The Kingdom

by Jess Rothenberg

  “What’s the matter?” I ask her, though deep down I already know the answer.

  She doesn’t belong here in this world.

  She doesn’t fit.

  Just like Nia.

  “You would’ve liked her,” I whisper. “She was wild at heart, just like you.”

  Carefully, I remove Nia’s charm bracelet from inside my left pocket, where I have been keeping it safe ever since finding it in Owen’s jacket. He knew something, I tell myself, staring at the tiny gold star. He wasn’t just there that night she pulled that little girl under the waves; Owen was keeping an eye on Nia for some reason.

  He was watching her.

  But why? Because of the pattern?

  I’m going to find out, I resolve, slipping the bracelet back into its hiding spot. I’m going to make him tell me everything. I’m going to ask him why in the world he’s ly—

  A sudden flash of color and teeth silences my thought, sending me sprawling to the ground. All at once, the fox is upon me—her claws scratching into my skin, fangs bared, fur raised, jaws snapping for my throat—her sunken eyes certain of only one thing: she wants to kill me.

  And yet, even when caught unawares …

  I reach for Owen’s knife, angling its blade toward the sky.

  … a Fantasist’s reflexes are quicker than a fox.

  36

  POST-TRIAL INTERVIEW

  [00:57:39–01:00:03]

  DR. FOSTER: Does it hurt, Ana? Does it hurt knowing Owen betrayed you intentionally?

  ANA: No.

  DR. FOSTER: Does it make you angry?

  ANA: You make me angry.

  DR. FOSTER: Would you like to hear the recording again?

  ANA: No, thank you.

  DR. FOSTER: Come on, just one more time. It’ll be fun. [Presses PLAY.]

  Supervisor’s voice:—which is why we have reason to believe the pattern may be spreading to the Fantasists, and we’d like you to take a closer look at one of them.

  Owen’s voice: How would the study work? What does a Proctor do, exactly?

  Supervisor’s voice: We’ll need you to talk to her. As the Proctor, you’ll get to know her. Ideally, once a baseline trust has been established, we can begin testing her acute anxiety response, pushing her out of her comfort zone to see how she deals with unpredictability. We’ll provide highly detailed scripts, of course. And coaching, via an earpiece.

  Owen’s voice: I’m very honored you thought of me.

  Supervisor’s voice: It’s an honor having such a bright young man on our team. [Pause.] You know which Fantasist we mean, obviously?

  Owen’s voice: [Laughs.] Yes, of course. Ana. When will the study begin?

  Supervisor’s voice: We expect she’ll find you, soon enough. [Chuckles.] Remember, she’s tracking you. And she still has your pocketknife.

  37

  THE JULY OF THE SWIFT FOX

  FOURTEEN MONTHS BEFORE THE TRIAL

  Time is a funny thing, when you’re a Fantasist.

  Seasons consist of months. Months consist of weeks. Weeks consist of days and days consist of minutes. But there are also worlds of time within those minutes. An endless space between the seconds where I can fly—free, like a bird—remembering everything that has ever happened, from the very first moment I opened my eyes.

  Hello, Ana.

  We are so happy to meet you.

  It is in this way that I am able to be in two places—even many places—at once. Talking to guests while reading Chopin. Twirling onstage while studying nineteenth-century French poetry. Cleaning my hands in the sink while replaying and further analyzing my earlier interaction with Owen.

  “Because you’re not real. None of this is.”

  Replay.

  “Because you’re not real. None of this is.”

  Replay.

  “Because you’re not real. None of this is.”

  “What is that?” Eve asks, coming up behind me in the Fantasist Powder Room.

  “What is what?”

  “That.” In the mirror, I see her hazel eyes narrow. When I glance down, I notice the water spilling off my skin and into the porcelain basin is not clear … but red. It is obvious the blood is not mine.

  I catch her eyes again in the mirror. “I found the fox.”

