Inside

by Kyra Anderson

  “Clark…”

  “Yes?”

  “When you said that you and I were in the same boat…did that mean that Mr. Christenson took an interest in your family, too?” I breathed. “That you know what might happen to us?”

  Clark hesitated.

  “I won’t tell you tonight. Next week, after you’ve seen everything,” he promised. “Are you ready to go back in?”

  I nodded, though all I wanted to do was run—run away from the Commission, from the balcony, the Commish Kids, the rules, the club, the capital…everything.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Clark had predicted, my friends treated me differently when I returned to our table. They asked why I had not told them about the Commission of the People and Clark interjected with a concise answer that somehow managed to answer their question without giving any real information about the order of silence.

  At the end of the evening, I got on the early bus and headed home with my friends. They were not talking as much, but it did make me smile when Devon put his hand on my shoulder and told me that he still expected at least one dance with me every Friday night at Archangel. Clark stayed behind for the later bus, a bus I was to catch every subsequent Friday—a bus just for the Commish Kids, who held a meeting after the club closed.

  I walked into my house with a heavy heart, closing the door on what little peace I had found in my turbulent new life. Everything was upside down and it would never be the same as soon as I closed the door on the world that night.

  My parents were not home, leaving a note explaining that they went to a late dinner. I went to my room, climbing each step slower than the last until I was crying at the top step. I closed my bedroom door and flopped on my bed. Dex leapt up beside me and I grabbed onto him, holding him tight.

  I was trapped.

  * *** *

  Saturday was a nightmare. I had to wait fourteen hours before the start of the Commission meeting and thirteen hours until the chauffer came for us.

  Time went too fast and too slow at the same time.

  My stomach was in knots and my brain was a mess of tangled fear and incoherent fantasies of running away.

  The last three hours of waiting were the worst.

  My mom kept coming into my room with my father, talking about how they expected me to behave and how much better our lives were going to be as part of the Commission of the People. They told me what to wear, what to expect—though they had no clue what to expect, either—and then continuously came to check on me.

  The hour finally came.

  I moved downstairs and paced anxiously. I was not the only one nervous. My mother and father were also moving around, fidgeting or picking nervously at their clothes. They shared excited, yet nervous, glances with one another, but the tension was palpable through the whole family.

  The doorbell rang.

  “This is it!” my mom squealed. She moved to the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood. On the front step, there were three men, burly and emotionless, dressed in clean suits.

  “Thomas Sandover and family?” one asked in a clipped tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Please, come with us. We are here to take you to the meeting.”

  Tunnel vision enclosed as anticipation and fear consumed everything else in my mind. The three large SUVs with tinted windows were lined menacingly along the curb. The driver of the middle SUV opened the back door for us and we loaded into the convoy.

  “Please pay very close attention to the route,” the driver told us as he started the car. “This is the way to take to get to the meeting hall of the Commission of the People.”

  We glued our noses to the dark windows, memorizing the route as a means to distract us from our anxieties. We maneuvered our way through the quieting capital city, passing through the downtown lights. I enviously studied those enjoying their normal Saturday night on the town, blissfully unaware of the new members of the Commission of People passing them.

  The expansive Leadership District housed the towering government buildings. Some of the more beautiful buildings were lit up from the outside to show off their amazing architecture. Other buildings were darkened, making the area one of the darkest in the city when the building had closed down for the night.

  We entered a maze of darkened office buildings and skyscrapers at the far west side of Leadership District, finally coming to a security gate. All three cars slowed and were cleared by the hard-faced guards. After two more turns we were at another gate. Clearing through the second security checkpoint, we rounded the final corner and finally caught sight of the building.

  The building of the Commission of the People was not what I had expected at all. It was a small, seven-story office building with dark letters over the illuminated lobby doors that read “Commission of the People.” A few of the above offices were lit, but otherwise, the first floor was the only one casting light against the barely-visible foliage around the building.

  We pulled into the circular driveway and our driver hurried to open the door for us. I looked at the surprisingly-unimpressive structure, caught off-guard by the banality.

  “Mr. Sandover,” the driver called his attention, handing my father a key card. “This is your card to get through the security gates,” he motioned back the way we came. “Keep this on you at all times. Don’t leave it in the car.”

  “I will.”

  “That is also your card to enter the building,” the driver continued. “But for the meeting room, you will need a different key.”

  The driver led us to the door, leaving the two other drivers by the cars.

  The guard flashed his own key card in front of a magnetic pad and the doors slid quietly aside.

  The lobby was so quiet, the echoing of our shoes on the marble floor was deafening.

  Four security guards and a woman stepped out from behind the reception desk. All looked like they had stepped out of a stereotypical espionage movie, dressed in dark suits with clear ear pieces in their left ears.

  “Good evening, Thomas Sandover and family.” The woman smiled, though her greeting was not at all warm. “My name is Madeline. I am in charge of admissions.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” My father shook her hand.

