Dark Parties (10 page)

“I can’t.” Everyone around me is going about their business. It’s a typical day. They are eating and drinking and talking
and laughing, but if I look closer I can see it. A dullness in the eyes. They all know their limits; I’m not sure of mine
yet.

“Do you understand how dangerous it is?” He takes a deep breath as if he’s about to launch into a sermon.

I shake my head. “Don’t bother. You may have convinced…” but I can’t say
Sanna
.

He exhales, exasperated. “You know it’s the smart thing to do.”

I nod. “But the smart way is not usually my way.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Mine either.” He stretches his legs and leans back on the step behind him.

We sit in a silence that’s begging to be broken. I can’t look at him, can’t speak. I try to casually scoot away from him,
to create space between us. I can tell he notices, but he doesn’t move. We both pretend to survey the crowd around us.

“How do they do it?” he asks me finally.

I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Do what?”

“Do this, day in and day out?”

I know what he means. I’ve watched them, all of them, act out the same boring play every day. “I have no idea,” I say.

“Don’t you ever want to scream and run far, far away from here?”

“All the time.” I sigh.

“Yeah, me too.” He glances at me. “We won’t end up like them.”

Something deep inside me still believes it. “Yeah, as long as we know we’re trapped, we still have a chance to escape.”

He looks at me as if he’s really considering what I’ve just said. “I never thought of it that way. These people don’t even
see the cell bars anymore.”

Funny, he doesn’t sound like Braydon. I don’t know if it’s his tone of voice or the fact that we’ve never really had a conversation
before. He still has the same mysterious edge, but it’s as if I’ve gotten a glimpse of the man behind the mask. “You better
watch it,” I say, allowing myself a long look at him. “You’re starting to sound like a rebel.”

He smiles at me and the jittery feeling he’s inspired turns molten. We move closer one painful millimeter at a time.

Something inside me snaps. “Braydon, I can’t do this.” I straighten.

“Do what?” He knocks his shoulder against mine.

Zap.
That feeling again, like an internal lightning bolt. “You know what.”

“We aren’t doing anything, Neva,” he says, but we can’t look at each other. We both stare at his red boots.

Maybe I’ve misjudged the whole thing. But I’ve got to know. “Why did you kiss me?”

He shrugs. “It was just…” Our eyes meet, and I can see it meant something to him too. “You kissed me back.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” I protest. He’s rested his hand on the step next to mine. Our little fingers touch.
Zap!

“Braydon, stay away from me.” I stand and smooth my skirt.

“You’re right.” He looks up at me with those eyes.

I should leave. “I would never hurt Sanna.”

He slowly rises to his feet. “I don’t want to hurt her either, but…” He takes my hand.

“Please don’t, Braydon,” I say, but don’t let go.

He steps closer. “You can feel it. I know you can. Everything’s all planned out for us. Then we kissed and I felt—”

“Alive,” I finish his thought.

“Yeah.” Our fingers interlace.

“Like we aren’t living recycled lives.” The electricity between us is powerful, a force like two Protectosphere-size magnets.

His lips are dry and slightly cracked, but I want to close the gap between us and kiss him. God help me. It’s as if I’ve been
drugged.

“I can’t do this,” I say, shaking the invisible hold Braydon has on me. “I’ve got to get back to work.” I dash up the steps.
I want to look back, but I know he’s still staring at me. I can feel his eyes on me. It’s as if that kiss in the dark cast
a spell and I’ve got to find a way to break it.

I climb the steps, absorbed in my own thoughts. Too late I spot the jet-black uniform. A police officer is blocking the straight
line away from Braydon and into the building. I change my trajectory, but he shifts so I can’t pass. Fear wraps itself around
my vital organs. How long has he been watching me?

“You should really watch what you’re doing,” he says. What does he mean by that? I step back and prepare to walk around him,
but he shifts so that his broad chest blocks my field of vision. My heart races. My eyes travel up his pressed shirt to his
face. It’s not the same man who interrogated me.

