Chapter Three #2
Stacked cardboard boxes, filled with our new deliveries, are crammed in the corner.
Floor-to-ceiling cabinets take up most of the wall, stocked with flour, oil, instant mashed potatoes, canned vegetables, pickles, instant mac ’n’ cheese—the works.
Any non-perishable food we’ve scrounged from stores, warehouses, and factories lives here.
Though it’s all expired and boxed up, I salivate at the mere thought of a home-cooked meal. Of creamy pasta, roasted carrots, and a twice-baked potato.
Zara tucks a runaway blond curl behind her ear. “Literally always a pleasure being in your presence, Chandler.” She picks up a clipboard and clicks her pen. Suck-up. “All ready to unload?”
“I’ll give the final word,” Chandler says, her hands interlaced behind her back. She tips her head down into the opening of a particularly mangled box. “What happened here?”
Peter balls his fists. “Fred.”
“Unsurprising.”
Zara leaps forward. “Shut up, is that Pepsi?”
“Sure is,” Peter says.
She pulls out a bottle and squeezes. “They don’t even feel flat. How many bottles did you find?”
“Only eight.” Peter smiles and puffs out his chest. “Found them in a break room fridge.” Ever the proud scavenger.
“Mmm, I’m dying for some bubbly.”
“Zara. Peter. Enough.” The two exchange a look that would’ve probably kept me up tonight, repeating in an endless loop, if I wasn’t so goddamn tired from today’s run.
“We can’t do anything with eight bottles of soda.
Need I remind you that rations need to be split equally among 148 citizens?
That would mean a drop of Pepsi per person.
How do you think that will reflect on us?
Do you think it will fill them with hope for the future of our great community?
” Chandler turns her back to us. “Store them in the basement until you’ve secured an appropriate amount. ”
With a pouty lip, Zara says, “Maybe the bakers can use the bottles to make soda cake for everyone? I love soda cake.”
Ignoring Zara’s comment, Chandler inspects the boxes along the wall. “I hope we’ve also secured real food that will provide our people with adequate nutrition.”
Peter rolls his shoulders back and steeples his hands. “In fact, we secured a solid amount of nutrition today, Chandler. Fifty-pound bag of flour, twenty-five-pound bag of sugar, and—how many cans of chickpeas, Kota?”
“Er—”
Do I lie? What will get me in the least amount of trouble? Fuck.
“We did secure 132 cans,” I say. A half-truth.
“I’ll verify that,” Zara says, clicks her pen—twice—and scribbles on her clipboard. “Last time, your count was off by one.”
No, no, no, no.
Chandler turns her unsatisfied eyes to me. “A small discrepancy, Kota, but numbers do add up. Our people rely on us to provide them with equality. If we can’t distribute food equitably, we aren’t doing our jobs.”
A rock settles into the depths of my belly. I’m in deep shit now. “Yes, Chandler.” I bow my head. “You’re right.”
“One,” Zara counts out loud, tapping the cans with her pen. “Two.” Clink. “Three—”
I bite my lip and think back to the Judge Judy reruns that played in an endless loop at our old home. Grandma got a kick out of civil court shenanigans. From what I remember, the defendants who pleaded guilty received lesser sentences. Will the same happen here?
Fact is, I don’t know jack shit about Egal’s justice system—Chandler shares information on a need-to-know basis, and this is the first time I’ve transgressed. What I do know is I can’t risk getting the boot, and Judge Judy is my only benchmark.
Judy would want me to confess.
“Four.”
“My count is off by twelve!” I shout. “The truck door was unlocked. I latched it, but forgot to lock it because . . . because . . .” I hope Peter chimes in because I’m not sure how much story I can share, but he’s tight-lipped.
I’m on my own. “It doesn’t matter. I turned too fast, and some cans fell out the back.
They rolled off before we could get them back. ”
“Why wasn’t the door locked, Kota?” Chandler prompts.
Peter steps forward. “We had a run-in with the Macs. In our haste to get away, Kota neglected to lock the door. But it won’t happen again, will it, Kota?”
“No,” I say, breathless. “It won’t.”
Chandler is silent for a moment. The longest moment of my life. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until she opens her mouth. “One more failure, and I will find another driver. You will lose your position. You do understand what that means, don’t you, Kota?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Wow, my shoes are filthy. Also, Shit. I can’t lose my job. I can’t get kicked out.
I owe it to my brother to live.
I turn to Peter, but his eyes are fixed on our leader.
Chandler says, “We’ll discuss the Mac situation later.” She turns to Zara. “And you. I don’t recall you reporting this earlier discrepancy to me. Why not?”
“I, um, I was . . .”
“Waiting to use the information against me?” I ask, surprising myself.
Zara’s cherry-colored mouth drops open. I bite my tongue as other intrusive thoughts threaten to spill out.
“Enough. You’re all dismissed. Zara, ensure the bakers have the flour and supplies they need for a week of production.
Then all of you get to dinner—or don’t, and lose your rations.
I don’t care.” Chandler spins on her heel but turns back around before she makes her grand exit.
“And you two—if you can’t work together, I’ll have to reassign both of you. ”
“Yes, Chandler,” Zara and I say in unison.
As soon as Chandler’s gone, Zara sticks her tongue out at me. Being petty for the sake of it. Bunny says she’s not a girl’s girl. I thought I was different, but I want to pull her tongue real thin like Silly Putty and wrap it around her neck.
Instead, I smile. “Enjoy your counting.”