by Gabby Noone
“Really inspirational stuff, huh?” I said, nodding toward it.
“What?” she asked, like she’d just woken up. “Oh. Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, you know.”
Finally Emmy turned her head and stared at me.
“What do you mean ‘didn’t mean’? You didn’t mean to get caught?”
“Well, yeah. And for you to get involved. It just all kind of spiraled out of control.”
“Okay. Thanks, I guess? What do you want me to say?”
“I didn’t ask you to say anything. I was just explaining myself.”
“Sometimes,” Emmy started, then paused. “Sometimes I just think you’re bad at picking your battles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t need to have an altercation in the parking lot over one stupid comment,” she muttered.
“I was protecting you! You’re my little sister. It’s my job . . . it’s . . . it’s my duty. I took an oath,” I said, smiling as I called back to Sergeant Rick’s earlier ridiculous comments. Emmy didn’t return the smile.
“Sometimes I don’t need to be protected, okay?” she said. “Sure, I’d prefer to walk into school without being catcalled, but what can you do? I mean, maybe if I got to school earlier . . .”
“How would that change anything?”
“I don’t know, like, if we actually got to school on time and parked at the top, where all the grody boys don’t hang out, this wouldn’t have been a problem and I would just be in class right now having a calm, normal morning thinking about the amazing time I would have tonight at Snow Ball with my boyfriend.”
“So you’re saying this is all my fault? That I asked for this?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying at all,” she said, closing her eyes. “Sorry. I’m not making any sense.”
“You’re not going to get in trouble. And, hey, if you do, there will be other dances for you and Skyler to go to. You’re only a sophomore, Emmy! You have so much time. Instead we can just have a chill night at home! We can watch Real Housewives and make pizza rolls and wear those gross slimy sheet masks you love.”
“Bea,” Emmy said, sitting up. “Do you not get it? I don’t want just a chill night at home. Tonight was supposed to be special.”
“Beatrice Fox?” the principal’s secretary called from behind her desk before I could say anything more. “Principal Spoglio will see you now.”
10
In my room, I lie awake, attempting to plot my revenge against Caleb. I refuse to sleep knowing I’m sharing air space with the person who committed manslaughter against me.
The problem is there really isn’t anything to plot with. Like me, and everyone else here, he has nothing important to his name. Nothing I can hold over his head and use to make him suffer. No money, no valuable possessions, no friends, no reputation, no embarrassing past social media presence that I could dig up and use to humiliate him. My earlier rant that we have nothing to show for ourselves except for our useless frozen bodies rings too true.
If all he has is his body, then could I physically hurt him? If I just punched him in the face, would it actually do anything? Is punching someone in the face one millions times over even close to the equivalent of them killing you?
I turn over and glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 3:30 a.m. Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I’m putting my shoes on and heading up to the sixth floor.
“Good morning, Bea!” Sadie says, opening her door. She’s wide-awake and panting, like she’d just been running sprints.
“Are you up?” I say, weary.
“Oh, I only need three . . . four hours sleep, max! I was just doing my morning aerobics routine. Want to join me?”
In the doorway, she high-steps in place.
“Uh, I’m good. I just had some . . . lingering questions that weren’t really addressed in my orientation.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ve got answers. Come in,” she says, moving aside. “I can walk and talk.”
When I step inside Sadie’s room, I’m rendered speechless.
The furniture and the layout is identical to mine, but her room is full of stuff. Tons of it. Taped to the walls, the way girls line their bedrooms with printed-out pictures of them and their friends, are hundreds of bits of paper and napkins with notes scrawled on them.
Whereas my dresser is bare, hers is covered with cups of pens and markers, bottles of glue, piles of magazines, the jar of glitter she must have used to make my welcome sign, bottled toiletries with generic labels, and god knows what else. In someone’s house, this would be considered “cluttered.” Here, in an airport where most people arrive with no possessions and no one has money and there’s virtually nothing to buy, I’d say this would be classified as “hoarding.”
“You have quite the collection,” I say at last.
Upon closer inspection, I realize the notes taped to wall all have messages that read like they belong in the back of a yearbook, things like, Thanks, Sadie! LYLAS and I’ll miss you! Never change! and BEVERLY + SADIE = BFF.
“Oh yeah,” she says, continuing to bounce up and down. “Those are all my notes from people who’ve moved on to Heaven. Some of them were people I helped. Some of them were coworkers.”
“And this one?” I ask, pointing up at a napkin that says in calligraphy-like handwriting, To Sadie, My Eternal Flame . . .
“You said you had some ‘lingering questions’ for me?” she asks, squinting and gesturing for me to take a seat on her bed.
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms and flopping down. “I was wondering . . . if our bodies are frozen in time, does that mean we can’t feel pain?”
“No,” Sadie says, doing a split on the floor and groaning as if to prove her answer. “Think about how you felt when you first arrived. You felt sick, right? All queasy and vomit-y.”
