Dark Parties (6 page)

“It doesn’t matter. There’s not much time,” Mom says as
she hands me a pair of jeans. “Your dad called, and the police are on their way.”

“The police.” The euphoria from yesterday plummets. I scan my room for anything incriminating. My pink journal is peeking
from under my pillow. I must have fallen asleep holding it. I catch the bra Mom is throwing at me with one hand and shove
the pink journal farther under my pillow.

“What do they want?” I toss my covers off, remove my T-shirt, and slip on my bra.

“Something about graffiti,” she says, and I freeze. I thought I’d gotten away with it. “Keep your story simple,” she continues,
not realizing I’m paralyzed with fear.

Why do they suspect me? The police officer Nicoline encountered that night couldn’t recognize me. I’ve got no visible identity
mark. Nothing’s distinctive about me. Did someone turn me in? That has to be it. My body feels liquid.

She notices I’m not moving. “Neva, get ready.”

“Okay. Okay.” I nod, but I can’t move.

Mom gives me a quick hug. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. They can’t… they won’t…” Her voice falters. “Calm down.” I don’t know
if she’s talking to me or herself. “Only answer the questions they ask.”

Since when does my mom give me advice on how to cover up a crime? I try to stop mentally fast-forwarding to all the terrible
possibilities. Just get dressed. I pull on the gray shirt and faded blue jacket my mom has selected. I hop around the room,
squeezing myself into my jeans.

She grabs my arm to keep me from falling. “You were never there, wherever.”

I start to respond, but she shifts me perfectly parallel to her. Her hair is swept back in a loose ponytail. Stray locks of
hair fall in fuzzy stripes across her face. She’s wearing one of Dad’s old dress shirts. She’s missed a button, which makes
her look as if her body is off center. “You didn’t do anything.”

I nod and tuck my snowflake necklace under my shirt. I touch it through the material and ask Grandma for strength. I’m going
to need it.

“It will be okay. Calm down.” She’s talking to herself again. She walks over to my bed and takes the pink journal from under
the pillow. “I better hide this for you.”

“Mom…” I reach for it.

“I won’t read it. We all need our secrets.” She tucks my journal under her arm. “Just hurry. I’ll buy you some time.” She
closes the door behind her.

I slowly spin, looking for anything else suspicious. My room resembles your average recycling dump, clothes everywhere. Half-read
books on my nightstand. Jewelry scattered on my dresser. I start to clean my room, but I’m afraid that will look more unusual.
I check myself in the mirror. My upper lip is sweaty. My eyes are bloodshot. Even the way the tail of my shirt is stuffed
into my jeans and the way the jacket sits stiff on my shoulders makes me look guilty. I flop on the bed and wait for the police.

“Would you state your name for the record?” The police officer looks up from the file folder in front of him. Something about
him reminds me of Ethan. Their hair is the same
length. He’s got dark circles under his eyes too. The black police uniform obscures any other defining features. Only his
face is exposed. I’m so busy examining him that he has to repeat his question.

“Oh, sorry.” I lean in to the microphone in front of me. “I’m Neva Adams.” My voice trembles. I thought about the questions
the police might ask and my answers on the car ride over. It was either that or imagine how easy it would be to make me disappear.
They didn’t take me to the Central Police Station. I’m in the building where my dad works. They made me walk down three flights
of stairs to the sub-basement. They want me to know how trapped I am. I’m in a gray room with concrete block walls. I can
see my reflection in what is probably a two-way mirror. I bet my dad is back there, watching. I can sense the tension he normally
brings to a room.

“Your full name,” he demands, and I instinctively search for his name badge, forgetting that the police are the only government
employees that don’t have to wear them. Their uniforms are a clean slate except for the crest of Homeland embroidered on their
lapels.

“Neva
Elaine
Adams.” I emphasize the new piece of information. All the women in my mom’s family for generations have the same middle name.
You’d think that would make me feel connected, but it’s one more thing that makes me feel recycled.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” he says casually.

“Okay.” I try to mimic his relaxed manner, but my heart is thumping so hard I’m afraid he can hear it.

“What can you tell me about the recent vandalism?” he asks, shutting the folder with his black, gloved hand.

“I read something about graffiti in the news,” I say after taking a few slow breaths.

“We believe that a gang of youngsters are responsible for this breach of patriotism.” He’s watching my every move. My eyes
reflexively widened. “Do you know or have you heard of anyone participating in this or any other unpatriotic behavior?”

“I thought the graffiti supported the Protectosphere. That’s what the news said.” I have to deny it, but part of me is screaming
to tell the truth.

“The graffiti wasn’t all positive.” He looks me in the eyes. I force myself to hold his gaze. Only guilty people look away.
Or do innocent people look away because guilty people have something to prove?

“You know the consequences of such behavior, don’t you?” He increases his volume and his words bounce off the concrete blocks.

I nod.

“What are they?” he demands.

“Patriotic seminar,” I answer, ashamed that my voice squeaks and sounds so small.

“No.” He stands. He is an imposing figure dressed head to toe in black. “This type of behavior borders on treason.”

My legs start to shake. How can painting a few simple words amount to treason? It feels as if all the blood has drained from
my body.

He sits on the corner of the table and crosses his arms. I remember my mom’s advice, only answer the questions asked. He didn’t
ask a question, so I remain silent. I probably couldn’t speak now if I wanted to.

“At a minimum, the person or persons will be sent to Community Farms.” He sits back to let that soak in. Sanna’s brother was
sent to a Community Farm for six months. It’s the government’s answer to food shortages and crowded prisons. He came back
with calloused hands and an anger that radiated from his tanned, peeling skin.

The officer coughs and tugs at his collar. “The maximum punishment… Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about.”

But I want to know. I want him to say it: they will disappear. But what awaits The Missing? Death? Torture?

