Chapter 6 #2
Krick struggles to look away from Joey as he says with a dull tone, “Anyway, it seems you won’t be going to Mabel’s, but let’s not lose it as an option.
Instead, let’s remind you to behave yourself.
Rules are rules!” Krick wags his finger with a wide grin, revealing several gold back teeth.
I give a nod and a smile, playing the part of a subservient female.
He stands, prepared to leave. “What else does the bar need?”
“A fridge in the storeroom? A dartboard?”
“Done and done. Donnie, let’s roll… Oh, before I go, ’tis the season to be jolly! Joey doesn’t do Christmas Day, but will you be working it, Lee?”
“Yeah, sure. I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I say without a second thought. Since leaving home, there hasn’t been a birthday or holiday period I have enjoyed. They’re just markers in time to hammer in the distance that grows between me and my family. So, it’s best to keep busy.
I watch them leave, listening for the slam of Krick’s car door and its drifting engine, marking the sweet release of pressure. I look at Joey, expecting him to still be grumpy.
“You did it!” He punches his fist in the air, dancing while throwing his middle fingers towards the window. There are several waves of relief. The completed deal. The uniform comprises a vest top and jeans. The return of a smile to Joey’s face. He doesn’t look the same without it.
I feel bashful as I approach. It would be more of a hindrance to keep someone like this away from me. He stood up for me and took the fall for the knife. This is the kind of friend everyone should have.
“Joey, thanks for having my back … and for everything else.” I offer to take the knife back.
“No problem. But I thought you weren’t going to cause us any trouble?”
“I’m not causing trouble.”
He widens his eyes in response. “Well, as long as you don’t plan on killing me or anything…” And he delicately passes me the blade.
With a slanted smile, I take it from him and twirl the hilt between my fingers. It spins in three perfect rotations, like I’m a majorette in a parade. The dexterity causes him to glare for a moment before his smile slants to match mine.
It’s a demonstration of my trust—a flash of what type of person I am, in case it was still in question.
I’m not a scared newcomer. I’m not a nervous woman.
I’m someone who knows how to hold a knife.
But I say with a soft tone of sincerity, “Don’t be silly.
I could never kill a comrade as good as you. ”
The yawn that begins seems as if it will never end.
I stretch my limbs before bringing my knees to my chest while sitting at the dining room table.
The warm vapours rising from my cup of tea help wake me for the day after a late night with my buddies.
Kris and Ren are my oldest friends, sons of other farmers, and while they’re a little older than me, we have become this inseparable trio.
Most boys on the farm are quick to treat me differently, like a delicate flower, or an annoying uninvited little sister, but not these guys.
I can be myself, and they love me all the same for it.
For the first time in my life, my fathers and I have found an actual home—a place we have stayed for nearly two years, which has become a farming community consisting of my fathers’ old friends.
These early teenage years are the safest I ever feel, even while learning how to handle hormones and constant reminders of the world’s injustices.
Life is never less fair than when you’re a teenager, but I feel especially vengeful about it all, especially with government decisions being passed down by powerful men, slowly stripping me of my choices one day at a time.
Like the refraction of light, I spot his leer on the front of a newspaper, folded below a stack of books.
I pull it from underneath and unfold it.
The shudder-inducing lipless grin of President Bryce Beckett stares back at me.
He’s begun wearing a fedora this year, and I wonder if someone has told him it makes him looks intimidating, since it perfectly shadows his sneer.
I have seen him perform public addresses on TV, always so deadpan, so void of emotion, functioning like a businessman rather than a president, but it might also be the cause of his support.
The true illusionist speaks about “getting things done,” manipulating his efforts to appear successful, and after such devastation, people believe the lies they want to hear.
The country’s success is based on people believing their contributions are truly helping, but if they zoom out, it is plain to see it is only ever helping Eden.
My fathers have told me not to read these papers, but my curiosity is louder than their warning as I flick through the pages.
They insist it’s propaganda, and they only read them to keep track of official law amendments.
The front page hosts a greyscale image of President Beckett before a new R&R facility, with a headline reading, Ticket to Eden.
His photo is enough to set my teeth grinding, pulling me into the words.
They entice women to donate their time to science by offering them education, better lives, and endless opportunities.
It is wrong to suggest our only chance for a successful life is becoming a wife and mother in Eden.
My clenched jaw aches as I finish the page, but the last paragraph hammers the nail in the coffin of my patience.
President Beckett’s leading advisers have made the difficult decision to implement a shorter Independence Interval, hoping these young women will choose to help their country and the human race by joining our cause sooner.
The age limit will be reduced from twenty-five to twenty, and they will have the opportunity to find their perfect suitor via the Unity Index.
Introduced two years ago, it has shown promising signs of success.
Female birth rates are already proving positive.
With the slam of my cup, tea splatters on the table.
I grab the paper in my fist, marching out the backdoor to find my fathers.
The heat builds in my face as I stomp towards them with the paper in my grasp, and there they are, sitting at a picnic bench in the backyard while cleaning their dismantled guns.
“Uh-oh,” Roscoe says, barely looking up from his gun.
