Dark Parties (20 page)

Grandma is thirty minutes late. What if I missed her? What if she was at the other end of the bridge waiting for me? What
if this was a trap to catch my grandma, and I’m the bait? What if the police spotted her and remembered her from years ago
when they erased her? I pace in an ever-widening loop until I have walked the length of the bridge three times. The businessmen,
the only constant occupants of the bridge, start to stare. One even asks me if I’m okay. “Yeah. Yeah,” I say, but I can’t
focus on him because I’m searching for her. I keep walking.

I’m so busy looking behind me that I walk right into an old man. He grunts and his cane clatters to the floor. The force of
our impact causes him to lean against the rail.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, picking up his wooden cane. He straightens his brown tweed jacket with lighter brown
patches on the elbows. It takes a few seconds before he reaches for his cane. He smiles, giving his wrinkles wrinkles. He’s
bald. The sun is bouncing off his skin and I can see tiny hairs scattered across the surface of his scalp. You don’t see many
men this old anymore.

“That’s all right, young lady,” he replies, but I can see it’s not. He rests his hand over his heart. He is taking slow deep
breaths and I watch his chest rise and fall.

“Would you like to sit down?” I ask, but then I scan the bridge and realize that there’s nowhere for him to sit.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

I wrap my arm around his shoulders. “You could sit on the top of the stairs or I could walk down with you and we could sit
on a bench by the riverside.” We are already walking toward the stairs.

“Ah, a chat by the riverside would be lovely,” he says.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs and look around one more time. My grandma’s not coming. I choke back my disappointment.
It’s as if I’ve lost her all over again.

“Something the matter, dear?” he asks when he feels me resist.

“No, I’m sorry.” We take the first step down together. “It’s just I was waiting for someone and she never showed.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he says, and takes the next few steps much quicker. “You need to be careful,” he says when we reach
the bottom.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I hope you are okay. I—”

He squeezes my hand to stop the flow of apologies. He’s got deep brown eyes with the same sparkle Ethan used to have. “I think
I’m being watched.”

Great. Not only am I not seeing my grandma today, but I’m stuck with some nutty, paranoid old man. I try to pull away, but
he squeezes my hand tighter. “I knew your grandma,” he whispers.

My knees buckle and I lean into him to regain my balance. He’s a rock and doesn’t budge under my weight.

“Walk me over to that bench. Let’s take our time.” We shuffle forward. “When your grandma left, I was supposed to go with
her. But when the time came, I just couldn’t. I was too scared. I was so stupid.” He smiles his warm wrinkly smile. “She talked
about you all the time.”

“You sent me the postcard?”

He nods. “When she left, she gave me the postcard with instructions to mail it to you when the government renovated the Protectosphere
again. I’ve just learned that plans are already underway and the renovation will begin soon.”

Maybe that’s why the police are twitchy, like Sanna’s brother said. Maybe it’s also somehow connected to Senga and Carson’s
resistance. Maybe it’s why my dad had all those meetings. I want to stop and take it all in, but he keeps coaxing me forward.

“She wants you to join her.” He slowly lowers himself onto the bench.

“Join her where?”

“Out there.” He points skyward. “Outside the Protectosphere.”

I plop down on the bench next to him. Is he for real?

He pulls me close. I’m surprised by the iron grip. “In four days, meet at the Capitol Complex at midnight.” He pauses and
looks around.

“Here.” He slips an envelope from his jacket pocket into my hand. He holds my hand with the envelope close to his chest. “Do
not read this now. Hide it. Find somewhere safe to read it, and then destroy the letter. It’s from your grandma. She trusted
me and so can you.”

This doesn’t seem possible.

“Do you have an identity mark?” he asks.

I nod.

“I need to know what it is,” he continues.

I blush.

“You will only be identified by your mark, no names. Describe your identity mark.”

This is one of those moments that will change my life forever—and I’m not ready. I can trust him and tell him about my snowflake
tattoo, or I can walk away right now. Trusting him means risking my life on the promise of escape. He could be working for
the government. Or this could be the one and only chance I will ever have for a better life.

“So?” He is pressing the edges of the envelope into my palm. I fold the envelope in half.

“I’ve got a snowflake tattoo,” I say, and tuck the envelope down the front of my blue jeans. “Right here.” I indicate the
spot directly under the envelope.

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Midnight. Four nights from tonight at the Capitol Complex. Someone will
approach you and ask to see your identity mark. Got that?”

“But that’s right in the center of the City.”

“That’s why they will never suspect it. They send all their officers to patrol the borders. When you see your grandma, tell
her that Thomas sends his regards.”

“Wouldn’t you be coming with me?”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late for me.”

“What if—” There are so many what-ifs.

“You are Ruth Adams’s granddaughter. You can do it.” He pats my cheek with his soft wrinkly hand. He looks me directly in
the eyes. “Tell no one about this”—he pauses—“no one.” His stare is not from a man in his seventies but a fierce young rebel.
“Neva, trust no one. Do you understand?”

I nod, but how can I keep this secret from Mom? She’s lost so much already. What about Sanna? Will she even care what happens
to me after last night? And Braydon. What about Braydon? How can I disappear without a word?

“You shouldn’t be seen with me much longer. It’s too dangerous.” He turns away. I don’t know what to do. My grandma has sent
me an invitation to the great beyond. And I can’t imagine accepting or rejecting it.

As I walk back across the bridge, the corners of the envelope dig into my stomach. It takes every ounce of restraint not to
rip it open. When I’m once again in the middle of the bridge, I walk to the edge and hold the rail. I look up, arch my back
and rise on my tiptoes. The wind whips my ponytail in circles and stray strands sting my face. Thomas is still sitting on
the bench. He’s resting his chin on his cane as if he’s sleeping. From this vantage point, I notice a pattern of people spaced
an equal distance from him. Were those
people there before? I don’t think so. We would have noticed, but I can’t be sure.

