Last Girls

by Demetra Brodsky

  “Do you think Dieter spotted us on the news?” Birdie asks.

  “Probably. But if he didn’t everyone else did.”

  “We’re hiding in plain sight,” Blue says.

  That’s true, my little. Weird but true. “Maybe that’s a good thing. It will make it seem like we weren’t involved. That you weren’t involved,” I tell Birdie, “and we were just doing the same thing as everyone else.”

  Birdie heads for the goats. “I’ll see you for sentencing.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be.”

  Blue shrugs. “That’s Birdie. Will you throw a few veggies into the chicken pen on your way over?”

  “Of course. No problem. Wait for me by the goat pen.”

  She grins her thanks and jogs to catch up to Birdie, where she’ll no doubt perform a subtle temperature check on our middle’s mood.

  It doesn’t take me long to fill my basket with carrots, potatoes, cauliflower, and Swiss chard before heading down the gravel path to meet my sisters. Our gardens are year-round abundant because alongside the vegetables we plant in-ground, we also have two greenhouses installed with grow lights to combat the Pacific Northwest gloom. One of them is locked at all times because it contains plants and trees with seeds that are poisonous in large doses, but useful for making medicine. Wolfsbane, castor, water hemlock, datura. That’s Mother’s domain. She’s mentioned wanting to teach me more of those processes for backup in the event of disaster, which is another reason why my perceived added interest in chemistry caught her attention.

  Carrying all the makings for a quick and easy soup to a compound meeting reads more modern-day March sister than Sarah Connor. But here I am, walking toward the training area looking a little like both.

  Act natural. Act natural. Act natural.

  I spot Mother in the gathered group first, sitting in a lawn chair near the archery targets under an out-of-place, red-and-black-striped golf umbrella. Golf’s not a prepper-designated sport. Archery, shooting, running, calisthenics: sure. The closest anyone here has ever gotten to a golf ball is rubbing one under sore feet after a long day. Behind her, someone left three bull’s-eye-centered arrows in one of the targets, illustrating the piercing tone all three of us will face if questioned about what happened at school.

  Mother’s eyes dart between us and Dieter as we approach from the tree-lined dirt path. Everyone is sitting except the Burrower assigned to the lookout tower, Dieter, and Daniel, who might as well have one of those targets on his back too.

  “Oh god,” Birdie whispers.

  And I know why. Daniel is shouldering an INCH bag. We all know an I’m Never Coming Home bag is used for movement lasting more than seventy-two hours, and his looks stuffed to the hilt. His wet curls are unfurling across his forehead, half covering his hazel eyes, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his army-green field jacket. The second he spots my sister, his shoulders tense and ride closer to his ears.

  I’m not sure what that means outside of his posture saying he’s in big trouble, but Birdie is breathing fast and heavy at my side. Ever since she fessed up to her involvement in the locker room, the difference between fear for herself and Daniel has been indistinguishable.

  I spy Mother studying me, pulling on the skin of her neck. If she talked to Dieter, and we’re about to get handed some kind of compound-issued disciplinary action, Blue won’t handle it well and Mother knows this.

  “Look who’s decided to join us.” Dieter Ackerman’s heavy-lidded eyes flick to Mother before he checks the time on his mechanical field watch. Silent message: Get your charges in check.

  Technically, it’s only four minutes past the hour.

  “We got detained.” I load my excuse without giving an explanation, even though I know four minutes can mean the difference between life and death in certain situations.

  Dieter scowls and clamps a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I guess we can get started since you’re no longer detained.”

  THREAT ASSESSMENT:

  DIETER ACKERMAN|6’1” STRONG BUILD|EXTREME CLOSED SOCIAL GROUP|UNTRUSTING

  MOST LIKELY TO: put his life on the line for others.

  LEAST LIKELY TO: listen to reason when rules get broken.

  0/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.

  CASUALTY POTENTIAL: low

  He scratches the middle of a thin scar that runs from his right eye to his jaw in the shape of a bent straw. A battle wound he got during combat in the armed forces.

