Dark Parties (29 page)

“We’ve got a ways to go. Stay right behind me.” He places my hand on his shoulder. “It’s probably better if we
stay quiet. There are old vents and grates that open to the surface.”

My eyes keep trying to adjust to the darkness to see something, anything, but the black is intense. The darkness feels as
if it has mass and weight. I’m suffocating and being crushed simultaneously. We are walking down an incline. I don’t want
to think about being led deeper underground. The air cools. I steal a lung-filling breath. I can tell that we’ve moved from
our tiny tunnel to somewhere more open. The sounds of our footsteps seem to be swallowed up in this new, vast space. A breeze
flicks the ends of my hair. The ground is smoother, not dirt and debris anymore. Walking is easier, but I am unnerved not
knowing what surrounds me. The darkness closes in. If we lost touch, I would be stranded. I would never find my way back in
this maze.

“Relax,” the man says. “Not much farther.”

I try to imagine the space. I give it a high, rounded ceiling and square tiles on the floor. I paint the tunnel white and
illuminate every nook and cranny. I concentrate on following him.

I think I see a speck of light ahead. Light. I focus there. My eyes start to adjust. Shapes start to form. I step next to
my guide and we walk for a while. “You can go on alone from here,” he says when the exit is clearly in focus. I must look
scared because he reassuringly pats me on the back. “The worst part is over. There’s a van outside—”

I think of the government vans that transported Sanna and the others to the Women’s Empowerment Center. A new fear flashes
from head to toe.

“You’ve got to go now.” He prods me forward.

“And then what?”

“I only know my part of the journey. I’ve gotten you this far. I’ve done my part.”

“Okay.” The warmth drains from my body.

“I can take you back if you’ve changed your mind,” he says, sensing my uncertainty.

“No.” I clear my throat and speak more firmly. “No, I’m ready to go.” My voice wobbles a bit. “Thank you.”

“Good luck.” He shakes my hand and walks back into the tunnel.

Once outside, I drink in the cool night air. A woman is standing between me and the van. She doesn’t really look at me as
she opens the doors to the back of the van.

I hesitate. “What happens now?”

“I take you to the border.” She jerks her head toward the van, encouraging me to get in.

I don’t budge. I can’t aimlessly follow anymore. “And then what?”

“When you arrive at the border, you will wait for a signal. The Protectosphere is under renovation. Each section of the Protectosphere
is turned off while the panels are upgraded. You will have a few hours—I don’t know how many exactly—to make it through the
tunnels before the Protectosphere is electrified.” It’s obvious that she’s given this speech before. “We take back roads to
the border and have found a way to avoid the Border Check Points, but the government has increased security. I can’t guarantee
your safety.”

I nod.

“We need to go now,” she says in a way that discourages any more questions. I climb into the van and am relieved to discover
that I’m not alone. It’s hard to see clearly, but I think there are seven other people sitting in a circle with their backs
pressed against the sides of the van. The seats have been removed. A wooden partition separates us from the driver. The two
square windows on the back doors have been blacked out with paint. The driver closes us in.

This is it. I’m leaving. I will soon know what’s outside the Protectosphere. It’s almost like finding out what’s after death.
I hope I don’t find that out too. I try to focus on a new beginning, not the end of so much.

The van subtly vibrates. With every bump and turn I feel more claustrophobic. I can hear my fellow passengers breathing. They
are sucking the oxygen out of the space and leaving none for me. I try to picture my future, but I can’t conjure up my grandma’s
face. I can’t seem to remember what she looked like. I try to imagine a vast ocean with a ceilingless sky, but I don’t know
how to picture that kind of freedom.

There’re a few spots of light where the paint on the windows has chipped. I let my eyes adjust and trace the outline of the
figures in the van. And suddenly the loss is overwhelming, not just leaving my family and country behind but the loss of innocence
and trust—the things Braydon has stolen from me. I reach out and find the hand of the person sitting next to me. It’s a small
hand, a child’s. I smile down at her even though I know she can’t see my face. I feel
her move, then hear the shuffle of hands around the van. I can hear the soft clap when hands meet.