  “Likewise,” she said. “If you would please step over here,” she motioned to the large marble reception desk. “Thank you, David,” she called to our driver, asking him to leave.

  “Now, Mr. Sandover,” Madeline started, “can you remember how to get here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” Madeline continued smiling in the same fake manner. “As your induction letter stated, meetings are held every Saturday at ten p.m. exactly. If you are late, you will not be admitted. If you are unable to make any meetings due to prearranged trips, illness, or emergency, you are to contact Mr. Christenson or anyone on his personal staff and let him know. We will download the contact numbers directly into your cell phones. All these numbers will be represented by a speed-dial number. Number one is Danielle Markus, number two is Vincent Greene, and number three is Sandra Hansell. These three are Mr. Christenson’s personal advisors. Number four is Sean Jacobsen, Mr. Christenson’s head of security. Number five is Mr. Christenson’s private cell. Please use his number as a last resort if you cannot reach anyone else. Mr. Christenson is a very busy man.” She repeated the information without falter, reciting a perfectly-memorized monologue. She extended a plastic tray. “Please place your cell phones here.”

  I nervously placed my phone with my parents’ in the tray.

  “Before each meeting, check your phone in with us at the front desk. You may retrieve it as you leave.”

  She moved the tray and picked up three substantial stacks of multicolored paper, putting one in front of each of us. I was sure my eyes were not the only ones that shot wide.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks,” Madeline assured with a small laugh. “However, this is the contract for entering the Commissio
n of the People. It’s all very basic,” she said, motioning her hand over the first page. “It really is just a glorified non-disclosure agreement stating that you will not discuss any events or topics of the Commission with those who are not members and you will do your best not to discuss the Commission in a public place where things could be overheard, misinterpreted, etcetera.”

  Madeline set pens down for our use.

  “Of course, we encourage you to read through it before you sign, but the meeting begins in twenty-three minutes. These are filled out with triplicate carbon copies, and you are always welcome to look over the contract at any time if you have any questions or so desire.”

  My mom and dad were already looking over the papers while I felt overwhelmed with the task before me.

  “Um…”

  “Feeling a little at sea?” Madeline asked, turning her attention to me.

  “Yeah.”

  “You understand what we mean by a non-disclosure agreement, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. The rest of this is really just outlining the situations in which you cannot speak about anything in the Commission, even if other members of the Commission are present.” She motioned to that area in the contract. “Back here,” she leafed through some papers, “is all on general conduct within the Commission meetings and outside respect for others. Basic rules, I don’t think we really need to explain it to you. It’s all common sense, but it’s still a legal matter.” She pointed to the blank spaces scattered within the text. “All the blanks at the bottom you sign and date. There are some blanks in the contract where you will need to print your name and date, so be sure you read what each blank is for.”

  I picked up the pen and started signing the contracts, feeling so nervous that my signature was warped by my shaking hand. I went through the papers, trying to press hard enough for the carbon copies. My eyes were focused only on finding the blanks, skipping over the fine print. I finished signing shortly after my parents and Madeline took the contracts and pens.

  “Now, ladies, if you would please place your purses up here for the boys to check, and Mr. Sandover, if you could please remove your jacket and set it on the counter as well.”

  The amount of security around the Commission was alarming and impressive at the same time.

  The big guards carefully opened our bags while a third felt through the pockets and seams of my father’s jacket, all three men wearing gloves as they searched.

  Our purses were returned and my father pulled on his suit jacket again before Madeline led us to the nearby elevators.

  After pressing the button to call the elevator, Madeline reached into her coat pocket and produced a key, turning to us.

  “This is the key to the meeting room,” she explained. “When we are in the elevator, I will show you how to use it.”

  It was a short wait, but it was still long enough for me to slip deeper into the panic I had been swimming in all day.

  The elevator doors opened and I had to force my legs to stop shaking in order to command them to step inside.

  Madeline pressed the button to close the doors and then pointed to the emergency keyhole once the doors had closed completely.

  “Place the key in here,” she did so, “and turn it to the left,” she turned the key, “and then press floors two and one at the same time.”

  The elevator jolted before descending into the basement. We looked around, confused why the meeting would be held below ground.

  “Do not remove the key until the door opens again,” Madeline instructed. “You will not need the key to come back to the lobby—just hit the Lobby button. We will have a car waiting to take you home tonight. Next week we will have the guards bring your car forward after the meeting.”

  When we had been in the elevator for an abnormally long time, I became suspicious of just where we were going and why the meeting was being held so deeply underground—I was also unsure how a small building could have such an extensive basement.

  I felt the elevator slow as soon as claustrophobia gripped my chest.

  The doors slowly opened and I had to take a deep breath before stepping out after my parents. We found ourselves in a hallway with the other five elevator doors.

  “Alright,” Madeline concluded, handing my father the key for the elevator. “Go through that door and follow the hallway to the meeting room. Congratulations, again, for making it into the Commission of the People.”

