“All right,” Astrid said. “But suppose, just hypothetically, that the lighthouse didn’t turn on by itself?”
At this her dad’s gaze surfaced from his notes. He looked from Astrid to Hank. “Don’t tell me she’s still . . .”
“Totally,” Hank said with a shrug. “That’s what we were doing this morning. Astrid wanted to get a better view from the watchtower.”
“So what?” Astrid said, frustration taking hold. “Is it impossible that there could be people out there?”
“Listen, honey,” Amblin said. “The island was empty the last time I went. And the island was empty the time before that. I’m not going to waste gasoline just so you can see that emptiness for yourself.” Her father sighed. “I mean . . . what exactly do you think we’re keeping from you, Astrid?”
“Who’s keeping what from who now?”
Henry Bushkirk, Hank’s father, had just lumbered up behind them. He was a large, unpleasant, and fashionably dressed man. That morning he wore a collared shirt tucked into a pair of pin-striped slacks. Astrid could see the jagged corner of an ancient price tag sticking out of one of his shirtsleeves.
“It’s nothing, Henry,” Amblin said. “Just the kids going on about Puffin Island. Rather,” he was quick to correct himself, “just my kid.”
“That so?” Mr. Bushkirk asked, rocking back on his wing tips. “Junior . . . ?”
“Sir.” Hank’s voice suddenly rose an octave, and his eyes dropped down to the sand. It was a tic he’d developed over sixteen years living under his father’s roof—one that Mr. Bushkirk only pretended to dislike.
“I’m not down there between your toes, Junior,” Mr. Bushkirk said. He snapped his fingers in the air and pointed at his own face. “Eyes up, please.”
Hank’s gaze made it only to about the center of his father’s chest.
“I guess that’s why we didn’t find you in your room this morning,” Mr. Bushkirk said. He glanced at the crumpled bee suit, still shining with blue quiet, slung over his son’s arm. “Klara went in to wake you for the picnic. She got worked up to no end when you weren’t there. You know how confused she gets.”
“No harm done,” Amblin said. “They only went outside to get a look at the lighthouse. It turned back on—did you notice?”
“I asked him to come with me,” Astrid said.
“Is that so?” Mr. Bushkirk said, chewing the words. His eyes went from Hank to Astrid and back to Hank. “Just the two of you?”
“Yes, sir,” Hank said.
“Well, now, that has me puzzled. . . .” Mr. Bushkirk gave a little half grin and hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Help me out, Amblin,” he said. “Does that mean our two kids are an item again?” Only Mr. Bushkirk could take a word like “item” and make it sound so sweaty and gross.
“No, sir,” Hank answered before Astrid could.
Mr. Bushkirk licked his lips, and they shined a bright pink. “I wouldn’t sound so defeated if I were you, Junior. What girl likes a quitter?” He threw Astrid a little shrug, as though to apologize for his son’s lameness. Then he juked his head in the direction of the gathered picnickers, many of whom were stealing glances at Hank and Astrid.
“It certainly is a pity,” Mr. Bushkirk said. “I suppose the audience will just have to get used to disappointment.”
It took Astrid a moment to understand his meaning. But, of course—that’s why people had fallen silent when she and Hank entered the plaza. News traveled fast in Goldsport, and everybody must have known that they’d skipped curfew together. Dammit. Astrid should have realized what kind of signal this would send.
“C’est la vie,” Mr. Bushkirk said, climbing up onto the little stage and carefully lowering himself into an open seat beside Amblin. Once he was settled, his attention returned to Hank. “But, Junior. Come on. Work with me here. What you and Astrid do or don’t get up to isn’t any of my business. I’m a reasonable guy—I can accept that. But when you disappear, like you did this morning, it really stresses your stepmom out. And when Klara gets stressed out, I get stressed out. So the next time you leave my house, Junior, you don’t just tell me where you’re going. You ask me if you can. Understood?”
“Understood,” Hank said.
