Chapter Text
Boston QZ, 2022
The CD-player sounded tinny, the groove of bass and guitar crackling out of the 20-year-old speakers as a late spring breeze floated into your room. You bit your bottom lip, concentrating on painting your toes, the pale curtains over your window filtering the thin sunlight through pale purple fabric. Your dad had returned last week from a smuggling run out of the QZ, a fistful of unopened bottles of nail polish in hand as a gift to you and your mother. Knees rucked up under your chin on the ratty desk chair, you itched your nose by rubbing it against your shoulder. It was pollen season, even inside the oppressive, nature-less walls of the Boston QZ, the only life you had ever known.
The nail polish was a little clumpy, a lot streaky, smelled strongly of chemicals, and was a bright cherry red. But after a few diligent coats, your toes matched your fingernails, and you gave a little wiggle of excitement as you blew a stream of air over the freshly-painted surfaces.
A loud knock on the front door startled you out of your concentration, heart skipping a beat. You twisted the polish bottle closed. Your parents weren’t home, out at the market or bartering with someone, or whatever it was they did. You stretched up out of your chair and left your room, padding barefoot–toes carefully spread wide, so as to not smudge your work–to the front door.
When you reached the faded carpet of the entry hall, another knock thudded its way into your home. You hesitated. You weren’t supposed to open the door when you were by yourself at the house. That’s what your dad said. But, you reasoned, reaching for the door, it could have been your mom (who lost her key a lot) or your friend Timothy (who was supposed to come over later, anyway). So you pulled the door open, at first only a crack to peek through. And then, when you recognize the person in the hallway, you opened it all the way.
“Hi, Joel,” you said, holding onto the door frame. There was a small, grimy window in the hallway wall across from the door, which trickled pinkish light over the man standing on your welcome mat (“Welcome! Bienvenidos! Bienvenue! Huān Yíng! Willkommen!” the exclaimed in a cheery, dirtied font that had given your mom quite the kick).
He dipped his chin in greeting, but wasn’t one for many words. “Lookin’ for your dad.”
“Mm, he’s not here,” you said, shifting on your feet. “He and my mom left a couple hours ago.”
Joel brought his hand up to scrub at his mouth, and his eyes flicked to a bag sitting at his booted feet. The stale corridor air made you shiver, even if it was the thick of spring. The humidity had ramped up what seemed liked overnight. You realized just then how little you were wearing, a faded nightgown that stopped mid-thigh. It had tiny roses printed over the fabric. Joel Miller worked with your father sometimes, a partnership of not-so-legal activities, you knew. You don’t think you had ever spoken to him before, not beyond the typical “hellos” and “how are yous” when he came by to trade something with your father. Joel Miller stood large in your doorway and you realized you were not wearing a bra.
“Uhh,” you felt a flush creeping over your neck, suddenly dumb. “D’you wanna come in? They should be back soon.”
His eyes were dark and sharp. He looked suspiciously over both of his shoulders, clocking both ends of the corridor, only for his eyes to return to you. They tracked you over you from the tip of your head to cherry-painted toes. He pressed his lips together. “Shouldn’t be openin’ the doors for strangers, kid,” he said, and he sounded so much like your dad that you wanted to roll your eyes.
“But you’re not a stranger,” you said, putting a hand to your hip. “Wanna come in or not?”
His eyebrows raised a moment, but finally he nodded and followed you through the doorway, boots scuffing heavily on the aged, squeaking wood. He shut the door behind him, locking it too.
You fidgeted at the end of the hallway, eyes flitting from the kitchen to the little living room to your room, door left open, small rumpled bed peeking through the opening like a soft secret.
“Do you, uh–” you caught Joel’s eyes, “want something to drink, or somethin’?”
You felt hot all of a sudden. Something to drink or something? You were an idiot. But Joel didn’t seem to notice, setting down his bag once again and offering an indifferent, “Sure, thanks.”
He was enormous in the small entry hall, the graying-mauve floral wallpaper a strange backdrop to his broad, flanneled shoulders. There was more light here than in the outer corridor, and you could see his hair was slicked back, clean. You tried not to notice anything else about him as you edged into the kitchen, still careful not to smudge your polish.
“You go ahead and sit on the sofa if you want,” you told him, flitting out of his path and into the kitchen. You heard the creak of the wood and the thump of his boots with every heavy step he took, and that squeak of the couch and the sigh he let out when he sat down. You fumbled through the cupboards, before sticking your head out into the hall. He was looking out the window, so you called, “There’s water, scotch, or, uh, powder lemonade.”
He turned your way. “You sure your daddy wants you to be givin’ out his liquor?”
