Dark Parties

by Sara Grant

  “Stop it,” he says, almost pleads. “I love you.”

  “I know you do.” He used to have a lust for life. He was the first one on the dance floor or into the pool on the first day of summer. God, I miss him, even though he’s standing next to me. I walk over to the next painting. It has yellow, blue, and red shapes outlined in black. I prefer the abstract. I take it all in then let my eyes unfocus. It’s the emotions that we keep walled away from ourselves and from one another. That’s what I see. “I like this one.”

  “Yeah,” he says, walking over and stopping next to me, our shoulders touching. “His precision and use of color are amazing.”

  I slip my hand into his. I’ll be in this moment for a while. I won’t think about the future or the police or Ethan’s tracking device or Braydon, especially not Braydon. I’ll hold on to this picture of Ethan and me side by side, suspended in time like a painting. The Happy Couple.

  “Marry me, Neva,” he whispers. The words shake me off center. “Let’s not wait any longer. Let’s start our life now.”

  Marrying Ethan would be like stepping into my mother’s recycled shoes.

  He holds my hand a little tighter and keeps talking. “We were made for each other.”

  We are as imperfect as everyone else.

  “I know about the police interrogation.” He draws me into his arms. I can’t breathe. “Sanna told me. She’s worried about you and so am I.”

  “I’m…” I want to say “fine,” but I can’t. I’m suffocating.

  “It’s the perfect solution. We’ll get married and find a nice place to live. I’m making good money. We’d get the government’s marriage subsidy. We could start a family. The police would realize that we’re law-abiding citizens.”

  They’d leave us alone. We are a threat to Homeland until we settle down and start making babies. It’s the answer. My parents would be happy. An image of Braydon flashes in my mind. Us on his motorcycle driving into the sunset. My heart flutters at the thought of him. But nothing can ever happen between us. I try not to listen to the voice in my brain, Braydon’s voice, that’s screaming: Run away, run as far from this ordinary life as possible.

  “Marry me, Neva?” he asks again.

  We’ve been heading for this finish line all my life. Why does crossing it feel like losing? “I’m not sure, Ethan.” He doesn’t relax his grip.

  “Just think about it,” he says in a panicked voice. “Please.”

  I surrender into his arms. “Okay,” I say, and feel the fight leave me.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  I throw myself into my work—well, as much as overbearing Effie will let me—so I don’t have to think of the mess I’ve made of my life. The only thing that keeps me from going stark-raving mad is the thought that I might finally be able to find The Missing. I get a thrill every time I see the GovNet icon.

  I get my first lucky break after nearly two weeks on the job. Effie gets a call. I don’t know what is said, but she leaps from her chair. She skirts around her desk, but then the rubber soles on her sensible shoes squeak to a halt. She whips around. She’s remembered her prisoner—me.

  “Copy these handouts for Dr. Adams’s presentation this afternoon.” She points and taps her short, square fingernail on the folder at the edge of her desk. “Under no circumstances are you to interrupt Dr. Adams.”

  “Copying? I thought there was a ban on photocopying.” I reach for the file and flick it open.

  “That’s only for nonessential, nongovernment personnel.” She slams her hand on the file, closing it. “I want you to make these copies right now.”

  Oh, I get it. She’s not supposed leave me unattended. I cannot be trusted. I pick up the file. She’s got to think I’m going to obey orders. But there’s no way I’m going to let this opportunity pass me by. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but a chance to sneak onto GovNet like this might not come around for a long time.

  “What are you waiting for?” She swats at me as if I’m a fly ruining her picnic.

  We head off in opposite directions, her rubber soles squeaking on the tile floor as she takes short, clipped strides. I duck down the next hallway and wait for the squeaking to fade. Once I’m sure she’s gone, I race back to our desk. I slide into her chair; the metal is cold against my bare legs. I quickly open GovNet. The flashing arrow hovers over ACTIVE. I move it to INACTIVE. I click. A dialogue box pops up and asks me to enter a name. My head is bobbing as my eyes constantly dart from computer screen to hallway, looking for Effie. My fingers tremble as I peck out the letters for my grandma’s name: Ruth Laverne Adams. The computer thinks for a few seconds. I can’t believe it’s taking so long.

  NO MATCHES FOUND.

  The words seem to twinkle on the screen.

  She isn’t dead. She isn’t inactive.

  But she is still missing. I scoot my chair closer. I position myself right in front of the screen to block the view in case my dad opens the door behind me.

  I switch to ACTIVE. I type in my grandma’s name again. The screen goes black. Red letters flash into the center of the screen: CLASSIFIED.

  What does classified mean? Already a dead end.

  The monitor flickers and returns to the main GovNet screen. My hands freeze on the keyboard. If they can tap people’s phones and track people’s physical movements, then they could be monitoring computers. I move the cursor to the GovNet icon and close the program.

