Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (20 page)

I glance at Diego to see if he objects, but he just frowns, like he's not sure whether or not he's in charge anymore. Amanda glares up at Winnie, but I see the raw, confused hurt on her face. It's hard to keep everybody's separate threads of tragedy in my mind at a single time; it's hard to remember that all of us, Believers and Non-Believers alike, have had something taken from us. Some invisible knot that holds us all together. The knowledge that there are things worth living for. I don't think Amanda knows that. Somewhere along the way, she's forgotten.

“When you're gone,” she tells Winnie after a pause, “they're not my problem.”

Friends, lovers, enemies:

Viv and I are touched by your responses to our story—the comments, questions, heartfelt support, racist vitriol, all of it. We're so happy you're listening. Muchos gracias to the Church for covering our story every single day on the news! HUGE spike in page views. Apparently you weren't convinced by that whole “God hates blogs” thing they attempted to make stick. Kinda sloppy, right? The Angels are losing their touch.

Sorry we haven't been around lately. We've been busy collecting information about the Church with which to successfully overthrow them. I've got all my Muslim extremist buds on board—I called them and they were like, “Oh, totally, Harp, we are behind you one hundred and fifty percent!” and Viv was finally able to get in touch with her coven. But we've hit a wall, and we need your help.

Let's talk about our missing fellow citizens, folks. I've gotten a lot of comments with possible leads; we seem to keep coming back to the same twelve cities: Billings, Boise, Boulder, Nashville, Cleveland, Fort Worth, Tulsa, Santa Fe, San Antonio, Minneapolis, Wichita, and Grand Rapids. But after that, the well runs dry. Folks in these cities, I beg you: LOOK AROUND. NOTICE ANY WEIRD NEW NEIGHBORS? FRESHLY DUG GRAVES? These people went somewhere, and we owe it to them to figure out where. I know what you're thinking: Harp, this post gravely lacks in your usual fast-paced wit and wordplay. And you're right. But Viv and I are beginning to understand what the Church has planned for Apocalypse Day. And it's big and it's stupid, and if it works, we'll never be rid of them. So if you love this country the way we do, the things it's really and truly about—The separation of church and state! Hot dogs on the 4th of July! Gratuitous sex and violence on primetime TV!—you'll help us right this ship. Please, PLEASE, help us find the missing Raptured.

EAT A DICK, BEATON FRICK.

xoxo, Harp Janda, Citizen

Things start to feel different in the weeks after Winnie stands up to Amanda. It's a relief to no longer be keeping secrets from Winnie—after she stood up for us, I told her where we'd been and what we'd been doing. I wanted her to know Peter was on our side. And the soldiers seem to understand that Amanda's not truly in charge anymore, that she can be questioned. It must give them hope, because they're looser now, less afraid. Though the attack still looms horribly on the horizon, and Diego seems tenser than ever, spending every night casing the Chateau, Winnie's friends are more relaxed and easy with us than they've ever been. Even Kimberly's starting to crack—one morning before she leaves for training, she pauses in the doorway and turns to Harp and me, asking, with a slight hint of accusation, “Is it true that you two broke into the Chateau Marmont last week and snuck into Peter Taggart's bedroom?”

“Who told you that?” I ask.

“Winnie told everyone yesterday at training. She said you went in through the kitchens and out through the fire escape, and didn't get seen even once.”

“Yeah,” Harp replies in a cool, bored voice, focusing on her laptop screen. “It's actually pretty easy to do, if you're not completely stupid.”

Kimberly nods at us. “Respect, ladies. That shit is hardcore.”

Only Robbie treats us coldly now—I sort of think he'll never forgive us. He's always been quiet, but since Amanda caught us and he got the blame, he's downright stony. If Harp or I so much as edge near him, his face turns a painful purple, and he pays such hard attention to everything that isn't us, I wonder if he's trying to will us out of existence. This makes it hard to apologize to him. One night after dinner, while we watch the Church of America News Network, I slip beside him and speak before he can notice I'm there.

“What we did was wrong,” I whisper. “It was disrespectful and we shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry we got you in trouble; I regret it—”

But he leaps to his feet before I can finish. “Do I have permission to go to bed?” he asks loudly of the room at large, and Winnie stares at him, confused.