“Ugh.” I cringe. “Okay, but that was my body’s own impulse, right? What about if something or someone were to hurt me? If I were to, like, jump out my hotel room window onto the tarmac right now or, say, I don’t know . . . get punched in the face, would it damage my body?”
“No, but it would hurt. Your body is now indestructible, but it’s not as if you’re, like, totally superhuman, you know?”
“So I could get punched in the face a thousand times in a row and that wouldn’t break my nose, but it would feel like I’d broken my nose?”
“Precisely!” Sadie smiles, but then her face immediately falls. “Why are you so obsessed with someone punching you in the face? Is someone threatening to punch you in the face?”
“No. It’s just the first thing that came to mind.”
“Well, no one would punch you in the face here. Anyone who would do that sort of thing was probably sent straight to Hell, but if someone here dared to try, they’d have to go in front of the Disciplinary Council for judgment.”
“Disciplinary Council?”
“If anyone does something here that would’ve been considered a crime while they were alive, the Disciplinary Council decides if that person should be temporarily removed from the lottery or, if necessary, immediately removed from the airport and sent to Hell.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Yeah. They’re, like, the closest the airport has got to a government,” Sadie says, now turning onto her back to do crunches. “They live and work in the air traffic control tower, away from everyone.”
“And no one mentioned this to me in orientation because . . . ?” I ask.
“The council doesn’t like to publicize themselves. They don’t want people to be on their best behavior just to avoid getting in trouble. They want people to be on their normal behavior, so they can weed out anyone who was placed here by mistake. Really though, they’re barely needed. I’ve only heard of them swooping in a h
andful of times since I’ve been here. God is pretty reliable with sorting us out.”
“Do you know what made them take action?” I ask, standing and pacing back and forth. The wheels in my head begin to turn. “Like, what crimes people committed that got their attention?”
“Phew,” Sadie exhales, coming up from a crunch. “These are great questions, Bea! You’re so perceptive. I would say—”
She’s interrupted by a sudden knock at her door. Her body freezes. After a few seconds she turns and glances at the clock on her nightstand.
“He’s early,” she says under her breath.
“Who?” I ask, crossing my arms.
Sadie stares up at me as if she’s just remembered I’m in the room.
“It’s meeeee!” a man’s voice booms from behind her door.
“Oh. Am I interrupting . . . your plans?” I ask, pretending to be polite, but actually super annoyed.
“I know the password, Sadie,” the voice says, lower this time.
Suddenly she jumps up off the floor, sprints to the door, and opens it, revealing none other than Todd.
“It’s Sadieisthemostbeau—” he starts, leaning into the doorframe.
“Heyyy, Todd!” she says, cutting him off. “You’ll never guess who is here. Our new friend Beatrice.”
“Who?” he asks, looking over her shoulder toward me.
“You know Beatrice, my trainee.”
“Your . . . ? Oh!”
Todd blinks twice, then stands up straight and clears his throat.
“Hello, Beatrice!” he says, coming inside.
“Hi,” I deadpan.
“Todd was just joining me for my morning aerobics routine, as he usually does.”
“Yep,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “You don’t get muscles like these just sitting around all day.”
“Isn’t aerobics cardio?” I press. “I thought strength training gave you muscles. Plus aren’t our bodies frozen in time and impossible to change?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Todd says, turning his head toward Sadie. “These new arrivals are just getting smarter and smarter. I don’t know what they’re teaching them down there, but it is working.”
“You guys don’t have to do this whole song and dance for me. Whatever is going on or is . . . about to go on”—I pause to grimace—“is your business. Sadie, can you just please answer my question from before and I will get out of your way?”
She gives me a hard stare for a moment, but then breaks back into a smile.
“Sure thing!” she says, then turns to Todd. “Bea wanted to know what crimes people have committed here that have gotten the attention of the Disciplinary Council.”
Todd blows air out of his mouth.
“Oh man. Where to begin . . . Well, there was that guy who kept flashing everyone. . . .”
“Oh my god, yes!” Sadie exclaims. “What ever happened to him?”
“I think they ruled that he couldn’t be blamed because he didn’t choose to die wearing just a trench coat and nothing else.”
“Mmhm. Oh, do you remember that woman who ended up here with that guy she thought was her murderer?”
I perk up my ears.
“Yes!” Todd says, nearly jumping up and down. “But it turned out to be a guy who looked just like her actual murderer? And still she kept trying to stab him with a butter knife from the food court?”
“Poor thing,” Sadie says, shaking her head condescendingly. “Like that would’ve accomplished anything. Still, the Disciplinary Council really doesn’t like it when people try to take justice into their own hands.”
My stomach drops.
“Yeah, and they hate it when anyone tries to game the system,” Todd says, sitting down on the edge of Sadie’s bed.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Some people have it in their heads that they can get their number called without waiting,” Sadie explains. “I blame it all on how they updated orientation for newcomers. They used to not tell you that once you get to Heaven, you’ll be able to watch over your loved ones and see how they’re doing.”