  Daniel looks up, straight at my sister. In that moment, I see his fear. And when he lifts one side of his mouth to give Birdie a tentative smile, my eyes dart to my sister. She returns his smile and waits for Dieter’s dictate with bated breath, trembling an imperceptible amount. But I see it, as sure as the single tear ready to spring from her left eye.

  “Earlier today,” Dieter starts, “it was brought to my attention that certain coalition members sent on a level-one civilian interaction training mission were not as discreet as instructed. The OPTEMPO was too fast. Too rash. And unsanctioned distraction methods were used. Because of that, we’re going to change the way we do a few things until the scent clinging to our location and operation dies down. Most everyone involved extricated themselves from the situation. Except Daniel, who was left holding the bag. Metaphorically speaking.”

  Holding Birdie’s bag. Holding Birdie’s bag. Holding Birdie’s bag.

  Daniel and Birdie are staring at each other like telepathic cohorts. I elbow my sister to let her know she’s drawing attention to herself, and the jabbing movement breaks Daniel’s hypnotic gaze.

  “First,” Dieter says, “I’m issuing a compound-wide curfew. We’ve run into hiccups that may have put us on the wrong radar. Beginning today, no one under the age of eighteen is to be out after eleven P.M. without the express orders or permission of me and their parent or guardian. Those caught after curfew will be dealt with accordingly. Consider that your only warning. To survive an extinction-level event we must have the ability to gather the essentials without detection at a moment’s notice. During an actual ELE, we cannot, and will not, stop to wait for anyone unable to execute protocol.”

  Dieter is controlling his tone, but the signs of his outrage are visible through the veil of falling rain. The bulging vein in his neck. The reddening of his face.

  “This was a failure,” he criticizes. “I underestimated our readiness, or perhaps our willingness to follow protocol. The supplies that caused the incident at the high school were intercepted, which means two things. The members involved will most likely be under closer examination, if lucky, or further interrogation if not. We all know obtaining certain necessary supplies can put us on the wrong radar, and we cannot afford detection or speculation from outside officials of any kind.” His mouth forms a disappointed square. “Nonetheless, Annalise has reported that news teams and several suits arrived on the scene. It is a rule of this coalition to avoid detection at this level.”

  Knowing I was right about the unmarked vehicle doesn’t bring me comfort, because he’s also right. We’re not supposed to bring that kind of attention to the compound. At the same time, I’m not the only one whose eyes travel to Annalise, wondering when she started to be included in Burrow business. She peels a wet lock of golden-blond hair off her freckled cheek and holds her cleft chin high. Ever the daddy’s girl. Sure. But this is crossing new boundaries. Her mother, Magda, with her wide prominent cheekbones, stands just as proud at her daughter’s side.

  Magda and Mother have been at slight odds since we got here. Mother’s expertise in medicine put her immediately under a proverbial microscope. But it’s gotten worse since rumors of Dieter and Mother having an affair started to fly. We’ve all heard the way some Nesters talk about Mother. How odd it is that she’s the only woman here without a husband. Unless we count Tashi Garcia’s abuela. Our father died while Mother was pregnant with Blue. Birdie and I were so young we don’t remember him, and Mother
prefers it that way. She says he wasn’t a very good man, and it was always just us girls until we moved here.

  I don’t know if the rumors are true. I’ve been too uncomfortable to ask, even though I can’t deny the number of times Dieter has shown up at our house as my sisters and I are leaving for school.

  “Since authorities were called and the news outlets picked up the story, I’ll be handling Daniel’s disciplinary action. He’s been suspended from school for ten days, pending a risk assessment, and I strongly suggest all of you keep your noses clean and avoid discussing the topic with anyone outside the coalition or during school at all, for that matter. That includes well-intentioned teachers, guidance counselors, et cetera. Since Daniel is my ward, I want any questions about his involvement directed to me. The rest of you are expected to fly below the radar until the attention being directed at us dies down. Any questions?”

  When I raise my hand, Birdie elbows me hard in the ribs. I shoot her a quick side-eye glare meant to say you’re the one who got us into this mess.

