Veneer (44 page)

“You can love him without throwing away your gift,” said Ilya, matching Rosalia’s tone. “Just because you didn’t go with him—”

“I’m a horrible person,” said Rosalia, cleaning up the foul language she had used in her head. She could only think of Deron and how he had risked so much, only to have his girlfriend abandon him in the end. He thought he could rely on the one thing that should have remained constant. And she had left him.

Unable to contain it any longer, Rosalia let out the tears she had been fighting all morning. They came out stronger and faster than she had expected, rattling her entire body and making it hard to stand. She dipped once, put her hand out on the partition to steady herself. Maybe it was that desperate grab that alarmed Ilya; in a flash, she was standing next to Rosalia, hands clasped on her shoulders. There was no way to stop her from bringing her body close to Rosalia’s, no way to get a signal from her brain to her muscles without more sadness spilling out of her.

“Okay,” said Ilya, pulling Rosalia’s head into her shoulder. “It will pass,” she assured her, speaking with the practiced patience of Nurse Hendricks. “Let it hurt,” she whispered, and then a bit louder to someone else, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

I’ll tell you, thought Rosalia, imagining how two naked girls locked in an awkward embrace would appear to the rest of the class.

It was such a tiny voice holding protest in the back of her mind. The rest of her didn’t care, just wanted someone to hold, someone to tell her that it would all be okay. Wrapping her arms around Ilya’s back, Rosalia allowed herself to be pulled further into the embrace, felt her chest collide with Ilya’s. She cried harder at that, wondering how she had gone from Deron’s thin but masculine arms to Ilya’s gentle hands. She was softer, curvy where Deron had been jutting bones and sharp elbows.

Out of nowhere, Rosalia laughed. “Look at me,” she said. “Look at us.”

“What about us?” asked Ilya, pulling back.

They stared at each other for a moment before Rosalia replied. “We’re hugging in the shower.” Then, remembering her surroundings, she looked around. The shower room was empty; Ilya had chased the onlookers away. “Our secret is out,” she lamented.

“What secret is that?” Ilya’s hand had moved to the side of Rosalia’s face and she routed the wet strands of hair around her ear.

“Everyone’s going to think we’re lesbians.”

“I am,” reminded Ilya, grinning.

“But
I’m
not.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice taking on that flirty tone again. “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”

Rosalia shook her head, tried to read the intent in Ilya’s raised eyebrow. Even if it had been hiding under a veneer, it didn’t take a genius to see where this was headed. When Ilya’s lips moved a little closer, Rosalia retreated, shook her head more urgently.

“What?” asked Ilya.

“I... can’t.” It wasn’t the same as being face to face with Deron. With him, there was desire, a need to join with him physically. But with Ilya, there was nothing.

Ilya’s eyes glistened as her smile returned. “Your cunt is an inch from mine and you can’t even kiss me?” Again, she moved, got close enough for Rosalia to feel her breath on her upper lip.

“I’m sorry,” said Rosalia, meekly. She dropped her arms and gently pushed Ilya away.

The Ukrainian stood there for a moment, visibly hurt, but not without pride. She brought her hands down from Rosalia’s neck, brushing against both of her breasts, and then traced lines down her stomach. The clearly erotic gesture made Rosalia think of how Deron had done a similar movement the night before. She laughed and sobbed at the same time, unsure of how things had changed so dramatically in such a short time. The tiniest pressure on her hip bones made her look down to see Ilya’s hands still lingering. And again, it triggered a memory, only this one wasn’t of her abandoned boyfriend. She saw her own room, dark, with back-lit veneers scrolling on the walls. Beside her was Ilya, staring back with lustful eyes, not watching where her hand moved but obviously concentrating on it.

The friendly expression disappeared from Ilya’s face as a moment of recognition passed between them.

“Have... we...?” asked Rosalia.

Ilya used her thumb to trace the outline of Rosalia’s pelvis while her fingers pressed into her hips.

Rosalia slapped the offending hand away and moved as far back into the stall as she could. She felt cold and cornered, afraid of what Ilya might do when pushed. Her face showed nothing but restrained amusement.