You shrugged, and disappeared back into the kitchen, grabbing one scotch glass and the half-full bottle of caramel-colored liquid from the cupboard. It looked like it should be delicious, but you knew better. Besides, it was only noon. Not exactly your idea of a mid-day treat. Armed with the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, you trod into the living room.
He had made himself comfortable, leaning back into the sofa with his legs spread wide and elbow propped up on the armrest. His fingers fiddled with the knob at the end of it, the same one you as a young child had accidentally slammed your face into. You still had a small white scar under your bottom lip from the incident.
You set the glass down on the small coffee table with a clink. You could hear the CD player in your bedroom stuttering and resuming over the sound of a female singer. The windows in the living room were open, too, and the breeze floated in like fingers, moving the curtains and shifting your little dress. The hair on your arms stood on end as you fought a shiver.
You felt him watching you as you tried to open the bottle of scotch. It was the good stuff, from before, with an actual logo and an interesting name. It had a simple cork twist top, not something that was hard to open. But you had just painted your nails so you kept your fingers straight and stiff and attempted in vain to twist open the top with just your palm.
His eyebrow raised. “Somethin’ wrong with your fingers?”
“No,” you said, “I just painted my nails.”
“Alright, give it here.” He leaned forward off the back of the couch, large hand stretching toward you.
But you were frustrated by this point, cheeks reddening with effort and nose screwed up, fingers still stiff as a board. “No, it’s okay, I got it, almost–”
The top twisted suddenly, surprisingly. Two of your fingers jammed together, smudging your pinky nail. Your face fell as you inspected the damage. “Shoot.” You sighed as you poured out a couple generous gulps of scotch into the waiting glass, ruined pinky held aloft delicately.
“Gonna have to do it again?” Joel said, and there was something about his tone… He tilted his head as he looked at you. “Poor baby,” he said, and it felt like a taunt.
Flushing, your mouth dropped open in surprise.
Just then, you heard the jiggle of the key in the lock. Your parents were back. You both looked in the direction of the door and then back at one another.
Joel reached for the glass, but you were quicker to the punch. You scooped it up and took a long swig and clunked it back down, leaving only the dregs, before he could so much as blink, the burn of liquor a stripe down your insides.
“Enjoy your drink,” you said sweetly, snatching up the bottle and returning it to the kitchen, feeling his eyes following your every move.
When your parents got in, you helped your mom unpack their bags of purchases as your dad greeted Joel in surprise. The sounds of their voices trickled into the kitchen, bartering, negotiating, haggling, but all you could think about was the sound of Joel’s voice as he had called you poor baby.
Your mom stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her forehead, “Joel, can we tempt you to some lunch before you go?”
“Ma’am, how could I resist?”
You rolled your eyes as your mom returned to the kitchen with a silly smile. She told you to go set the table as she unpacked some leftovers and hooked up the burner. Passing her to reach for the utensil drawer, she pressed a hand to your bare shoulder, eyes on your hand. “Oh that color looks nice on you, but you smudged your pinky. Go tell them it will be ready soon–I’ll help you fix it later.”
“Thanks, mom,” you said, and grabbed four forks and some old rags your family used as napkins and left the kitchen. Though deep in conversation with your father over the bag of contraband at his feet, Joel noticed you entering the living room immediately. The glass of scotch on the coffee table was empty, and the light of the sun was catching the smudge of chapstick you had left on the rim.
You passed behind your father to set the dining table at the other end of the room, and mumbled, “Lunch will be ready soon.”
“Thanks, honey,” your dad said, and looked up at you for the first time since you entered the room. His smile turned quickly into a frown. “What are you wearing? Go get dressed. We have a guest.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face betrayed your feelings, burning hot. You avoided looking at Joel as you walked to your room and slammed the door shut behind you.
Through the thin walls you heard your dad sigh, “I don’t know what happened. She used to be the sweetest little girl.”
“They grow up fast,” said Joel. “How old is she, anyway? Coulda sworn she was just a lil thing not long ago.”
Your dad told him your age, proudly and in that ‘can-you-believe-it’ kind of tone, and their conversation faded back to business. Then, the liquor hit you all at once, and all you could think about was Joel’s voice as he called you poor baby, poor baby, poor baby.
. . .
Your parents didn’t like you to leave the apartment without one of them to accompany you, so over the years you’ve had to get creative. That day, it meant sliding out of your bedroom window, landing on the precariously-rusted fire-escape stairs, and meeting Timothy around the corner. All in broad daylight, of course. It had been a while since you’d been brave enough to flaunt curfew. As a kid, it had been easier, the consequences less severe the younger you were.
