Dark Parties (4 page)

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Even though the movie hasn’t begun, we face forward and focus on the big screen. We have time- and-date-stamped ticket stubs;
it’s the perfect alibi. We’ll have one hour and forty-three minutes to complete our mission and then return unnoticed to the
cinema. We lost a few people between yesterday and today. Nine people strong. It’s not an army, but it’s a start.

Sanna picked a row near the back of the cinema. We took the two middle seats. Naturally, Braydon sat next to her. I’m trying
to ignore him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our kiss. I lean forward a hair and glance at him. He looks the same.
My body tingles remembering our kiss. He catches me staring and smiles. The tingle multiplies and zaps through me. I press
myself back into my seat and hide behind Sanna. I vow to never think of him again.

Delia is sitting next to me. She’s been chewing the skin around her fingernails ever since we sat down. At this rate, she
won’t have any fingers left by the end of the film. The sound of her sucking at the tiny flecks of skin sets me on edge. I
want to tell her to stop, but we don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.

“Ready?” Sanna asks me.

“I guess,” I say, but I’m not really ready. My palms start to sweat. Everyone is paired off. For the first time today, I think
of Ethan. I wish he were here. Not because I miss him, but because it’s the way it’s always been. Neva-and-Ethan. I’m pen
without paper. Soap without water. He called me earlier. He wanted to see me. I told him I was busy. He
didn’t ask any more questions and I didn’t offer more excuses. We pretend nothing has changed, even though I know he can feel
the distance between us as much as I can. We agreed to meet tomorrow morning. Like always.

“Careful,” Sanna whispers as she lifts plastic bags filled with homemade red paint from her handbag and passes along one bag
for each team of two. The bags are from my mom’s collection. You can’t buy these anymore, not the heavy duty kind with the
zipper close. I haven’t decided how I will explain how four bags that have been in her family for generations suddenly disappeared.

I survey the theater. There are a dozen couples tilted into each other. Four loners are dotted around the theater, slumped
in their seats, trying not to be noticed. A group of kids, a few years younger than we are, are huddled near the front. We
haven’t done anything wrong, yet, but I feel as if I’m being watched. Sanna elbows me. “Stop it.”

The theater goes black. I hold my breath and try not to panic in the seconds it takes for the screen to illuminate. Music
crackles from the old speakers and two young, scantily clad bodies wrap themselves around each other, sweating and kissing
and groping. The government has created new 16+ rated movies that are steamy tales of romance and lots and lots of sexy scenes
spliced together from old movies. Sanna calls them “joy of sex” flicks. The government can’t just say “procreate for Homeland”
so they try to arouse us and hope we can’t control ourselves. We squirm in our seats, laugh nervously, and try not to look
at the movie screen.

I check my watch and notice that almost everyone in my row has done the same. The first two teams peel off and sneak out,
first to the bathroom, out the windows, and then to one of four quadrants of the City. Delia has agreed to stay in the cinema
in case something happens we should know about. The films sometimes break. Or maybe the kids get thrown out during a big kiss
scene. We tried to think of everything.

Sanna nudges me. It’s time for me to move out. The movie flashes in the whites of her eyes.

I turn to Nicoline, my partner in crime. She was one of the first in our class to create an identity mark. When she was seven
she drew a red star with a permanent marker like a beauty mark on her cheek. Her star faded. Now she re-draws it every few
days.

Once Nicoline and I climb out the bathroom window, we pull up the hoods of our sweatshirts. The bag of paint is tucked in
the front pocket of mine. We weave our way through the City to the embankment. I’m careful to use side streets that still
have streetlights. I race from one pool of light to the next, but the darkness seems to chase me.

“Now what?” she asks when we arrive at the riverside.

“You keep the lookout and I’ll do the painting.” I take a slow turn. The promenade is empty. The moonlight glistens on the
river and keeps the darkness at bay. I knead the bag and look around again.

“I think we’re okay.” Nicoline gives me a weak smile.

