Chapter 5 #3
My eyes run over the questions, which cover topics from human rights he’s been violating to environmental laws he’s nullified.
The last one is bolded, and it catches my attention, just as I suppose it’s meant to:
Will you support a peaceful transfer of power when your second term is over in two months?
I open my mouth to say it’s an absurd question. Of course he will—every other president has, since this country was founded
almost four hundred years ago.
But something slinks through my gut. Lyceum has been pushing to get the vote out.
What if that doesn’t matter at all? What if, like all other games, this one has been rigged?
All around us, the soft chatter of conversation fills the room with a pleasant hum.
It’s so different from the training room, where computer fans whir and mice click like a percussion track.
This is different. This feels like community, and I can tell Nef feels it too.
She smiles softly at me as Mo finishes explaining how we can help.
On the back wall, three people stand next to a giant machine that thrums as they move levers with ink-stained hands.
A printing press. Completely offline, untrackable. My heart swells at the sight.
“Just do as many as you can,” Mo says, moving a cup of pens closer to us. “Even one pamphlet makes a difference. Every vote
counts.”
“Will do,” I say, nodding. Mo smiles warmly before going to help two girls who are struggling to cut a giant piece of paper
down to size.
“Uri told me,” Nef says, lowering her voice as her hand moves evenly across the page.
“Told you what?” I ask, leaning my face closer to the paper so I can make sure I’m getting the spacing of the letters just
right.
“That other people found your stories,” Nef says plainly.
I stop, lifting the tip of the pen from the paper and looking around to make sure no one else heard. Which is pointless. If
Uri told Nef, then everyone here already knows about Written in the Stars. Still, my face burns hot at the idea that anyone here has read my silly little fantasies.
“I didn’t mean for them to,” I reply, looking back to the paper just so I can look anywhere but my best friend’s face. “I only created the link for you. I was a kid. I didn’t think through that posting them meant other people could find them too.”
“I always loved hearing your stories, Ripley. And now, you’re, like . . . an author.” Nef’s voice pitches up with excitement.
I give her a death glare.
“I am not an author,” I clarify, keeping my voice as low as possible. “I just . . . I wrote to process how I was feeling.
It helped me make sense of things. It’s humiliating to think that anyone else read it.”
Nef tongues her cheek as she writes more. “At least I’m the only person to know that they’re about . . .”
I practically choke on my spit. “Nef!” I bark out. The idea of her saying that name here makes me feel like someone dumped
a bucket of ants over my head.
The conversations around us stop for a heartbeat or two as everyone turns to look at us.
“I’m good.” I wave as Nef covers her mouth with her hand, trying and failing to hide her laughter. “All good. We’re fine over
here,” I singsong before shooting Nef a wide-eyed glare.
She can’t hide her laughter anymore, and sits back in her chair.
I realize, then, that I’ve never seen Nef laugh like this. Her laugh isn’t polite, like the ones she’d give proctors who were
trying too hard to crack a relatable joke. Her nose scrunches up, and she has a dimple in her left cheek.
My best friend has a great laugh. The thought makes me smile, even though I’m trying to keep my glare going.
“I still have the link,” Nef adds, smiling as she turns back to the paper. “Maybe I should read it again.”
“Please no,” I say, my cheeks burning.
Nef giggles, and makes fun of how red my cheeks are, and we slip into companionable silence as we work. It’s funny how my
fingers remember how to write, even if it feels like my heart forgot.
Eventually, Nef shakes her hand. “Ow, ow, ow,” she laugh-cries. “I’m dying,” she whimpers, and I roll my eyes as I press my
fingers into the tendons near her knuckles. “You are not. Your hand is cramping up.”
I rub her hand, and she sighs. I let it go, and she moves her fingers.
“Regretting popping onto my roof?” I joke, and Nef shakes her head.
“No.” Her voice sounds stronger than I’ve ever heard it. When she looks up at me, her eyes are bright. “My brother is alive.
I wouldn’t have known that if I’d played it safe like I usually do.”
Tears line her bottom lashes, but she blinks them away before they can spill over. “No. Popping up on your roof tonight was
the best decision I ever made. And . . .”
I look at her expectantly.
“It reminded me that my best friend is an author with a massive crush on—”
“Shh!” I interrupt, even as a memory pops into my mind, and I press my lips together. “Besides,” I add with fake nonchalance, “I don’t have to live in fantasies anymore, considering that four hours ago, someone pushed me up against a wall and kissed the shit out of me.”
Nef lets out a squeak, dropping the pen cup. “Ripley Hart, tell me everything,” she orders.
And I do.