Mr. Bushkirk eyeballed his son for a moment longer before giving a little grunt. “Good boy,” he said. Meanwhile, down at the other end of the stage, Mrs. Lee flicked the live microphone and caused an electric thump to echo through the plaza, rebounding off the yawning glass dome.
It was time for the show.
CHAPTER 4
The First Voice
THEY DECIDED IT WAS BEST if they didn’t sit together—no point getting people’s hopes up any further. Hank made his way over to his stepmom, while Astrid headed for a row of empty chairs that sat against the rear wall of the plaza. Here the greenway glass overlooked the docks, where a few lobster boats rocked on the outgoing tide, pulling gently on their lines. Beyond the docks, Astrid could see the distant form of Puffin Island.
“Don’t let them get you down, honey,” said a familiar but unexpected voice.
Startled, Astrid turned to face her mother, who had slipped into the seat next to hers. Astrid hadn’t noticed her mom in the crowd, but that was only because she hadn’t bothered looking.
“Sorry.” Her mom brushed a strand of hair from her own face. Her name was Ria, and she had the thickest, blackest hair Astrid had ever seen. “Did I sneak up on you?”
“A little,” Astrid said, looking her over. Her mother’s eyes were bloodshot, and her flannel shirt was spotted with stains and fish scales. Three of the buttons had been replaced with safety pins. Her trousers were rolled up to the calf, rigid with dried seawater. Ria clenched her brown toes in the sand.
“What are you doing here?” Astrid asked.
“I had to chat with your dad about something,” Ria said a little absently. “And then . . . I figured if I was already on the greenway, I might as well stay for the picnic. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a show.”
That it had been. Ria Gold wasn’t exactly what you’d call sociable, and by Astrid’s reckoning, this was the first Sunday picnic she’d attended all year. In fact, Astrid could hardly remember the last time her mom had put in an appearance at any of the Goldsport community events—she usually even skipped the annual commemoration. Which made her attendance this morning all the more odd.
“About what?” Astrid asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“What did you have to talk with Dad about?”
This, too, was fishy—Astrid’s parents had been separated for years, and the only reason they hardly ever fought these days was because they hardly ever saw each other. In fact, her mom and dad had become near geniuses at avoiding contact. To help accomplish this task, Astrid’s mother had moved out to an old house on the north shore. This was a part of their sanctuary that had been destroyed by the wicked many years ago—the one blemish in Goldsport’s happy history. Astrid’s own grandfather had been killed defending it, forever memorializing him as a saint to the other investors. The greenway up there was shattered beyond repair, and most of the houses had been burnt to ruins. Only Ria’s was still habitable, though it sat untethered from the rest of town. That made Astrid’s mom the only person in Goldsport who lived beyond the glass. She had her own screens and her own little homemade quiet room. Anywhere she went, she had to put on a bee suit. It seemed an awful lot of trouble, just to get away from your ex-husband. Sometimes it struck Astrid that Ria hadn’t only divorced her dad, but also the entire sanctuary of Goldsport.
“Oh, nothing urgent . . .” Her mom took a breath. “I need a work crew for my roof. There’s been a leak ever since the thaw, and I don’t want it to rot through.”
Astrid studied her mother. She’d stayed over with Ria just last week and hadn’t noticed any leak.
“So it wasn’t about the lighthouse, then?”
“What?” Ria didn’t blink.
“That
’s not what you wanted to talk to Dad about?” Astrid paused. “The lighthouse came on again. Last night. It’s still on now,” she said.
“Oh? I didn’t notice. . . .” Ria twisted in her seat to gaze through the greenway glass. Out on the horizon the lighthouse sparked, a flare in the sunlight. “Well, would you look at that.”
Astrid would have pushed further, but at that point her father took his place at the center of the stage. An instant later his voice rang out over the gathered crowd, delivering the weekly announcements. Goldsport investor Chipper Gregory had reported a humming sound coming from somewhere in his game room. Out of an abundance of caution, the board of investors had decided to put a weeklong quarantine on the Gregory house and to shut down greenway junction D-17. During this time, Missy Van Allen had kindly agreed to take Mr. and Mrs. Gregory in. In the meantime, investor Henry Bushkirk would search the house for singers. The board was looking for volunteers to join him.
