Sky on Fire (25 page)

*   *   *

I share a bed with Lori. She's fourteen. She has brown hair and white skin and huge brown eyes that look so sad sometimes I want to punch her in the face.

*   *   *

She's told me her story. She's from Denver and she and her folks were hiding out in their apartment but they ran out of food. By the time they made it to the airport the evacuations had begun. They were among the last of the people there so when the rioting began—with people clawing and trampling one another as the sky over Colorado Springs lit up—her mother was killed. Then her father fell between the Jetway and the door of the plane as he shoved her in.

I didn't want to hear her story. I wanted it to fall away from my ears, like beads of water on wax paper, but the words stuck in. Water, water, water. Lori is all water.

Lori lies against me at night and weeps and gets the pillow wet.

I know, I know I should comfort her. It wouldn't take much. What? A pat on the back. A hug.

But there is no compassion left in me.

Like I said, that Josie is dead.

What do I give to her? I give her the warmth of my sleeping body. That's all she can have. Escaping heat.

*   *   *

I should tell you about the other three. Yes, I should name them. Tell you about them and tell you what they look like and their sweet, scared smiles and how Heather looks like Batiste, her oval face very sincere and serious. Half Asian. How one of the boys is always getting words wrong. Nemolade for lemonade. Callerpitter for caterpillar. Bob wire for barbed wire. Cute, innocent, annoying, traumatized. Sweet, demanding, lost, and present. There is nothing I can do for them and I want nothing to do with them.

Every day I wish Mario had not taken them in. The orphan Os.

They were fending for themselves and getting roughed up. I know it was the right thing to do.

There should never have been kids in here in the first place.

As I understand it, the national government brought us here, but the state of Missouri is running the camp. The locals don't want us released, but don't care to pay for us to be properly cared for, either. And the national government has been slow to provide for us.

The result: not enough guards, not enough food, not enough space, not enough medical care. And they won't let us out.

There were petitions circulating, when we first arrived. People trying to get the stable Os separated from the criminal ones. But the guards made life hard for the signature gatherers.

Now we're all just waiting it out.

Every week a rumor drifts through the camp that we're to be released.

The hope is dangerous. Makes you care.

*   *   *

I have to watch out for the men. Some of them are handsy.

I'm not so worried about what they could do to me—I'm worried about what I could do to them.

You do not want to get in trouble.

There was a scuffle a few days ago near the fence. Some reporters got the idea to talk to us about life inside the compound. Were shouting questions to us.

I begged Mario to stay away. But he insisted. He gets all red in the face when he talks about the conditions here. He wants justice and he wants his rights and all I want is to get out of here.

I went over with him, to the gates, because I knew there'd be trouble and there was.

There were maybe twenty inmates standing there, shouting to the dozen or so reporters who were yelling things like

“Do you feel your rights have been violated?”

“Are the rumors of gang violence true?”

“Are you in danger?”

Some of the prisoners shouted answers. Others yelled, “Get us out of here!” and “Contact my uncle so and so! He'll give you a reward!” and “In God's name, help us!”

Then a couple of humvees came to herd the press away and out came two guards, with their semiautomatic tranquilizer dart guns.

Venger was one of the guards.

I saw delight flash across Venger's face when he saw me and Mario at the fence. The guards waded into the throng of people, pulling them from the fence and pushing them toward the dorms.

“I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew you two were trouble! Nobody
chooses
to be in here!”

Venger pushed through the crowd and grabbed Mario's frail arm.

And VRAAAH, my rage amped up. Like a car getting on the highway, zooming up to speed.

“Don't touch him!” I spat.

He poked me, hard, in the center of my chest with his nightstick.

I grabbed it.

“You little black poodle skank!” he snarled.

Then he raised up his stick to hit Mario. Not me, Mario.

I raised my arm and took the blow to my forearm.

I shoved myself between them and felt Venger's body warm and tall and powerful up against me. And I caught his eye.

I saw euphoria there. The delight of using your body to hurt others. Swinging an arm, breaking a skull.

Venger may be O or he may not be. But he knows the joy of the kill.

Of course, it was a huge mistake, to defy Venger.

I don't know what bothers him most, that I'm young, that I'm a girl, or that I'm black.

But I kept him from cracking the skull of an eighty-year-old man.

Now I'm his favorite target.

 

A F
EIWEL AND
F
RIENDS
B
OOK

An Imprint of Macmillan

MONUMENT 14: SKY ON FIRE.
Copyright © 2013 by Emmy Laybourne. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

ISBN: 978-0-312-56904-4 (hardcover) / 978-1-4668-3698-3 (e-book)

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First Edition: 2013

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SKY ON FIRE

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