Dark Parties

by Sara Grant

  When Effie returns to her desk, red faced, I ask, “Can you explain what just happened?”

  She ignores me.

  “How am I ever going to do this job—,” I start, but Effie cuts me off.

  “You,” she shouts, and then realizes that heads are turning. She lowers her voice. “You are never going to do this job. You will do as you’re told and nothing else.”

  I flinch at the venom in her voice. I summon my courage. “What happened to those girls?” Maybe if I can find out what happened to them, I can find my Missing.

  She raises her hand to stop me. “There are no missing girls. The news organization was misinformed.”

  “But how do you know—”

  Her open palm closes into a tight ball. “No one goes missing in Homeland.” She smoothes her hair. “The Protectosphere keeps us safe. How could anyone go missing?” she says sweetly.

  “But the article said—”

  Effie interrupts, “I think you are mistaken.”

  I open my mouth to contradict her.

  “You are mistaken.” She takes a deep breath. As she exhales, she seems to return to her normal, controlled self. She hands me a stack of envelopes. “Why don’t you deliver these for me?”

  “What are they?” I ask, checking the names and office numbers on the tattered envelopes.

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “That doesn’t concern you.”

  I open my mouth to ask for a map or something to help me navigate this maze of a building. But she just points a rigid arm and shoos me away. All eyes follow me as I shuffle down the hallway. But nothing, not even Effie, can squelch this new hope I feel.

  Sanna is waiting on my front steps when Dad and I come home from work. Dad steps around Sanna as if she’s trash that can’t be recycled. The rosy S glows on her cheek.

  “What’s with the disappearing act?” she says when we are alone. “I tried to call you a zillion times yesterday and today.”

  I sit down next to her, tucking my skirt between my legs. We normally see each other or at least talk every day. I don’t know how to talk to her when all I can think about is Braydon. “It’s just I’ve got this new job, and Dad’s watching me like a hawk, and…”

  “Life’s gotten all weird. I get it. Your mom told me about the new job. Major snore, I bet. But don’t leave me hanging.” She rests her head on my shoulder.

  I feel even worse, if that’s possible. “I’m sorry, Sanna.” She brushes the grass with the bare soles of her feet. “What’s wrong?” I ask even though I’m afraid of the answer.

  “Braydon’s acting strange. You’re a ghost. Everyone’s freaked out.”

  I think about the wave of his hair and how he smelled of cologne. I try to think of something, anything, else. “Come on, San. There’s a lot going on. My job. You’re going to start school soon. We’ve got to find a new sense of normal.”

  “You’re right.” She perks up a bit. “Tell me about your big job. You even look all professional. How’s it feel to be all responsible-like?”

  “It’s like working in a minefield,” I say, and then the rest comes flooding out. “I’m working with my dad’s assistant, Effie. She hates me being there.” I don’t tell her about how my dad shapes the news and history. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to betray him, even to my best friend. “I’m supposed to update the history book and…” I pause, look around and whisper, “I think I may have a way to find The Missing.”

  “What?” She leans in close. “How?”

  “The government has a computer system that has files on everyone. There’s got to be something in there about my grandma.” My pulse quickens. “Sanna, I’m on the inside now. I’m sure I can find something useful. Something that will prove that there’s something out there. That the government should open the Protectosphere.”

  “Nev, I thought we agreed to cool it for a while. Braydon says that it’s too dangerous—”

  I stop her. I don’t want to know what Braydon says. “Maybe we—”

  Now she interrupts, “Can’t we go back to the way things were before our Dark Party?”

  “I wish we could,” I say.

  She loops her arm though mine and I feel the sting of guilt. I should be arrested, but not for crimes against Homeland. I should be condemned for sins against my best friend.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  After a week of Effie-intensive training, I think I may lose my mind. She only leaves her desk to respond when my dad beckons. The woman must have a bladder of steel with all the coffee she drinks—from her own thermos, obviously—no unnecessary trips to the kitchen for pointless socializing, as she puts it. She hovers over me and randomly spot-checks my work. She clears her throat if I pause for one minute. I consider spiking her coffee so I can have a few minutes alone. I haven’t had one second to check out GovNet again. It’s like waiting to open a Christmas present, except Christmas never comes.