  But I can’t stop. Not now. I’m too close. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I’ll have to risk it. This is Effie’s computer anyway. She must search for people all the time. I want to research someone else, but who? The red numbers on Effie’s digital clock seem to flash as if counting down to Effie’s return. Red reminds me of Nicoline’s star. I click on the GovNet icon again, select the ACTIVE button and quickly type in Nicoline’s name. The file has a series of subheadings, including Education, Family, Heritage, Address, Reproductive Status, Employment History, Identifiers, Associations, etc. It lists her address. I never knew she lived four blocks from my house. Her file notes the date she was interrogated. I recall the look in her eyes and the way her red star glimmered as if the ink was still wet.

  Under Reproductive Status, there’s a date a week after our interrogation and the word PENDING. What does Reproductive Status pending mean? There are a series of capital letters that don’t spell any words I know: WEC and IVF.

  I hear a rattle of the doorknob behind me. I quickly close down GovNet. I hold my breath.

  “Where’s Effie?” my dad asks.

  I slowly turn to face him, but everything inside me is racing: my blood, my heart, my thoughts. He’s wearing the white lab coat he always wears in his office. It makes him look like a mad scientist. Did he see what I was doing? I search his eyes but see nothing except his typical disapproving stare. Maybe he didn’t notice. But my body feels jumpy, as if I’ve been caught. Remain calm, I tell myself.

  “Neva, what’s the matter with you?” He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to decipher a code. “Where’s Effie?”

  I force the words out of my mouth. “Um, some emergency. She’ll be back soon.” For some reason I laugh. Not a real-sounding laugh but a fake laugh, as if someone has told a bad joke.

  He stares at me for a moment as if he’s forgotten what he was going to say. He walks back into his office and then stops and turns around. He scratches his scalp and his unruly hair quivers. “Um, Ef—I mean, Neva.” He shakes his head. I wonder what’s distracting him. His lab coat is unbuttoned, and he’s only wearing one of his protective white cotton gloves. “Tell her I need those copies for this afternoon’s meeting.”

  “Yes, sir.” I promised him I’d be more professional at the office. I messed up and called him Dad in front of Effie yesterday. He backs into his office but forgets to close the door. I pull it closed and collapse into the cold metal chair. I try not to think about what could have happened. I’ve got to be more careful. But I can’t stop thinking about Nico
line and her “Reproductive Status pending.” I’ve got to keep searching.

  Instead of picking a name from The Missing, I type in my own name. The file notes that I’m Dr. George Adams’s daughter. I review the standard categories: Education, Family, Heritage, Address, Reproductive Status, Employment History, Identifiers, Associations, etc. Most of my boxes are blank. I haven’t lived enough. Under Heritage, I’m a + +. I’m sure that’s good. I’ve got the correct past and present: my bloodline can be traced to our founding fathers and my dad is a respected member of the government, like his dad before him. There’s a strange category at the bottom of the screen: Security Risk. I haven’t noticed this before. The box is filled in with a percentage: 51.6%. I have no idea what that means.

  In the notes section is a date and the words interrogated on the suspicion of unpatriotic behavior. Is this the reason government employees shun me? There’s a letter and a numerical code that looks like a link. I try it. ACCESS DENIED.

  I hear squeaking like rubber soles on a tile floor. Probably my nervous mind playing tricks on me. I take it as a sign to quit snooping. This is only the beginning of my search. There will be other opportunities. I’ve got to pace myself.

  I rush off to make Dad’s copies. When I return, I’m surprised that Effie’s not back yet. I burst into Dad’s office, presenting his copies like a trophy. “Your copies,” I say, expecting to see Dad’s disapproving glare, but he’s not behind his desk. I scan the room. It’s empty. Weird. Dad rarely leaves his office. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into one of those underground creatures that will shrivel and die in the sunlight. I glance at the coatrack in the corner. His jacket is still there, but the white lab coat he normally wears is missing. Strange.

  I shut the door to his office and plop myself into Effie’s desk chair. I flip open the manila file folder with Dad’s copies. What’s so all-fired important about this document anyway? Most of his reports are written in some government-speak with way too many words to say even the simplest thing. I flip through the pages. There’s a sheet titled “Agenda” with discussion topics including: Historical Analysis, Structural Dynamics and Hypothetical Impacts, Perception vs. Reality, Next Steps. I only understand the first and final topics. The other document in the folder is eighty-seven pages long, twelve of which appear to be reference citations. A Historical Analysis of Protectosphere Changes and Their Corresponding Environmental and Cultural Impacts by George Adams. The date on the document is well before I was born. It must have also been before Dad earned his PhD. He’d never forget to include his title if he had it.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump.

  “Effie,” I say, and slap the file folder closed.

  She nudges me out of her chair. “I told you to copy them, not read them.” She sweeps the folder off her desk and checks its contents, probably to make sure I haven’t screwed with the page numbers or lost a page altogether. “Dr. Adams will certainly be asking for these soon.”

  “Dad—Dr. Adams,” I correct myself. “He’s not even in the office.”

  “Ridiculous,” she says. Now she can see through walls?

  She’s so convincing that I reach for the doorknob.

  “You can’t go in there!” Effie pivots so she’s standing in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “You are not allowed in here without Dr. Adams’s express permission. Sit,” she barks, and points to my chair. I obey but seethe from being treated like dog.

