Dark Parties

by Sara Grant

  I involuntarily jerk away from him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” My voice cracks and I have to concentrate on every syllable. I can still feel him behind me.

  “No one’s accusing you of anything,” he says for the people behind the mirror, “for the moment. You are free to go. Shall I call your mom or dad to pick you up?”

  “I’m an adult now and I can get home on my own.” I try to sound confident, but I can see in his cold, hard eyes that he’s not buying it. I stand on wobbly legs and walk slowly toward the door.

  “I’ll be watching you,” he whispers as he walks by. He leads me through a maze of underground corridors. We climb three flights of stairs and finally we are aboveground. Windows line the hall. I am comforted by the sight of trees and sky. I’m almost out. As we turn a corner, I see someone being led by another officer. The star on her cheek is bright red and nearly glowing. Nicoline must have retraced it. As we pass, she glances at me and tries to smile, but her lower lip quivers. I force myself to smile what I hope looks like a strong, confident smile. I want her to know her secret is safe with me.

  Is mine as safe with her?

  I can’t stop walking; I can’t even pause or change the quickness of my step. I have to keep moving forward. As I leave the government building, I can still feel watchful eyes upon me.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  “Sanna,” I stammer into the phone. “They know.” That’s all I can think to say when Sanna answers. The phone booth is humid and smells of urine.

  “Nev, chill. Where are you?” The line crackles.

  It takes me a moment to remember. The concrete steps. The massive stone structure ahead of me, which dominates the city block. “I’m in front of the government building where my dad works.” People are sitting on the stone steps, drinking coffee from colossal mugs. Two runners in shorts and tank tops run by. “Sanna, they asked me about—”

  “Nev…” Her words are obscured by static.

  “What?” I’ve got to tell her. I’ve got to tell someone. “Sanna—”

  She cuts me off. “Nev, shut it. We need to talk”—she pauses—“in per-son,” she enunciates.

  Now I understand. She thinks someone could be listening. She’s right. Of course she’s right. How could I be so stupid? I’m not thinking straight. I glance at the two women in gray business suits who are standing nearby. One smiles; the other nods at me. They could have overheard. I pull the phone away from my ear. Are they listening? “Sanna…” There’s so much to say, but I feel gagged. Every word in my brain seems incriminating. I feel as if someone has turned a spotlight on me.

  “Braydon’s on his way.”

  His name triggers a new level of panic. “Wait, no,” I start, but I’ve got to get out of here.

  “He’ll be there in a few. He’s got his motorcycle. He’ll take you home. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Braydon rides a motorcycle?”

  “Yes, that’s why he wears the killer boots,” she retorts. “There’s a lot you don’t know about him.”

  I have no doubt.

  I hear the roar of his motorcycle before I see him. He’s wearing faded jeans with holes in the knees and a black leather jacket with deep cracks around one elbow. He rolls up in front of me. His long wavy hair curls at his shoulders. He looks so confident astride that bike. His muscles strain to keep the bike upright. My eyes trace the curves from his butt, then down his strong legs. I walk down the steps to meet him.

  “I’m sorry, Neva,” he says in a low, steady voice. There’s a sincerity I’ve never heard before.

  Braydon closes the distance between us. He reaches up and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. He repeats the motion as if he knows that was what my grandma used to do. What is he doing? Don’t touch me. Please. I want to move away, but something in his deep brown eyes, the way he looks at me, keeps me there. It’s as if he understands that I can never feel safe again.

  Except… He wraps his arms around me.

  “It’s okay, Neva.” He presses his cheek to mine. I fold into him. I don’t know how long we stand like that, but it isn’t long enough. “We need to go,” he says.

  “Okay.” I look up at the stone structure one last time. A dark-uniformed figure looms at the top of the stairs, glowering down at me. It could be the police officer who questioned me. It’s impossible to tell. “Let’s go,” I say, hopping on the motorcycle. He climbs on in front of me.