“You're a human being, Robbie. You never have to ask permission to go to bed.”

He glares at her, then turns on his heel and stomps upstairs. Harp gives me a sympathetic look from across the room. She's permanently attached to her computer now—in the last few days, she's started what she calls “an intriguing correspondence” regarding the missing Raptured. But she won't give me details, so I know the theory she's been offered doesn't satisfy her. Next to me, Julian chuckles.

“Don't take it personally, Viv. He's thirteen.”

“Yeah. I guess.” But that only makes me feel worse. I'm not that much older than Robbie. I remember how small and useless I felt at thirteen. I think of Robbie's orphan status. It makes me sick to think how alone I've helped make him feel.

“And anyway, maybe he's just affected by the
Santa Ana winds!
” Julian wiggles his fingers, adopts a spooky old-movie vampire voice. I laugh weakly and turn back to the television screen, where the weather report drones unsettlingly on.

But it's hard to find much humor in the idea that the weather is turning us all into angry violent shells of our former selves, because to some degree, it seems to really be happening. Each day the Church of America News Network has some new horrible detail to report. Most of the major cities across the globe are beset by riots—ongoing collisions between protestors and police officers, fires, mass killings. Murder and suicide rates are at an all-time high. Following reports that police officers nationwide have fled their positions in droves and that the National Guard has been stretched to its breaking point, the president diverts federal funds toward the Church of America's Peacemakers, giving them temporary but official status as guardians of the law. It's a chilling development, but also it's unclear how effective it is, because things continue to fall steadily apart. Here in Los Angeles, there's a breakout from Twin Towers Correctional Facility, which Masterson on TV casually attributes to the influence of Satan.

Everyone still trains in anticipation of the attack, but no one seems to know whether or not it's actually happening. We haven't seen Amanda since we got caught, and Diego shuts himself away, refusing to answer anyone's questions about the campaign. Peter still conducts press conferences at the gates of the Chateau Marmont, so it's clear he hasn't successfully convinced the Church to move, and Harp's blog commenters still offer largely unsatisfying conjectures as to where the missing Raptured can be found. My friends and I are running out of time.

When Harp and I were honest with Winnie about where we had been the night we were caught, Winnie made us promise we wouldn't attempt a secret jaunt to see Peter again. I'm grateful to Winnie—I feel closer to her than ever before—but I still don't know that I ever intended to keep the promise. One night, with only a week remaining until the proposed attack on the Chateau, I wait for the others to fall asleep around me, for the rustling of sheets and the sound of Harp's typing to give way to deep breathing. When all is still, I climb out of bed and dress quietly in the dark, then pass through the door and down the stairs. I'm dizzy with the rush of having pulled it off, and I have a brief moment of delicious self-satisfaction—
Hardcore!
I congratulate myself, as Kimberly put it—thinking of Peter's face when he sees me, how pleased and surprised he'll be. I smile at the thought of it, and push open the door into the Good Book.

I freeze. A figure stands behind the counter, flipping through a magazine by the glow of her flashlight. She shines its light on me.

“J'accuse!”
Winnie whispers.

She closes the magazine and bounds around the counter to where I stand, frozen, feeling like a fool in my black hoodie, my hand still on the knob. I brace for her anger—massive and totally righteous. Winnie stood up to Amanda for me—she put her livelihood on the line—and this is how I thank her? But when she gets closer, I see my sister is smiling.

“I had a feeling you'd try it again sometime,” Winnie explains. “I've been waiting down here the last few nights, wondering when you'll make the attempt. Nothing feeds delusions of invincibility quite as effectively as sneaking in and out of Church of America headquarters without detection, am I right?”

“I just needed some fresh air,” I say in a tentative voice, and Winnie rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, kid, who taught you how to lie? Because you should really write them a sternly worded letter; they did not do a good job.” She gives me a gentle smile. “Come on, Viv. Let's go upstairs, all right? There's still some of Elliott's vodka up there; let's just hang out and have a nice chat about boys.”