  Today I decide to have lunch outside on the front steps of the building. Effie must have sprayed me with repellent because no one will come near me in the break rooms or the cafeteria. It’s nothing new. I sit nibbling my cheese sandwich on the front steps and inventing dramas for those around me. The two women a few steps away are signaling spies with some complex nail filing code. The jogger has escaped from the Border Patrol Detention Center and is heading up North. The man in a light gray suit has passed this way twice; at least, I think it’s the same man, probably casing the joint for a heist of government secrets.

  “Neva!”

  It takes me a moment to realize that it’s my name being called.

  “Neva, is that you?”

  I scan the spies and the convicts. Maybe I’m imagining friends like I did before Sanna came along.

  “Neva!” The voice seems familiar but out of place. It’s coming from behind me. I twist around. My insides tangle. I look at his feet to confirm my gut reaction. Red boots.

  “I thought that was you,” he says as he sits next to me.

  “Hi, Braydon,” I say. My face flames red. Our bodies are inches apart. It’s as if he is radiating heat. “What are you doing here?” My immediate instinct is to make sure no one’s watching.

  He studies his boots. “I wanted to see you.”

  God, I wanted to see him too, but now that he’s a breath away, I want him to leave. He’s triggered an almost unbearable ache inside me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. I don’t see him move, but he feels closer to me somehow.

  I shake my head ever so slightly.

  “Yeah, right. Stupid question.” He notices a smudge on his boots and rubs and rubs and rubs it. “How’s the new job?”

  “Fine,” I lie. I don’t know how to act around him. Every word and gesture seems to give away my new feelings for him. Whatever those are.

  He leans in close. I freeze, terrified he’ll touch me yet wishing he would. “Neva,” he whispers, “please promise me you’re not doing anything that could get you in more trouble.”

  I know that he means stop protesting and looking for The Missing, but what I’m doing right now with him is much more dangerous.

  “You’re not going to stop, are you?” he says when I don’t respond. He already knows my answer.

  “I can’t.” Everyone around me is going about their business. It’s a typical day. They are eating and drinking and talking and laughing, but if I look closer I can see it. A dullness in the eyes. They all know their limits; I’m not sure of mine yet.

  “Do you understand how dangerous it is?” He takes a deep breath as if he’s about to launch into a sermon.

  I shake my head. “Don’t bother. You may have convinced…” but I can’t say Sanna.

  He exhales, exasperated. “You know it’s the smart thing to do.”

  I nod. “But the smart way is not usually my way.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Mine either.” He stretches his legs and leans back on the step behind him.

  We sit in a sile
nce that’s begging to be broken. I can’t look at him, can’t speak. I try to casually scoot away from him, to create space between us. I can tell he notices, but he doesn’t move. We both pretend to survey the crowd around us.

  “How do they do it?” he asks me finally.

  I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Do what?”

  “Do this, day in and day out?”

  I know what he means. I’ve watched them, all of them, act out the same boring play every day. “I have no idea,” I say.

  “Don’t you ever want to scream and run far, far away from here?”

  “All the time.” I sigh.

  “Yeah, me too.” He glances at me. “We won’t end up like them.”

  Something deep inside me still believes it. “Yeah, as long as we know we’re trapped, we still have a chance to escape.”

  He looks at me as if he’s really considering what I’ve just said. “I never thought of it that way. These people don’t even see the cell bars anymore.”

  Funny, he doesn’t sound like Braydon. I don’t know if it’s his tone of voice or the fact that we’ve never really had a conversation before. He still has the same mysterious edge, but it’s as if I’ve gotten a glimpse of the man behind the mask. “You better watch it,” I say, allowing myself a long look at him. “You’re starting to sound like a rebel.”