  “We’ll ride for a while.” He shoves the motorcycle forward and releases the kickstand. We balance there. I’m suddenly scared to touch him. “Hold on,” he says, and starts the engine.

  I place my hands on his sides. He pulls me forward. I mold myself to him, my fingers connecting at his chest. He rests his hands on top of mine for a second then he grips the handlebars and we speed away.

  My cheek is pressed against his sun- and sweat-warm leather jacket. My thighs are tense, gripping the bike. I’m trying not to hold on too tightly, but every inch of me wants to touch him. I can’t tell if it’s the vibration of the engine or something inside me that makes my body tingle. I am ashamed at how excited I feel. He pins his arms to his side to keep my arms securely around him. Our bodies are pressed together with every turn.

  We wind our way though the city streets. I notice him checking and rechecking his rearview mirrors. I don’t dare look around, afraid to alter our perfect balance, but I feel as if we are being followed. We dart into a tunnel and speed through. When we are back in the light, he takes a series of sharp rights. We duck down so we are hidden behind a row of shrubs facing the tunnel’s exit. A dark sedan exits and then slows down. Maybe it’s looking for us. We wait until it passes and then head back into the tunnel.

  Braydon’s body relaxes. I pretend that he’s kidnapping me. We will disappear together. I press my lips against his jacket. After a while, I recognize the streets and houses. I hug him tighter, not wanting this break from reality to end. He parks in front of my house. My life has been shaken like a snow dome, but instead of the happy figures and houses being covered with glitter, they have come undone and are floating free, crashing into one another and landing helter-skelter.

  He pries my hands from his chest before he dismounts. He helps me off. My legs are weak and I lurch forward. He catches me. We wrap our arms around each other. My cheek is pressed to his chest and I can hear his heartbeat, which is matching mine, beat by deafening beat.

  That’s when I know he feels it too. I pull away in surprise. I study his face. The way his eyes draw me in. Those lips.

  He brushes hair from my windburned cheeks. Our faces inch closer. It takes every ounce of strength not to let our lips meet. I slip into his arms but turn my face away. Sanna is watching us from my bedroom window. The crack running diagonally through the window makes her look as if someone has sliced her in two. She waves and disappears behind the curtain. “Sanna’s coming,” I whisper, and turn my face toward him. I drink in the warmth of his stubble-rough cheek and his scent; there’s a hint of cologne I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Oh, God,” I say as we part.

  He looks at the ground, at his red boots. “I know,” he says, and kicks a spray of gravel into the nearby grass.

  “Nev, poor you.” Sanna races to me and tears me away from Braydon. She hugs me, but my body is rigid. I reinhabit my life and the guilt floods in. She grabs my hand. Braydon takes my other. Sanna tugs me toward my house. Fingertips on outstretched hands linger in the air and then the sensation that was igniting my skin is gone.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Sanna drags me into my house. I hear Braydon rev his engine and drive away, and a piece of me goes with him. We pass the kitchen where I spot my mom stirring something on the stove. Her expression asks if I’m okay. I nod. She and Sanna have conspired against me. Mom’s letting Sanna do the debrief while Mom follows up with a hot meal to make everything seem perfectly normal. I smell the turkey roasting in the oven, but I can’t imagine how my life will ev
er be normal again.

  “The police asked me about our graffiti. They have Nicoline,” I ramble as soon as Sanna has shut my bedroom door and flopped next to me on my bed.

  “Whoa there, Nev. Slow down.” Our backs rest against my headboard and we stare out across my messy room.

  “They were threatening me.” I tap my head against the wall. “Talking about treason and toxic gasses. They wanted me to name names.”

  She hops up and makes her way around the clothes scattered on my floor. “What did you tell them?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything.” I watch Sanna pace, which only makes me more nervous. “They said they would send me to a Community Farm, but I’ve also heard that they’ve been implanting tracking devices into people accused of unpatriotic behavior.”

  “Can they do that?” She peeks out my window and then closes the curtains.