  “Yes, Honey.”

  “Did the authorities or whatever name anyone else who they thought was involved?”

  “They did not. But I know who I assigned to the mission.”

  That doesn’t tell me what I want to know. I adjust my gaze to Ansel for confirmation that Birdie is off the hook. He’s staring at his combat boots like they hold the meaning of life, or at least life within his garrison. He must sense the weight of my stare because he looks up, just a quick cast my way before looking down again. The urge to admonish him for not saying something, anything, in Daniel’s defense swells in my throat. Daniel Dobbs is Ansel’s best friend. They’re like brothers.

  But then Ansel lifts his head and looks at me dead-on and I see the black eye. He gives a shallow shake of his head. That’s all the explanation I need for now. I’ll get confirmation from him about Birdie as soon as I can.

  “If there are no more questions,” Dieter says. “I have another announcement. In an effort to keep things running smoothly and avoid accusations of nepotism, I’ve asked Alice Juniper to act as leader of The Nest. She will report to me and we’ll make decisions and adjustments to our way of life as deemed necessary.”

  More than a few gasps fill the air. My head snaps to Mother, but her eyes are locked straight ahead, like she knew this announcement was coming.

  “But—” Annalise starts, and her father waves a hand to silence her.

  “That’s my decision. I believe it’s the best one to ensure our survival, and it’s final.”

  Magda’s mouth twists like a paper bag being rung. Who can blame her? Dieter is adding torque to the overturned screw on the gossip mill surrounding him and Mother. Magda has always been nice to me and my sisters. She was the first to welcome us on board, making us feel like we belonged, teaching us about hardtack and canning and military-grade survival food.

  Annalise glares in my direction. She doesn’t hate me, I don’t think, but at the same time, she’s never been friendly by definition. It’s all prepper business or lone wolf with Annalise. Though I think her aloofness has more to do with Birdie, seeing as Annalise is Daniel’s ex-girlfriend. We communicate during drills and training as needed, but rarely at school. We’ve never hung out and talked boys or discussed homework or anything. Not that we have much time for social stuff. Recently, though, she’s been hitting me with more and more snarky comments about Mother in passing. Which I usually ignore.

  But even Ansel goggled at his father’s announcement, so I’m guessing this new power structure will play out like a barrel of monkeys for my sisters and me. First, Birdie “steals” Annalise’s boyfriend, then rumors about Mother and Magda circle, now this. I wonder what this means for me if something dire happens to Mother. I didn’t ask for a new, perceived rank-in-waiting, but Annalise will want my head.

  TOBYISMS FOR ACTION

  2

  TAKE YOUR LIFE BACK

  THE DINNER SHIFT at Nikko’s is slammed. Stavros put his lamb souvlaki plate on special with a wine pairing, and it’s been nonstop since five-thirty. Every single table wants to add or sub something: extra side of “sauce”—for the people that can’t say tzatziki—extra feta, no feta, no pita bread. I’ll never understand no feta people. It’s legitimately the food of gods. And the yogurt sauce is pronounced tsaht-zee-key, if you didn’t know.

  Stavros is thrilled with the turnout. The whole place is a symphony of murmured conversation, laughter, and clinking silverware set to a backdrop of Greek music. When a song he likes comes on, he points at me. “Ah, Toby, opa!” He raises his arms and snaps his fingers.

  “Opa!” I tell him and smile at my customers before rushing off to retrieve a third glass of red wine for a woman that only wanted a Greek side salad for dinner no matter how hard I tried to upsell her on some stuffed grape leaves. Value-wise, if you’re going to order three glasses of wine at dinner, you’re better off getting a bottle.

  Just when I think I’m out of the weeds, in walks a single mom with four kids under ten years old. Three girls and a boy who tugs on their hair and runs around them in circles like it’s a game of duck-duck-goose. The middle of the three girls wriggles out of her tiny backpack and swings it at him, hard. She misses, but the effort was valiant and reminds me so much of my sister Imogen it stings.

  Stavros snaps his fingers in my face. “‘Ey? You okay? You look tired. Maybe I give them to Brooke.”

