Dark Parties (9 page)

I reread the opening chapter about The Terror. Someone—probably my dad—has even altered the first chapter, going a bit adjective
crazy with his red pen.
Massive
explosion.
Extreme
panic.
Necessary
measures. A
superior
race. But not one word about what was outside. It’s as if the slate was wiped clean that day. When we’d studied history at
school, I’d asked Dad about what came before The Terror. He’d closed his eyes and taken a deep breath. “Everything has a beginning,
Neva,” he’d said, and patted the top of my head.

Someone has crossed out two paragraphs on someone called James Washington. I remove the text from the master
proof. A chill threads through me. I’m helping the government erase people from history. Future generations will never know
that James Washington stabilized the rubble of the Capitol Complex and helped create a memorial to those who perished in The
Terror. One tiny gesture and he vanishes from the pages of history.

I’m not sure if I can do this. But I don’t have a choice, do I? I become a good, little government employee or disappear like
James Washington. Is this why our country is spiraling slowly downward? People like me do what they’re told. No one questions.
If I do this, then I’m no better than the police or my dad.

“Why are people editing ancient history?” I ask Effie as my pen is posed to erase Maria Hamilton.

She stops typing. Her hands hover above the keyboard. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“What?”

“Your job is not to ask questions, young lady.” She resumes typing.

I may have to do this job for now, but I still have a voice and I can question. “What are you doing?” I scoot a little closer
to her. My skirt twists, so I rise from my chair an inch and untangle myself.

She turns her back to me, trying to block my view of her computer. It only makes me more curious. “If you must know, I’m managing
the day’s news,” she says begrudgingly.

“What?” I knew my dad was responsible for information management, but now I understand that it’s more about censorship than
dissemination.

She takes a breath that rattles in her chest before it is expelled. “Information Services reviews all the news and sends me
any stories that need attention.”

I peek over her shoulder. “What does that mean? ‘Need attention.’ ”

Effie tuts and gives me a disapproving look over the upper rim of her glasses. “None of your business.”

I concentrate on my editing for a while. I consider making a few additions and deletions of my own. If Sanna were here, she’d
see how many times she could fit the word
wacky
into a sentence or something like that. I want to disregard their rewriting of history altogether. I intentionally leave
out a few of the smaller edits—an adjective here, a sentence there. It’s a small rebellion, but it eases the growing outrage
I feel for how the government, which I’m now a part of, manipulates information.

Effie’s fingers fly over the keys rat-a-tat-tapping. Even her fingers seem agitated that I’m here. She only pauses to cough.
I half stand and read over her shoulder. “Um, Effie,” I say, but it’s as if she’s in some sort of trance. I try again. “Effie,
why does that—” I point to an article that she immediately clicks closed. “Why did you code that ‘action required’? Wasn’t
that an obituary?”

She clears her throat. “Newspapers are no longer to report on deaths by natural causes.”

“But that guy was my dad’s age.”

She continues working without answering my question. I settle back in my chair and try to resume my editing duties, but I
can’t.

I realize that Effie has stopped typing. Her face is pale. I shift in my seat so I can get a better look at the screen; my
skirt is constricting me again. Effie tilts her head to block my view.

“What is it, Effie? What’s wrong?” I ask, standing behind her. The article is from a small town up North. It’s one of those
places that refuses to allow the government to relocate its residents to population hubs. They have fewer government resources,
like power, water, and police, but more freedom. The headline notes: F
IVE
G
IRLS
M
ISSING
. I gasp. More Missing.

Effie closes the article and highlights the entry in red. She picks up the phone and punches in numbers without even looking.

“Yes, another code eleven; I’m sending you the article now,” she barks, and hangs up. She punches in more numbers and repeats
her cryptic message. She pounds on the keyboard and the red entry disappears. She taps another icon. I think it’s titled GovNet.
She types and clicks so fast I have no idea what she’s doing. She rises and smoothes her hair. She knocks on my dad’s office
door.

“Enter,” my dad bellows.

Effie steps inside. “Dr. Adams. Sorry to disturb you. Another code eleven.” She pauses. “Yes, it will be handled. I’ll search
the system and purge any necessary data.”

What does that mean? She blathers on to my dad. I inch closer and closer to Effie’s computer. I study her computer screen.
There are two search boxes: one titled
ACTIVE
, the other
INACTIVE
. I scan the headings on the screen. I check to
make sure Effie isn’t watching. I quickly select A
BOUT
G
OV
N
ET
. A small box appears in the middle of the screen:

I look over my shoulder. Effie’s back is still to me. I can hear she’s wrapping up. I click the box closed and go back to
my chair. This database knows everything about everybody. Why didn’t I think of it before? It will be much easier to find
answers working inside the government. Maybe I can find out the truth about the Protectosphere. Maybe I can find my grandma
and all my Missing.

When Effie returns to her desk, red faced, I ask, “Can you explain what just happened?”

She ignores me.

“How am I ever going to do this job—,” I start, but Effie cuts me off.

“You,” she shouts, and then realizes that heads are turning. She lowers her voice. “You are never going to do
this
job. You will do as you’re told and nothing else.”

I flinch at the venom in her voice. I summon my courage. “What happened to those girls?” Maybe if I can find out what happened
to them, I can find my Missing.

She raises her hand to stop me. “There are no missing girls. The news organization was misinformed.”

“But how do you know—”

Her open palm closes into a tight ball. “No one goes missing in Homeland.” She smoothes her hair. “The Protectosphere keeps
us safe. How could anyone go missing?” she says sweetly.