Well, technically, the use of the fire-escape was a bit of overkill. Your parents were out for the day, so you could have just left through the front door, but what was the fun in that?
You dropped the last couple feet off the fire-escape stairs and landed deftly, long since used to the impact that came with the jump. That day, you were dressed in jeans, boots, and a top that might have once been blue, and you were armed with ration cards, somewhat janky QZ-made lip-gloss, and a freshly fixed coat of nail polish.
Timothy grinned when you rounded the corner of the block, waving. He puffed on a cigarette as he leaned against the brick building wall. Frail and half-starved people meandered on the sidewalks and worked, painting over Firefly propaganda or cleaning trash off the streets. Your heart clenched every time you left your apartment. A couple dirty children played tag nearby where a FEDRA agent stood menacingly, a rifle in hand.
“Hola, stranger,” he smiled at you, slinging an arm over your shoulders and steering you in the opposite direction, still smoking his cigarette. You and he had met in your final year of FEDRA-established schooling, a few years ago now. Unlike yourself, Timothy’s supply of ration cards were well-earned from a mix of manual work, menial labor, and under-the-cover runs for your dad and the other smugglers in town. He didn’t begrudge you for it, though. He’d even told you once, hey, if I didn’t have to work in this shithole, I wouldn’t either.
“Where to today, senor?”
“Markets,” he said. “Saw some stuff you might be interested in. CDs and makeup and more girly stuff like that.”
You scoffed at that, smiling. “Don’t kid yourself, you fellas are happy that girly stuff still exists.”
He lifted his arm off your shoulders, hands going up in surrender. “You got me there. Anyway, after the markets, Mia is having a couple friends over at her place. Alcohol welcomed. Wanna go?”
“Sounds like a plan!” You bounced on your toes, exhilarated to be out on the streets, even depressing as they sometimes were. The walk to the markets wasn’t long. The more expensive lodgings were at the center of the Boston QZ, where most of the legal trade took place (illegal trade was another matter entirely). Your family lived in a moderate apartment, a little outside the boundaries of the richest quarter–mostly filled with FEDRA families–as your father didn’t want to draw attention to some of his more illicit activities. You wondered what part of the QZ Joel lived in. It has been over a week since he came to your apartment and saw you barefoot in your nightgown and called you poor baby when you smudged your nail polish.
In that instant, you had gone from hardly ever thinking of Joel to thinking of him all the time.
You and Timothy passed the short walk with idle conversation. He told you about QZ work in a normal speaking voice and about smuggling work a little more discreetly. He was a clever one. Your father approved of your friendship as it had, in fact, provided him with one of the best and smartest of his crew.
The markets were bustling that Sunday at mid-day. It usually started early in the morning, so the merchants had been at it for hours, sitting behind their foldable tables, some under makeshift tents, all with their wares laid out. It seemed like the entire population of the QZ was present, buzzing and flitting like flies from one stand to another. You weren’t worried about running into your parents, though. They had already done their market shopping for the month, and were out attending some meeting with the other smugglers today. (You wondered if Joel would be among them.)
Timothy trailed you as you made a bee-line from table to table. Despite the ration cards you had on hand, you weren’t in a habit of spending everything all at once. But there were a few items you couldn’t resist. One junk table had stacks of old CDs. For Diamond Dogs, Exodus, and Aaliyah, you happily traded some cards and held the (somewhat beaten up) plastic cases admiringly. The artwork and lyrics were still intact, tucked away in the front slot. It was your ever-expanding quest to hear as much music from before, before you died.
One of the larger tents smack dab in the middle of the market sold clothing and shoes. A ratty blue tarp shielded the seller from the sun while racks of hanging clothes overflowed onto the street. On the left was the men’s and children’s and on the right, women’s. In the corner of the tent there was even a purple beaded curtain hung up to try things on.
“Check this out,” you squealed, grabbing Timothy’s arm to drag him into the tent.
He was smug. “Told you.”
“I’ve never seen this much before!” You dove into the racks, combing through every shirt, top, skirt, shows, and jeans, while the merchant chatted with you about the supply, the sizes, and the pricing. You even harangued Timothy to sit and give his opinion when you tried on a few items. He blushed a few times, leaving you feeling mischievous and attractive.
All in all, you skipped out of that tent with a lighter pocket and a bag full of clothes and one pair of strappy-heeled sandals.
“Not very practical,” Timothy remarked, as you exclaimed over your haul. “When are you even going to wear all that?”
“Timmy,” you said seriously, rolling your eyes, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that. Trust me, I’ll find a way.”
