Talker 25 (28 page)

“Are we clear, Melissa?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Excellent. The party’s going to begin soon. . . . You look terrified. That’s good, but try to back it off a little bit. You’re sad afraid, not scared afraid. You don’t want to meet these
people because you know the damage you’ve done, but as the show goes on, you find relief in admitting your guilt.”

While Simon fine-tunes the camera positions, Hector continues his ridiculous coaching. I keep glancing at the door, expecting it to open any second. By the third time Hector tells me to calm down, my heart’s ready to explode. Is this what it’s like to be in the electric chair?

The door opens. My breath catches in my throat, but it’s just Kim, here to touch up my makeup. Ignoring the stylist’s orders not to wrinkle my face, I shut my eyes tight and pray that when I open them I’m in my bed in Mason-Kline and the world’s halfway right again.

“Bring them in,” Simon says. “One at a time.”

“Open your eyes, Melissa,” Hector says. “Don’t hide from these people. You owe them your shame.”

I obey and find a camera a few feet from me, focused dead on my face. “My shame is agreeing to this lie.”

“Keep those opinions to yourself.”

Karlton Smith is first. The class valedictorian the year ahead of mine. A physics genius. I had a serious crush on him. Once upon a time, I thought he may have even liked me.

He stops in the doorway and stares at me for what feels like hours, his left eye twitching every few seconds.

“Karlton Smith’s twelve-year-old sister, Julia, died of
smoke inhalation during the first wave. Her family called her Chipmunk,” Hector tells me. “They said she smiled all the time. Her cheeks would puff out, big and happy.”

I don’t doubt it. Karlton didn’t smile much, but when he did, you couldn’t help but notice, especially if it was directed your way. As Simon’s assistant points him toward a chair in the back row, I wonder how long it will take before Karlton remembers how to smile.

Lieutenant Mickelson’s next. The balding history teacher doesn’t crack an expression. He was always a bit bland, but now he seems completely lifeless.

“Geoff Mickelson’s wife, Laurie, was killed outside the Walmart when the dragons stampeded,” Hector says. “It was three days before their anniversary. During Christmas break, they had planned to celebrate with a vacation to Mexico. It was going to be their honeymoon because they couldn’t afford one when they got married.”

Lieutenant Mickelson shakes his head at me, then takes the chair beside Karlton. I’m counting them, wondering if all will be filled, when a middle-aged woman enters, her mascara already in ruins from crying.

“How could you?” she blubbers.

I recognize her, though I don’t know why until Hector provides her name. “Cordelia Simpson’s daughter, Cynthia, was attempting to free their horses from the barn when
she was caught in the flames of a red dragon. For her NHS senior service project, Cynthia organized a cow-pie bingo fundraiser for Wyatt Nelson’s osteosarcoma. . . .”

I flinch at the memory. The entire community gathered at the soccer field, which had been sectioned into a massive bingo grid. Dad bought a number for both Sam and me. Pictures of a healthy Wyatt scrolled across the scoreboard. One included him playing Knights and Dragons with Sam. From his wheelchair on the sideline, Wyatt released the cow. To cheers, laughter, and a few directional prods, it plodded around the field until making its deposit.

“. . . Wyatt died two days after the attack from burn wounds.”

The roll call continues. Most I know by face, if not by name. For each, Hector provides a tragic story about a life cut short, families unmade.

Everyone’s in funeral black. A few mutter curses and some admonish me with finger waggles—I’m not sure if it’s for my assumed actions or my getup. Probably both. But for the most part they just seem in a state of shock or grief.

I manage to keep my own tears at bay, even though Hector urges me to let loose. I can’t, though, because once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. I know I didn’t destroy these people’s families, but they think I did. I can feel their hatred.

Almost all the chairs are occupied when Trish enters. My heart falls through the floor. Any sign of our friendship is gone, replaced with stark contempt.

“Trish, I’m so—”

With a primal scream, she hurls herself forward, black hat flying backward at the cameramen swarming behind her. She smashes into me. As we tumble to the ground, she rams her fist into my bicep. Something sharp pricks my skin. A needle.

She shoves it farther into my arm, I squirm but can’t break free.