  * * *

  Later that night, when I am crouched outside Mermaid Lagoon and remembering Nia, I wonder if I have made a mistake. Maybe Eve is right. Maybe sisters shouldn’t keep secrets.

  I stare at the locked staff entrance door. Waiting, wondering, hoping.

  Are you in there?

  It’s now or never, I tell myself, taking out Owen’s pocketknife. It’s time to find out what he’s hiding. It’s time to find out why he’s lying. And if he won’t tell me …

  I wrap my fingers around the handle.

  Sleek onyx stone.

  I carefully unfold the blade.

  High-carbon stainless steel.

  And I slide the point into the lock.

  “Borrowed, not stolen,” I whisper, twisting it counterclockwise until I feel a sudden, satisfying click. I creak open the door just enough to sneak through, then slip the knife back into my pocket, where it is safe. It does not occur to me until I am standing in the once-grand entryway of Sea Land Stadium—deserted, dark, a shell of its former self—that this is the first time I have ever intentionally gone somewhere I am not allowed.

  This is unpredictable.

  My eyes go wide.

  I am unpredictable.

  The sight of the empty stadium makes me feel similarly hollow. In every direction, fanning out like aqua-blue dominoes, are tiers and tiers of seats—thousands of them—but not a single guest in sight. Directly ahead, like a boarded-up window, the fifty-foot Jumbotron screen hangs black, silent, still. The stage deserted, the tanks uninhabited, the beach muddy and overgrown with reeds.

  But the water …

  The water is still beautiful, like a mirror held up to the sky.

  Starry. Sparkling. Infinite.

  But—I hesitate—that’s wrong. Didn’t they drain the pool?

  “You came,” a soft voice echoes.

  I turn and quickly locate a tall figure watching me from the underwater viewing deck, where children once watched whales, mermaids, and sea lions rocket past through enormous glass panels. The same place where two horrified parents watched their daughter disappear into the depths.

  “Should I not have?”

  “No,” Owen says, “I’m glad you did. I wanted you to.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings earlier.”

  “Good thing Fantasists don’t have feelings,” I reply, a little sharply. “Good thing we’re not real, and nothing but hybrid freaks.”

  Slowly, Owen starts up the central staircase until we are so close I can hear his heart beating through his shirt.

  “I’m sorry, Ana, I had to make it look believable. But just because I said it”—he pauses—“doesn’t mean I actually think it’s true.”

  I cross my arms. “Then you told a lie. That makes you a liar.”

  “Ana, no.” Owen looks defeated. “It’s just … some things are hard to explain.”

  “I speak more than four thousand languages. Go ahead. Try me.”

  Owen takes a deep breath. “Well. Okay. Sometimes I think maybe we shouldn’t be spending so much time together. Maintenance workers aren’t really supposed to talk to Fantasists.” He pauses. “It’s against the park’s rules. You know that, right?”

  Things I know:

  The rate of his heart.

  Seventy-four beats per minute.

  The distance between his eyes.

  Forty-two millimeters.

  The angle of his jaw.

  One hundred twelve degrees.

  The clean, citrus scent of his skin.

  Like oranges and rain.

  Then I flinch, reminding myself not to focus on his external features. I am here to find out what he knows about Nia. Nothing more.

&n
bsp; “Ana, please believe me,” Owen goes on, “I only said all that stuff before because I knew the Supervisors would be listening in. The network is really strong at the palladium. And I guess I thought, if I could somehow get you here alone, then we could actually … talk.”

  I feel an exquisite fluttering deep inside my chest. I was right. He picked the lagoon on purpose. “I mean,” Owen mumbles, “assuming you still want to talk to me. I was kind of a jerk today.”

  My eyebrow arches. “Kind of?”

  His eyes meet mine, and I can’t help noticing how lovely they look in the moonlight. As dark and deep as the water. “I’m really sorry, Ana. Can you forgive me?”

  Forgive.