“Mellow brings out the best in you,” said Ilya, taking a couple of steps back. She reached for her towel and wrapped it around her body. “Who was I to argue with a latent dyke?” Then, with a smile more artificial than any veneer, she said, “You shouldn’t feel bad about Deron.” She glanced down at Rosalia’s legs. “I mean, he wasn’t
really
your first, you know?”

Rosalia sank to the shower floor as Ilya walked away. She had been wrong about her. The girl with the pretty face did have a veneer, but it wasn’t one that could be reconciled. It was all in the way she talked, the way she smiled—a completely fake persona stapled to the real her. It had come off so easily. One day Ilya was just a strange girl in the background of her life and the next she was intriguing, exotic, and friendly. No one changed that fast, not in any meaningful way.

“Fuck!” she cried, drawing out the hidden syllables.

57 - Deron

From the safety of the fourth floor landing, Deron watched as the agent paced the hallway outside his dad’s apartment. His movements were very methodical; three steps in one direction, pivot on the lead foot, and then repeat, each stride the width of the door frame. At first, he had tried banging on the door and calling Deron’s name. Then, when the pacing began, Deron thought the agent was just going to wait him out, but after a couple of hours, when the door downstairs swung open, he realized the man had just been standing guard.

The footsteps of the second agent were loud on the bare steps, though he moved with much less urgency than his partner. There was something familiar about him that Deron couldn’t place until the man began to talk. Just hearing his voice brought him back to the night at the gate. He flashed on the business card and read the name easily.

“He inside?” asked Agent Memo Ruiz as he crested the third floor landing.

The other agent completed his pivot and nodded curtly. “Yeah. I spotted him in the window and came inside, but he’s not answering.”

“Did you knock, Agent Fitch?” Ruiz undid the strap around his waist and shed the damp trench coat.

“Of course I knocked. I was gonna force entry, but... Memo, you shoulda seen what this kid did.”

The agent slung his coat over the banister. “Which was?”

“He reconciled everything. I mean,
everything
.”

“Probably just some kids messing with you.”

“Yeah, him” said Fitch, gesturing to the door with his thumb. “He was doing it from the window.”

Agent Ruiz sighed and adjusted the cuffs on his shirt. “Aaron, you know the sheep can’t do that. Especially not some punk kid.”

Deron felt something sharp poke him in the stomach; he had to look down to make sure nothing was there. He had been entertaining the idea of approaching Ruiz, explaining himself, and asking for help. After all, he seemed like a nice guy back at the gate. But now, referring to Deron as a punk kid... It didn’t sound like the first time he had used those words.

“I know,” said Fitch, staring at the door as if he could see through it. “He put a veneer on my car, so I changed it back.” He turned to make eye contact. “
I
was touching my car. He wasn’t.”

So that was real. It could have all been in Deron’s head, but here was proof that at least one other person saw it... whatever it was.

Ignoring his partner, Ruiz nodded towards the door. “Shall we go in?”

“Do we have enough to force—”

Agent Ruiz lifted a leg and slammed it into the door near its handle. A loud crack sounded in the hallway, but the barrier held. A subsequent kick broke it off its hinges and the two agents rushed inside, with Ruiz shouting Deron’s name and ordering him to surrender.

Instantly, Deron was up and running down the stairs, taking two or three at a time in a desperate bid to get outside before the agents noticed. On the third floor, he whipped around the banisters, feeling his shoes give a little on the smooth tile. He was so preoccupied with not falling that he didn’t see the blur erupting from his dad’s apartment. It collided with Deron just as he was making a turn and though he tried to hold the wooden railing, his fingers slipped and he fell to the floor. Before he could catch his breath, the blur was upon him.

“Got you, you little shit,” said Agent Fitch. He pulled Deron up by his collar and forced him against the railing.

Agent Ruiz appeared in the doorway and ordered quietly, “Bring him inside.”

Deron tried to go limp, but Fitch was strong and had no trouble pulling him into the apartment. The agent threw him onto the couch in front of Ruiz, who stared blankly as if lost in thought.

It was a veneer, Deron realized. He relied on it so much that he didn’t even bother emoting anymore.

“Agent Fitch, please see to the gawkers.”