“Sorry,” I mutter. He steps aside and I bolt and don’t stop moving until I’m back next to Effie.

*      *      *

I call Ethan and agree to meet him later at the National Museum. Maybe Sanna’s right. I need to get my old life back. Ethan
wants to celebrate our new jobs. He thinks I’ve given up my rebellious ways. I need to find what I’ve lost with Ethan and
stop thinking about Braydon.

We walk into the museum’s main lobby and stop in the center of the space. Being with Ethan makes me feel like a traitor and
a target. The government is tracking his every move. I’m painfully aware I’m being watched. Each room has a prism of cameras,
sweeping electronic eyes. Even the eyes in the paintings seem to track us. Neither Ethan nor the government can see my betrayal,
even though I feel it with every breath.

A mural covers the wall ahead of us. Ethan and I aren’t the only ones admiring the expansive work. The artist appears to have
captured Homeland in a snapshot taken from miles above. The Protectosphere glistens in the sun and the enclosed landmass looks
lush green and sparkling blue. The image is reflected in the shiny beige tiles under our feet. The vivid colors change the
hue on the surrounding walls as the sun streams in from skylights.

It’s my dad’s favorite painting. He brought me here a few times. I’ve heard him give lectures on Ancient History and the importance
of the Protectosphere—“the most advanced technological feat ever.” He smiled as if he’d been there, as if he’d connected each
panel himself. I told my dad the painting makes us look small and insignificant. His body had stiffened. “You will never understand
what it was like.
We
were
insignificant. We
were
losing our identity, but our founding fathers reclaimed our proud heritage.”

The artwork in the museum highlights how Homeland evolved. The paintings show people and landscapes from hundreds of years
ago. Buildings and fashions have evolved, but somehow remained the same, somehow it’s still 01/01/01. My dad calls it “elegant
simplicity.” I call it stifling.

Ethan and I stare at the mural. I try to feel the pride that my dad and maybe even Ethan feel. I look at that bubble and feel
trapped.

He kisses my cheek. “Do you mind if we check out the young artists’ exhibition?”

“Okay.” I let him lead me up the stairs and through two galleries. The exhibition says it features young artists, even though
the newest painting is more than ten years old. We’ve been here before. Ethan stops in the middle of the room, taking in each
canvas. He walks toward the portrait of a couple looking in a mirror. I follow him. The painting is titled “The Reflective
Couple.” I watch his eyes dart back and forth as he slowly and systematically takes in every inch of the canvas. “Do you see
the way he’s shown the whole picture, half in the mirror, half facing the viewer? Brilliant.” He pauses and reaches out as
if he might touch it. “There. Do you see how he’s shown the light source without painting it?”

He’s not really talking to me. I see two people who could be anyone and no one. He is bare chested; she’s wearing a cream
slip and nothing more. He’s standing behind her, but they aren’t touching. They have woken up together and
can’t look each other in the eye. So they survey what they’ve done in the mirror. She’s regretting last night and he’s reaching
for her; his hand is barely in the frame but extended as if he wants to touch her.

“Why don’t you sketch me?” All of a sudden I want him to study me, every line, every curve, so I can be solidly in this moment.
“I could model for you.” I say as I jut my hip to one side and pout my lips.

“Neva, you don’t need to model. I could draw you in my sleep.” He kisses me on my pouty lips and moves on to another painting.

“Guess you’re right. Portrait painters have it easy: make one painting and then copy it a million times.”

Ethan’s eyes narrow. “I never thought you’d be one of those people.”

“What people?”

“Those people who can’t get beyond our physical similarities. We aren’t identical.”

“But sometimes it feels as if we are.”

We move to the next painting. It’s a portrait of an old woman whose face is a roadmap of wrinkles. “So when you look at me,
you don’t see anything special?” he says.

“Yes, of course I do.” I feel hot, my skin tight.

“Then close your eyes.” He places his hand over my eyes. “Describe me.”

