by Ellery Kane
A chorus of boos underscored his point.
“I fear for our great country. They tell us things are better. But with restrictions on our free press, mass closures of our universities, and the creation of an army of perfect soldiers, forgive me if I have my doubts.”
Most of the crowd were on their feet, cheering him with growing fervor.
“They may call us rebels. They may call us the New Resistance. Whatever they call us, one thing is certain. We are here to take back control!”
New Resistance? It was the first I’d heard of it. But then again, I didn’t trust SFTV to give me the truth any more than he did. As I pondered, an unassuming George McAllister ascended the stage.
“Thank you, Bob, … uh, Mr. Jackson, for that great intro. I’m just a blue-collar guy, not used to making fancy speeches, so I’m grateful to be here again tonight to talk to you about the dangers of emotion-altering drugs. As many of you have heard, I was a victim of the government’s experimentation with the Crim-X program. Now, believe me, I was no angel.”
The crowd twittered. They liked him.
“But I was deliberately misled about the purpose of Crim-X by the very researchers who told me they were going to help me. I’m sure many of you know that Victoria Knightley, who was recently killed in her efforts for the Resistance, spearheaded this project.”
I recoiled—the mention of my mother’s name a bitter shock. But just as surprising was George McAllister’s willingness to divulge government secrets. I doubted they were too pleased about that.
“She and a whole slew of others, including Jamison Ryker, made me believe Crim-X would make me less violent, more suitable for release. The truth is, I was a ticking time bomb. And do you think the government has apologized to me?”
I heard murmurs from the crowd, then one man shouted, “Hell no!” Gaining steam, George McAllister continued.
“Has the government fessed up to their role in this whole Guardian Force fiasco?”
The crowd yelled a powerful No! in unison.
“Well, it’s time someone demanded answers!”
He pounded the podium with his fist. The crowd cheered as he continued.
“I, for one, would like to know how these drugs are still getting out on our streets!”
Someone yelled, “Zenigenic!” Then, after a few moments, George McAllister asked for quiet.
“I do want to say, in the past few years, Dr. Knightley admitted to me that she screwed up—told me she had serious concerns from the beginning—and apologized. Still, because of the government’s negligence, I took the life of my wife and destroyed the lives of my sons, Colton and Quin.”
I gasped, as the camera panned to the right. There was Quin, standing beside Shelly, looking toward his father. Next to him was a face I didn’t recognize. She was petite, barely rising to the height of Quin’s shoulder, but striking. Sideswept bangs and short blonde hair—well, most of it blonde, except for a single neon-pink braid—framed her face. I watched, mouth agape, as she touched Quin’s arm with intent, with familiarity. Her left forearm was tattooed. She was a Guardian.
I fast-forwarded through the video, dreading but desperate for more glimpses of Quin and the mysterious blonde. At the end, there was only this, spoken by George McAllister:
“I thank you for your attention tonight. I wish I could say my life was the only one impacted by the government’s greed, but I am not alone. Tonight, you will hear from Mr. Peter Radley, a Guardian Force survivor like my son, and—Emma, come on up here—Ms. Emma Markum. She is here to talk to you about the Prophecy Study. Don’t let her size fool you. She’s one tough cookie.”
Quin’s father winked at the audience. Flashing Shelly and Quin a smile, Emma ascended the podium, her iridescent blue dress swirling behind her. She giggled, the crowd sharing in her laughter, as she adjusted the microphone to her height. I noticed another tattoo on her right shoulder, a feather with indiscernible writing underneath. Perhaps it was just the lighting, but standing up there, facing the camera, shoulders back, she was luminous. Just as I prepared myself for the worst of it—her probably fabulous speech—the video ended abruptly.
I replayed the part with Quin at least ten times, watching him acknowledge his father, studying Emma’s touch of his arm so closely I felt as if I knew her. I didn’t feel angry—not yet—only numb. Betrayal’s blade went in so smooth, I didn’t even know I was cut.