A buzzer sounds, startling us. He exits through the only door. I lay my forehead on the cool metal table and roll it from
side to side. I don’t know how long I stay suspended there, trying not to imagine what’s next.

I sit up when the door clicks open. My interrogator returns. The tail of his shirt is sticking out on one side, ruining the
straight lines of his police uniform. He sits across from me again. “I’m going to ask you one more time if you know anything
about the unpatriotic graffiti that was painted all over the capital city.”

I look down at the table and shake my head.

“We know there are groups planning more protests. We need good patriots, people like you, to help us uncover these plots.
Your father is a member of the governing Council. You wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his
position.” He looks at the mirror behind me. “Can you tell us names of anyone who has engaged or plans to engage in unpatriotic
behavior?”

I run my fingers through my hair. It’s damp with sweat. “No,” I say, “I don’t know anyone.” But even I wouldn’t believe me.

“Neva, we know you are a good citizen, but we have reason to believe that you know who might be planning protests. For your
sake and theirs, give me their names and we can put an end to this nonsense. I promise we’ll go easy on them, if they stop
all this now.” He pulls a small battered notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. He flips the notebook open and finds a clean
space to write. Pen in hand, he’s poised to transcribe my confession. Does he really think I’m going to give him names? “The
Protectosphere keeps us alive. There are dangerous levels of toxins out there. We are safer inside.”

I’ve heard it all before. My grandma and Sanna’s mom didn’t believe it. My grandma said there is no proof that everything
outside ended. I try not to do anything to give away my true feelings. I force myself to nod in agreement.

He continues, “Any anti-Protectosphere rhetoric could cause some mentally unstable person to compromise our security and filtration
system. You wouldn’t want that, would you? You wouldn’t want the harmless words of you or someone else to cost good people
their lives.”

“No, sir.” White-hot fear slithers over me, like a dry, scaly snake. What if Grandma was wrong? Are we doomed if we do nothing
and
if we open the Protectosphere? I don’t
know what to believe. I place my hands on the table and spread my fingers wide to steady myself.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, but I can feel saliva collecting in my mouth as if I might throw up.

“Neva, are you going to tell me their names?” He’s leaning in closer, pen at the ready.

I’ve got to be careful. He’s setting a trap. “I don’t know anyone who has done anything. Can I please leave now?” I tuck my
hands under my thighs.

He slams his notebook and pen on the table. “I’ve got to release you,” he says through clenched teeth. I relax a bit. “But
consider this your warning.” He walks around behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. I want to scream. Every muscle
in my body tenses. He bends down and whispers so only I can hear and, if there is someone watching, they won’t see his lips
moving, “I know you are mixed up in this. But Daddy saved you this time.” His hot breath sends chills rippling through my
body.

I involuntarily jerk away from him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” My voice cracks and I have to concentrate on every syllable.
I can still feel him behind me.

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” he says for the people behind the mirror, “for the moment. You are free to go. Shall
I call your mom or dad to pick you up?”

“I’m an adult now and I can get home on my own.” I try to sound confident, but I can see in his cold, hard eyes that he’s
not buying it. I stand on wobbly legs and walk slowly toward the door.

“I’ll be watching you,” he whispers as he walks by. He leads me through a maze of underground corridors. We climb three flights
of stairs and finally we are aboveground. Windows line the hall. I am comforted by the sight of trees and sky. I’m almost
out. As we turn a corner, I see someone being led by another officer. The star on her cheek is bright red and nearly glowing.
Nicoline must have retraced it. As we pass, she glances at me and tries to smile, but her lower lip quivers. I force myself
to smile what I hope looks like a strong, confident smile. I want her to know her secret is safe with me.

Is mine as safe with her?

I can’t stop walking; I can’t even pause or change the quickness of my step. I have to keep moving forward. As I leave the
government building, I can still feel watchful eyes upon me.

“Sanna,” I stammer into the phone. “They know.” That’s all I can think to say when Sanna answers. The phone booth is humid
and smells of urine.

“Nev, chill. Where are you?” The line crackles.

It takes me a moment to remember. The concrete steps. The massive stone structure ahead of me, which dominates the city block.
“I’m in front of the government building where my dad works.” People are sitting on the stone steps, drinking coffee from
colossal mugs. Two runners in shorts and tank tops run by. “Sanna, they asked me about—”

“Nev…” Her words are obscured by static.

“What?” I’ve got to tell her. I’ve got to tell someone. “Sanna—”

She cuts me off. “Nev, shut it. We need to talk”—she pauses—“in per-son,” she enunciates.

Now I understand. She thinks someone could be listening. She’s right. Of course she’s right. How could I be so stupid? I’m
not thinking straight. I glance at the two women in gray business suits who are standing nearby. One smiles; the other nods
at me. They could have overheard. I pull the phone away from my ear. Are they listening? “Sanna…” There’s so much to say,
but I feel gagged. Every word in my brain seems incriminating. I feel as if someone has turned a spotlight on me.

“Braydon’s on his way.”

His name triggers a new level of panic. “Wait, no,” I start, but I’ve got to get out of here.

“He’ll be there in a few. He’s got his motorcycle. He’ll take you home. I’ll meet you there.”

“Braydon rides a motorcycle?”

“Yes, that’s why he wears the killer boots,” she retorts. “There’s a lot you don’t know about him.”

I have no doubt.

I hear the roar of his motorcycle before I see him. He’s wearing faded jeans with holes in the knees and a black leather jacket
with deep cracks around one elbow. He rolls up in front of me. His long wavy hair curls at his shoulders. He looks so confident
astride that bike. His muscles strain to
keep the bike upright. My eyes trace the curves from his butt, then down his strong legs. I walk down the steps to meet him.