Veneer (27 page)

She was seated at a table outside a faux French restaurant, looking quite trendy in her tight ponytail and oversized sunglasses. If it hadn’t been for her signature half-smile, Rosalia might not have recognized her at all. To everyone else, she probably looked like one of those trophy-wife sophisticates out for a morning latte before heading uptown to do some shopping. The way she sat, the way she held herself with impeccable posture and one leg crossed over the other, sold the illusion even more. Rosalia wanted to comment about trying too hard to look like an adult but the widening smile on Ilya’s face distracted her.

“Look at you,” said Ilya, her eyes hidden behind veneered lenses. “Cutting school like a rebel.”

Rosalia nodded and pulled the opposite chair around so she could sit closer. “Thanks for coming,” she said. It felt as if she had been thanking her constantly; the words were starting to lose their meaning.

“Beautiful day.” Ilya tilted her head back, exposing her smooth neck. “When I die and go to heaven, I’m going to spend half of eternity in their best French café.” A chuckle rippled through her neck. “My grandmother says there is not one coffee shop left in all of Ukraine.”

“That’s sounds a little—”

“Well, Babushka also says laughing on Sunday was punishable by firing squad.” Her face scrunched up in thought. “Her mind is starting to go.”

Another thing to look forward to, thought Rosalia. “How did,” she said, before stalling out, embarrassed to be changing the subject so selfishly.

“No luck,” replied Ilya, looking away to a passing group of young businessmen. “I rode until ten, but nothing. Sorry.”

Rosalia dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand. “It was one night. Thanks for doing that.”

“I’m happy to help,” she said, smiling again. In the pause that followed, Ilya offered her drink, but the slight breeze had already brought the pungent smell of cappuccino to Rosalia’s nose.

“I was thinking of going to see Deron’s mom today,” she announced.

Ilya replied with a weak shrug. “Do you think she’ll even let you in the door?”

“I don’t care. I have to know if she knows something. I’m tired of being out of the loop. I’m tired of being alone.” Rosalia hesitated, surprised by her own admission. The words had come out of nowhere, had not existed in any intelligible form until the moment they were spoken. If they were true, then her problems were just little islands in a sea of solitude. Without those, she would have nothing.

It was easy to see the emotion cycle onto Ilya’s face. She took her sunglasses off before saying, “You’re not alone.”

Rosalia nodded. “I found something interesting last night, in Canvas.”

“I’m still waiting for one of my veneers to match up with yours, but so far, all I get are young girls.”

“There seem to be a lot of people who like to reconcile Guardian chips.”

Ilya shuddered. “Don’t remind me about that thing. One day when I’m drunk enough, I’m going to cut it out.” She paused. “Or maybe I’ll just hire someone to do it.”

“I bet you could find instructions on the network.
Warning, may result in death.
”

“But there’s no way I’m living with a little computer inside me. I don’t care if it’s for my own good.” She blew the steam from her cup. “So who are these chip people?”

“No clue. But it’s like there’s this whole group trying to figure this out.”

“Where?” asked Ilya. “Here in Easton?”

Rosalia nodded. “You’re right. It has to be bigger than just us. How could one city come up with technology like this?”

“Then it’s whether it’s the whole country or the whole world.”

“No,” she countered, “it probably costs a ton to implant a chip in a baby.” She visualized herself as an infant, watched as the needle pushed into her skin. Without realizing it, she began to reconcile the image on the table.

Ilya gasped. “That’s horrible!” She slapped the table and wiped the offending picture away.

“You think that’s gross? Check these out.” Color spread from Rosalia’s fingers in a quick swirl of grays and reds, filling up the pock marks in the plastic.

The chip took form first, then the metal tendrils that rose and fell to encase the brain and strengthen the spinal cord. Somehow having it out in the open, out where someone else could witness the horror, made it that much more visceral. Looking up, she saw shock on Ilya’s face, a kind of restrained terror that made her regret reconciling the picture. Rosalia moved to clear the image away, but a sudden hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Is that real?” asked Ilya, shaking.