But then, I saw it sitting there, draped over a stool. Quin’s leather jacket. I picked it up and held it close to my face. It smelled like him—delicious and summery. I felt an ache for Quin. With it, came a searing, white-hot hurt, turning me inside out. It was only then that I felt the wound.
By the time Quin returned an hour later, I found five more videos of George McAllister, all of them unwatchable, their links deleted by user. The speech I memorized for Quin evaporated when I saw his face.
“How could you?” I demanded, before he even said hello.
Do not cry, I ordered myself, damming my tears behind a sturdy wall of anger.
Quin was caught off guard, his eyes innocent, wide with surprise. “What are you—”
I jabbed my finger at the computer, a still shot from the video loomed on the screen and interrupted him. “How could you?” I asked again. It seemed the only thing I was able to say.
“Lex—”
“Don’t even try to talk your way out of it.”
Quin took a deep breath. “Am I allowed to speak?” he wondered, looking at me with uncertainty.
“Now you want to talk? It’s too late, Quin. I can’t believe you would hide this from me. You know how much I hate secrets, how much it hurt to find out the things my mom kept from me.” The dam inside me cracked, my tears leaking slowly, then faster. “You did the same thing she did but worse.”
Quin reached for me, his expression tender and pleading, but I resisted, pushing my palms against his chest. “Don’t touch me,” I cautioned him. “And this girl? Emma? She seems to know you pretty well.” My voice sounded wild, unhinged. I swiped at my tears with the back of my hand.
“Alexandra.” In contrast, Quin was like still water. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?”
Quin sighed, exasperated. “I tried to tell you so many times about all of it. But you didn’t want to hear anything about my dad. It was so obvious you didn’t trust him. I thought you’d probably …”
I glared at him, waiting.
“Overreact,” he finished. “But I can see I was totally wrong.” He grinned. He wanted to make it right, but something inside me wouldn’t allow it.
I didn’t laugh. “Is that how the reporters knew your name? Your dad’s speaking engagements?” I made mocking air quotes with my fingers.
Quin nodded.
“And you lied when I asked you about Prophecy.”
“Yes, I lied,” he admitted. “To protect you. I wanted to find the right time, the right way, to tell you. I didn’t want you to—”
I cut him off before he could finish. “Lying to me isn’t protecting me. It’s hurting me, Quin.”
“That’s the last thing I wanted to do, Lex. I love you. You know that.” Quin extended his hand toward me again but withdrew it, as I shook my head.
Just as my tears slowed, everything from the last few days came at me all at once. For no good reason, I wanted to punish Quin. “Did you tell Emma that too?”
“Lex?” Suddenly, my father was in the doorway, his eyes darting between me and Quin.
I didn’t respond but began to cry again.
“Quin, what exactly is going on here?” There was an unspoken accusation in his voice.
“She’s angry with me.”
“That seems obvious.” My father stepped inside, holding the door open, awaiting Quin’s exit. “I think you should leave.”
“Is that what you want, Lex?”
I avoided Quin’s eyes.
“It’s not up to her, Quin. Please go.”
Just before I buried my face in my hands, I saw Quin walk out, his leather jacket bundled under his arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
CRACKED
I LAY ON THE SOFA ALONE, wishing Quin hadn’t taken Artos. Like the shell of an egg, I felt fragile—cracked—but not yet broken. My father stood at the doorway, offering me a cup of hot chocolate. Under his arm, I saw my mother’s book of poetry, the one thing he knew would comfort me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, putting the book on the coffee table.
I shrugged. Unlike with my mother, I always found myself holding back, testing my father out gradually, as if at any moment, he could disappoint.
“I found out Quin was hiding some things from me.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word lie.
“You mean, lying?” my father corrected.
Despite everything, I defended Quin. “I don’t think he meant to do it … or I guess he did … but he tried to tell me.”
“Alexandra.” My father looked stern. “I know you think you love this kid, but how much do you really know about him?”
