Middle Ground

by Katie Kacvinsky

  I grabbed the tablet and put it in my mouth and it dissolved quickly on my tongue. It fizzled and tasted like the cough medicine my mom gave me when I was little and had a cold. Dr. Stevenson closed the compact and slid it into her pocket.

  She smiled. “Now we can begin the session,” she told me.

  I nodded but my head felt heavy, like weights were inside it, pressing it down. The room was fuzzy and all the sharp angles turned soft. I looked up at the ceiling and tried to focus, but a foggy halo framed the lights above me. They dimmed, going from white to yellow to gold.

  “The Cure’s starting to work,” I heard her say, and her voice echoed against the walls.

  I started to fall forward but a hand guided me back, and then I was sinking.

  I closed my eyes and when I opened them I was sitting in a desk in an old-fashioned classroom. It was a face-to-face high school, like my mom used to describe, with desks aligned in rows, all facing the front of the room, where a middle-aged man in a dark beard and glasses was lecturing. He was animated and used his hands while he talked. A student sat in front of me, someone I didn’t recognize, and I watched the teacher’s lecture form paragraphs on his computer screen while he typed his own notes in the margins. It was archaic, like I’d time-traveled back thirty years.

  I looked to my side and froze. Justin was sitting at a desk in the next aisle. I glanced around and saw that Clare, Noah, Pat, Scott, and Molly were all in the room. I recognized Erin from soccer and some of my old digital contacts. I even recognized Jake and Riley, two of Justin’s friends I’d met back in Oregon. There was a poster on the wall of the periodic table and illustrations of how to identify types of plants and flowers. What was I doing in a science class? I studied Justin’s profile while he took notes. He wrote longhand, the way he preferred. He was the only one writing.

  I could feel the energy I always sensed in his presence but I still didn’t accept he was real. I reached out to touch his arm and felt his skin warm under mine. It was so natural to have my hand there. He looked at me and grinned.

  He leaned in close. “Stop staring at my lips,” he whispered.

  I could hear his shoe moving across the ground. I could feel his body heat. I was so relieved to see him I wanted to cry. I curled my fingers around his arm tight, until my knuckles raised out white through my skin.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Justin, what are we doing here?” I whispered. “Where are we?”

  His grin disappeared. “Are you all right?”

  That’s when the explosion hit. We felt it before we heard it, a shudder, like a tsunami had slammed against the walls of the school. Then the windows blew out from a gust so strong it ripped me out of my seat. My body was thrown forward and I felt a searing heat rip through my leg. I flew, pushed through the air in a wave of heat, until a concrete wall caught my shoulder with a cracking punch.

  The next thing I heard were screams. A chorus of them, high and shrieked. They were worse than the explosion. Screams circled in the air followed by thunder as wood and concrete and steel shifted out of balance with a crash. I covered my head as I was attacked in all directions from the ceiling dropping around me, piles of splintering wood and crumbling concrete.

  Then, just as quickly as all the noise had erupted, it suddenly stopped and there was a silence. I tried to lift my head but it was too heavy. The ground around me was warm and wet. Someone was mewling close by. I blinked my eyes open and stared at blue sky above, sunlight streaming in through a cloud of dust. How did I get outside?

  People coughed and gasped around me. Standing pillars of concrete buckled and fell, sending up more clouds of ash. I tried to move but I was stuck. I attempted to lift myself up and pain shot through my leg and made me gasp. I grabbed my leg, and my jeans were ripped and my skin was wet. There was a hole where my knee used to be and my fingers touched soft, swollen flesh that was so painful I started to heave. I couldn’t tell if my leg was completely severed from the knee down; there was too much blood. Acid burned my throat and poured out of my mouth. I tried to roll on my side but my leg was stuck under slabs of glass. I screamed for someone to help me but no one answered.

  I lifted my head and looked around. I could see Clare. She lay motionless a few feet away. I called out to her. Fallen beams and rubble separated us. I could smell smoke now. Flames crackled like laughter. I coughed on the fumes and tried to free my leg. I screamed for Justin. I screamed because it was the only thing I could do.

