Consider (17 page)

He laughs through snot and smiles. I hug him more, clinging to him for comfort and support—mine or his, I can’t tell. Maybe it doesn’t make a difference anymore.

Back at home that night, I sneak into the basement and fill a garbage bag with food and supplies for Dominick’s family. I take a little of everything so Dad won’t notice.

The results of
the voting are in. I copy them into my journal. It boils down to crime and prison sentence:

Should those with five years or fewer to serve have the right to decide to leave immediately? Yes. 75%

Should those with more than five years but fewer than fifteen to serve have the right to decide but should have to wait until January 10 to allow free citizens to exit first? Yes. 61%

Should those with more than fifteen years but not life sentences have the right to decide but should have to wait until January 20 to allow free citizens to exit first? Yes. 53%

Should those with life sentences have the right to decide but should have to wait until January 30 to allow free citizens to exit first? No. 90%

The debate continues on television and online. The numbers follow how I voted, so I guess I’m okay with it. The newscaster predicts that the Supreme Court will review the “validity of the voting” and whether it’s legally binding for the public to basically determine death sentences and technically overthrow rulings that put people behind bars in the first place.

Victims’ rights advocates are up in arms, warning about “the detriment and emotional scars the voting has unmasked in those affected by serious crimes.” The majority of prisoners who had five years or fewer to serve have opted to leave through a vertex immediately.

I watch on television as armed vehicles drive the first waves of prisoners to the closest vertexes. Each prisoner enters the vertex still handcuffed and shackled. I wonder what the people on the other side will think when they see them arrive bound. Family members of the prisoners wait near the vertexes to journey with them to the other side and live out a happy, free reunion. Well, everyone assumes that’s what will happen.

The camera scans the crowd to display the police barricade where protesters hold signs. One sign in particular catches the eye of the camera, and it zooms in. A HOLOGRAM FREED MY RAPIST. I swallow down the hard fact, knowing it’s how I voted. I never considered how it would affect individual people. There’s a difference, and the difference matters. I shut the television off. I just can’t watch anymore. No matter which way I turn, which battle I fight, nothing is making a difference.

Chapter 14

Day 120: November—1,546 hours to decide

Question: Do you celebrate holidays and traditions?

Answer: Every day is a holiday or a tradition for someone on our planet. We no longer have similar holidays and traditions, other than birthdays and deathdays, but we are happy to incorporate and appreciate those holidays and traditions that you choose to celebrate.

Thanksgiving this year
feels more like the Last Supper. The kitchen brims with an odd tension. It’s the first time I understand the expression “Too many cooks spoil the broth.” Dad has a grim smile plastered on his face as Mom and Penelope start prepping all the food. He keeps muttering things like, “We could’ve lived off this stuff for a month.” At the same time, however, he doesn’t stop them. Even though the supermarket has received fewer shipments and products each week, Dad helped commandeer specific ingredients for Thanksgiving from the grocery’s back room before customers had a chance to buy out the front shelves. He stalks the kitchen like a hunter making sure his prey hasn’t escaped.

“You really should be basting the turkey more often,” Penelope says from the counter, brandishing a potato masher. “I don’t understand why you won’t follow my old recipes. They work.”

She doesn’t seem to notice that Mom starts chopping vegetables faster and louder and in less uniform chunks. I think Mom’s imagining my grandma’s fingers on the cutting board instead of carrots.

“Alex, you and Benji set the table. Use Nana’s china.”

In the dining room, Benji and I find the table already dressed with Nana’s heirloom red tablecloth, matching cloth napkins, and a silver candelabra centerpiece. We retrieve the “good” plates—the ones that live in the dining room cabinet except on holidays. Each piece belonged to my great grandmother, who died weeks before I was born so Mom named me after her. Looking at Nana’s old decor, I think our names are the only thing the two of us had in common. The white china rimmed with a blue flower scroll design reminds me of an uptight English tea party. The delicate porcelain feels like bird bones, and my fingers tremble as I try not to let them clank together. The sound gives me chills, like tiny teeth clicking against each other.

As Benji and I carefully lay each place setting, I can’t help feeling like we are dressing the table for our funeral. If our Thanksgiving was an actual tea party, our dinner would not be a snobby affair. More like a rendition of
Alice in Wonderland
, including Dad as the Mad Hatter, Benji as the March Hare, Penelope as the Cheshire Cat, and Mom as the Dormouse. I’d be stuck as Alice, witness to the fact that everything, even time, has become unpredictable.