Malcolm sits beside him and stops what he’s doing, but these two are not who I have a grievance with. It is Rex, who still has his back to me, with undeterred concentration, refusing to turn while he runs a cloth across his gun with the familiar scent of solvent seeping from their rags.
I slam the paper on the table and prod my finger into the article. “Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve read this. Why didn’t you tell me?!”
I stare into the side of his head, waiting for his attention.
For the first time, I notice speckles of grey threaded into his dark, slicked-back hair, and even in the edges within his thick beard.
He remains undeterred as I look at Malcolm and Roscoe, who have both stopped, looking towards Rex for a reaction.
He is the unsaid leader of the three, my enigmatic father.
Always so cool, so collected. But we’ve been clashing as I push for answers.
All my life, no matter the situation we have been in, he’s always had a getaway plan.
But recently, I have been hungry for my getaway, demanding a plan of action from him.
“How are we going to get out of this? Where can we go? Are you going to let them do this to me?”
They always promised I would have the life I wanted, the life I chose, and after reading this front page, it is unfathomable that they could offer such promises.
They sit there, indifferent about it all, and I direct my anger at all three of them now. “Oh, we’re not talking to me about this anymore? Are we all pretending this isn’t happening?”
Malcolm sits with his lips pursed, silent, while Roscoe squirms in his seat, desperately waiting for Rex, unwilling to make a move without his say.
I look between them, a sense of fury growing in my stomach. It squirms, knots, and then rises. I throw my arms in the air. “What the fuck, guys?!”
“Whoa, now, baby girl!”
“There’s no need for that, little sparrow.”
They wave their palms, willing me to calm down while Rex pieces the gun parts together, giving his handgun the definitive click and slipping it into the back of his belt.
He lets out a begrudging huff, slowly lifting his dark brown eyes to mine.
His right ear is missing a penny-sized chunk, birthing a heavy silver scar crackling down the right side of his face like forked lightning.
He holds himself with such purpose, rarely emoting feelings, unlike my other fathers.
If someone doesn’t know him, they could easily misconstrue him as villainous, but he is far from it.
Malcolm and Roscoe have always been forthcoming about their past adventures, but Rex has not, so I quit asking him at a young age.
He holds an invisible, impenetrable wall around himself, and it is in his fortress that he keeps his truths.
Each scar, each emerging wrinkle is a key to the vault of secrets.
But I don’t know why he never released them to me.
I can only imagine it’s too painful to share or too horrific for me to learn.
He turns my way, finally allowing me his attention. His rigid fingers bang onto the newspaper, and he growls before reluctantly forming words. “I’ve told you not to read this.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I did! It doesn’t look like you guys were going to tell me.”
“This will not happen to you. I’ve told you time and time again. You need to trust the process,” he says calmly, but his lack of urgency only fuels my frustration.
“What process?! There is no plan! You’re bullshitting me!
I’m thirteen. According to this, I have three years left with you before I have to go?
! And that’s if they don’t change the rules again!
Why are you not panicking?!” My voice cracks as the heat of my face teases tears.
He chews his lip, and I continue, “You’re all my family.
My world! But I feel like I barely know you sometimes.
You keep leaving out massive chunks of information.
I know we’re not normal, that there’s something going on with you all, but you don’t trust me enough to include me,” I say, choking as I hold back the tears.
His words are sharp as they snipe from his lips. “You know what you need to know. We put our lives on the line to keep you safe.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Rex. I didn’t ask to get dumped on you, to be such a burden. But I get it. You’ll all finally be free of me soon.” I surrender my hands, stepping back and resigning myself to my temper.
“That’s not how it is, baby girl.”
“Sparrow, you know we love you.”
But their pleas are not enough as I commit to leaving.
Rex is done with me as much as I am done with him, and maybe I hurt his feelings, but he is hurting me too—all the departing into the night, the duffel bags of weapons, the endless trail of bodies…
I don’t know much about other girls’ lives, but my life has been far from normal.
The older I get, the more evident it becomes, and the secrets are too obvious to ignore.
I’ll head over to the fields to find Kris and Ren, or anyone.
I want to be with anyone but these guys.
“Rex, surely it’s time,” Malcolm says softly.
I falter, turning back to find him reaching across the table.
Roscoe lifts his baseball cap off and sets it down, brushing his hand over his short, thinning hair. “She’s ready, man. She can handle it.”
Rex bows his head, releasing his trademark grunt.
“Everlee… Wait.”
I’ve already stopped, but I edge towards him while he combs his fingers through his beard, stepping over his bench to meet me. I’m surprised to see that his eyes have misted over. He never gets emotional, and it makes me nervous as he relaxes his stance, opening his arms wide.
“Everlee, I am sorry. I honestly have no idea how to do this dad stuff sometimes. I forget how big you’re getting. We want to keep you safe. That’s all we’ve ever wanted to do.”
I step into his arms, and as they wrap around me, I feel like his little girl again. Safe. Loved. His burly hand pats my back, and he kisses the top of my head.
“Now, come on. We’ve got a few things to tell you.”