After a period of time that is immeasurable, the van skids and swerves. We free our hands and brace ourselves, but we are
tossed into one another and bang into the side of the van. The van jolts to a stop and we slide forward and pile into the
partition separating us from the driver then spring back when the van is at rest. Before we can untangle ourselves, the two
back doors are wrenched open and we squint up at a bright light. The light doesn’t have any warmth. It’s white and artificial.
Its source is slowly revealed. Two figures are holding powerful flashlights. They move the beams and I can see more dark figures
behind them. One of them grabs a leg from our pile of bodies and pulls the person out of the van. The body is lifted and practically
thrown to another dark figure. Border Patrol. My insides feel as if they are perpetually falling.

I search for the child who was sitting next to me and reach for her. Her round, wide eyes plead with me to save her. I pull
her closer, but I am being dragged from the van. Gloved hands pry my fingers from the hand that I’ve been holding. A needle-sharp
pain stabs my left thigh, and then everything fades to black.

My name is whispered in my ear. At least I think the sounds form my name. I try to speak. I want to tell them to leave me
alone. I’m floating, my body feels like liquid, and my brain is peacefully static. I don’t want to lose this feeling.

I close my eyes tighter. I’m beginning to feel my body, to reconnect, but I don’t want to, not yet. Someone is speaking, shaking
and ripping me from this in-between place.

“Neva Adams, wake up.” The voice isn’t whispering anymore.

I try to open my eyes, but it’s as if I don’t remember what
muscles to use. I raise my eyebrows and try to pull my eyelids open. The images come back to me. My trip through the secret
tunnels under the City. Escaping in the van. Getting caught by the Border Patrol.

I open them a crack. A dark figure looms over me and I scramble as far away from him as I can. The room is completely white.
It almost glows. I’m huddled on a gray-and-white-striped mattress. If I stand or lie and stretch my arms up above me, I could
touch any of the room’s walls or ceiling. I want to close my eyes again.

“Where am I?” I ask, and I cough to clear what feels like a dry wad of cotton from my throat.

“We are at the Border Patrol Detention Center,” the figure says.

I once again inhabit my body. I have an orange bracelet with my name printed on it. How did they know my name? My hand presses
my tattoo through my jeans, which are unbuttoned. I feel violated. I clutch my throat, searching for my necklace, and exhale
when my fingers find the snowflake pendent.

“Come with me.” The figure extends a black-gloved hand to me, but I ignore it and roll to my feet.

He leads me down a long corridor. Tiny spotlights high on the walls create crisscrossing beams of light on the ceiling. The
walls are black. The floor is white. There are no door numbers or markers of any kind. They have created an escape-proof maze.
There’s nowhere to run, only endless halls. The guard stops. He pushes on the wall and a door swings open. He shoves me inside.
“Sit,” he barks. I sit. He
handcuffs me to a silver bar that runs the length of a plain wooden table then leaves.

The room is dark except for a desk light illuminating a circle on the table with two matching chairs. No one knows where I
am. In this soundless, soulless place, they could do anything to me. Anything.

I realize I’m not alone. There’s someone hiding in the shadows. I look at the shoes first, expecting to see pointy-toed red
boots. Instead I see plain dingy tennis shoes. For some reason I’m relieved and disappointed it’s not Braydon. But I recognize
the shape of this body. Those dark eyes. I gasp when Ethan steps into the light.

“I’m sorry, Neva,” he says without looking at me. “But I had to do something. I couldn’t lose you. It’s for your own good.”

It takes my brain a minute to register what he’s saying. “My own good?”

“We can go home now and start over. We can have a family.” His voice dips and cracks.

“What have you done, Ethan?” My voice is flat.

