CHAPTER TWO #2
I handed over my ticket as I reached the valet station and rocked on my heels.
It was wild how the communities of Alta Bay pressed up against each other.
Behind me, the gala was surrounded by flowers I guessed cost twenty times more than the humble bouquets outside the corner store just a few blocks over.
The Playa Gardens venue was as far down the bay in the MidCity neighborhood as anyone in my circles had ever been.
The UV ceiling covering most of the streets north of here – the glassways, as some called it – ended at this intersection.
But two lights south, the upscale Sunrise Avenue took on a new name as it crossed into South Alta, the lowest part of the city.
Unlike those fancy trees, I’d committed this street name to memory: Lucille B. Anarcha Boulevard.
Lucille B. Anarcha had borne the parasitic helical disease for the patriarch of the second-richest family in Alta Bay, Thom Westlake, and was one of the first Pain Carriers of the Freedom System during its inception nearly thirty-five years ago.
Pictures of her lined the lobby of Dominion Pharmaceuticals, where the history of Grandfather’s company stood on display.
Even with her deep brown skin, the solar blue disease flared visibly through her body.
And so, she was given a regular paycheck and half a street named after her.
When I was younger, the whole thing made me uneasy, but as Grandfather always reminded me, Pain Carriers were strong.
They weren’t hurting physically or financially.
They also weren’t complaining.
Behind the valet station, key fobs for almost every brand of luxury car hung on display: G-Classe, Royce, even a few Spyders, Cilindris and a single La Noire.
Jacinta had wanted me to drive my new AMG One, but I’d refused.
What she’d really wanted was for me to ride along in the family limousine, but that was too stuffy, and I wouldn’t have been able to leave on my own.
I relaxed, hearing my baby before I saw the valet pull up to the curb.
The sun had faded most of its paint. The white roof and stripe down the side had yellowed, and the green of the panels and hood had gone a little pukey.
But the campervan was mine, bought with my first surf competition winnings.
It was the only thing on the used car lot I could afford on my own, but it had what I needed: a rack for my boards up top, room inside for my wetsuits, and a place to hide when my family’s nine-bedroom estate felt, ironically, too small.
The valet parked with a squeal of the brakes, and a young man stepped out. Familiar helical electric blue radiated up his arms, disappearing beneath the short white sleeves of his uniform and reappearing at his throat.
‘Thank yo–’ I started.
‘No, thank you!’ The valet vigorously shook my hand, his grip a little warmer than mine. I wondered if the disease caused that. ‘What your family has done, what your grandfather has done for the city – I can’t even put it into words, man.’
I couldn’t help but swell with a little pride. He wasn’t wrong. Grandfather was on his way to taking the Freedom System to the rest of the world.
The valet tossed me my keys, and I caught them midair.
‘Nice ride. Driving a campervan when everyone else rolled up in limousines? Respect.’
That made me smile. I tipped double my usual before tossing my tux jacket on to the passenger seat and sliding inside.
I tried not to think too hard about why the valet needed a minimum-wage job if he was a Pain Carrier receiving regular paychecks.
I chalked it up to the cars. An opportunity to drive a La Noire around the block? The perks were there.
Back at his station, he popped a few yellow pills – vitamins, I guessed, since we were out in the open – and downed them with water before turning his attention to the next gala escapee. Ah, the La Noire.
As for my van, ‘vintage’ didn’t capture just how old it was.
It had a radio, but those went off the air years ago, and there was no wireless connection, so my friend had hooked me up.
A few extra cords hung from the console, and I connected my phone manually.
When I was alone, I listened to what I wanted, and today that meant country pop, thanks to Gemma constantly singing off-key in the house.
I would never tell her, but some of that shit was catchy.
The brakes yelped as I turned on to Sunrise Avenue, the glassway street lined with palm trees.
Within minutes, I abandoned the protection of the glassways for a shortcut no one with a La Noire or AMG would take.
The sun shone a little brighter, and I tapped my tempered windshield, activating the extra UV coating I’d installed.
I was on the empty Red Resin Highway – the RRH – headed to my sanctuary: the hot sandy beaches of Alta Bay’s Northend Shores.
I’d ranked forty-ninth in the Ocean Surf International Qualifying Series.
There were twelve qualifiers between January and September, and at the end, the top forty-eight made it to the Challengers Series.
I’d climbed the ranks at last week’s event, and now there was one more chance left: the Alta Bay Surf Cup.
If I placed well, I’d be off to the big leagues – invitation-only professional surf.
It’d been my dream since I first held a board and ran full speed into crashing waves.