  I think about how much his words hurt me. I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive yet, but I know it’s the kind thing to do. The Fantasist thing to do.

  “I … think so.” I give him a small smile.

  Owen watches me for a moment in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.

  As if, instead of one thing … I might be many things.

  “You don’t have to forgive me,” he murmurs, then pauses. “You’re always trying to make people happy, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” I answer. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not enough.” He chuckles. “You’re better than I am.”

  “No.” I reach out and take his hand. “I like you the way you are.”

  At first, Owen looks startled. “You do?”

  I nod.

  “Why? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know that you love what you do,” I reply. “I know that you speak up for creatures who cannot speak for themselves.” I gesture to the dark, tiny crumbs on his shirt. “I know that you ate a peanut butter brownie from Candy Land when you were walking here to meet me.”

  “Jesus.” Owen laughs. “You really are following me.” He pulls his hand away, but rolls his eyes playfully while he does it. “Well, as long as we’re being honest, I like you the way you are, too.”

  Relief floods through me. I’ve come to look forward to my conversations with Owen more than I’d care to admit. It’s been torture to think he might have felt differently.

  I beam. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. But then he says something under his breath, so quietly I can barely hear the words. “More than you can know. More than I should.”

  He is right, my program reminds me.

  Fantasists are not permitted to speak this candidly with other members of Kingdom staff. We are not permitted to speak this candidly with anybody.

  “Anyway”—Owen clears his throat—“how did you get in here? I was just about to head out and unlock the gate.”

  “Oh.” I swallow. “I … broke in.”

  “You did what?” He looks panicked. “Please tell me you disabled your lenses first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know.” He motions to my eyes. “Your cameras?”

  Once again, the maintenance worker thinks he knows more about the park than I do. “I know what they are,” I reply, a little dryly. “But I can’t disable them.”

  “Maybe you can’t,” Owen mutters. “But I can.”

  My stomach tenses. What he’s talking about is not routine.

  He holds out his hand, then pauses briefly. “May I?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Thank you anyway.”

  Owen shrugs. “Might be nice not having people listening in on you all the time.” He laughs. “Especially with all your recent criminal activity.”

  I cannot help mirroring his smile. Is it possible he’s speaking in code all over again? Could it be, that when he says it might be nice not having people listen in on me … that he really means … on us?

  I eye the nearest stadium exit, several hundred steps down.

  What if Owen is really like the rest of them? my program whispers. What if he invited you here for his own reasons? Like Mr. Casey in the Arctic Enclosure?

  I study his face, trying my best to read his expression.

  Owen says my name again and I feel my shoulders relax.

  Ana?

  How does he do it? I wonder. How does he make it sound like music?

  I came all the way here, I remind myself. I must trust him for a reason.

  “Okay.” I step closer. “You may disable my ocular lenses. But only this once.”

  He winks. “This will only take a second.” Before I know it, he’s reaching around me, his body barely grazing mine. He brushes my long, copper hair off my shoulder. Then, he positions his index finger and thumb over the nape of my neck, just above the base of my skull, and presses down while I stand as still as a palace garden statue.

  Whisper light. Feather soft.

  I close my eyes. And then I blush, redder than the planet Mars.

  “Did you feel that?” he murmurs after a minute. “You should’ve felt the slightest flicker. Like a light switch turning on. Or off, in this case.” He circles back around, so he is standing right in front of me. His face is inches from mine. “Anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, but then, I open my eyes. “The red light.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “It’s always been there. Even when the signal’s weak.” My eyes meet his. “But now … it’s gone.”

  Owen grins. “Nothing a little acupuncture couldn’t cure.”

  I start to feel flustered. What if I can’t turn them back on? Mother will be angry. “Where do I press?” I say, before cautiously testing the back of my neck. Then, suddenly, I find it: a teensy, tiny bump, no bigger than the head of a pin. “Oh!” I exclaim. “Is this the right—” I press the point and a moment later a holographic red light begins blinking right in front of me.