“You can?” I ask, estimating in my head how old Emmy will be when I finally get out of here. With my luck, she’ll probably be in a retirement home by the time I can check in on her.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s supposed to be an incentive to get people to cooperate with our team. Now that everyone knows, they’re just chomping at the bit to move on, as if they weren’t already. As if the reward of Heaven weren’t enough for them.”
“It’s true. People are getting more entitled than ever,” Todd says, taking off his shoes. “I don’t know what’s happening on Earth, but these new arrivals do not seem to understand we are not a commercial airline company that they can just . . . fax . . . or tweet . . . whatever that is . . . their complaints to and get what they want. This isn’t a business. They can’t just harass us into getting their numbers called.”
The stench of Todd’s feet fills the room and I cover my nose.
“Or worse,” Sadie says. “They think they can sweet-talk you into doing them a favor.”
“Yes!” I blurt out. “That exact thing happened to me this morning when . . . a person saw I was wearing a Memory Experience uniform.”
“Already? Typical,” Todd spits. “These people will just prey on any fresh meat they can find.”
I wince at his description of me.
“So what happens?” I ask, looking between the two of them. “Theoretically, if that same person were to keep bothering me?”
“Well, yeah, that would be considered harassment and you’d need to file a complaint with the Disciplinary Council office, which I’ve never actually seen open during the day, so you’d have to leave it in their mailbox,” Todd says.
“And then,” Sadie adds, “they’re required to go through surveillance camera footage to find proof of the claim and then review that footage before they can even schedule a hearing and call on witnesses and—”
“Surveillance camera footage?” I ask, leaning forward. “We’re being watched?”
“Eh,” Todd grunts. “We’re not so much being watched as we’re being recorded. The footage is there if it’s needed.”
I look up at the corners of the room, searching frantically for a camera.
“Bea, I don’t meant to be, like . . . rude,” Sadie says, continuing her exercise routine by moving into plank position with her toes pointing down and her forearms flat on the floor. “But has it really not occurred to you that your entire life was surveilled and that’s why you’re here now?”
I stare at her with a gaping mouth.
No. It hadn’t.
“Don’t worry, though,” she says, looking up at me. “Our rooms don’t have cameras in them. They’re the only places that don’t. Well, and in the memories.”
“What do you mean?”
“The memory sessions can’t be recorded since they only happen inside people’s brains. The Memstractors are only capable of taking transcripts of people’s neural patterns to prove they are ready to move on.”
“Oh, well, of course,” I mumble.
“Speaking of,” Sadie says, collapsing onto the carpet at last. “Are you nervous for tomorrow?”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Your first session without me, silly!”
I had, to be honest, completely forgotten about my job and the whole memory thing over the course of the night. It had been completely absorbed by my desire to ruin Caleb, which, I now realize, could very well be possible.
“Oh, that?” I say, smiling and waving my hand. “I’m not nervous about it at all.”
11
My first solo soul is Charlie Blunt, a fifty-seven-year-old man who died of a heart attack.
I ask him to tell me a li
ttle bit about himself and the first thing he says is he worked as something called a “chief risk officer” at a bank that I’ve only heard of because they have a drive-through ATM at the shopping center near my house.
“So you were, like, the security guard at a bank?” I ask.
“No, I worked on Wall Street,” he scoffs.
I take a deep breath and plaster on a smile.
At the beginning of our session, he shows me vivid memories of himself sitting at the head of long, important conference tables and staring at screens with rapidly moving numbers and laughing with other businessmen in dimly lit restaurants while they eat giant cuts of steak.
Yet when I press him about his personal life, the memories get fuzzier. He can’t seem to remember what color his wife’s hair is or if his son plays soccer or football. When he recalls their last vacation together, he can only think of himself searching for cell reception on a cruise ship so that he can take an important work call.
It doesn’t take me long to zero in on the regret that’s holding him here.
“Okay, yes, you’re exactly right,” he exclaims an hour into our session, blubbering like a baby. “I overworked myself to death! I didn’t make time for my family when I should have!”
The green light on his helmet lights up, signaling that a neural pathway of self-realization, or whatever, has been formed. Still, he continues to weep and weep and weep, even when we return to the airport to file his departure paperwork.
“There you are. Finally,” Sadie says, clutching her chest with relief when she sees me, even though I managed to finish up a half hour before our four-hour window was over. She must have been waiting at the departures counter since the early morning. “So, how’d it go?”
“Fine.” I shrug.
“Define ‘fine,’” she says, squinting. “Do you need some more time for his case? Did you—”
“No. He came to a conclusion. He’ll be on the next flight out.”
“That’s amazing, Bea! Your first solo soul and you got him moving in a day. That means you only need to move one more person along and then it’s my time to go.” She smiles, but falters as she looks at me. “Why aren’t you more excited? You should be so proud of yourself!”