  I shut my eyes. “I know someone who knows someone who is being tracked.” I don’t tell her the whole truth. I can’t tell her about Ethan. I promised. “They inject this chip under your skin.” I rub my wrist as if to make sure there’s not one already there.

  I hear her maneuver around my room and feel the mattress lower as she sits at the foot of my bed. They’ve implanted something worse than a tracking device inside me. They’ve injected me with doubt. “You don’t think they’re right? You know, about what’s outside? There’s got to be something out there, right? We have a right to know, don’t we?” My grandma was so sure. But now, that faith in my grandma and her steadfast belief that there was life outside the Protectosphere is flickering and I’m not sure how I can live without it.

  “I don’t know.” She bounces on the bed. “Okay, enough of that.”

  I open my eyes. “So what do we do now? I was thinking we should get everyone together. Make a plan…” I stop. Sanna kicks a pair of jeans out of the way with her bare feet. She seems more interested in excavating my wardrobe. “Sanna?” I say softly and then increase my volume when she doesn’t respond. “What is it?”

  “Nev, we’ve got to cool it. At least for a while.” She looks at me for a second and then back at the floor.

  “What? I thought our Dark Party, our slogan, this was only the beginning.”

  “It was… it is… I mean…” she stammers. “But we’ve got to go in slow-mo.” I stare at her. She’s changing too, just like Ethan. It’s like watching a roaring fire dwindle to embers. She curls and uncurls her toes in my frayed carpet. “You’re majorly disappointed. I am too—”

  “I’m not disappointed,” I interrupt. “I’m terrified. I was dragged in for questioning. They are going to be watching me. But we can’t quit.”

  “My guardians are going mental. I had to sneak out to come here. My bro says we gotta lay low. He says word underground is things are heating up. The police are twitchy. Something’s happening, but he doesn’t know what.” She flexes and points her toes and her bones click, setting my teeth on edge. “And I promised Braydon.”

  His name on her lips crushes me. Braydon’s the real reason. Her guardians and all the rumors are excuses. Before Braydon, that type of pressure would have fueled Sanna’s rebellious fire.

  “Don’t be mad, Nev.” She playfully knocks herself against my outstretched legs. “He just worries about me. That’s sweet, isn’t it? He doesn’t want anything to happen to me. ‘Now that we’ve found each other.’ That’s what he said. Isn’t that… well, a-maz-ing?”

  I swallow the guilt and jealousy that have tightened around my throat. I pull my legs to my chest and nod. He’s stealing my best friend and killing our rebellion.

  “It’s not forever, Nev. We’ve just got to play it cool for a while.” She wants me to tell her it’s okay to give up for now. But I can’t. “It’s just I didn’t have anything to lose before,” she adds quietly.

  “I understand.” Now I’m the one who feels as if I’ve got nothing to lose.

  We sit there in a silence that is new for us.

  “I gotta go, Nev. My guardians will hit the Protectosphere if they realize I’m gone,” she says after a while. I’m relieved. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter as she leaves. My feelings for Braydon have tainted my relationship with Sanna. Every tug of loyalty and love I feel for her is countered by my new feelings for her boyfriend.

  I’m startled by two quiet taps on the bedroom door. “Neva, are you okay?” my mom asks. I check my clock; it’s nearly dinnertime. I don’t know where the afternoon has gone.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I call through the door.

  “Can I come in?” she says as she pushes the door open. She has a kitchen towel draped, like a burping baby, over her shoulder. Her shirt is still misbuttoned and more wrinkled than it was this morning. She walks over and scoots in next to me. “I spoke to your dad. Everything’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I rest my chin on my bent knees.

  “You’ve got to be more careful,” she whispers. “You don’t understand. This could have ended…” She pauses and bumps our heads together. “But we won’t think about that.”

  I can see there’s more she wants to say. “What could have happened?” This is the closest we’ve ever come to talking about The Missing. I don’t want to waste this opportunity.