“Real as in someone reconciled it. But whether that’s in our body or not, I don’t know. I didn’t see anything in the picture Nurse Hendricks gave me.”

“This can’t be right.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Rosalia, feeling unnatural in the role of comforter. “Probably just someone imagining what life might be like in a few decades. Technology is always getting better...”

Ilya slipped her sunglasses on and looked away.

“What‘s wrong?” asked Rosalia.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just hate these points of no return, these little moments in our lives that we can’t come back from. Not like skipping school or shoplifting, but like you and Deron. One day when this is all behind us, you’ll get all hot and bothered and end up going to bed with him. And that will be it. Innocence gone forever.” She paused, sniffled. “And now we find out there are chips in our necks and maybe more?”

“It’s not that bad,” she offered. “It’s not like the chips are controlling us or something.”

A quiet scoff. “This is the one thing you and I disagree on.”

Rosalia realized that Ilya was sharing one of her worries. She, the unflappable Ukrainian, was scared to death about a little circuitry in her body.

“Do you really want it out?” Rosalia asked.

“Yes, but I know that’s not possible. The point of no return was before I could even comprehend. I didn’t have a choice. I don’t know any life except one with a chip.”

Nodding, Rosalia leaned over the table and began reconciling a cityscape. She remembered the Vinestead building well, had encountered it several times while moving through the walls in Canvas. Though, she did note that it was always the same angle, same distance from the subject, as if one person’s memory had been reproduced several times. It made her giddy to think how people would react to seeing it from a different viewpoint.

Close up. Even inside.

“I’ve seen that before,” said Ilya, noticing the new picture. She touched her sunglasses briefly and reconciled clear lenses. “It’s,” she said, then looked up at Rosalia. “Why do I know that building?”

Rosalia gestured with her head, “Because it’s right across the street.”

35 - Russo

Russo tried to think of a word to describe Easton Central as he stood observing it from behind the bleachers. He had never given it much thought before, but now with the idea raised, he couldn’t think of a simple definition. Something about the school’s veneer had changed. Or had it?

Maybe it was just that he was questioning it now.

He realized he had been doing it all day, looking at things, seeing their reconciled façades, but not really accepting what his eyes were telling him. Just having the knowledge that something else was under there, waiting to be discovered, had changed his whole perspective. Looking over the school, he noticed how small it had become, noticed that when he stripped away all the fancy colors, it was just a building.

At least, that was the theory. To confirm it, he would have to see under the veneer. The desire that had been percolating since his first encounter with Eric had come to a full boil; every moment that he spent just standing around only made him more anxious. Russo tried to calm himself, tried to explain to the impatient child inside that he had to wait for the right moment, that from the bleachers he would be able to hear the bell ring and then he could slip into the school unnoticed and find Jalay at his locker. He would win back his partner in crime.

It’d be easy.

“I’m sorry,” he said, testing his sincere voice. Trying again, he softened his delivery and accented different syllables.

When his eyes drifted, he noticed students on the far field, running around and screaming in their shrill voices. The girls were playing lacrosse, and from the look of it, not too successfully. Most of them seemed timid, afraid to get in the way of the ball even with their protective gear in place, those massive helmets that obscured gender except for the tell-tale hair flowing out from behind them. The strange dance continued until the whistle blew and the uncoordinated gaggle of bitches came running back to the main building.

Pushing off from the bleachers, Russo shook his head at their feeble attempts at sports and started towards the back doors of the school.

The bell rang just as the doors closed behind him and the hall filled with students. The things they talked about were so inconsequential, yet within the banality was a discernable difference between freshmen and sophomores, juniors and seniors. That there would be so much change from year to year surprised Russo, made him wonder who his new peer group was now that he had elevated himself to a new level.

Turning the corner into the main ring of the building, he grinned at the confused faces of the juniors he passed. Conversations came to a halt, changed to whispers about the return of Russo. He could have masked his appearance before coming in, made himself out to be a generic student, but that was for the old Russo, the one that cared about rules.

He found Jalay with his face buried in his locker. Russo nudged another student out of the way and moved close enough to make his voice heard over the crowd.