I bend over and hesitate before tearing the tiniest tip off one corner of the plastic bag. The bloodred paint beads like
a pinpricked finger. I steady my hand and write N
O
P
ROTECT
U
S
F
EAR
! in capital letters on the grayish concrete. The letters almost sparkle. Adrenaline surges through me and something else:
pride. It’s not much, but I’ve made my mark. Neva was here.

The water laps at the riverbanks, as if it’s applauding. I run to a wooden bench and write the same thing on one of the slats.
God, I feel a-maz-ing!

Nicoline and I crisscross paths as we find unsuspecting billboards for our message: the base of a streetlight, encircling
a manhole cover. Nicoline races ahead and scouts out a spot. She wants to try. I hop up on a bench and scan the landscape
while she loops the slogan together in artistic cursive, not like the wobbly sticks of my printed slogan. I check the time
as she darts off.

I catch up to Nicoline, who is squeezing out the last few drops of paint and writing one word on ascending steps that lead
to the street above. Her fingers are tipped with red. “I think we need to get going.”

Nicoline twirls on her toes and shouts to the Protectosphere, “This feels incredible.”

“Shhhh,” I hiss, but I feel it too.

“God, don’t worry so much.” Nicoline pauses and looks around. “We’re almost home free.”

“Almost,” I repeat, and grab the gooey plastic bag from her. I rush to the river’s edge and lean as far over the railing as
I can. I catapult the bag into the water, a girlie throw, Ethan would say. The wind catches it and the bag floats in a zigzag
pattern into the murky water below. I watch it float,
bobbing on the low waves, until it’s pulled under and sinks out of sight.

Nicoline tugs on my sleeve. “Listen.”

Over the sound of the river, I hear it—measured heavy footsteps. I know what we are both thinking: police.

“ W-we sh-should run.” Her voice quivers and each word gains extra syllables.

“No,” I say, and shove my hands in my pockets. “Keep your hands hidden.”

The sound gets louder. The footfalls seem to echo on the hard surfaces. We are a half block away from the last graffiti—Nicoline’s
message on the stairs. If the person walks along the embankment, they might miss it. Nicoline and I stand as still as statues.

The footsteps grow closer and closer. I want to look, but I can’t.

“Evening,” a deep male voice says when the footsteps are practically upon us.

“Oh, hi,” I say, turning slightly and trying not to react when I see the jet-black of his police uniform. Homeland citizens
live in pastels and shades of gray, but somehow the police still have uniforms that are bold.

“Nice night,” he says, and pauses right behind us.

“Uh-huh,” we both agree.

“What are two nice girls like you doing out on your own?” he asks, and takes a step closer. He means why aren’t we partnered
off and having sex like good little girls.

“We were just leaving.” I bump into Nicoline and we both sidestep away from him. “Good night, officer.”

We walk. For what seems like forever, the only sounds we hear are our footsteps on the sidewalk. Is he watching us? At last
I hear the click and tap of his shoes mixing with ours and getting fainter. I turn around. He’s walking with his head held
high. He’s scanning the horizon, not looking for messages underfoot. In his dark uniform, he almost seems to disappear into
the night.

Now we run and don’t stop until we reach the cinema. I boost Nicoline up to the window and she pulls me through. We lie panting
for a few seconds on the cool bathroom floor. We wash our hands with foamy pink soap and dry them on our jeans. We slowly,
casually return to the theater. Our row is full again except for our two empty seats. We edge between bent knees and chair
backs until we are back where we started. Sanna looks at me with wide, questioning eyes. “Don’t ask,” I whisper to her as
I pass.

White words on the black screen start to scroll by. I try to read the words—production assistance, Anthony Mitchell, key grip,
caterer, Colin, Miranda. I think of my ever-growing List of The Missing. If we were caught, I could be adding all our names
to my list. Are the credits scrolling by faster? The white words seem to bleed together. The theater goes black. The darkness
pulls me under. I gulp in air, but it seems to catch and snag and drift away before it can satisfy my aching lungs. My face
is getting hot. Sanna leans in close and whispers, “It’s okay. Close your eyes and think of sunshine.”