  Effie knocks twice on the door and then enters Dad’s office. I sneak to the door and scan the room. Dad’s not at his desk. I told you, Miss Effie-Know-It-All. As Effie places the file in the center of Dad’s desk, something catches my eye at the far end of the office. Dad seems to be walking out of the bookcase. I blink and look again. He’s fiddling with something and part of the bookcase slides shut. It’s a secret door!

  I dive back into my seat. Through the open door, I can see Effie straightening the files on Dad’s desk. She doesn’t seem to notice that Dad has magically appeared behind her. But her back straightens in a way that shows she has sensed his presence. She slips out of the office and closes the door firmly behind her.

  She sits down back to business as usual, and she scoots her keyboard a half inch closer to her. “Have you been using my computer?” Her question is more of an accusation.

  I open my mouth to deny it, but Effie holds up a hand. “Don’t waste your breath with one of your lies.” Her fingers aggressively punch a number of keys and the screen goes black. “Don’t you ever”—her voice is low and shaking, she is so angry—“use my computer unless you are specifically directed. Do you understand?”

  I nod. A few strands of hair have sprung free from her bun. She smoothes them back. She glances in the direction of Dad’s office and lowers her voice. “We will not tell your father about this little breach of protocol.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m sure she’s not doing it to spare me. I’m sure she’d get in trouble too if anyone found out.

  “Don’t let it happen again.” Then she looks at me for what feels like the first time since I started to work with her. The hard lines fade from her brow. “Neva, you don’t want to know too much.”

  What is she talking about? I’m tired of secrets, of living in the dark. I want to know everything.

  “Once you know something you can never un-know it.” She turns to her computer screen and clears her throat. “What are you waiting for?” Any softness from earlier vanishes. “Get back to work.”

  * * *

  I drive home with my dad in silence. I want to ask him so many things. I hear Effie telling me I can’t un-know anything. When he pulls up in our driveway, I hop out of the car.

  “Where are you going? Your mom will have dinner,” he calls after me.

  “I need some exercise,” I yell back.

  At first I walk. Then I jog. Then I run as if I’m being chased. My lungs are burning. My eyes are stinging. Sweat is pouring down my temples and dripping into my eyes. I know what I’ve got to do.

  I’m standing in front of Nicoline’s house—at least it’s the address listed in her GovNet file. It’s a small brick house with boarded-up windows. I would think it was abandoned if there wasn’t light seeping though a split in one of the boards.

  Before I lose my nerve, I knock on the door. The second my knuckles hit the wood, I want to bolt. I force myself to stay. One phrase echoes in my brain and keeps me rooted to the spot: Reproductive Status pending.

  The woman who opens the door looks like she’s been in bed. Her clothes are wrinkled and baggy. But her eyes look as if she hasn’t slept for days. The dark rings around her eyes don’t dull the fine red lines etched on the whites of her eyes.

  I open my mouth to speak and get a whiff of her. She smells like our compost heap when my mom stirs it. I rub my nose and hold my breath.

  “Mrs. Brady,” I start, “you said Nicoline is grounded, but I really need to speak to her.” The woman looks up at me blankly. “Please—it’s important.”

  Her face creases as she makes this low guttural noise that doesn’t sound human. She is sobbing, but there are no tears—only this hoarse moan.

  “She’s not here, is she?” I ask, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. I don’t want to know.

  The woman shakes her head.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  The woman takes a series of deep breaths. “They. Took. Her.”

  I don’t have to ask who. “I’m so sorry.” The memories of the night they took my grandma come flooding back. I know the loss she’s feeling.

  She looks around. “I’m not supposed to say. I didn’t say, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She notices my government-issued name badge.

  “You!” she screams. “This is all your fault. You and that other friend of yours. Why didn’t they take you?” She slaps me across the face. The sting and force of it push me back a few steps. She slams the door. I cup my
face where the heat of her anger burns.

  Oh, God, how I wish I could un-know this.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  When I arrive at work the next day, Effie’s chair is empty. “Where’s Effie?” I ask Dad.

  He looks as baffled as I do. “I’m sure she’ll be here in a minute.” He moves through to his office, leaving me alone to fill Effie’s space.

  Other employees start arriving. No one even looks my way. Effie has trained them well. After thirty-three minutes of sitting with my hands folded, staring at the red numbers on Effie’s digital clock, I decide to take a break. While making a cup of tea, I think I hear Effie’s name mentioned in hushed conversations, but I’m never close enough to make out the context. When I move closer people stop talking. I hope Effie’s not sick. I didn’t really mean it when I said I wanted to poison her. Effie is always here before Dad and I arrive and still here when we leave each night. I’m not sure what Effie would do without her work or what Dad would do without Effie.

  After another half hour passes, I knock on Dad’s office door. “Come in,” he bellows. I push the door open. Dad is hunched over his desk. His lab coat isn’t buttoned and the collar stands up on one side. His hair juts out in all directions as if he’s separated his locks in fistfuls.

  “Dad, Effie’s still not here,” I say, and glance in the direction of Dad’s secret hiding place. All my questions resurface.

  “Yes, I know.” He leans back in his chair. “She won’t be coming in.”

  “Is she okay? I know she’s been sick and…”