  He smiles at me and the jittery feeling he’s inspired turns molten. We move closer one painful millimeter at a time.

  Something inside me snaps. “Braydon, I can’t do this.” I straighten.

  “Do what?” He knocks his shoulder against mine.

  Zap. That feeling again, like an internal lightning bolt. “You know what.”

  “We aren’t doing anything, Neva,” he says, but we can’t look at each other. We both stare at his red boots.

  Maybe I’ve misjudged the whole thing. But I’ve got to know. “Why did you kiss me?”

  He shrugs. “It was just…” Our eyes meet, and I can see it meant something to him too. “You kissed me back.”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” I protest. He’s rested his hand on the step next to mine. Our little fingers touch. Zap!

  “Braydon, stay away from me.” I stand and smooth my skirt.

  “You’re right.” He looks up at me with those eyes.

  I should leave. “I would never hurt Sanna.”

  He slowly rises to his feet. “I don’t want to hurt her either, but…” He takes my hand.

  “Please don’t, Braydon,” I say, but don’t let go.

  He steps closer. “You can feel it. I know you can. Everything’s all planned out for us. Then we kissed and I felt—”

  “Alive,” I finish his thought.

  “Yeah.” Our fingers interlace.

  “Like we aren’t living recycled lives.” The electricity between us is powerful, a force like two Protectosphere-size magnets.

  His lips are dry and slightly cracked, but I want to close the gap between us and kiss him. God help me. It’s as if I’ve been drugged.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, shaking the invisible hold Braydon has on me. “I’ve got to get back to work.” I dash up the steps. I want to look back, but I know he’s still staring at me. I can feel his eyes on me. It’s as if that kiss in the dark cast a spell and I’ve got to find a way to break it.

  I climb the steps, absorbed in my own thoughts. Too late I spot the jet-black uniform. A police officer is blocking the straight line away from Braydon and into the building. I change my trajectory, but he shifts so I can’t pass. Fear wraps itself around my vital organs. How long has he been watching me?

  “You should really watch what you’re doing,” he says. What does he mean by that? I step back and prepare to walk around him, but he shifts so that his broad chest blocks my field of vision. My heart races. My eyes travel up his pressed shirt to his face. It’s not the same man who interrogated me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. He steps aside and I bolt and don’t stop moving until I’m back next to Effie.

  * * *

  I call Ethan and agree to meet him later at the National Museum. Maybe Sanna’s right. I need to get my old life back. Ethan wants to celebrate our new jobs. He thinks I’ve given up my rebellious ways. I need to find what I’ve lost with Ethan and stop thinking about Braydon.

  We walk into the museum’s main lobby and stop in the center of the space. Being with Ethan makes me feel like a traitor and a target. The government is tracking his every move. I’m painfully aware I’m being watched. Each room has a prism of cameras, sweeping electronic eyes. Even the eyes in the paintings seem to track us. Neither Ethan nor the government can see my betrayal, even though I feel it with every breath.

  A mural covers the wall ahead of us. Ethan and I aren’t the only ones admiring the expansive work. The artist appears to have captured Homeland in a snapshot taken from miles above. The Protectosphere glistens in the sun and the enclosed landmass looks lush green and sparkling blue. The image is reflected in the shiny beige tiles under our feet. The vivid colors change the hue on the surrounding walls as the sun streams in from skylights.

  It’s my dad’s favorite painting. He brought me here a few times. I’ve heard him give lectures on Ancient History and the importance of the Protectosphere—“the most advanced technological feat ever.” He smiled as if he’d been there, as if he’d connected each panel himself. I told my dad the painting makes us look small and insignificant. His body had stiffened. “You will never understand what it was like. We were insignificant. We were losing our identity, but our founding fathers reclaimed our proud heritage.”

  The artwork in the museum highlights how Homeland evolved. The paintings show people and landscapes from hundreds of years ago. Buildings and fashions have evolved, but somehow remained the same, somehow it’s still 01/01/01. My dad calls it “elegant simplicity.” I call it stifling.