He laughed, placing a hand low on your hip. “Ready for Mia’s?”
See, that was the thing with Timothy. The two of you were always on the verge of it. Flirting, teasing, whatever you wanted to call it. Around your parents, he was a perfectly respectable young man, and even when it was just the two of you, he was considerate. He’d never so much as tried to kiss you before. But there it was: his hand on your hip, squeezing slightly, his thumb peeking right underneath your loose top to press into the skin of your side. Your belly felt warm and fizzy. You wanted to be kissed. You wanted to do a lot of things.
“Let’s go,” you said, a little flustered, “But I want to drop my stuff off first.”
. . .
Half an hour later and you were sliding back down the fire-escape, bag of goodies left stuffed under your bed, and a mostly-full bottle of your dad’s tequila clutched in hand. “Think Mia will like this?” you asked Timothy, when you reached him.
“Shit,” he said, snatching it and hiding it in his backpack. “You can’t just wave this stuff around.”
“Oh, right,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed. “Oops.”
He waved it off with a hand, which landed on your shoulder. “And she will definitely like it. Who wouldn’t? That’s the good stuff.”
You lit up with a smile and you let him lead the way in the direction to Mia’s. You knew she had moved since you’d talked to her last. “Is it far?”
“Little bit of a walk,” he said, lighting up another cigarette.
“You know, I don’t think those are so good for you,” you teased. The sun was high in the sky, but dipping westward. Your eyes caught on the grimy red and white sign across the street proclaiming FEDRA-appointed curfew. 6AM-6PM. “I need to be back home by curfew. My parents are going to be home early tonight.”
“You will be,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
The walk wasn’t too bad, but by the time Timothy was knocking on a strange apartment door in one of the poorer quarters, it was already half-past two in the afternoon, and you had built up a sweat. Mia opened the door, excitedly greeting the two of you. You hugged her–it had been a while since you’d seen her, another friend from school days–and dug out the tequila bottle from Timothy’s backpack. “Ta da!” you said.
Mia squealed in thanks and ushered the two of you inside. A small, dingy apartment, it had a kitchenette, one bedroom, and a bathroom. A wooden bunk bed was shoved in one corner of the main room and a sofa bed in the other. Mia introduced her roommates, her brother Tomas who was a couple years older, and a girl she’d made friends with from cafeteria duty named Clary. Tomas’ friend Auggie was also there, lounging on the sofa bed, a coffee mug with a broken-off handle in hand.
Soon enough, the six of you were sitting in a circle in the living room, laughing uproariously. The tequila flowed happily, the boys having been particularly impressed by your offering.
On an empty stomach, the alcohol went straight to your head, but you didn’t mind one bit. You felt floaty and unreal and like this was the best group of people to have ever gathered together, ever. Timothy sat next to you against the foot of the couch, thigh pressed to yours, drinking at a slower rate. Mia, Tomas, and Clary sat across from you, with Auggie on your other side. You could feel him watching you.
You let the tequila warm your belly as Mia told you about a new speakeasy she’d heard about. Music, dancing, alcohol, you name it. “Problem is,” she said with a roll of the eye, “Is that it’s password protected. But I’ve got a buddy who might know a guy who’s going this weekend.”
“Password protected?” you said, thinking of dancing and loud music and a dress you’d bought that day at the markets. “Wow! That’s so sneaky. It sounds like so much fun!”
Mia laughed, then winked, “I’ll tell you what I find out.”
“Thanks!” you beamed, turning to Timothy, “We have to go!”
“It’s a date!” he grinned, tapping his cup to yours. You both downed a finger of the liquor.
It devolved into silly drinking games, one of which–according to Mia’s drunk, giggling shouts–required each of you, in turn, to admit to having never done some scandalous action, and forcing anyone who has committed the act to drink even more alcohol. For example:
“I’ve never…” Tomas laughed, thinking, “kissed a dude!”
You, Mia, and Clary cackled, downing gulps of straight liquor, but you three girls weren’t the only ones. Auggie made a flourish and took a gulp. When you all turned to gape at him, he shrugged, grinning, red-cheeked. “Hey, I don’t discriminate.”
You all laughed uproariously. When you noticed that Auggie was watching your reaction, you smiled at him
The easy, delighted mood went on like this for a while–“Smuggled anything!” “Farted in public!” “Peed myself!” “Drank whiskey!” “Smoked pot!”
Clary must have been the most drunk of them all. She slurred on her next turn. “Hmm, I’ve never… seen an infected.”
Tomas, Mia, Auggie, and Timothy all drank. It was Mia’s turn next. Frowning, she said, “I’ve never… been outside of Massachusetts.”
