Dark Parties (17 page)

Carson extends her hand. “You must be Lily’s daughter. She—”

Senga elbows her in the ribs before I have the time to shake her hand. The two exchange a knowing glance.

“You know my mom?” I ask. She’s never mentioned them to me before.

“Yes,” Carson says.

“No,” Senga interjects.

“I mean, no,” Carson corrects. “I know of Lily Adams, of course. Who doesn’t? And Neva is such an unusual name.”

Carson’s hands never stop moving. She fiddles with a loose button on her shirt then begins to bite her fingernails. Senga’s
eyes dart from side to side. They are making me nervous. I tug on Sanna’s sleeve. I’m ready to go. Sanna brushes me aside.
“You have some information for us?” Sanna asks.

Senga nods. She whispers, “Silent demonstration here tomorrow.”

“What do you want us to do?” Sanna asks without moving her lips. I understand, but Senga and Carson clearly don’t. She repeats
her question, but she still sounds like a stroke victim.

“Meet here at eleven thirty. Senga and I will be operating a sandwich cart. One of you come up and order a sandwich,” Carson
explains.

This is ridiculous. These women are acting out some bad B movie. They don’t look like revolutionaries. I’m not sure they could
rebel against hen-pecked husbands. Or maybe that’s the genius of it. They naturally have the perfect disguises.

Carson continues, “We’ll give you some flyers. The demonstration starts at noon. You’ll see what to do.”

“This is for you.” Sanna slyly hands a manila envelope to Senga.

“What is this?” she asks, and looks around again to see if anyone is watching.

“It’s an article from outside, from when the Protectosphere was sealed.”

“Sanna, no!” I reach for the envelope, but Senga tucks it in her handbag.

“Nev,” Sanna says sternly. “Chill.”

“But—” I start, but then I notice heads turning toward us. I thrust my fists deep into my pockets. My body flushes with anger.

“Where did you get this?” Carson asks.

“See if you can use it.” Sanna puts her hands in her pockets too.

I can’t believe she gave the article to these two women. They might know what to do with a recipe for applesauce cake, but
how can they use the article without implicating me or my dad?

Senga elbows her friend.

“We’d better go,” Carson says, and hugs us, adding loudly, “Great to see you.”

“Make sure you’re not followed home,” Senga whispers in my ear. The pair disappears into the crowd.

“What just happened?” I ask, confused by the housewife drive-by.

“I know.” Sanna gives a little jump. “Isn’t it a-maz-ing?”

“How could you?” I punch her in the arm, not so playfully.

“Nev—”

“You put my life in danger.”

“Your life is already in danger, Nev. All our lives are. You said so yourself.”

How does she do that? She does exactly the opposite of what I ask and makes me feel bad.

She continues, “This is the starting gate. They’ve got mega plans—”

“Those two? Those are the masterminds behind some plot to open the Protectosphere?

“Shhhhhh,” Sanna hisses. “Never underestimate the power of a mother. They’re part of a network or resistance or something—oh,
I don’t know.” She roots around in her handbag. “Nobody is supposed to know too much. It’s for our own protection and theirs,
I guess.” She pulls a slightly bent cigarette from the bottom of her handbag and pinches it between her lips. “Want one?”
she mumbles without dropping the cigarette.

“You can’t smoke that here,” I say, and watch as she pats herself down for her lighter. “Where are you getting cigarettes
anyway?”

“My brother made them,” she pauses, realizing what she’s done. She’s spoken of her brother in past tense. She swallows, erasing
the sadness that flashes across her face. “He makes them. Sells them. Started doing it a few months ago. You have a greenhouse
for tomatoes. Some people choose to grow, well, other things to barter with.” She pulls
a silver lighter from her back pocket. “I’ll let everyone know about the silent demonstration.”

“Yeah, I know. No one trusts me.”