A woman in a gray jacket walks over to Thomas and touches him, gently at first and then she’s shaking him. She calls to the
others who quickly surround him. Two men pull him to his feet. A black van drives up on the embankment. People have scattered
like pigeons to make way for the vehicle. Thomas jerks his shoulders back and the two men release him. He straightens, takes
his cane from the woman, and walks toward the van. As he bows to enter the van, he looks up and, for a second, our eyes connect.
We both know too late that it was a mistake. My adrenaline rockets. The woman forces Thomas into the van. She bangs on the
van and it speeds off. The woman is pointing to the bridge. Two men take off in my direction.

I back away from the rail and then run. My mind is racing faster than my feet. Who are those people? They can’t be police;
they aren’t wearing uniforms. Maybe it’s some special team like the people who robbed me of any trace of my grandma. Has Thomas
been erased? It’s that easy. The government wipes you away like a smudge on a window. If they catch me, I may also find out
what it’s like to be a smudge.

I run.

I stumble down the stairs from the bridge to the opposite embankment. I check behind me. I can’t see anyone chasing me, but
I can feel them closing in. They will have the better vantage point to find me. All they have to do is scan the area for a
girl with a ponytail in a beige shirt.

That’s it. Blend in.

I hide under the bridge. I rip the elastic band out of my hair and throw it into the river. I untie my sweater and slip it
on, zipping it all the way up. I place my hand protectively over the envelope tucked into my jeans. I’m walking, but my legs
keep speeding up. I have to slow down, but my pace bursts fast and then slows. Fast then slow. Fast then slow. I need to find
a crowd and get lost.

The Square. It’s only a few blocks away. I turn off at the next street. My neck throbs from forcing myself to face forward.
I desperately want to turn around to see if anyone is following me, but that would look too suspicious.

The Square is busier than I expect. I snake through the crowd with my head down. For once, I’m thankful for our similarities.
I push myself forward, but the friction of bodies seems to pull me back. Nearly every part of my body makes contact with someone
else as I move. My heart is racing. I rise on my tiptoes and look around. The crowd is growing and it’s harder to move, but
maybe I’m safe.

A piece of paper is being forced into my hand. I make a fist and bat it away, but a hand is closing around mine. “Read it,”
someone whispers. I can hear paper crackling all around me as it’s wadded and forced into hands. “Our hope for the future,”
someone else says in a low and steady voice. I curl my fingers around the paper.

It’s the silent demonstration; I’d almost forgotten. I rise to my tiptoes again. I scan the crowd. Everyone is looking down.
It’s impossible to recognize anyone. I duck back down and aimlessly weave my way through the crowd. I pause and slowly unfold
the paper. I read the headline: T
HE
P
ROTECTOSPHERE
I
S
K
ILLING
U
S
. I flip the paper over and freeze. It’s the article from the archives. It’s been pieced back together.

I am being knocked about in a human tide. I don’t know if I’m more excited or scared. All these people know one of the government’s
secrets. Sanna and I have made a difference. But I’ve got the letter from my grandma tucked in my jeans. I think Thomas was
just erased, and they—whoever they are—could be after me now. My survival instinct kicks in. I press the flyer into another
hand when I bump it. I push through the crowd with my arms folded tightly across my chest. Anyone can see that I’m not distributing
propaganda. I search for the quickest route out of the mass of people that is growing by the minute.

I need air. I climb up and cling to the Dr. Benjamin L. Smith statue. I watch as the river of people flow from the Square
and down toward the embankment. As people detach from the crowd, I can see papers being tucked into jackets and handbags,
as well as dropped casually on the ground.

“Neva! Neva, is that you?”

I panic at the sound of my name, but I pretend I didn’t hear it.

“Neva!” the voice is louder and familiar. I can’t ignore it.

“Neva! Over here!” I see a boy waving his arms and rushing toward me. My first impulse is to run, but I hold my ground. As
he gets closer, I recognize the shape of his body. His short hair. The blue-and-gray-striped shirt I gave him for Christmas.
Those deep-set eyes.

“Ethan,” I say when he reaches me, and throw my arms around him. I am safe. “What are you doing here?” I don’t really care.
He’s here; that’s all the matters. If they come, he’ll tell them he’s been with me the whole time.

“I’ve been calling you,” he says, and he strokes my hair, smoothes out the wrinkle where my elastic band was.

“I know.” Mom has given me all of his messages. I realize what I’ve just done. He will misunderstand and imagine that I’ve
missed him and want him back. The truth is when I saw him I saw an alibi. I feel bad that after all those years together I
can’t conjure up a deeper emotion than feeling safe. I move away from him. “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

He kisses me on the cheek and whispers, “The demonstration.”

“Really? I thought you said—”

He takes my hand. “I thought you’d be here.”

“You can’t do this for me,” I say. “It’s too dangerous for you. What if—”

“I love you, Neva.” He tries to draw me closer, but I stand firm. “You know that, right? I can’t live without you.”

Maybe they aren’t tracking him. I should tell him what Tim said about the government’s haphazard approach to surveillance,
but Ethan would probably only chastise me for snooping. And maybe he is one of the few they watch. Maybe everything would
be different if they weren’t tracking Ethan. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

I notice that the police have surrounded the crowd and
are closing in. “Let’s go.” The police are after me. I’m a fugitive and a thief. I gave the demonstrators the stolen newspaper
article. I have a letter from my long-lost Grandma in my underwear.