I sat up straight, feet planted on the floor, and looked at my father, dumbfounded. There were so many things wrong with his statement, I didn’t know where to begin. “Dad, you’re wrong—”
My father spoke over me, intent on finishing his speech. “I’ve been in a relationship like that before with your mother. I was always one step behind, trying to figure her out. It’s exciting at first, mysterious. I know how it draws you in, but it’s an exhausting way to live.”
Part of me knew my father was right—Quin and my mother were cut from the same enigmatic cloth—but there was something about the tone of his voice, the way he spoke about my mother, that twisted my heart, wringing it out like a wet rag. He was always talking about her—the story of how they met, their first date, my first night home from the hospital, even the dark days of her anxiety—but never like this.
I stood up, my anger at Quin redirected, like a massive and unexpected shift of the wind.
“Quin and I are nothing like you and Mom. If you had been here, you would know that.”
The barbs of my words hooked into my father’s heart. “I’m here now,” he said. “And I’ve watched you with Quin, the way you look at him. He’s magnetic just like your mother. Withholding, just like her. Troubled, just like she was. That’s what worries me most, Lex—his past. He’s a criminal. Your mother told me everything.”
“Please stop!” I yelled, grateful that the weight of my words suspended my father’s rant. “You don’t know anything about Quin. He’s not a criminal. He was alone and scared and trying to survive. Mom loved Quin. Whatever she told you was to help you understand, not for you to use against him.”
“Alexandra, I know how your mother felt about Quin, and I care about him too, but you are my priority. I don’t want to see you have your heart broken the way mine was.”
I turned my back to my father, unable to hear anymore. His blaming my mother, exposing her flaws, caused me physical pain, a literal wrenching in my chest, as if he was prying open the secret chamber where I safeguarded her memory.
Before seeking refuge in my room, slamming the door behind me, I told him, “You left us, Dad. Don’t forget that. It was your choice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
A STRANGER
I FELT MYSELF FALLING, falling so fast. I was terrified, squeezing my eyes shut, but I didn’t want it to stop. The hollow rat-tat-tat of my heart was pounding in my ears. I opened my eyes to Quin kissing me, pulling me to him so hard, I felt as if I would break. His stubble scratched against my face. He bit my lip, and I tasted my own blood.
Then I was no longer being kissed. I was watching. Quin’s hand, his arm, his dragon tattoo was holding tight to someone, not me. I heard him breathe her name, giving it life. Emma.
“It’s your fault.” I heard a whisper behind me.
I turned but there was no one there.
“Your fault.”
Only shadows slipping in and out of darkness.
“All your fault.”
Next I was searching for something, opening drawer after drawer, all empty, until the last. I felt a scream rising in my throat—but no sound came—even before I tugged at its handle. In it, stained bright red, was a baby’s rattle.
I opened my eyes. Shaken, I rubbed my lip—it was smooth, unbroken, but the sound from my dream was echoing from the hallway. I peeled back the covers, stealth-like, and padded to my door, every creak of the floor suspending my heartbeat. The hallway was empty and dark, but the kitchen wasn’t.
Max was rifling through the drawers. He was trying to be quiet, but his desperation was audible. I knew exactly what he was looking for. For months, my father kept a stash of money hidden under the dishtowels. Standing there, I was watching a stranger—my friend—but a stranger nonetheless. In that moment, with Max’s eyes wild and yearning, I decided.
Returning to my room, I scribbled a hasty note to my father—feeling a small sense of satisfaction that I would be the cause of his worry—and then packed my backpack, taking just the essentials. I wouldn’t be gone long.
Still wary about the government’s surveillance, I debated about taking my cell phone. I rarely used it. Even if the government wasn’t listening in, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling someone, somewhere was watching. Hypervigilance. I smiled to myself, my mother’s voice diagnosing me in my mind. I already had several texts from Quin. Let him suffer a little, I thought, as I pocketed the phone, leaving the messages unread.