You were the only one who drank. Though you couldn’t remember it, being so young and all, you knew you had been born in New York state, and upon the outbreak, your parents had successfully managed to make it cross-border, a little girl in tow. You thought about your parents, then, and were struck by a slick feeling of grief. You knew Mia and Tomas were orphans, not remembering their parents, who must have died in the early days. You knew that before Timothy had come to the QZ, he had seen his mother turn in front of him when he was twelve years old. He’d had to shoot her himself because his father was out hunting. He’d told you about it one day, eyes going glassy despite his best efforts to scrub all emotion away, boyish ego making him embarrassed to show feeling.
The new mood was thick in the room. When you looked up from your cup, blurry-eyed, there was a sense of frowning. All of you were too young to have remembered anything from before, but the QZ was in a near-perpetual state of mourning. It affected you all.
Mia called your name. “Your turn,” she said, forcing a smile.
You leaned your head back against the couch. “Let’s see… I’ve never… I’ve never…” your eyes darted to Auggie, then to Timothy. If you weren’t so tipsy, the words probably never would have spilled from your mouth. But you were tipsy, and you wanted that humorous, raunchy mood to return. “I’ve never had sex!” you finally exclaimed, and strangely proud of it, too.
Mia shrieked in surprise, drinking along with everyone else. They all laughed. You gaped at them, surprised for some reason by their reaction.
Timothy groaned beside you. “You’re drunk.”
You crossed your arms petulantly, blushing. “No.”
He checked his watch. “Shoot. It’s after five. Mia, I gotta get this one home before curfew.”
“Noo,” Mia whined. “You guys should stay the night. Have some fun!”
Suddenly, in your tipsiness, you felt a little cold, a little strange, like reality was a little too real. You stood up with a hand from Timothy, and the wobbles hit you all at once. “Sorry, M. I wish I could, but my dad will seriously kill me,” you said, hiccuping. “But thanks for having us!”
Mia wobbled up too, hugging you and Timothy goodbye, and said she’d be in touch about that speakeasy, if you were still interested. You grinned, agreeing, and fell into Timothy’s side as you waved goodbye to everyone. You felt his hand tighten around your waist and you noticed that Auggie was watching the two of you with a bit of a frown. You took a deep breath and let Timmy lead you to the door.
The fresh air hit you like a smack in the face. It was as hot as an early spring evening usually was, humidity plucking at your baby hairs once again. “Gosh,” you sighed, rubbing a hand over your burning face. “I’m going to be so hungover.”
Timothy laughed, and kept you steady as you walked. “Yes, you are. But try to act sober, okay? Don’t want to draw any attention to the streets.”
“Okay,” you agreed, valiantly putting one foot in front of the other. But now that he had mentioned it, you felt overly conscious of it. You couldn’t help but notice all the people on the street. The FEDRA officers posted on every corner. The frail old men lugging rubble out of the street (the area must have been hit by a Firefly attack recently). The little kids being herded by frantic mothers into tall, dirty, post-apocalyptic buildings. You felt that cold feeling shiver its way deeper into your chest. You were suddenly very worried about how drunk you appeared.
“You alright?” Timothy asked.
“Yeah,” you said, scrubbing your eyes. “Just tired.”
The city passed you by as if in a dream. One foot in front of the other. “I love Mia,” you observed. “I should see her more. I know she thinks I’m a brat but she was nice to invite us.”
“She doesn’t think you’re a brat,” Timothy sighed.
“Uh-huh,” you insisted. “We never made up from that huge fight before graduating. We just never talked about it.”
“Well– ” he didn’t seem sure of what to say.
“It’s okay,” you said, resigned. “It’s true. I am a brat. A baby. I haven’t done anything, I haven’t seen anything. I haven’t even had sex. Did you know that? Did I ever tell you?”
“You told all of us not even an hour ago,” Timothy said.
“Oh,” you said. “Right.”
You chanced a peek at him, sideways. The evening sky was orange and pink where it wasn’t blotted out by the great big buildings all around them. His arm was hooked in yours, a stabilizing presence as you tried to walk off the alcohol. His other hand fidgeted at his jean pocket, eyes flickering over the street. His lips pressed together when he caught you looking, only for him to direct his gaze elsewhere.
“Are you okay?” you asked, eyes wide and earnest.
But instead of answering, he nodded ahead. “Looks like that road is closed off.”
A couple FEDRA guards stood, rifles pointed downward, diagonal. You were still far enough you had to squint to see them properly at an intersection of one of the wide, bright, busy streets of QZ. The one you’d taken earlier on the way to Mia’s–a main artery. One of the guards shouted at a man who ventured too close, waving the rifle.