  My eyes searched the devastated yard that used to be a school. The pain in my leg caught my breath in my throat. It stole my voice. I swallowed back tears. The smoke was getting thick, like a pillow pressed hard against my face to suffocate me. The heat was unbearable. Fire crackled and snorted. I closed my eyes against the burning air and started to choke. Then a hand reached out and started to lift me free.

  “Justin!” I screamed, and this time the shout woke me up. I bolted straight up in bed, shaking and sweat soaked. The blackness around me was as thick and gritty as coal. I instinctively grabbed my leg and exhaled in relief to feel it underneath my pants, sweaty and soaked through, but all in one piece. I lifted my leg and bent my knee back and forth. I touched my shirt and felt something warm and thick and realized I had thrown up. I pulled the shirt off and winced at the acidic smell. I threw it down on the floor and hugged myself to keep warm.

  “On,” I mumbled, and squinted as light flooded down from the ceiling like fluorescent rain. I half expected to be in a hospital room, but I was back in my dorm room, lying on the narrow cot. I shivered and looked around fearfully, expecting someone to be lurking. I listened closely at the walls to hear the ticking of a bomb or a distant scream. Silence answered me and it was secretive and cold.

  I tried to remember how I’d gotten back to my room. The last memory I had was the counseling session. I wiped sweat off my forehead and realized I had soaked through all my clothes. My pants clung to me like a second skin, and the sweat was turning cold and making my body shake in response.

  “It was just a nightmare,” I whispered out loud to console myself. I rested my forehead on my knees and took deep, slow breaths. I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked.

  “It was just a nightmare.”

  I wanted to see one person. The one person who could assure me everything would be all right. The one person I believed in more than myself. I knew he was close. I knew he was fighting to get me out. I stared at the emptiness surrounding me. I couldn’t see him with my eyes but I could find him with my mind. I curled my mind around him and held on as tight as I could.

  Chapter Ten

  The clock on the wall read 6:00 a.m. The door unlocked with a smooth hum. I stood up too fast and a head rush nearly made me topple over. I balanced myself with a hand on the edge of my desk. My temples were pounding. I groaned and rubbed my fingers over my forehead. My body felt like it had been through a marathon. I peeled off the rest of my sweaty clothes and put on a fresh pair of underwear.

  The details of the nightmare were already starting to fade. I couldn’t remember who specifically was in my dream or where we had been. I just remembered feelings: terror, pain, heartbreak, and despair.

  I sat down and tried to think, but my mind was heavy and muddled. I turned on the wall screen to find what I wrote yesterday, but the document was gone. I sighed and assumed the detention center had erased it. Obviously, they didn’t want us to record our memories here.

  I stood up and paced as I tried to recall what happened last night, but my thoughts were fragmented. They shifted and slipped through my consciousness before I could grasp hold of them. I could scarcely remember a face from yesterday, let alone details. Even Dr. Stevenson was a blur, like a picture out of focus.

  I opened a new document, thinking that if I began again, the words might help me remember. I needed to try.

  “A woman gave me a tour,” I said out loud. Wait, was tour the right word? “She helped me settle in,” I said. “I met wi
th Dr. Stevenson. She wants to help me. She said I’m sick.” I stopped pacing and considered this. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe they’re not trying to punish me in here. They’re trying to save me. Maybe there is something wrong with me.”

  I blinked at the wall in front of me, at my own words, and wondered who had spoken them. Emotions churned through my mind, but they were distant and shattered; they weren’t my own. I couldn’t separate real from imaginary. What was real?

  I pulled my fingers through my sweaty hair and it made my head ache. I wanted to be angry but I was only empty. I wanted to think but I could hardly feel. I was numb.

