing to me and that he’s wasting his time trying to convince me, but my tongue trips over itself every time I open my mouth to try and say it.
I can’t bring myself to lie about this.
“I want to change the world,” I admit quietly. The words are sweet and acidic in my mouth.
Mike smiles triumphantly.
“In that case, we leave in half an hour.” I nod silently and turn my back to the Rebellion, just for a moment, and return into Hopetown.
The crowd watches me curiously. I think they still expect me to be dead.
My parents are waiting a few meters behind everybody else. I pull them back several meters more.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, “I love you, you know that right? I want you to always know that.”
“Of course,” my dad responds. “We love you too, Molly, more than anything in the world.”
My heart pangs.
I love you too. That’s why I’m leaving, alright? Can you understand that?
“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” my mother asks anxiously.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, all right?” I leave them standing with the crowd and run to my house. The door creaks familiarly as I push it open and rush i
nto my room. I pull a backpack from under my bed. Mike didn’t specify what to bring, so I stuff in as much as fits and hope that I’m bring the right things: several shirts, pants, sweaters and basic toiletry. I put my paint blocks and two pads of paper into it as well. I tie my snowshoes to the back and push several books into the pockets. My hands move automatically, as if by a rehearsed routine. From the corner of my bed, I take the bunny that I ran with from the ash clouds and my closest friend for thirteen years. One of his ears is falling off. I’ve never noticed that before.
Is that all I want to bring?
No. There’s one more thing. In the very corner of the wasteland under my bed is a small chest. I pull it out and open it. Inside is a small locket with a photo of my parents and me before the Tragedy. I clutch it tightly to my chest and breathe deeply, inhaling its musky scent. That smell has always been the beacon of comfort and safety.
I blow the dust off of it and open it, running my fingers fondly along the photograph’s faded surface and the tarnished metal of the locket. This is what I’m leaving behind, but I know that and I’m doing it anyway. I slip it over my head, put the backpack on and head out. I am surprised at how easy this is for me. Where are all of the regrets, the guilts, the hesitations?
I open the door.
Ah.
There they are.
Somehow the creak of the door tells me that I’m not ready to leave this place, not yet. I go back inside, running my fingers over the walls, turning over spoons in my hands, dragging my feet over the floor. I turn the light bulb on and off several times. I run a finger over the top of the fireplace and it comes off gray with soot. Gray with home.
I go into my parents’ room. I press their covers to my nose, taking in the warm smell and trying to recreate our happiest memories together. I clutch the bedknob on their headboard and rub my fingers over the lacquered surface.
I press my hands to the cold glass of the windows, leaving my fingerprints behind. I close the shutters, but then decide to open them again. Why should there be less light if I’m gone?
I stop at my door frame, almost afraid to go in. I place my hands on the frame, one on either side and take a deep breath. Finally, I step in. I take it in hungrily, as if seeing it for the first time. I run my fingertips over the walls, the bed, the mirror, the drawer, the window frame. I trace every paint splatter, every unevenness in the wall. I breathe in the stale smell of paint. I look at all the paintings on my walls. Every one of them is a memory. Very few are happy, but they are all part of me.