  Ethan and I stare at the mural. I try to feel the pride that my dad and maybe even Ethan feel. I look at that bubble and feel trapped.

  He kisses my cheek. “Do you mind if we check out the young artists’ exhibition?”

  “Okay.” I let him lead me up the stairs and through two galleries. The exhibition says it features young artists, even though the newest painting is more than ten years old. We’ve been here before. Ethan stops in the middle of the room, taking in each canvas. He walks toward the portrait of a couple looking in a mirror. I follow him. The painting is titled “The Reflective Couple.” I watch his eyes dart back and forth as he slowly and systematically takes in every inch of the canvas. “Do you see the way he’s shown the whole picture, half in the mirror, half facing the viewer? Brilliant.” He pauses and reaches out as if he might touch it. “There. Do you see how he’s shown the light source without painting it?”

  He’s not really talking to me. I see two people who could be anyone and no one. He is bare chested; she’s wearing a cream slip and nothing more. He’s standing behind her, but they aren’t touching. They have woken up together and can’t look each other in the eye. So they survey what they’ve done in the mirror. She’s regretting last night and he’s reaching for her; his hand is barely in the frame but extended as if he wants to touch her.

  “Why don’t you sketch me?” All of a sudden I want him to study me, every line, every curve, so I can be solidly in this moment. “I could model for you.” I say as I jut my hip to one side and pout my lips.

  “Neva, you don’t need to model. I could draw you in my sleep.” He kisses me on my pouty lips and moves on to another painting.

  “Guess you’re right. Portrait painters have it easy: make one painting and then copy it a million times.”

  Ethan’s eyes narrow. “I never thought you’d be one of those people.”

  “What people?”

  “Those people who can’t get beyond our physical similarities. We aren’t identical.”

  “But sometimes it feels as if we are.”

  We move to the next painting. It’
s a portrait of an old woman whose face is a roadmap of wrinkles. “So when you look at me, you don’t see anything special?” he says.

  “Yes, of course I do.” I feel hot, my skin tight.

  “Then close your eyes.” He places his hand over my eyes. “Describe me.”

  I don’t close my eyes. I stare at the pink parallel lines of light between his fingers. “You have the softest skin.”

  “No, Neva, what do I look like? Describe me like you would a painting.” He’s standing behind me now.

  “Okay.” I pause to collect my thoughts. “You have wavy brown hair, cut short. Your eyes are brown. You are wearing the striped shirt I gave you.”

  “You’re hopeless.” He removes his hand but stays behind me. He slips his arms around my waist. I wish it were Braydon holding me. “Your hair is the color of a sandy beach on a rainy day,” he says. “The hair on your right side is wavier than on your left. You have full beautiful lips that grow a deeper shade of red when I’ve kissed you, almost the perfect shade of a June strawberry. Your body is pear-shaped.”

  “Thanks a lot!” I say, and step away. I can’t face him. He’ll be intensely staring as if he’s undressing me, and I’m thinking about Braydon.

  “Come here.” He hooks his arm around my waist again. “I’m not finished. Your waist is small and my arms fit perfectly around your middle. Your hips are round and dip in at the line where they connect to your thighs.” He starts to move his hands lower.

  I shift out of his grasp. “Okay. Okay, I get it. You are way better at this game than I am. You win.”

  “It’s not a game, Neva.”

  I walk behind him and rest my chin on his shoulder. “You may know the color of my eyes and the shape of my butt, but I know you here.” Or at least I used to. I reach around and poke my finger in his chest. “You are a brilliant artist, but you only draw parts of people because that’s how you see them. A hand. An eye. A look. A gesture. You are scared to death to put them all together and draw something whole. You want to have a painting hanging here someday. You want it so much it hurts. I can see it in your eyes: the joy you have when you are surrounded by art. But you’ll become an architect and remake their designs. To hell with originality. But you could be so much more.”