I don’t close my eyes. I stare at the pink parallel lines of light between his fingers. “You have the softest skin.”

“No, Neva, what do I look like? Describe me like you would a painting.” He’s standing behind me now.

“Okay.” I pause to collect my thoughts. “You have wavy brown hair, cut short. Your eyes are brown. You are wearing the striped
shirt I gave you.”

“You’re hopeless.” He removes his hand but stays behind me. He slips his arms around my waist. I wish it were Braydon holding
me. “Your hair is the color of a sandy beach on a rainy day,” he says. “The hair on your right side is wavier than on your
left. You have full beautiful lips that grow a deeper shade of red when I’ve kissed you, almost the perfect shade of a June
strawberry. Your body is pear-shaped.”

“Thanks a lot!” I say, and step away. I can’t face him. He’ll be intensely staring as if he’s undressing me, and I’m thinking
about Braydon.

“Come here.” He hooks his arm around my waist again. “I’m not finished. Your waist is small and my arms fit perfectly around
your middle. Your hips are round and dip in at the line where they connect to your thighs.” He starts to move his hands lower.

I shift out of his grasp. “Okay. Okay, I get it. You are way better at this game than I am. You win.”

“It’s not a game, Neva.”

I walk behind him and rest my chin on his shoulder. “You may know the color of my eyes and the shape of my butt, but I know
you
here.
” Or at least I used to. I reach around and poke my finger in his chest. “You are a brilliant artist, but you only draw parts
of people because that’s how you see them. A hand. An eye. A look. A gesture. You are scared to death to put them all together
and draw something whole. You want to have a painting hanging here someday.
You want it so much it hurts. I can see it in your eyes: the joy you have when you are surrounded by art. But you’ll become
an architect and remake their designs. To hell with originality. But you could be so much more.”

“Stop it,” he says, almost pleads. “I love you.”

“I know you do.” He used to have a lust for life. He was the first one on the dance floor or into the pool on the first day
of summer. God, I miss him, even though he’s standing next to me. I walk over to the next painting. It has yellow, blue, and
red shapes outlined in black. I prefer the abstract. I take it all in then let my eyes unfocus. It’s the emotions that we
keep walled away from ourselves and from one another. That’s what I see. “I like this one.”

“Yeah,” he says, walking over and stopping next to me, our shoulders touching. “His precision and use of color are amazing.”

I slip my hand into his. I’ll be in this moment for a while. I won’t think about the future or the police or Ethan’s tracking
device or Braydon, especially not Braydon. I’ll hold on to this picture of Ethan and me side by side, suspended in time like
a painting. The Happy Couple.

“Marry me, Neva,” he whispers. The words shake me off center. “Let’s not wait any longer. Let’s start our life now.”

Marrying Ethan would be like stepping into my mother’s recycled shoes.

He holds my hand a little tighter and keeps talking. “We were made for each other.”

We are as imperfect as everyone else.

“I know about the police interrogation.” He draws me
into his arms. I can’t breathe. “Sanna told me. She’s worried about you and so am I.”

“I’m…” I want to say “fine,” but I can’t. I’m suffocating.

“It’s the perfect solution. We’ll get married and find a nice place to live. I’m making good money. We’d get the government’s
marriage subsidy. We could start a family. The police would realize that we’re law-abiding citizens.”

They’d leave us alone. We are a threat to Homeland until we settle down and start making babies. It’s the answer. My parents
would be happy. An image of Braydon flashes in my mind. Us on his motorcycle driving into the sunset. My heart flutters at
the thought of him. But nothing can ever happen between us. I try not to listen to the voice in my brain, Braydon’s voice,
that’s screaming: Run away, run as far from this ordinary life as possible.

“Marry me, Neva?” he asks again.

We’ve been heading for this finish line all my life. Why does crossing it feel like losing? “I’m not sure, Ethan.” He doesn’t
relax his grip.

“Just think about it,” he says in a panicked voice. “Please.”

I surrender into his arms. “Okay,” I say, and feel the fight leave me.