  Owen smiles. “You’re a quick study.”

  I can control my own ocular lenses. I can control a feature on my own body.

  “Listen, don’t go crazy or anything,” Owen cautions when he sees the excitement in my eyes. “You should still leave your cameras on most of the time, okay? Otherwise, they’ll catch on quick and bring you right in for repairs.” He laughs. “But come on. Everyone deserves a little privacy sometimes, right?”

  I look up at him, endlessly grateful. He has given me another gift.

  And now, I must give something to him.

  Slowly, I reach into my pocket and withdraw his knife.

  “No way, are you serious?” Owen’s eyes go wide. “I’ve been looking everywhere for that! I was so sure I’d lost it!”

  “Here.” I hold the pocketknife out to him. “I’ve been keeping it safe for you.”

  Borrowed, not lost.

  But this time, when our hands touch, I see something unexpected pass over his face. I am not alone, I realize. He feels it, too. Even if I am not sure what it is.

  A spark.

  An energy.

  The feeling of a perfect wireless signal.

  The feeling of connection.

  Then—something else unexpected happens. He hands the knife back to me. “You keep it,” he says. “Consider it a gift. An apology. For before.”

  My pulse races. My knees feel weak. I must have overdone it when I rushed to Sea Land, I tell myself, sliding into a seat.

  Row K. Section 3. Seat 112.

  Owen joins me.

  This is … nice, I think. Not talking. No autographs. Just sitting, gazing out over the moonlit water. “Have you ever seen the ocean?” I ask. “The real ocean, I mean?”

  Owen nods.

  “I wish I could see it.”

  He smiles. “Who knows. Maybe one day, I’ll show it to you.”

  The thought makes my motor skip.

  “Is it beautiful?”

  “In some places,” he says. “In others, it’s awful. Full of garbage and pollution.”

  I frown, forgetting the elation I felt only a moment ago. “But I thought—the photos Eve and I saw on the phone were so incredible. I thought the Supervisors were lying to us about the world beyond the…” I almost say Green Light,
but that is our word. We are the ones who cannot go outside the gateway, can’t pass through the parking lot, can’t see for ourselves what’s out there beyond that blinking light.

  Owen pauses. “That’s the thing, Ana. They may have exaggerated things, may want to make sure you feel safe in here, but the world out there is awful. There’s all kinds of horrible stuff you can’t imagine: Police brutality. Poverty. Corporate greed. Hate. Disease. Pollution. Rising sea levels. People starving to death. Mass shootings. War.” His eyes meet mine. “It’s all true. Maybe not quite as bad as they’ve told you, but still true.”

  The world Owen has just described sounds nothing like the one Eve and I saw on the phone. But then I think of Alice and what happened to her. That was true, too.

  “How can you stand it, then?” I ask. “Don’t you wish you could just live here in the park forever?”

  With me, I want to add, but don’t.

  “It’s tempting sometimes,” Owen says. “But at least out there I can do something about it. At least out there I can help.” He reaches out and smooths a strand of hair away from my eyes.

  Like in my dream.

  “What if I wanted to help, too?”

  “You are helping. You make people happy. You’re part of a fantasy distracting us all from the world.”

  “But—” Shock has overtaken me, at the truth of what he has just said. That I am just a distraction. A fantasy.

  Which means … not real.

  The thought makes me feel empty, stalled, as if all my internal organs have failed at once. As if a scream has ripped through me and left nothing behind.

  Owen seems to recognize how his words have affected me.

  “Ana?” he whispers, and I wonder if he is going to touch my hair again. I wonder if there will come a day when things will be different—I have never wanted things to be different before, but in this moment, that is all I want.

  “Yes?”

  I can hear the unevenness of his breath matching my own. “I didn’t mean that. Not in the way it sounded. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me.” I quickly steer the subject away from unpleasant things, eager to preserve this moment. “Tell me what else is beautiful to you.”