You gasped, but Timothy just as quickly grabbed your hand with his and tugged you down another street. “Still drunk?” he asked, picking up the pace. He had interlaced his fingers with yours, your palms clammy against each other’s.
This street was darker, damper, more dreadful. It became choked with the smell of smoke.
“It’s fading fast, trust me,” you huffed, trying to keep up. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yes,” he said shortly, pulling you around another dark corner only to skid to a stop so fast that you stumbled straight into his back.
“Oof–” the breath was knocked right out of you. “Timothy, what the hell–!”
“Shit,” he whispered hoarsely, back-tracking and dragging you with him. But before the two of you could so much as retreat back around the corner you had come from, you heard a loud voice and the cocking of a gun,“Who’s there? Put your hands up!” and you realized you and Timothy weren’t alone in the alleyway. And it was an alleyway. The alcohol had swirled up your system, and now it was evaporating into a sick, nauseous feeling. Your skin burned and your eyes stung from the smoke. Your heart was in your throat, but Timothy had turned the both of you back around, leaving you dizzy again.
In your panic, you heard another man’s voice, “Relax, it’s just a couple of kids–”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Timothy said, and was that a tremor in his voice? He had raised both hands in surrender, so you did too, barely breathing when you saw a FEDRA officer looming in front of you both, a large rifle pointed right at you. “Was jus’ taking my girl home for the night, the main road is closed.”
“Uh-huh,” the FEDRA officer scoffed, raising the gun. “What did you see?”
“Nothing,” Timothy said quickly. “We didn’t see nothin’–”
But the other voice had made his presence known. A man appeared over the shoulder of the FEDRA officer. Taller, broader, older, and gruffer, he grabbed the officer’s shoulder roughly and pushed the barrel of the rifle toward the ground, away from you. You let out a shaking breath, hands still raised.
“Put your hands down, kid,” said a voice you knew. And you realized the voice was directed at you. It was Joel. You gaped at him. It took you a second to process but when you did, your hands lowered, shaking. Timothy let out a breath beside you, doing the same.
“They’ve seen my face, man!” the officer shouted. All of a sudden, with Joel’s hand heavy on his shoulder and his gun lowered, he appeared squirrely, young. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.
“Never mind them,” Joel said, “They’re not gonna say nothin’.” He turned to look at you both, and then back to the officer. “You wanna know why?”
The officer’s eyes were wide.
“Because that boy there works for Bud.”
The officer swallowed. “What about her?” his eyes flicked to you nervously. Back to Joel, back to you.
“Well, you have even less to worry about with her, dontchya?” Joel looked at you. “That’s Bud’s little girl.”
The officer deflated, and so did you. Joel took the opportunity to dig into his breast pocket pulling out a little plastic baggy full of white pills, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette. “You gonna take ‘em or what?” he said gruffly.
And it was a flurry of motion as the officer pulled out a stack of ration cards, as Joel counted them out, giving the soldier a brusque nod, and as the officer all but ran away down the other end of the alley.
“Hey,” Timothy said, stepping forward. He shook hands with Joel. “Thanks, man. I owe you one. Guess we took a bad turn at the wrong time. Main street really was closed.”
“Demonstration earlier,” Joel said. You winced. Maybe you didn’t know much, but you knew demonstrations never went well for anyone except maybe FEDRA. You had seen the aftermath of your fair share of them while you’d still been required to attend school. Joel scrubbed his sleeve over his forehead. You noticed then the state of him. Denim shirt and jeans, a faded red bandana hanging loosely around his neck. He was smudged with soot, damp with sweat. His hair was wet at the edges, curling. “It’s late to be wandering around these parts.”
“I’m taking her home now,” Timothy said quickly.
“Better be fast,” Joel said, making to look at his watch, but aborting the motion. You noticed the face of it was shattered. “An’ careful not to be takin’ risks with a drunk girl on your arm. You can smell the liquor on her a mile away.”
“The drunk girl is right here,” you protest hotly, crossing your arms. “And I’m not drunk.”
Timothy muttered your name under his breath.
Joel sighed. “Go sleep it off, kid.”
“Thanks, again,” Timothy said earnestly, hooking his arm in yours again. “She’s grateful too, you know, she’s just, well… Anyway, g’night!”
He began pulling you away but you had a thought, digging in your heels.
“Joel, wait!” you called, and he paused halfway from turning around. He was untying the bandana from around his neck. The light was fading and his eyes were dark. You noticed his shoulders, his jaw, his hands. Your own eyes felt a little glossy. “Please, are you gonna tell my dad? That you saw me tonight?”