I slipped out the window, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt down to obscure my face, and crouched in the shrubbery waiting for Max to leave. Wherever he was going, whatever he was doing, I was determined to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
STRING
AS THE BUS ENGINE REVVED to a start, I scooted down low, turning my head to the fogged window and concealing my face. Somewhere, in a seat behind me, was Max. The bus’s steady rumble was a comfort, but it didn’t quiet my nerves. I flipped through Quin’s messages, a cauldron of anger, disappointment, and longing simmering inside of me.
6:30 p.m.: “Lex? Are you there?”
6:35 p.m.: “I know I messed up. You were right. I should’ve known better.” 6:36 p.m.: “P.S. Emma is just a friend.”
7:30 p.m.: “Can you just let me know you’re okay … that you don’t hate me?”
7:45 p.m.: “Lex?”
With a deep sigh, I typed, “I’m okay, and of course, I don’t hate you, but I’m still angry. We’ll talk about it more when I see you.” Then, reconsidering, I deleted my words, one by one, and returned the phone to my backpack.
I didn’t look up again until the bus stopped at the Oakland station. Pretending to be asleep, I waited until I saw Max’s spiky blond hair descend the steps. Then I followed. Outside of the bus’s snug cocoon, it was cold and windy, barely morning. I watched from a bench at the station’s entrance, as Max idled near the corner. He was waiting.
After a few minutes, his face brightened with anticipation. I followed his gaze down the sidewalk, as a young man approached. Squinting from beneath my hoodie, I assessed him. He was Max’s age, tall and lanky, with his dark hair carefully sculpted into a short Mohawk. Hair like that took effort, I thought, running my hand through my tangles. He wore a black leather jacket with the collar turned up—his eyes concealed behind dark glasses that accentuated his gaunt features.
I gulped as I watched them turn and begin walking in my direction. I lowered my head to conceal myself, but Max was mesmerized by his confident companion. I was practically invisible. As they passed right by me, so close I could’ve touched them, I peeked up. They walked in sync, not speaking. Just before they turned the corner, my mouth opened in surprise. The young man of mystery slipped his hand into Max’s, their fingers lacing together in an intimate embrace.
Max has a boyfriend. Max has a boyfriend. Max has a boyfriend! I trailed a safe distance behind t
hem, the words repeating in my head. Max’s coupling was, somehow, even more surprising than his use of Eupho.
As we neared downtown, I became increasingly nervous, the homeless encampment and its unpredictable occupants looming. Reminding myself I could always turn back, I continued, keeping Max within my sight.
“Hey, String! Ya got something for me?” I heard someone call out from one of the tents.
Dropping Max’s hand, his friend turned toward the sound. “Yeah, man, I’ll catch ya later.” His voice was smooth and strong.
“String? What kind of a name is that?” I mumbled under my breath.
Across the street, outside of the jail, I saw a crowd gathered, chanting. The closer I came, the louder and clearer their words: “Free Inmate 243! Free George!” Some of the protestors wielded anti-government signs. Some bore the mark of the Resistance. My eyes were drawn to one in particular: Crim-X, Prophecy, Guardian Force! When will the government tell the truth? There it was again, Prophecy.
I considered stopping to interrogate the sign holder, but if I did, I would lose Max. Up ahead, I saw him pause, turning to speak to String, as he gestured to the crowd. I couldn’t see his face, and with those dark sunglasses, String’s expression was unchanging.
A familiar SFTV reporter bumped me from the sidewalk, clambering for a better shot. I continued past, trying to keep up, as she began her on-air update.
“This is Barbara Blake, reporting live from Alameda County Jail in Oakland, where we are witnessing the resurgence of the Resistance movement, spurred on by the arrest of George McAllister, otherwise known as Inmate 243…”
Suddenly, the crowd spilled out onto the street, jostling for position in front of the camera. My path obstructed, I tried to squeeze through, but arms and sweaty bodies—like strangling vines—thwarted me at every turn.
“Excuse me.” My words fell away, drowned out by the crowd’s relentless rallying. I could barely see String’s Mohawk advancing away from me. “Excuse me,” I repeated, resisting as the crowd pushed against me like a wave, nearly knocking me to my feet.