It doesn't sound entirely unappealing. But I stand my ground. “I have to go, Winnie. I have to see him.”

She looks disappointed. “Why?”

“Because . . .” I wish I had an answer other than the silly-sounding truth. “Because I want to. I miss him, and I'm worried about him. Maybe I wouldn't be quite as worried if I knew for sure that your boyfriend wasn't going to go ahead with this attack.”

This hits a nerve. Winnie pulls back slightly, but then she sighs. “I wish I could tell you. But Diego won't even talk to me about it right now. I have no idea what he has planned. Most of us are against the idea, for sure—but they're loyal to him, and he's loyal to Amanda. If he decides it's what we have to do . . .” She trails off, sounding worried.

“Why are you with him, Winnie? I'm sorry,” I say, because she's given me an annoyed look, “but I really don't understand. He's so—I don't know—condescending. Like, why wouldn't he just talk to you about whether or not he's going to go through with the attack? You're just as smart as he is, if not smarter. You're just as brave as he is, if not braver.”

Winnie gives me a wry smile. “I think you have an inflated sense of my worth, Viv. But I'll take it.” She pauses, thinking. “I don't know. I know what he is. I've been with him for a while now. He definitely gets confused sometimes—he manages to convince himself that he alone is responsible for taking down the apocalypse. Which you, by the way,” she notes, “can be just as guilty of. But I believe he has a good heart. And I don't know! I just love him. Are you in love with Peter?”

She asks it like it's the simplest thing in the world to know.

“I don't know,” I say, truthfully. “He's kind and good, and I think he'd be those things even if we didn't live in this particularly messed-up world. But if I knew for sure I was going to live to a hundred and die peacefully in my sleep, would I want to spend that whole long life with him? I guess I'm not sure yet. I hope to make it to a point where I have the time to wonder about that.”

Winnie is quiet. After a long moment, she says, “I owe you an apology. I'd been assuming that when you snuck out to see him, you'd be doing it in a brainless hormonal fog. But I should know you better than that by now.” She takes her keys out of her pocket and tosses them to me.

“I'm not your mother. If you think this is something you have to do, go ahead and do it. But for God's sake—take care of yourself, okay?” She heads back to the red door, stopping before she passes through. “As soon as Diego tells me what's going on with the attack, you'll be the first to know. Okay? Be safe and hurry back—I'll wait up for you.”

When I drive past the Chateau a half hour later, the hotel seems weirdly busy, blazing with light despite the late hour. I see a well-dressed crowd mingling in the lane leading to the entrance. I drive through the winding maze of streets on the hill behind the Chateau and park on the back road. As I make my way down the narrow street to the hotel, I wonder,
Is this crazy?
for the first time. The fact that Winnie let me go makes me think it isn't, but then again, Winnie doesn't always seem so very sane herself. I duck my head low; I'm considering how to get around the security camera outside the kitchen door. I don't notice until too late a man in a white apron smoking a cigarette outside the gate, watching me approach.

I freeze. The man exhales a thin plume of smoke.

“Are you from the agency?”

Logically, I know this is the point where I should turn on my heel and run. But instead I say, “Yep?”

“Thank God.” He takes my hand, dragging me into the bright, bustling kitchen. He must feel me tug back in my fright, because his grip gets harder. “Oh no you don't. You were supposed to get here
two hours ago.
Did you not bring a shirt?”

Panicked, I shake my head. The man groans, disappearing into a closet. It's like I've been cut loose inside a nightmare; I'm taking a test in a language I don't understand. Chefs are piling hors d'oeuvres onto wide shiny platters; bow-tied servers are standing by, looking impatient. It's confirmation, a little too late, of my suspicion: this was crazy. Why did I think I'd be able to pull it off? I have a brief flash of awareness of the nervous breakdown my old self—quiet, orderly Vivian 1.0—would have at this moment. But I don't move. The man returns with a button-down white shirt and a clip-on bow tie I dutifully change into. He retrieves a white bonnet—the preferred modest headwear of female Believers—and jams it hard onto my head. “We're
never
using your company's services again,” he hisses before placing a tray covered in brimming glasses of champagne onto my arm and pushing me into the packed lobby.