“I prolly should,” he said, and his voice was so deep, and he had a way of speaking that was different from most of the people in the QZ. It was different and it was nice and it felt warm even when he raised an eyebrow at you, warningly. “Would teach you some manners.”
You held your breath.
But he just huffed, swiping the back of his neck with his bandana. “No, I won’t. Now, get home.”
When Joel turned and walked away, you scurried back to Timothy’s side, feeling like your insides were squiggling and squirming.
“C’mon,” your friend said and you set off with him, glancing back over your shoulder to see Joel turning the alley corner and disappearing from view.
“I didn’t know you knew Joel..” you mumbled.
Timothy had lit a cigarette up, puffing with the ferocity of someone who had just been held at gunpoint. You shivered with the relative frequency of machine gun fire.
He shrugged, hurrying his pace. “I’ve met him, like, once. C’mon, don’t forget I gotta get home too after I drop you off.”
. . .
It felt like you were in a fight with Timothy, but you weren’t sure why. In the week after your excursion, he had stopped by your apartment twice to drop something off for your dad. Usually, these were the times he’d hang out with you for an hour or two, or help you plan your next elusive escape. But the two times he came by that week, after he’d finished business with your dad, he made some feeble excuse and booted out of there in record time, leaving you frowning and put-out.
“Have you kissed that boy yet?” your dad asked, after Timothy had unceremoniously left for the second time that week.
“No, dad,” you huffed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
But your dad and mom just exchanged amused, knowing glances and didn’t say anything more about it.
The whole situation was so unusual that the next time you heard a rap-tap-tap at your bedroom window Friday afternoon, you yanked your curtains back one-hundred percent certain it’d be Timothy out there squatting on the fire-escape, cigarette dangling from the corner of a sheepish grin.
Instead, behind the sheer purple curtains, you discovered not Timothy, but Mia.
She smiled and waved. You gaped at her, only to open the window hastily when she raised an expectant eyebrow.
“What are you doing here?” you said, as she climbed in over your nightstand, and stood with a flourish. You looked at her a little nervously, smiling like you couldn’t believe it. Before you had met Timothy, you and Mia had been best friends for years, having met in school. Her hair had been brushed, braided, and smoothed. A rucksack was slung over her shoulder.
“Hello to you too,” she said, but she was grinning. She hugged you, and your heart felt like bursting. “Are your parents out?”
You nodded, stumbling over your words, “It’s just–you–”
Mia laughed. “Don’t sweat it. So…” she bit her lip, mischief lighting her eyes. “I know this is short notice but… got any plans tonight?”
You shook your head.
She dropped her rucksack to thud softly on the carpet. “Remember that speakeasy I was telling you about?”
Your face immediately lit up. “You figured out how to get in?”
“I have the password and everything! It opens at midnight.”
A moment passed and the two of you were jumping up and down in giddy excitement, before she adopted a serious expression. “Okay,” she pointed a stern finger at you, “But what are you gonna wear?”
You and Mia spent the evening in laughter and friendship. When the loudspeaker calling for curfew at six sounded through the window, you and her both danced around your room, flinging middle fingers at the world. It felt childish and rebellious. It was perfect. A little while later, around sunset, your parents came home and found the two of you giggling together while laying on your bellies on top of your bed–not yet dressed up, that would have to wait until later.
Your mom smiled fondly and ruffled your hair. “It’s good to see you again, Mia,” she said, and then yawned. She looked tired, worn, shoulders slumped, but you were too excited about the night ahead to think too much of it. “Well, I’ll leave you girls to it. I think me and your dad are going to hit the sack early.”
It was around ten in the evening when your parents called goodnight and retreated to their bedroom, and when you and Mia started getting ready. She had packed a killer outfit, and you wiggled your eyebrows suggestively when she finished putting it on, and twirled for you – a pair of tight, dark jeans and a tiny brown beaded top.
“You look incredible,” you said genuinely.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Now you.”
You pulled out a few options from your closet. “But…” you bite your lip, “I’m feeling like this is the one.”
You pulled a red dress out, one of the items from your recent trip to the markets, one that had made Timothy blush when you’d tried it on for him. Mia fist pumped when she saw it on you. “Yes.”
From there, it was about choosing shoes–you decided on a pair of boots instead of your strappy heels, more practical for walking and all that–and doing what makeup you could with what was available–most was expired of course, dried out or unusable, but you had a few lip colors you’d salvaged, and a small pot of charcoal you’d been crafty enough to make for yourself. The two of you dabbed yourself with the very last drops of moisture out of a bottle of lemon oil, and chatted about meaningless things. You reminisced about your school days and giggled over boys but notably did not speak about the more serious topics–work, life, spoiled brattiness, or anything of the sort. But you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You were happy to simply enjoy the sensation of Mia’s fingers combing through your hair, styling it just so.
