Chapter Twenty-Four
“WHERE’S YOUR RESTROOM?” I DON’T even know why I ask. Muscle memory, maybe? I’ve pissed in a latrine for the past two years, our bathrooms having been converted into storage. Sling and Bama have probably done the same. Whatever. I need privacy.
“Just by Clara’s room,” Sling says, interrupting my thoughts. “Rigged the plumbing system myself.” His chest fills like a balloon with pride, and I don’t want to pop it. He should be as proud as he sounds. Shitting on a toilet is a luxury.
When Sling turns to point me in the direction of the bathroom, he hits Bama’s plate with his elbow, and it lands upside down onto her lap. She’s finished everything but her hunk of meat, but she recovers quickly, flipping the rabbit back onto the plate.
Bama says, “No worries, dear, five-second rule!”
There’s bits of dust and lint on the meat, but that doesn’t stop Bama from shoving the last of it into her mouth.
“I’ll get going, then,” I say, heading down the hallway.
Tea lights line the floor, casting dim shadows along the peeling walls. I stop before reaching the restroom. The door on the right, painted white, has a crooked C etched into it.
I tune into the conversation happening in the dining room. Sling’s going on about Tide To Go Pens. Wasteful, he says, when you could use a tub of bleach and a bag.
We got too reliant on conveniences. Too fond of consumerism. There! You see? Bit of bleach got that meat stain right out of your skirt, Bammy.
While I’m undeniably curious to hear his full opinion on the matter, I’m more interested in what’s behind this door.
I grasp the handle, the metal cold to the touch.
With one last look over my shoulder, I quietly turn the knob to Clara’s room and tiptoe inside.
I shut the door behind me and rest my head against the wood.
Just to breathe. Just to soak it in for a second—soak in everything that Bunny could have had. Everything that she still could.
I walk to the windowsill and pick up the large scented candle lighting the room. It smells like warm cinnamon and sweet pumpkin, and reminds me of Thanksgiving. We don’t celebrate anymore. For obvious reasons.
A fluffy, albeit dingy, white rug spans the length of the room, and a peach blanket covers the small twin bed.
In the center of the room is a small table strewn with crinkled paper and colored pencils.
I pick up a random sheet and bring the paper close to my face to read the words scrawled at the top of the page—in handwriting that’s impressive for Clara’s age.
When I grow up, I want to be . . . Below the words, Clara has drawn an astronaut in green and blue.
You’re not the only one who wants to depart from this galaxy, girlfriend.
I set the paper down and decide to inspect the contents of her dresser next. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I’m invading her privacy. But . . . I want to see her clothes. I want to know what she has.
I pull open the top drawer. A soft pink camisole is folded atop jean shorts, and to the right, little socks with cats printed on them are bunched up. And—is that what I think it is?
There, underneath a pair of flower-patterned leggings, is a gun. A child has a gun. Does she know it’s in here? Should I tell her parents and—
“What are you doing with my pistol?”
I spin around. Clara stands behind me, in front of the closed door, her arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows raised.
“This is yours?”
“Sure is. And it’s loaded, so I’d be careful if I was you.” I put the gun back into the drawer, feeling Clara’s eyes glaring at my backside. “You shouldn’t go through people’s things. Mommy and Daddy say it’s an invasion of privacy.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just—I have a sister. She’s a few years older than you, but—”
“You were going to steal my stuff for her.”
“No! No, of course not.”
Clara shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised. That’s how things work around here. People steal shit, and Mommy and Daddy say there ain’t nothing we can do about it.” Clara narrows her eyes and takes a step toward me. “And you don’t look too trustworthy to me. What’s in your pockets?”
“My pockets?”
She nods.
“Um . . .” I flip them inside out. Clara inspects the bottle of aspirin and vial of insulin clutched in my hands.
“Can I have the pills?”
“No.”
She huffs, walks over to the table, and sinks into the little wooden seat. After pondering the array of crayons spread before her, Clara picks purple. She scribbles eagerly on a piece of paper.
I say, “Do you mind if I ask—why do you have a gun?”
“To protect myself from thieves, of course.”
“But the treaty says no gun use inside the Split . . . and there’s no way your parents let you outside the gates . . .”
“Mommy and Daddy say better safe than sorry.” She picks up a light pink crayon and gets back to scribbling. Her message is crystal clear: This conversation is over.
“Well,” I say, opening the door. “It was nice meeting you.”
She looks up and hands me the paper. “Here,” she says. “I know we ate it, but Mommy says we should always remember where our food comes from, because a lot of people don’t have any.”
I choke out a thank-you and leave. Closing the door behind me, I clutch the drawing of the bunny close to my heart. The door shuts with a soft click.