  I tugged on a clean pair of scrubs and headed for the door. My room was pressing in on me. Maybe walking around would help me think. I opened the door but stopped when I heard the elevator at the end of the hall. I looked down the corridor and saw a girl in a wheelchair. Her head leaned to one side like she was asleep, and straight brown hair fell over her face so I couldn’t see her features. I didn’t recognize the woman escorting her—she had gray hair pulled back in a bun and wore a white lab coat like Dr. Stevenson. I stepped toward them and was about to call out, desperate to talk to someone, but the doctor looked at me and pressed a finger over her mouth. Her narrowed eyes warned me to keep back. I obediently stayed in place until they turned the corner, moving out of my sight.

  I sighed and shuffled down to the food station and ordered a cup of coffee. The machine dispensed steaming black liquid and I looked at the coffee with a faint smile. It was something familiar, and at that moment, I needed to be reminded there was a world outside of this place. It reminded me I still existed. I sat down on the cold metal seat and breathed in the warm, rich steam, already feeling revived.

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see the boy who had escorted me to the counseling session. He came around the corner carrying a box and when he saw me he stopped so quickly his shoes squeaked against the floor. We stared at each other for a few seconds, the room quiet except for a few trickles and hums from the food station. He looked at me like he’d never seen a human being before.

  “What are you doing out of your room?” he asked.

  I kicked into defense mode. “The doors unlock at six. I thought I could use this whenever I wanted.” I pointed to the machine with my thumb. “My one little luxury?” My voice came out hoarse, and my throat hurt as if I’d been screaming for hours.

  He set the box down on a table next to a storage closet and his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t look angry to see me out of my room. All I could see was surprise.

  “I know you can leave your room, but why did you want to?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. I winced at another piercing pain in my temple and started rubbing my forehead, which only made it worse. It felt like my head was caught in a mousetrap.

  “You’re dehydrated,” he said. “That’s why your head hurts.”

  “How do you know my head hurts?” I asked.

  “Everybody’s does the first couple of months. It’s part of the transition process.” He ordered a bottle of water from the machine, uncapped it, and handed it to me. I put the coffee down. My lips were parched, and staring at the water made me realize how thirsty I was. I took it and slammed the bottle down in a few gulps. The water was so cold and refreshing, I could feel it slide down my dry throat, all the way to my stomach. The pressure in my head was already starting to lift. I stood up and ordered another bottle and grabbed my coffee.

  “Thanks,” I said, and hugged the cold water to my chest. My throat felt a little better.

  “No problem.”

  “What’s your official job here?” I asked. “The detention-center know-it-all?”

  He grinned. “Something like that. I’m just a privileged veteran.” He watched me carefully, like he was waiting for me to do something. He took a step closer while I uncapped the second bottle of water and inhaled it in five easy gulps. I wiped my mouth and when I looked back at him, he was right next to me, close enough for us to touch.

  “What are you staring at?” I asked.

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  I wanted to laugh at the suspicion on his face. He’d just helped me out. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

  “Because I’m standing so close to you. Doesn’t it freak you out?”

  “I haven’t showered yet,” I said. “Maybe you should be the one freaking out.”

  He didn’t smile, and I studied him seriously this time. He was a head taller than me and his eyes were intense on mine, but he was hardly intimidating. His eyes gave him away. They were compassionate. If I felt anything, it was that he was genuine.

  “No,” I answered. “I’m not afraid of you. Should I be?”

  He seemed puzzled by my response. “You should get back to your room. People aren’t supposed to hang around out here,” he reminded me. “If you leave your room for more than ten minutes, the Eye starts to wonder.”

  My headache was starting to lift. Before I walked away I managed a weak smile.

  “How long have you worked here?” I asked.

  “How long is your sentence?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  “Six months.”

  He nodded. “That’s pretty standard.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t wait that long,” I said.

  “You’ll adjust,” he said, and turned to unlock the storage closet.

  “I’m getting out of here,” I announced. He stopped and turned back, probably to see if I was serious. “I can’t wait six months,” I said, to remove any doubt. “I’ll find a way out, or my friends will break in. Whichever happens first.”