“So..” she said, twisting a piece of your hair. She wiggled her eyebrows. “Timothy?”
You rolled your eyes. “Not you too. My parents are convinced he and I are gonna fall madly in love any day now.”
“Can you blame them? You should have seen you too at my place–you were all over each other.”
“We were drunk.”
It was Mia’s turn to roll her eyes. “You were. He was only a little tipsy but was looking at you the whole time like you hung the actual moon. Auggie too, by the way, but I think you caught that.”
You blushed and your eyes flitted around, hands fluttering in your lap. You felt affected by the line of conversation. “Timmy is…Well, I don’t know with him. Everytime I think something’s going to happen, it never does. I don’t think he likes me that way.”
“He definitely does,” Mia said, twirling another piece of your hair. She caught your eyes in the grimy mirror you’d propped up on your dresser. “But maybe it’s you who isn’t interested…?”
It was a thought that had the corners of your mouth tipping down. “I don’t know.”
Mia held up a hand. “Wait right here.” And slipped out of your room into the dark hallway, sly as a fox. She returned with your dad’s bottle of scotch. It was now less than half full, a couple weeks after you’d poured Joel Miller a healthy serving only to steal it right from him.
She twisted it open. “A little courage to get us going,” and drank right from the neck before passing it to you to do the same. You winced, coughed, and thumbed at the label.
“Forget Timmy,” you said after a moment, urged by the fire of the liquor and the smell that reminded you of… “poor baby.” You scowled. “He’s been ignoring me, anyway.”
You took another swig, this time forcing the cough down. “I just want to have fun tonight, let loose, dance. Maybe I’ll meet a guy who will actually give me the time of day.”
“Honey,” your newly found friend (again) said, “A guy would be an idiot to not.”
All bravado aside, when it came down to actually sneaking out of the apartment onto the dark streets of the QZ (long after curfew), the two of you got clammy with nerves and a bit quiet as you climbed down the fire-escape. The liquor feeling had faded with the prospect of certain arrest (if you were caught). Once on the streets, Mia led the way, ducking and jogging around the corners of buildings. You followed close behind her, a long leather jacket slung over your shoulders because as Mia had said: “That dress isn’t exactly undercover material.”
It took several minutes to get there but somehow the two of you managed to avoid every FEDRA officer, truck, and outpost along the way. When you turned around another nondescript corner, spilling onto yet another nondescript street, there was nothing to clue you in on the fact that a secret bar was right under your feet. How Mia knew where to find the entrance was beyond you. But deftly, she led you past piles of strewn trash and to a graffitied door. It had a black square for a window, no light. But when she knocked in a particular pattern, the black peeled away like a piece of paper and a masked face appeared, backlit by golden gas lamps. She reached into her pocket to pull out a scrap of paper, unfurled it, and stuck it to the window surface. The masked face, though vague from the dimness, had a pair of wet glinting eyes that tracked over the paper, reading. The door opened without so much of a squeak, and Mia pulled you in after her.
The door was shut behind you, locked with a soft click. You looked over your shoulder at the person, a man in a ski mask, you saw now, as Mia tugged you away, down a long hallway. He saluted you with two fingers before turning back to his perch–a wooden chair propped against the wall, a deck of playing cards held in hand.
Anxiety was building in you, the corridor becoming narrower and narrower, darker and dimmer. You passed several boarded up doors on the way.
“Mia,” you whispered, nervously.
“Come on,” she urged. “It shouldn’t be far.”
You fidgeted with your jacket, your hair. The corridor became hot, stifling. But soon you came to a deadend–when you looked back down the corridor, you couldn’t see anything except the remnants of the light from the lamps, now far away. The deadend was a steel door. Rusted brown and green, it looked halfway to crumbling. But when Mia yanked at the knob, it opened with a sparing groan, fully intact. The thump and warble of music filtered up a long, thin staircase, which you and Mia rushed down in excitement after pulling the door shut behind you.
There was one final threshold to cross at the base of the many–somewhat precarious–stairs. Another door, with a large frosted window inset at the top, flashing with dappled light. The music had grown louder and louder, the damp smell of sweat and rain and dirt heavy in the air. It was your turn to open the door, and you pushed it with a certain bravery, leaving you and Mia to stumble into a strange, strange land. The speakeasy opened before you.