She thinks it’s my fear of the dark, and it is, but it’s more than that. I almost got caught. If the officer knew what we
were doing, Nicoline and I could have been arrested or worse.

“Nev, chill.” Sanna rubs my back. “Don’t give in to it.”

She’s right, but my mind is as blank as the darkness around me. Then Braydon, and our kiss, pops into my mind. A flush of
passion is followed quickly by the rush of guilt. It’s worse than the darkness. I try to swallow down my fear of the dark,
of the government, of being caught by the police or, worse, of my best friend finding out about the kiss.

The lights come up. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, especially Braydon’s, and I hate it. Sanna waves the others away. I
fold in half and stutter in little gasps of air. It’s enough. The vice grip around my chest loosens. I stare at Sanna’s bare
feet. She wiggles her toes at me.

“I’m okay.” I stand up and shake off my panic.

“We did it, Nev,” she whispers in my ear.

“We did it.”

I’m late. I’m doing a combination run-walk to get to the Mermaid Coffee Shop by ten to meet Ethan. I’m still buzzing from
last night. Maybe things can change. It’s an impossible thought, but this hope is now a balloon floating above me and I’m
holding on to it with a very thin string.

I skid to a stop and look though the cracked window of the coffee shop. Ethan is sitting in our usual spot with his sketch
pad open. Dark circles ring his deep-set eyes, making them appear disproportionately large for his face. His hand and pencil
dance lightly across the page. I know that shell is
Ethan, but he hasn’t been the same since he was arrested. It was a silly dare. Loads of people do it. I don’t know what the
police said or did to him. He won’t talk about it. All I know is he isn’t my Ethan anymore.

It was a Saturday night six months ago. We were hanging out in his bedroom. He was drawing snowflakes on my stomach. That’s
where I got the idea for my tattoo. His eyes sparkled with mischief. We lunged for each other and connected with a passion
that would have melted my imaginary snowstorm. Kissing turned into the erratic dance of undressing. Suddenly he sprang away
from me as if he’d been burned.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he had said, panting.

Stunned by the sudden shift in temperature, I reached for him, ready to say, “Damn the stupid vow.”

“We’ve got to do something else. Anything.” He rocked back and forth. I could only think of one thing. I placed my hand on
his thigh.

“Neva!” He batted my hand away. “Cut it out.” He tugged on his jeans. “Think.”

I hugged my nearly naked body. I was trying to think of the opposite of sex. “Let’s climb the Capitol Complex,” I suggested.
Remembering thousands of people killed in The Terror would darken any mood.

He pulled on his shirt and tossed me my jeans and sweatshirt. “Let’s do it.”

The next thing I knew I was in the heart of the City staring up at the massive pile of rubble that was once the center of
power for our government. One dark day a group of ter
rorists leveled the Capitol Complex with one massive bomb, killing our governmental leaders and thousands of others. Since
the dead were extracted, not one pebble has been touched. Its twisted frame and crumbling stone are supposed to remind us
of The Terror and what happens when people abandon patriotism and uniformity.

That night Ethan had climbed up the mountain of debris. I held my breath as he catapulted himself higher and higher. He made
it look so easy. When he’d nearly reached the top, where the Homeland flag flies forever at half-mast, he waved down at me
with a big stupid grin on his face. His beige shirt was smudged with black and his jeans were covered with a fine white dust.
I was more in love with him at that moment than I had ever been in my life.

We’d talked about this since we were kids, but I never thought he’d do it. I started to scale the rubble. I wanted to feel
what Ethan was feeling. I took a few tentative steps, testing the mass beneath my feet before I shifted my weight. I’d only
managed to climb a few feet when I slipped and toppled back down to the ground. I heard Ethan calling my name, but I was laughing
so hard, I could only wave up at him to let him know that, other than a bruised ego, I was okay.