Benji clears his throat and whispers, “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” I ask. My insides turn like they want to become my outsides. After his last secret, I don’t know what to expect from him.
Is he about to reveal some secret government insight about the vertexes and holograms? Are we about to be invaded? Am I really adopted?

“I’ve invited my friend Marcus over.” He lays down a plate and moves to the next place setting. Phew, that was underwhelming super secret info.

“Okay. So we need another place setting? Does Mom know?”

“Yes. And yes. And Marcus is gay.”

I follow Benji’s lead and provide the last setting with silverware. “Okay.”

Benji clears his throat again. “Alex, we’re together. I’m going to tell Dad. We’re getting married.”

My heart starts pounding in my ears. I have just gotten used to the idea that Benji had a whole life I didn’t know about.

“Today? You’re really gonna tell him today? What about Mom?” My mind starts reeling with possible Dad reactions. Nuclear war comes to mind.

“Mom knows. Why do you think she’s going overboard with all the food?”

Mom knows? How can she be dealing so easily knowing what’s about to happen?

“You’re gonna put Dad over the edge.”

“It’s not about Dad.” He puts down the last plate and turns around in a circle, like a dog sniffing for more. “It’s about me
.
It’s finally about me. Besides, Dad’s already over the edge, and it’s not my fault. I’ve always stayed the line to protect Dad, but you, you always make him worse by freaking out over everything.”

“Me? I’m the one who actually cares about him. You take off and constantly remind him of his past.”

And there it is. Benji and I, fire and oil. Dad is gasoline. Penelope’s gunpowder. What does that make Mom?

I know I should congratulate him, but he’s about to turn our possible last Thanksgiving into chaos. I already feel chaotic enough inside.
If the world’s ending, why cause more havoc? Why not ride it out peacefully? Why not let things be?

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I make everything worse by worrying in circles about it.

Benji and I both jump when the doorbell rings. While he races to the door, I race to my room and swallow an Ativan before returning to the unavoidable drama that’s about to unfold. I pour myself a glass of water and drink half of it in one long gulp.

I’m not prepared for what happens next. When I reach the living room, Mr. Blu, my homeroom and math teacher, greets me with a fabulous white smile. Next to Benji, he’s slighter, shorter with light brown hair and striking eyes.

“Mr. Blu?” I say.

“Alexandra, nice to see you again,” he says and sticks out his hand. “Call me Marcus.” When I reach out to shake his hand, the glass in my other hand slips and drops to the floor. It shatters into a thousand pieces like a diamond exploding.

“Crap,” I mutter.

“Let me help.” Marcus crouches and picks up larger chunks. Benji sighs deeply for my benefit. Mom and Penelope rush into the room and see the broken shards.

“Oh, no.” Mom kneels down next to the glass like someone has collapsed on the floor. “It’s one of Nana’s.”

I roll my eyes. Penelope catches me and shakes her finger in my face.

“I’ll get a broom,” I offer, a chance to help and a chance to escape. In the kitchen I retrieve the dustpan and broom stored in the small space on one side of the refrigerator. By the time I return to the living room, Dad has cornered Marcus.

“So, what do you do?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m a math teacher at the high school,” Marcus answers. “Was a math teacher, anyway, before the holograms basically shut the schools down.”

Dad nods in respect. “You’ll be back to work in no time.”

“Alexandra was my student this year. Always quiet and very conscientious.”

“That’s my girl,” Dad says.

My face burns as if there’s a spotlight blazing on me. I sweep up the remaining glass into the dustpan and escape to the kitchen to toss it into the trash. The back door looks like a great escape route. I take several long breaths and hold them, slowing my heartbeat.
Ativan, don’t fail me now.
I can’t believe Mr. Blu is Benji’s boyfriend.
Did he know I was Benji’s sister when I was at school?

I hide in my room, waiting for the food to be ready. There’s no way I’m listening to their small talk. That’s an anxiety explosion waiting to happen. Thirty minutes later, I hear Mom’s voice call for me.

Everyone has gathered in the dining room and taken seats. The only open seat is between Dad and Penelope. Fun.

Penelope offers to say grace. I didn’t realize she knew how to pray.

We pass the food around the table as cordially as any functional family, but my hands begin to shake with the weight of the mashed potato bowl. I’m afraid I might drop something else.

Benji drops the bomb instead. He stands up, holding a glass of wine like he’s about to say something grand.