He walks over to the empty chair and sits across from me. “I’m saving you.” He reaches across the table.

I ball my hands into fists. “I don’t need saving.”

“You were going to leave me.” He recoils. “You were going to leave and not even say good-bye.”

Betrayed by Ethan. It doesn’t seem possible. “How did you know?” I clench and unclench my fists.

“After your Dark Party, I started following you. After your meeting with Thomas, they contacted me.”

“They?”

“Them.” He gestures to indicate the entire room. I know who he means; the ones watching me, always watching. “You went off
with Braydon.” He rocks back and forth. “How could you?”

“How could I? How could you?” I ask, glaring at him. “How could you turn me in? You said you loved me.”

“I do love you,” he whispers. “They told me you were dead. I knew that couldn’t be true. I watched your house. I knew you’d
go back. But I never thought you’d try to leave.”

My face hardens; my teeth grind together.

He gently strokes my fingers. “All you have to do is sign the pledge, Neva. It’s easy. We can put this behind us and get on
with our lives.”

He’s touching me as if he knows me. He has already mapped out our lives together. He’s had me chained to this table and now
he wants me chained to him, tethered to this place for the rest of my life.

“Go to hell, Ethan!” I lunge for him, not knowing what I would do if the handcuffs didn’t restrain me.

He leaps from his chair. “Don’t be like that.” He’s back where he started, in the shadows.

“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.” I can’t see him anymore.

“But I can’t lose you.”

“Ethan, I’m already gone.” I bow forward and rest my head on the table.

He waits in the shadows for a while. I can hear him
breathing. His breath halts as if he might say something, but then his deep and steady breaths return. Ethan walks over. He
leans down an inch from my face as if he might kiss me. I don’t move. “No one can save you now,” he whispers, and then shuffles
to the door and knocks.

The door clicks open, but I don’t hear it close behind him. Voices are buzzing outside. I concentrate, trying to make out
words. I can make out three or four separate people. Ethan is mumbling. One guard says something like “you did your best.”
I hear the squeak of his tennis shoes as he walks away.

“Apparently this type of impudence runs in the family,” a deep male voice rings above the others.

“Her father is demanding we release her to his custody,” another voice adds. “Adams is a good patriot. If she doesn’t sign,
he will probably have to commit her to the Reproductive Center for nonconformists. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone…” The voice
fades as the click and tap of shoes echo down the hall.

Pure, raw horror engulfs me. If I don’t sign the pledge, this is only the beginning of my torture. Maybe I should sign. Maybe
they’ll let me go home if I promise to get a job and start a family. I’m not strong enough to endure what’s next.

“Okay, I’ll sign.” I shout. It’s got to be better than whatever Dad has in store for me. I try not to think of my life beyond
the next moment.

A guard brings in a sheet of paper and a plastic pen and lays them both in front of me. I expected a quill that used
my own blood or something more dramatic. I’m going to sign away my life with a disposable pen—how poetic. I roll the pen between
my fingers. Through the clear plastic, I can see that the ink cartridge is nearly empty. So many people have been broken and
resigned themselves to this domed prison. I expected pages of copy with detailed dos and don’ts, but it’s only a few simple
sentences.

I hereby solemnly swear to rededicate myself to Homeland. I am a citizen and a patriot. My life will be in service to the
government and to our way of life. I admit that I was wrong to jeopardize my civilization. There is nothing outside the Protectosphere.
I denounce my past resistance and will follow the order established by generations. I pledge my allegiance to Homeland.

I pick up the pen. It’s only my name. Two words that represent me but don’t mean anything. Scribbled black lines that form
the mortar, the very foundation of the Protectosphere. One more name added to the thousands before me. I touch the pen to
the paper. The black ink begins to bleed onto the white. The dot grows. I don’t have the strength to move my fingers the tiny
precise movements necessary to transfer my name to the page. I can visualize my name sitting on the line. The name that my
grandma gave me.