She drives her knee into my stomach. “Stop struggling, you dragon whore!”

Mr. D-man jerks Trish off me. A rivulet of blood trickles down my arm, but the needle’s disappeared into her fisted hand. Thrashing wildly, she gets in a couple of good kicks and curses before he drags her from the room.

Simon comes over and rights the chair. “Can’t say that wasn’t interesting. A bit overdramatic, but it should play well. I thought she was your friend.”

The dam collapses, the tears flood out.

“She was,” I manage to say. My best friend.

He wipes the blood from my arm with a handkerchief. “That’s a nasty scratch she gave you.” He calls for Kim.

As she applies foundation to my “scratch,” I wonder what
Trish injected into me. Poison, disease? I consider telling someone, decide against it. Nobody would care. If anything, they’d approve.

Kim finishes, leaving my face a tear-streaked mess at Simon’s command, and the few remaining family members trudge in. All the chairs are taken, except for one—Trish’s—when a nurse rolls my father in via wheelchair, one of those specialized models for the severely disabled.

I have played this moment a thousand times over in the past hours, but it hasn’t prepared me in the least. I start to hyperventilate as the nurse turns him to face me. He’s even more broken than I imagined. Only his eyes seem to work, but the muscles around them are frozen, so I can’t even tell what he’s thinking.

Hector’s saying something in my ear, the nearby camera’s coming closer, but nothing seems real other than the person in the wheelchair who’s supposedly my father. He looks like him, but Dad can walk and talk. He can yell at me, tell me how mad he is, tell me that no matter how much I fucked things up, that he still loves me.

I struggle against the handcuffs. “Let me see him. Please!”

Simon nods to Mr. D-man. The lock clicks and I bolt for Dad, the cameras converging around us.

I have to squeeze my hands between his back and the
chair to hug him. He’s limp and heavy. I press my face into his shoulder, my tears soaking into his hospital gown. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”

He lets out a low gasp. I back away, afraid I’m hurting him.

“He wants to talk,” the nurse says. She extracts a small tablet from the back of the wheelchair and inserts it into a tubular column a few inches from my father’s face. A digital keyboard appears on the bottom half of the screen. Using rapid eye movements, Dad types a message onto the top half. It plays from the tablet speakers in a robotic voice.

“You do not need to be sorry. How are you doing? ”

I bite my lip until I taste blood. “Okay.”

“You look like you have lost weight. Have they been treating you well?”

I nod. I can’t let him know the truth. I’ve already caused him too much pain. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You are a good girl.”

“So you don’t hate me for what I did?” Hector says in my ear, causing me to flinch. I forgot he was there. “Ask him that.”

I hesitate. The cameras come in close. The heat from their lights warms my face.

“Melissa, I won’t ask twice.”

Deep breath. “You don’t hate me for what I’ve done to
you and Sam?”

“That’s not what I told you to say,” Hector says. “Don’t ad-lib.”

“I would not have come if I had known it would hurt you so much,” the robotic voice says.

“What about Mom? You’re not upset about Arlington?” Hector says.

I clench my fists. “You’re not upset about Mom?”

“Your mom was an angel in a world of demons. She only ever did what she thought was right. You are a lot like her.”

My smile vanishes when my CENSIR jolts me.

“That was your last warning, Melissa,” Hector says. “Ask him this. It doesn’t bother you that Mom killed all those people? Ask him. No changes.”

“I love you, Dad. If you talk to Sam, tell him I never meant to hurt anybody.”

Rising, I remove the earpiece. I’m about to throw it to the ground when searing pain blasts through my head, and the world goes dark.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“Has
the bleeding stopped?”

Hector’s voice pulls me from the void. Floaters flash behind my eyelids. I struggle to open them but can’t. My arms and legs are equally useless. A drumbeat of pain ignites in my skull and accelerates into a pounding throb. Somebody’s pressing a wet towel to my temple.

“You’re hurting me,” I try to say, but manage only a groan.

The pressure abates, the pain intensifies. A warm gush of blood spurts from somewhere above my CENSIR. I choke on bile.

“It’ll be awhile before it clots. We need to take it off to stitch her up,” a woman says. The towel holder, I think. Seated beside the bed. A doctor? She reapplies pressure.