“We could be the match that sparks the fuse that—” Lighter in one hand and cigarette in the other, she mimes a mushroom-cloud
explosion. She repeatedly tries to ignite the old lighter, but her hands are shaking.
Click.
Spark.
Click.
Spark. The image of a skull is imprinted on the side of the lighter. It seems to be laughing at her.

“Where did you get that thing?” I gesture to the lighter. “It’s hideous.”

“My brother knows someone who knows someone.” Her voice catches. She’s already missing him.

Sanna’s brother is part magician, part angel, and part ghost. I’ve always liked the thought of him out there somewhere watching
over Sanna. He can’t be missing. He just can’t. I take the lighter and flick the wheel to produce a steady flame. Sanna lights
her cigarette and inhales. She links her arm though mine. “I’m still mad at you,” I say, but I am more terrified about what
could happen next.

“I did what had to be done,” she says between puffs of her cigarette. She’s right. I never would have used the article for
anything. I would have kept it hidden just, like my dad did.

We stroll to the center of the Square. She exhales smoke though her nose, which makes me think of a charging bull. We gaze
up at Dr. Benjamin L. Smith’s statue.

“Wonder what old Benjy would think about our silent demo,” Sanna says, flicking her cigarette at Benjy’s knee.

“I don’t think he ever intended for us to end up like this,” I say, surveying the earnest edges of his bronze face. I’ve seen
photos of him. I know this is what he looked like, but he never looks real to me. It’s as if someone has exaggerated his features.

“Look at him. Curly hair. Pointy nose. I heard he had blue eyes, can you imagine?” she asks, fumbling in her handbag for another
cigarette.

I can’t, not really. I look across the Square at a sea of sameness. Any extremes have been averaged out.

“He looks weird. Kind of ugly,” Sanna says.

But I am oddly attracted to his unique features. “I know what you mean.”

As we leave the Square, Sanna removes her sunglasses. “Do you really think in a thousand years we’ll all look like identical
twins?”

I shrug. “We look pretty similar now.”

“Yeah, but you’re still you and I’m still me.”

“I don’t think that will change.” I laugh and push my sunglasses onto my head. “But what does it matter since we are never
having kids?”

“Maybe not never,” she says.

She has never, ever mentioned wanting to have children. Her mom died in childbirth after all.

“Quit staring at me like I’ve got a scar on my face. Oh, wait.” She slaps her hand over her scar. “I’m allowed to change my
mind. I’ve been thinking that maybe I want a little Sanna. I don’t want one now. And, no, before you go all inspector on me,
Braydon and I have not broken the
vow. It’s just, with him…” She gets this dreamy, un-Sanna look on her face. “I start to see a future, you know?”

He has that effect on a lot of people. Maybe it’s a game he plays or a gift he has that makes women fall for him.

“And now that you’re engaged, I’m sure Ethan will want a little namesake sooner or later.” She elbows me in the ribs.

“I broke up with Ethan.” Even if he doesn’t really want to believe it. I walk a little ways ahead of her.

She catches up and tugs on my arm. “What? I thought you and the Big E—”

“Ethan’s changed. You must have noticed that.” I don’t want to have this conversation. What am I going to tell her? I broke
up with Ethan because I think I’m falling for her boyfriend.

“Poor you.” She tries to hug me, but I shake her off. “Maybe I can stay over like old times. Slumber party!”

I keep walking. “I don’t think so. Things are weird at my house.”

“We can’t go to mine. My guardian removed my bedroom door. Can you believe it? They keep chipping away at my freedom.” She
stops dead in her tracks. “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we meet up at Braydon’s later? We’ll forget about everything and
just have fun.” It’s as if she’s read my mind. I would love to see Braydon, just see him, again. I am worse than the government.
They keep us hostage, harm us, in some twisted urge to save us. But I know the damage I could cause and I long for him anyway.

I take the train and walk over an hour to get to Braydon’s. I don’t want to be alone with him on his motorcycle. I remember
how it felt to cling on to him. With every step I beg myself to turn around. This is a bad idea. I tell myself that it’s harmless.
I just want to see him. But it will be torture to see him with Sanna, to be so close to him. I stop a few times, as if I’m
the rope in an invisible tug of war. My better judgment on one side pulling me to my senses, and my selfish, base desire on
the other beckoning me onward—and winning.