  I nod. My second shift of the day ends soon, so that’s probably better.

  Brooke and I went to high school together. The first time my mom met her she took Brooke’s chin in her hand and said, “You are a buxom, gorgeous, real thing in a world of fake beauty. Own that.”

  Brooke Delgado is brunette, broad-faced and freckled-cheeked, with more curves than the roller coaster at Belmont Park in Mission Beach. She breaks every super thin, blond, side-salad-only-for-dinner, Southern California stereotype from top to bottom. And yeah, she owns that. We dated for eight months but broke up because, as she put it, I was too distracted by the past and she wanted to live in the now. We’re still friendly, and if I need someone to trade shifts with at work, she’s my go-to. I screwed that up, too. They say you earn the things that happen to you. Maybe I deserve to be alone.

  I’m bussing a table near the family of five when one of the girls says, “I want the balaclava.”

  I smile, imagining her in a black ski mask pounding her brother in a sneak attack. When their mom says, “No dessert tonight,” it pulls at my heartstrings.

  The cooks eighty-six the souvlaki plate and I check the time. One more hour. I put in my personal order for a deluxe gyro plate for Bash and ask them to keep it off the rails for forty minutes so it’s not cold by the time I leave.

  Brooke comes up behind me to get waters for her new table. You have to ask for water in San Diego because we’re usually in a drought. This year has been unseasonably rainy and cold. A realization everyone except our POTUS admits is an effect of global warming, because false face doth hide what the false heart doth know. My point is, when you live in a place your whole life and the climate changes drastically over a ten-year period, you notice. Everyone notices.

  But thank you, Macbeth. For providing context to another man as duplicitous and phony as they come.

  “I saw your masterpiece on my way to work today,” Brooke says. “It was eye-catching and thought-provoking. The size and limited color palette made it stand out.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s one of my favorites. But, you know, same subject matter, different piece.”

  “If it brings you some p-e-a-c-e, I’m all for it. How long do you think this one will run?”

  I shrug. “Anyone’s guess.”

  Four days is my record.

  My sister Katherina used to spell words out loud like they were all acronyms. It’s nice knowing Brooke remembers and still pays attention to my art. When we were dating, I took her to some museums in Balboa Park so we could talk about what to look for
when critiquing a piece. She didn’t want to meet my mom without knowing how to talk about her art. I think being able to admit you don’t know much about something and taking the steps to learn is one of the coolest things a person can do with their time.

  Before she walks away, I take a few triangles of baklava from the dessert case and add them to her tray.

  “Who are those for?”

  “Your table with all the kids.” I crouch to get the box full of salt and pepper we use to refill the shakers on the tables. “I heard one of the girls say she wanted it. Just tell them they’re on the house because we’re closing soon or something.”

  Brooke smiles like she understands what I gain by making them happy. I stay behind the counter and watch their eyes light up when she offers the dessert. Then I ring up three pieces of baklava and pay for it with my tips.

  Once everyone is gone and the door is locked, Stavros pulls me over to the big sink in the kitchen.

  “You know,” he starts, “my cousin Christos in Greece likes to spray the paint on the buildings, like you.” Stavros frowns and shrugs simultaneously. On him, it’s more of an acceptance of what is than outright disapproval. “You gonna get caught if you don’ wash better. And”—there’s the frown again—“it don’ look nice when you deliver the plates.”

  I had no idea Stavros knew I was a street artist. He knows my mom is an artist and that I make art, too, but we never talked about it. I guess the major clue is on the tips of my fingers. I usually clean it up better, using acetone if I have to, but I was exhausted.

  “I haven’t gotten caught yet,” I tell him.

  “First times come for everybody. Próti forá. First time,” he says. Never missing an opportunity to teach me some Greek. “Let me show you something.”

  He grabs a canister of cooking spray from above the grill, which he proceeds to spray all over my hands. Followed by a liberal application of dish soap and coarse salt. He makes a scrubbing motion in lieu of instruction before walking away, and I’ll be goddamned if the paint doesn’t come right off.