“Absolutely not.” Colonel Hanks’s voice sounds staticky.

“We can’t do the show with her bleeding all over the place,” Hector says.

“Then you won’t do the show,” the colonel says.

“We have a contract.”

“It’s not coming off. She might communicate—”

“She’s in no condition for that,” the doctor interrupts. “Even if she were, we’ll hit her up with meds. She’ll be completely knocked out.”

“She won’t be able to communicate?” the colonel asks. “You guarantee that? Your job’s on the line, Captain.”

“She’ll have the functionality of a corpse.” Pause. “She might be able to receive messages.”

“But she won’t remember anything, anyway, would she?” Hector says.

“We’ll use an amnestic, but that’s for standard cognition. I’m not familiar with this condition.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Hector says. “A few dragons sing her lullabies?”

After a long silence, Colonel Hanks says, “Make it quick.”

. . . The armies gather. We will come . . .

The words fade as I regain consciousness. Somebody’s
pressing on my head again, but I barely feel it.

“Give her another dose,” Hector says, from what sounds a mile away.

A cool sensation streams up my arm. My eyes blink open and, after a couple of seconds, focus on Cosmo Kim. She sits at the edge of the hospital bed, dabbing my head. “You’re a piece of work.”

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks from the other side.

“Confused,” I mumble. The armies gather. We will come. A dream?

While Kim fixes my hair and makeup, the doctor removes my IV, has me follow a penlight, stethoscopes me, tests my reflexes. Once Hector’s sure I won’t be a drooling Frankenstein, he orders everybody out.

“We’re going to try this again. Colonel Hanks informs us that you two have a deal. If you’re not on your best behavior for the rest of your visit with us, Melissa, that deal is forfeit.”

The deal. Keep Baby alive until I return to Georgetown, let me say good-bye to her, execute her when I’m not around. Not the greatest bargain, but it was the best I could get.

Hector tosses me my streetwalker outfit, then leaves to let me change. There’s a small window in the room. It takes me a good minute to get out of bed, another to cross the ten feet to the window.

The armies gather. We will come. A message?

Outside, it’s night. Real night. With darkness and moon and stars. I scan the sky, but the only visible specks of light remain white and miniscule.

“How much longer, Melissa?” Hector calls.

I catch my reflection in the glass. Barely visible stitches, covered in bronzer like me, peek out from beneath the CENSIR and run from the middle of my forehead halfway to my left ear. Otherwise, I appear undamaged. If only memories could be fixed so readily. A few sutures here, some makeup there, and all the ugly goes away.

I’ve just slithered into my whorefit when Hector and Simon barge in, followed closely by their production crew. They place a green screen against the wall and set up the interview chair in front of it. Hector positions me at an angle that favors my stitch-free side, and we’re ready to continue the charade.

Simon goes into narrator question mode. Hector feeds me the answers. Without Dad here and the family members staring at me, it’s easier to repeat the lies, to accept blame for actions I never committed, to condemn the insurgency and the dragons, to beg for forgiveness.

Some of my responses are directed at the families (“I’m sorry about your wife, Lieutenant. If I’d known how dangerous the insurgents were, I never would have helped them.”),
others to the viewing audience (“I don’t blame my mother for how I turned out. She was always troubled, and I guess that made her into a monster. But to me, she was always just Mom.”) Some questions I answer over and over because I don’t get the tone right or I start crying too early or too late.

A long time later—voice hoarse, eyes aflame, head throbbing—it’s over.

Next stop, the Fort Riley draggatoir, where I get to watch the fab four kill Old Man Blue.

She’s fastened to a slab surrounded by production lights, cameras, green screens, and All-Blacks. Frank, Kevin, Mac, and L.T. lounge in makeup chairs.

After introducing me to the four dragon hunters, Hector seats me beside Frank so a beautician can fix my face.

Frank notices my tear-streaked makeup, frowns at Hector. “You should feel ashamed, maricon.”

“You worry about your job, pretty boy, I’ll worry about mine.” The director turns to me. “There’s been a slight change. When I give you the signal, I want you to run up to Frank, who’ll have the sword positioned over the dragon’s head, and take over.”