Fitch hesitated, motioned to Deron. “Him too?”

“You got a problem with the way I do things?”

The agent shrugged in response. “You’re the boss, boss.”

Agent Ruiz said nothing.

“Alright,” said Fitch, turning on the spot. He yelled at the onlookers in the hallway, “Back in your homes, people. This ain’t no road show.”

For a long minute, Agent Ruiz stood staring at the open door. Then, like a television changing channels, he plunked down into the recliner and said, “So... broken chip. What’s that like?”

Deron raised his eyebrows and tried to play dumb.

“Come on,” urged the agent. “I know your chip is acting up. You’ve been popping on and off the grid for days. So either you invented some kind of jamming device or you damaged your chip. It was the fall, right? In...” He shut one eye in concentration. “Paramel.”

“How do you know about that?”

“People talk. God, do people talk. Even when they don’t think they’re saying anything, they’re talking. Russo, Jalay, Sebo, Ilya...” He enumerated the names on his fingers. “That Sebo...”

He didn’t mention Rosalia, Deron noticed.

“Or... was it the fight with Russo? I reviewed the medical scans and they
said
nothing was wrong with you, but you know doctors.”

Deron shrugged, prompting the agent to sit up.

“Why did you run?”

The pristine rivers bordering Dos Presas flashed in his head. He wanted to be back there, away from the veneer and the agents, even if that meant without Rosalia.

Ruiz cleared his throat. “You went outside the walls, didn’t you?”

“I got lost,” said Deron.

“You know it’s a crime to leave the city except through the approved gates? And I didn’t see your name on any registers.”

“I want a lawyer.” The phrase came to him out of nowhere; he didn’t even know how to go about getting one.

“Ah,” said Ruiz, sitting back. “Hardball. I can play hardball. I’m the captain of the fucking team.” He let the silence build, passed the time by rocking in the recliner.

Finally, Deron couldn’t take the waiting any longer. “I was scared,” he admitted, wondering if the ignorance defense would save him. “I couldn’t see and I thought I’d be banished.”

“Banished?” asked the agent, as if the word were new to him.

“Thrown out of Easton.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Mr. Ficcone said—”

Agent Ruiz’ laughter filled the room. “Do you believe everything that cheap-suit simpleton says? Your chip is just a device! Did it ever occur to you that we could just
fix
it? It happens all the time. People go into the hospital complaining about the veneer and they just fix ‘em up.”

Deron tried to respond, but his entire body had gone numb. Everything had been a waste. Rosalia, leaving him in the middle of the night, unable to give up a world she loved more than him. There was no unlearning that fact, but with time he could have accepted it, maybe even changed it.

“So I can stay?” he asked.

“Well,” said Ruiz, “you can be fixed, that’s for sure. Whether you can stay depends on if I can prove you were outside the city without authorization. And the penalty for that is severe.” He shook his head gloomily. “Very severe.”

Fighting the urge to throw up, Deron tightened his fists and dug his fingernails into his palms.

“You’ll go away for a very long time,” continued the agent. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Let’s just say I have some pull with the local authorities. I could get your desertion charge dropped, get your chip fixed up, and send you on your way.”

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

Agent Ruiz smiled independently from his veneer. “You know, you’re not the only truant in Easton. We’re very interested to talk to your friend Russo again.”

“What do you want with him?”

“He’s a suspect in a murder investigation. I need you to draw him out for us.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” asked Deron, crossing his arms.

“That’s
your
problem, isn’t it?” The agent stood abruptly and walked to the window. “You have twenty-four hours. If you don’t deliver Russo by noon tomorrow, I take you in for desertion. And don’t think I won’t find you.” Turning, he tried to appear sincere. “This is your chance to go back to your life, Deron. Give me Russo and all will be forgiven.” He wiped his hands in an empty gesture.

It sounded ridiculous, but so did reconciling an entire street.

Standing, Deron considered his options, thought how happy Rosalia would be to know he could stay, that they could still be together. All he had to do was get Russo out in the open and the plan for that was already brewing in his head.

“I can reconcile,” said Deron, “but not all the time.”

The agent nodded. “Fascinating.”