“And on the small chance that there are no volunteers”—Amblin Gold smiled at this little joke; there were never any volunteers—“then the board will hold a lottery.”
The crowd let out a collective groan.
“Listen,” Ria said, leaning in. “What I was trying to tell you before is that I saw how weird everybody got when you and Hank walked in together. It’s not my business if anything is going on between you two, but—”
Astrid cut her off. “Nothing is going on between us.”
“Still not my business,” Ria said. She ran her lean, chapped fingers through Astrid’s hair. It felt good, but Astrid resisted it. She wasn’t a little kid anymore.
“And it isn’t their business either,” Ria continued. “You and Hank don’t owe them a thing. You just have to do what feels right.”
“Yeah. Well . . .” Astrid huffed. “Being broken up only feels right to one of us.”
“Honey.” Ria smiled at her. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”
At the other end of the plaza, Astrid’s dad had finished up his remarks—he’d made no mention of the lighthouse—and together with the rest of the board, he began to clear the stage. Henry Bushkirk yanked the starter rope on the generator, powering up a ring of speakers rigged along the walls. Mr. Collins fiddled with the radio receiver. The crowd tittered, eagerly anticipating the radio show. It began as it always did, with the faint and rising call of trumpets, the opening fanfare for The First Voice. At the sound of the music, everybody in the plaza clapped and cheered.
“Mom, are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” Astrid asked, speaking up to be heard over the ruckus. The coincidence was just too big for her to ignore. Ria and Amblin having words for the first time in who knows how long? The lighthouse coming back to life after years of darkness? How could these two things not be related? “Nothing about Puffin Island?” Astrid tried.
“Sweetheart,” her mother said. “Hush. I want to listen.”
A familiar voice sprang from the speakers. “Hello out there, dear true listeners,” the lady presenter said, enunciating each word. “This is The First Voice, broadcasting to you live from the Quiet Lands, west of the majestic Rocky Mountains. Today is the first of October, in the twenty-fourth year of the wickedness, and it is a beautiful day indeed.”
Other than the beautiful day bit—which was only a coincidence—everything else the woman had said was wrong. First, it was actually July, and by the Goldsport calendar they were in the fortieth year of the wickedness. Second, the show wasn’t live. And third, there was nothing to the west of the Rocky Mountains—at least not anymore. Though . . . whether or not the mountains were still majestic was anybody’s guess.
It hadn’t always been this way. The First Voice used to broadcast a new episode every Sunday. It was an absurdly optimistic show. “Not the last voice of the old world,” went their tagline, “but the first voice of the new one!” But whoever those people were, optimism wasn’t enough to protect them. New episodes stopped broadcasting the same year Astrid was born. Ever since then, the final nine months of shows had simply repeated on a loop. Their sanctuary must have been overrun, and the people inside had either been killed or fallen wicked. Just like everyone else in the world. All that remained were echoes of their happy voices. Dying batteries and rusting wires.
“Twenty-four years.” The announcer sighed. “It’s an age, isn’t it? But it’s also a blink. A heartbeat. It goes by so fast. Those of you out there who are parents, you know what I’m talking about.” She paused, commiserating with her unseen listeners. Nobody in Goldsport knew her name—she’d never said, and now she never would.
“So, as I promised you all last Sunday, today I’ll be playing the second half of Gone with the Wind. And just like last week, I have my friend here with me to narrate the bits in between so that you can all picture what our lovers are getting up to. But before we pop the movie back in, I’ve got one very gentle reminder to deliver.”
At this point, there was a general stirring in the crowd. Somebody stood up from their chair and hollered, “Mute, please.”
It took a moment for Astrid to remember why.
“You might recall,” the announcer continued, “that some weeks ago we brought you a special news segment on a promising new development in our ongoing struggle against the wickedness. Doctors in California are calling it the vex.”