  “Just be smart, Neva.”

  She doesn’t tell me to stop or ask me what I was doing. It’s as if she wants me to rebel. But how can she? We are Adamses, after all. My bloodline can be traced to the founding fathers. My grandfather was elected to Parliament four times. My dad’s on the Council. I’ve got a pedigree that opens doors and keeps others from closing. But what she leaves unsaid speaks volumes.

  When I look at my mom, I know what my life will be like in thirty years. She used to run a clothing store, but now she grows tomatoes in our greenhouse and runs the barter program in our neighborhood. Dad says we must do our part. His government role has expanded while Mom’s life has shrunk. Even though she’d never say it, I know she wishes things were different.

  “Your dad will be home soon. And Neva…”

  “Yes?”

  She rests her head on mine, and whispers, “I put your journal back.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” We stay here like this until we hear the front door open.

  “Join us for dinner when you feel up to it.” She’s up, rushing down the hall to greet Dad.

  My pink journal is tucked under my pillow. I wonder if I need to add Nicoline’s name. My family name saved me. But Nicoline has no connections. Her bloodline is muddy. And she has an identity mark. She can’t be gone; she just can’t. I put my journal into its proper hiding place, deep in my mattress. I have to call her.

  “Hello.” The voice is soft and hoarse, barely above a whisper.

  “Hello, Mrs. Brady?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She sounds like I’ve woken her up. “Who is this?”

  I try to answer, but the static surges. I wait until the line clears. “My name is Neva. I’m a friend of Nicoline’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “No.”

  I’m caught off guard. “I’m sorry?” Something’s not right. Why would she say no?

  “You shouldn’t have gotten my daughter involved in such—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I interrupt. She can’t say anymore. Someone might be listening. “Is Nicoline okay?”

  “She’s… she’s…”—she pauses as if she’s searching for words—“grounded. You won’t be seeing her for a while.” Her voice is fading in and out. I have to listen closely. “Just stay away.”

  “But, Mrs. Brady, I just want to make sure Nicoline’s—”

  “Listen,” she talks over me. “Maybe you didn’t hear me or don’t understand”—her anger is clear, even through the static on the phone line—“just drop it—if not for Nicoline’s sake, then for yours.”

  The line goes dead.

  I
have to make an appearance at dinner. I’ve got to pretend everything is okay. We are in our assigned seats. I sit at the table across from my mom. Dad faces the empty chair. A family of three should really own a round table. The empty chair always makes me feel as if someone is missing.

  “Neva.” Dad says my name as if it’s a reprimand. Mom looks at her plate, cutting a small bite of turkey in half. She’s made Dad’s favorite meal. She must have bartered hard for the turkey. There’s usually only a dozen or so each day from the turkey farm.

  “Yeah.” I’m creating clusters of corn on my plate. I can’t bear to eat another kernel. We have it almost every day.

  “You have to stop this nonsense.” That’s more words than he’s said to me in days. “I let you befriend that girl with that horrible scar on her face. It’s her influence.”

  He let me?

  His hair is the only thing that disobeys him. The hair he has left forms a horseshoe around his balding scalp. He’s clean shaven but always seems to forget a patch when he shaves, either under his lip or higher up his cheek. He has a few longer eyebrow hairs that look more like misplaced eyelashes. Sometimes a stray white hair peeks out of one nostril.

  “I don’t see why you have to mutilate yourselves; it’s barbaric,” he says, staring at the empty seat. “We’ve worked too hard to create equality, and you undermine generations of effort with your little rebellions. You really should find more respectable friends from good families.”

  “Oh, George,” my mother coos. “They are kids doing what kids do. Leave them alone. It wasn’t that long ago that you and I painted our faces.”

  “Dad painted his face?” I can’t imagine him any other way than he is right now—stone-faced with a permanent look of disapproval.

  “He’d paint his face white with black stars around his eyes.” Mom traces stars around her own eyes.

  “Really?” I try to picture him with stars for eyes.