“But the article said—”

Effie interrupts, “I think you are mistaken.”

I open my mouth to contradict her.

“You are mistaken.” She takes a deep breath. As she exhales, she seems to return to her normal, controlled self. She hands
me a stack of envelopes. “Why don’t you deliver these for me?”

“What are they?” I ask, checking the names and office numbers on the tattered envelopes.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “That doesn’t concern you.”

I open my mouth to ask for a map or something to help me navigate this maze of a building. But she just points a rigid arm
and shoos me away. All eyes follow me as I shuffle down the hallway. But nothing, not even Effie, can squelch this new hope
I feel.

Sanna is waiting on my front steps when Dad and I come home from work. Dad steps around Sanna as if she’s trash that can’t
be recycled. The rosy S glows on her cheek.

“What’s with the disappearing act?” she says when we
are alone. “I tried to call you a zillion times yesterday and today.”

I sit down next to her, tucking my skirt between my legs. We normally see each other or at least talk every day. I don’t know
how to talk to her when all I can think about is Braydon. “It’s just I’ve got this new job, and Dad’s watching me like a hawk,
and…”

“Life’s gotten all weird. I get it. Your mom told me about the new job. Major snore, I bet. But don’t leave me hanging.” She
rests her head on my shoulder.

I feel even worse, if that’s possible. “I’m sorry, Sanna.” She brushes the grass with the bare soles of her feet. “What’s
wrong?” I ask even though I’m afraid of the answer.

“Braydon’s acting strange. You’re a ghost. Everyone’s freaked out.”

I think about the wave of his hair and how he smelled of cologne. I try to think of something, anything, else. “Come on, San.
There’s a lot going on. My job. You’re going to start school soon. We’ve got to find a new sense of normal.”

“You’re right.” She perks up a bit. “Tell me about your big job. You even look all professional. How’s it feel to be all responsible-like?”

“It’s like working in a minefield,” I say, and then the rest comes flooding out. “I’m working with my dad’s assistant, Effie.
She hates me being there.” I don’t tell her about how my dad shapes the news and history. For some reason, I can’t bring myself
to betray him, even to my best friend. “I’m supposed to update the history book and…” I pause,
look around and whisper, “I think I may have a way to find The Missing.”

“What?” She leans in close. “How?”

“The government has a computer system that has files on everyone. There’s got to be something in there about my grandma.”
My pulse quickens. “Sanna, I’m on the inside now. I’m sure I can find something useful. Something that will prove that there’s
something out there. That the government should open the Protectosphere.”

“Nev, I thought we agreed to cool it for a while. Braydon says that it’s too dangerous—”

I stop her. I don’t want to know what Braydon says. “Maybe we—”

Now she interrupts, “Can’t we go back to the way things were before our Dark Party?”

“I wish we could,” I say.

She loops her arm though mine and I feel the sting of guilt. I should be arrested, but not for crimes against Homeland. I
should be condemned for sins against my best friend.

After a week of Effie-intensive training, I think I may lose my mind. She only leaves her desk to respond when my dad beckons.
The woman must have a bladder of steel with all the coffee she drinks—from her own thermos, obviously—no unnecessary trips
to the kitchen for pointless socializing, as she puts it. She hovers over me and randomly spot-checks my work. She clears
her throat if I pause for one minute. I consider spiking her coffee so I can have a few minutes alone. I haven’t had one second
to check out GovNet again.
It’s like waiting to open a Christmas present, except Christmas never comes.

Today I decide to have lunch outside on the front steps of the building. Effie must have sprayed me with repellent because
no one will come near me in the break rooms or the cafeteria. It’s nothing new. I sit nibbling my cheese sandwich on the front
steps and inventing dramas for those around me. The two women a few steps away are signaling spies with some complex nail
filing code. The jogger has escaped from the Border Patrol Detention Center and is heading up North. The man in a light gray
suit has passed this way twice; at least, I think it’s the same man, probably casing the joint for a heist of government secrets.

“Neva!”

It takes me a moment to realize that it’s my name being called.

“Neva, is that you?”

I scan the spies and the convicts. Maybe I’m imagining friends like I did before Sanna came along.

“Neva!” The voice seems familiar but out of place. It’s coming from behind me. I twist around. My insides tangle. I look at
his feet to confirm my gut reaction. Red boots.

“I thought that was you,” he says as he sits next to me.

“Hi, Braydon,” I say. My face flames red. Our bodies are inches apart. It’s as if he is radiating heat. “What are you doing
here?” My immediate instinct is to make sure no one’s watching.

He studies his boots. “I wanted to see you.”

God, I wanted to see him too, but now that he’s a breath away, I want him to leave. He’s triggered an almost unbearable ache
inside me.

“Are you all right?” he asks. I don’t see him move, but he feels closer to me somehow.

I shake my head ever so slightly.

“Yeah, right. Stupid question.” He notices a smudge on his boots and rubs and rubs and rubs it. “How’s the new job?”

“Fine,” I lie. I don’t know how to act around him. Every word and gesture seems to give away my new feelings for him. Whatever
those are.

He leans in close. I freeze, terrified he’ll touch me yet wishing he would. “Neva,” he whispers, “please promise me you’re
not doing anything that could get you in more trouble.”

I know that he means stop protesting and looking for The Missing, but what I’m doing right now with him is much more dangerous.

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” he says when I don’t respond. He already knows my answer.