  He frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. You know it’s my job to report those kinds of remarks.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not thinking straight. I guess it’s that tablet they gave me. The Cure, right?” I stopped when this memory came back to me. For a split second I had clarity. I could see the compact in Dr. Stevenson’s hand. I could taste the tablet in my mouth. Just as quickly, the image disappeared, covered in a fog. But I knew what I saw.

  He froze suddenly and stared at me.

  “So, they are drugging us in here, aren’t they,” I said. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I remember,” I said. Judging from his look of disbelief, I wasn’t supposed to remember. Anything.

  He backed up slowly, opened the storage closet without another word, and disappeared inside.

  I turned the corner, walked down the hall to my room, and shut the door. I leaned against it and regretted being so outspoken. I hadn’t even been here twenty-four hours and I was already getting written up. My father would be so proud.

  Chapter Eleven

  I expected the routine of a detention center to be tough, disciplined, and militant. I imagined people shouting orders at us, waking us before dawn to march us in line, forcing us to adhere to a strict schedule. But after spending a few weeks at the DC, I’d come to discover that their idea of structure was a life of chronic isolation.

  My days fell into a mundane routine. The detention center limited the use of computer programs. I had access to the three DS classes I needed to finish and was restricted from socializing or entertainment sites. My only social contacts were a few DS professors and tutors. Movies, music, and books were limited and censored. I was allowed to use only two programs: one to design the wall screens of my personal prison cell (how liberating) and the other to fill out countless questionnaires meant to help me find myself (and lasso all that negative energy with a rope and pull it free).

  My counseling sessions still ended in nightmares; they became expected villains that infiltrated my mind, invaders trying to break into my consciousness and rob me of my sanity. Sleep came in sporadic waves and was usually plagued with dreams that were so real I woke up screaming but that I forgot within a few seconds. The few times I tried to make sense of them, the memo
ries were blocked, as if they were behind a gate in my mind that I couldn’t lift. All I could remember were my feelings.

  You can’t control your thoughts when you sleep. I was learning my mind had a mind of its own—and I had a feeling that was what the DC was determined to manipulate.

  I tried to distract myself. I designed two digital windows in my room because the walls were suffocating. I could display any climate I was in the mood for: clear and sunny weather, overcast, heavy rain, light mists, a blizzard. I could even place a tornado along my path, and speakers brought it all to life with the sound of hail and wind and the clap of thunder. I liked the idea there was a force outside the detention center stronger than the force inside. A tornado could take out this entire place in one gust. It could pulverize anything in its path. It made me think something could set me free.

  I knew I was weaker. Skinnier. Tired. I knew my walls were starting to crumble. But I refused to accept it. Sometimes denial can be your greatest ally.

  ***

  One morning a message blinked on my screen informing me I had a counseling session in twenty minutes. I checked the box indicating that I’d received the notice. I went to the session alone. I did everything alone. When I opened my door that morning, there was another inmate coming out of the bathroom at the end of the hall. My first instinct was to avoid her, but that was quickly replaced by desperation. I needed to talk to someone, to remind myself there were human beings living on the other side of my walls.

  “Hey,” I called out to her. I shuffled toward her and her spine tensed as if I’d jolted her with a Taser gun. She froze with her back to me and I stopped halfway down the hall. Her arms went rigid and her back was stiff and straight. Her hands shook next to her sides and I could have sworn I heard a whimper.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” I said to her back. “You’re just the first kid I’ve seen in here. You don’t have to talk to me.” She lowered her head, pivoted slowly on one foot, and took a quiet step toward what I assumed was her room. She moved so carefully you would have thought someone was holding a gun to her head and threatening to shoot if she made a sound. Her hair was mangy and fell past her shoulders. I took another step down the hall and she peeked at me through stringy clumps of hair. This time I was the one who froze. The skin on her face was pale and gaunt and her eyes were sunken. She looked like she was fighting a disease and the disease was winning. But more than any of that, what stopped me was the terror in her eyes, the way she looked at me like I was about to attack her. There was hate there too, a territorial warning to leave her alone.