At the sound of this word, Astrid’s stomach turned.
“Today I’d like to remind you all—”
“Turn it down, please,” someone else hollered from the crowd. It was Mrs. Wrigley, her sun hat askew and a champagne flute tight in her gloved fist. “This part lasts for three and a half minutes,” she said. “I wrote it down last time.”
Mr. Collins hurried back up to the receiver, frantically putting his little gold-framed glasses back on. He began fiddling with the buttons and knobs. Still, the woman on the radio persisted.
“I think it’s important,” she said, “in light of some distressing news we’ve heard, to restate a few key elements of that story. As we said some weeks ago, at this point the vex cannot be recommended for any babies of more than six months of age. Do not—I repeat—do not—”
“Come on, Tommy!” This was Mr. Gregory, now standing as well.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Collins said, getting flustered. “I’m try—”
“Unplug it,” Mrs. Wrigley yelled. “If you can’t figure out the volume, unplug it.” Her champagne flute was shaking in her hand.
Meanwhile, the radio announcer continued. She could never have known how unpopular this particular segment was with her loyal audience in Goldsport. “And even for babies within the recommended range,” she said, “you still need to use discretion in how you apply the vex. What we’ve heard out of California is that the most consistent results might actually come if exposure is given in the first seventy-two hours after birth. Furthermore, they recommend exposure to at least—that’s at least—five singers. I know that’s frightening, but we’re talking multiple bites, friends. That’s what you need to get the required . . . What are they calling it? The required viral load.”
“Get it together, Tommy!” Mr. Gregory was approaching the stage now, his gait jagged and unsteady.
“Now, it goes without saying that the potential rewards of the vex are just . . . They’re just . . . I mean, ‘wow’ is all I can say.” The announcer sighed longingly as her entire Goldsport audience grew more and more agitated. And for the second time that morning, people in the crowd turned, glancing nervously in Astrid’s direction.
“But I need to stress that the doctors say there is no guarantee of immunity. And there are some risks involved. There’s a chance that exposure to the virus could overwhelm a young immune system. The complications are potentially fatal. Now, the doctors consider the likelihood to be minor, but not—”
“Liar!”
Mrs. Wrigley hurled her champagne flute up at the stage, where it shattered against the edge of the banquet table, drawing a glittering orange bolt a
cross the tablecloth. Mr. Collins was so panicked that he fell backward off the riser and into the sand. A moment later Henry Bushkirk arrived and killed the generator.
“You’re a liar!” Mrs. Wrigley screamed again. She slumped back down onto the sand, sinking into the folds of her dress. The Abbitt twins, who had been sitting on the adjacent quilt, took Mrs. Wrigley into their arms.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Mr. Collins said, nervously pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how I forgot. . . . It was right here in my notes. Eight thirty-two—volume off.”
Nobody spoke for the next few minutes as they waited for the rest of the segment to play out. Many stared at Astrid. She wished, as she always did when the vex came up, that she could disappear. After all, it might as well have been her that everybody was so upset about. Astrid was vexed.
She was the only one.
“Honey . . .” Her mother reached for Astrid’s hand. “Try not to pay any attention,” she whispered. “It’s not about you.”
“Mom,” Astrid whispered back, “it’s exactly about me.”
She pulled out of her mother’s grip and stood, heading for the rear hatch, which opened onto the Goldsport harbor. Even after she was through the quiet room and outside, marching down the dock and sending the gulls leaping off their perches, she still felt watched from beyond the glass. Astrid wished she could go invisible. She wished she could jump off the end of the dock, into the cool and clear water, and just swim away.
• • •
Years ago, when they first heard about the vex, everybody in Goldsport had been overjoyed. It wasn’t a vaccine, but it was close—a way to shield the next generation from the wickedness. Just as The First Voice recommended, they’d carried their children and infants outside, naked under purple garlands of singers. By some fluke of the young immune system, exposure to the live virus at that early age was supposed to make the children forever resistant.
How We Became Wicked Page 3