The farther I get from the City, the fewer people I see. I pass houses that used to be grand and now crumble like castles
of sand. I turn into a driveway with wrought iron gates parted the perfect width for a motorcycle. The number Sanna gave me
matches the number swirled into the pattern of the gates. Looming ahead is what can only be described as a mansion. As I get
closer, the storybook image fades. The columns are gray with mildew and the facade is chipped, giving the house a polka-dot
effect. I knock, and the door swings open into a two-story foyer with a spiral staircase.

“Up here,” Sanna calls. I follow the sound of her voice. “Look at what Braydon has,” Sanna singsongs as she swings a green
glass bottle in one hand and a delicate crystal goblet in the other. “Champagne. It’s bubbly,” she says with a giggle.

“Where did Braydon get champagne?” I ask, trying not to appear to look for him.

“He says he found it in the wine cellar.” She sways as she greets me at the top of the staircase. “There’s a crate of this
stuff. I think it’s some of the last champagne produced by the National Vineyard. How cool is that?” Her words are running
together. She’s drunk. I’ve only seen her this way once. We went to one of her brother’s parties. Some people brought homemade
wine. It was tart and I didn’t like the taste, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve always wanted to try champagne,” I say, and hook one arm around Sanna to keep her from falling. I hope she doesn’t get
sick like last time. I follow her as she staggers to
a huge room at the end of the hall. It has a four-poster, king-size bed centered on the far wall. The ceiling is vaulted.
Four of my bedrooms could fit in this room. To my right is a wall of glass with doors that open onto a balcony. To my left
are two doors, both slightly ajar. One opens into a bathroom that appears to glow with chrome and mirrors. The other is a
walk-in closet, where I imagine Braydon’s collection of red footwear must be kept. But that’s not the most striking feature.
Masks are scattered around the room. Hundreds of empty eye sockets stare back at me.

Sanna pulls me farther into the room. “Isn’t this wild? He made some of these. The others I think were already here. That
one is my fave.” She points her glass at a silver mask with sparkling multicolored gems embedded in it. There’s a large emerald
stone in place of one eye, which seems to wink in the sunlight.

“Where did he get the stuff to make all of these?”

“I guess he found some of it.” She points to a jewelry box with a tangle of necklaces spilling out.

“Where are the owners?” It feels wrong to be in someone’s home uninvited.

“God, Nev, I don’t know. Where has everyone gone?” She walks over to the bed and picks up a mask that’s lying on one of the
pillows. It’s a delicate shade of pink framed by fuchsia feathers. Tiny crystals glow—in the same shape and spot as Sanna’s
scar. “This one is me. Isn’t it a-maz-ing?” Sanna strokes the feathers. She holds the mask up to her face and sticks the tip
of her tongue out the slit between the mask’s lips.

“He is quite the artist,” I say, taking it all in. A wooden mask where the grain of the wood creates a web of wrinkles. A
white, glossy porcelain mask with distorted features as if the mask has been stretched in angry hands. Bright colored ribbons
and silver and gold paint adorn a few masks, perfect for masked balls. Others are decorated with letters from keyboards and
shiny computer chips that look like fish scales. Each one has a distinct look but all have dark eyes. There’s a series of
ten masks lined up like a headboard a few feet over the bed. Each mask is almost exactly the same. He’s copied the same mask
over and over, but each time he’s added or subtracted something. You have to look close to see the difference, but these subtleties
make each mask unique.

“Wow” is all I manage to say.

“Do you get the signif?” Sanna asks.

I nod. I know exactly why Braydon creates these hollow images. I understand about the many masks we wear every day. The row
of similar masks is his expression of us. How we are all the same and all different. But I can’t say that. “Kind of creepy,
don’t you think?” I fake a shiver.