“Hello, my friend,” he said, reconciling a smile onto his face.

Jalay paused, betrayed recognition. “I thought you didn’t know me.”

“Why wouldn’t I know my oldest comrade?”

“Because that’s what you said, remember? What are you even doing here?”

“I go to school here,” explained Russo.

Jalay scoffed. “Like shit you do. If Ficcone sees you he’ll expel you.”

“Well, until then...” The fingers on Russo’s right hand twitched, while the others failed to respond.

“Yeah, until then. So what do you want?”

Interesting question, thought Russo. If Jalay knew what he truly wanted, would he even agree to help? “To apologize,” he said, turning away slightly to see if anyone had heard him. “I...” One, two, he counted, giving it the right amount of hesitation. “I thought about what you said, about Deron. I overreacted.”

“No kidding.”

“Wait,” said Russo, putting up his hand, “I get it, alright? I was just so angry. He insulted us.”

Jalay shook his head dismissively. “You kicked the shit out of Deron over a shop. How would you have felt if
he
snapped, if
he
brought a gun to school and shot us in the face for all the shit we’ve done to him over the years?”

“But that’s the difference! People like you and me, we have the balls to fight back. We crush those who insult us and make them never want to do it again. We have that power—”

“What
power
? You’re stronger than him, but can you stop a bullet?”

This time, Russo sneered. “Deron’s too much of a pussy for that.”

“So because he’s a pussy, it’s alright to push him until he snaps? You’re the one who’s going to make him into a killer.”

A smile bubbled up onto Russo’s veneer. He had spent so much time lost in introspection, wondering what it meant to be a new Russo, that he hadn’t even considered that without him, Jalay had changed as well. Here was a boy who a week ago wouldn’t have dared disagree with his better. He just did the shops, did whatever shit work Russo told him to do. But this was a new Jalay. His veneer looked the same, but he had augmented it in some way. It was there in his eyes.

Defiance.

“Do it,” said Jalay, his jaw clenched.

“Do what?”

“Hit me. I know you want to. That’s you how control people, isn’t it? Just intimidate and attack until people do your bidding. Well that shit isn’t going to work on me anymore.”

Russo raised an eyebrow, noticed the stares from the students around him. They had all stopped to view the spectacle unfolding in the hallway. Over their heads, he could see the concerned eyes of a teacher a few doors down, who upon seeing Russo, turned and reconciled a portal on the wall. Time was running out.

“Old friend,” said Russo, putting a hand on Jalay that he immediately pushed away. “I am sorry.” He paused for the audible gasp from the audience. “I’m sorry you’re so utterly fucked in the head that you can’t see a good opportunity when it’s dropped at your fucking feet. You could’ve heard me out, held your fucking tongue for sixty goddamn seconds while I laid out how you and I were going to rule this city.”

Jalay crossed his arms.

“You!” Russo pointed at a boy standing nearby. “You remember this moment.” His finger swept the crowd. “When it happens, when you all hear about it, I want each and every one of you to track down this dumb motherfucker right here and remind him of this moment. Tell him I gave him a chance. And he said
no
!”

“Go fuck your mother, Russo,” said Jalay.

It started with a tremor in his right hand, then a series of explosions up and down his arm. The numbness came on strong, making him feel as if he couldn’t control his body at all. Except that his hand was moving, the muscles contracting with enough force to raise it up, shoot it out, and grasp Jalay on the side of the head. Then, contractions in his foot, a bracing against the floor as his hip jutted out to put more lateral force into the movement.

His body moved without instruction, applying pressure with his hand and driving Jalay’s head into the metal frame of the locker. The impact sent a painful series of vibrations up his arm that faded into a throbbing tingle. He had pulled something, but his discomfort would be minimal compared to Jalay’s. Subconsciously, Russo had known the locker was still open and not wanting to force his head into empty space, had tried to pull it forward so that it would smash into the one next to it. A miscalculation had put the side of Jalay’s face into the midpoint, into the angular edge that was just sharp enough to split his face wide open.