  “Thank you,” my father said. She stepped back into the elevator, forcing another smile as the doors closed.

  I had not thought it was possible to be more nervous until the moment she left. There were two dim lights between each set of elevator doors, but it did little to illuminate the hallway of the abnormally deep basement. My dad smiled at me and my mother, placing his hand on our shoulders.

  “Here we go,” he whispered, nervousness barely audible in his voice.

  My stomach was in such a tight knot it almost made me double over. We started toward the door Madeline had indicated and my father opened it for us. The next hallway was better lit, but still dark, the dark color of the walls swallowing the light and making the space feel cramped. The double doors at the end of the hall were propped open and I could see into the room beyond. There were tables set up as if for a banquet dinner and, while the area of the tables was dimly lit, the front of the room brightly illuminated a slightly-raised stage with a podium.

  My curiosity became equal to my anxiety.

  Instead of place settings on the tables, there was a USB resting on top of laptop computers at each seat. No one was sitting yet, but there were groups clustered together, talking as they enjoyed light drinks supplied by the bar in the back corner of the room. The walls were a pale, unadorned white, interrupted by the dark brown doors throughout the room and the flags and curtains around the stage.

  “Ah! There he is!” a booming voice called. Benjamin Lloyd walked to us with a broad smile. “The man of the hour!”

  “Hardly,” my father laughed, shaking the offered hand.

  “It’s a good thing you made it here on time. Mr. Christenson is very strict about punctuality.” Mr. Lloyd grinned. “Come, sit with us. We’re generally near the back.”

  “There’s no seating arrangement?” my mother asked, looking at the computers.

  “No,” Mr. Lloyd assured. “All the USBs and computers are the same. It’s just the agenda and any information we need for the meeting,” the older man explained as we moved to a table. Mr. Lloyd nudged my father in the ribs. “We stay back here so it’s less of a walk to the bar, of course.”

  “Ben, there was something that I’ve been meaning to ask you,” my father started. “But, obviously, I couldn’t say anything until now. The invitation says that Mr. Christenson has a gift for us. What should we be expecting? I didn’t expect to receive anything more. The invitation and induction alone is an honor.”

  Mr. Lloyd’s face slowly broke into a smile with a devious edge.

  “Mr. Christenson gives everyone a gift when they are brought into the Commission,” he said. “And it’s different for everyone, depending on what he feels the family would like and how much he thinks he’s going to like the family.”

  “What did you get?” my mother asked curiously.

  Mr. Lloyd chuckled, avoiding her gaze.

  “Until you see your gift, it would be difficult to explain mine,” he admitted. “There is always a very…special quality to Mr. Christenson’s gifts. After you have had your gift for a little while, I will show you mine.”

  “That’s making me very curious.” I could hear the nervousness in my father’s laugh.

  “We all are,” Mr. Lloyd said. “No one knows what your gift is, so we’re excited to see what he has for you.”

  “Lily?” a familiar voice sounded behind me. I turned to Clark, who was wearing a button-up shirt and slacks and looked even skinnier than he normally did at Archangel. “Hi, I’m glad you made it on time.”<
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  “Ah, Thomas, let me introduce you to Clark Markus,” Mr. Lloyd boomed, motioning to the other teenager. “He’s quite the brilliant young man. His mother is advisor to Mr. Christenson.”

  “Is that so?” my father asked, turning to Clark. “Markus…oh, right, your mother was the one who sent the invitation letter.”

  “Yes, she is in charge of that,” Clark said.

  “You two go to school together, then. Do you have any classes together?” my mother pressed.

  “No,” I answered. “We met at Archangel.”

  “Club Archangel is a great way for the kids to relax,” Mr. Lloyd interjected with a strong nod. “I think that it’s good for them to let go and actually be teens sometimes. Don’t you agree?”

  I wanted to tell him that it was nothing like that, particularly for kids in the Commission, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “Lily, do you want something to drink?” Clark asked, moving away. I took the silent hint.

  When we were far enough away from my parents, I leaned closer. “Everything okay?”

  “I should be the one asking you that,” he said with a weak grin. We walked to the bar for iced tea, which Clark ordered for me without prompting. He smiled apologetically as he turned away from the man in the suit manning the bar. “I’ve seen your gift.” My eyes widened and my jaw dropped.

  “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Well, granted, I didn’t get a very good look at it. I was walking by,” he clarified. “But I saw enough of it to know that you and I…we are in the same boat.”

  “You mean…he’s very interested in my family?” I breathed, nodding thanks to the man at the bar as he handed me my drink.

  “I’d say…” Clark agreed. “Generally, the more beautiful the gift, the more interest he has in your family. I should also warn you…Mr. Christenson is in one of his moods tonight.”

  “…what does that mean?”

  “Don’t be surprised if he…well, seems a little…overly-playful.”