“I have an announcement,” he says. Dad automatically plasters a grin across his face for his son. He probably thinks Benji has won some type of military honor. I drink more and more water to hide my face behind my cup.

“Despite all the changes happening in the world, there is one thing that I know to be true. I am in love. With Marcus.”

Everyone stops breathing at the table. Chewing sounds. Mastication. Horrible word for the horrible wet squishing sound that fills the room and bounces off the nice china. Under the table I try tapping my knees with my fingertips in a back-and-forth method like Arianna taught me.

“We are getting married.” He gulps from his wine like it’s a liquid life force and sits.

The clink and scrape of a fork on a plate, the swallowing of liquid from a glass. Everyone waits. I worry about the fate of the dishes once Dad explodes.

I swear a whole minute ticks by before anything happens. Maybe that makes it worse. Then Dad stands, turns, and in one quick motion punches his fist through the wall behind him.

“God damn it!” he yells, cradling his fist as he retreats from the room. We can hear his footsteps down the hall and my parents’ bedroom door slam close. I stare at his empty chair, his plate of food just sitting there getting cold when I know how much he doesn’t want to waste food right now. I tap my knees in rhythm, trying to calm the electric feelings coursing through my body that are commanding me to run out the back door and hide.

Benji and Marcus cast furtive glances at one another, reading each other’s feelings and thoughts like an old couple, filling in the silence with the unspoken language of time spent together. I don’t know which of them will cry first, but I can feel the spillage coming like the crisp smell of snow on a cold day. Maybe the one who’s about to cry is me.

What is he doing in the bedroom? Is his gun in there? What if he tries to shoot himself? What if he comes out here and shoots Mr. Blu, his brains splattering across our Thanksgiving dinner?

I remember Arianna’s advice, and start repeating in my head,
Don’t get tricked by a thought. Don’t get tricked by a thought.
But my thoughts seem plausible. He could do it. No, no, his gun is always locked up in the attic, and Mom has the key.

Penelope breaks the silence. “Is one of you pregnant or something?”

Marcus cracks up laughing. His laughter is bubbly and infectious, and soon everyone is laughing. Everyone except Mom.

Penelope continues, “I mean, in my day, that was the only reason to rush a marriage. That or”—she clears her throat—“someone leaving for the military. But I guess the world ending is reason enough.”

Mom points accusingly at Penelope. “Now is not the time.” She removes her fancy napkin from her lap and tosses it on the table. “Excuse me for a minute,” she mutters to the rest of us and follows the wake Dad left to the bedroom.

“I thought it was funny,” Penelope offers and sips a glass of wine.

“It was,” Marcus adds.

But I know that military comment was a dig. Mom married Dad when she turned eighteen before he left for duty and against Penelope’s wishes.

Mom leaving the table has thrown me for a loop. I assumed Dad would lose it, but not Mom. I wish I could hear what was going on in the other room, but I can’t hear Dad’s voice for a change.
How am I supposed to know if everything will be okay if I can’t see what’s happening? What if he shoots her?
My medication is having trouble doing its magic.

“I thought if anyone around here would be getting married,” Penelope says, “it would be this beautiful girl sitting next to me.”

“Me?” The look on my face must be priceless because the three of them laugh again.

“You’re eighteen now, and I’ve seen you with that boyfriend of yours. With all that’s going on in the world . . . Like mother like daughter.”

“Um, no,” I say, cutting her off. “I don’t even know if I believe in marriage.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Benji asks. Marcus turns and stares at him. I don’t think he’s ever seen the side of my brother that likes to fight me on everything.

I take a sip of water to stall. “I think it puts too much pressure on people. The forever
concept. Freaks me out.”

“Smart girl,” Penelope says. “Smarter than her mother.”

Smarter than my mother.
Her comment should make me feel proud, but instead I feel smaller. Benji glares at me from across the table, my brother and my adversary.

Penelope drags her knife back and forth over the meat and makes a face. “Turkey’s overcooked.” She shoves a piece into her mouth. “Dry. So when’s the wedding?”

“December 12,” Marcus says. “City hall, nothing crazy. We wanted to do it as soon as possible, but there’s a waiting list.”

Benji pipes in. “Apparently everyone’s lining up to take the plunge since forever might end sooner than we thought.” He shoots me attitude.

What can I say—forever scares me. Love scares me. I mean, forever? People change. And then what?

When we hear the bedroom door open, the four of us flinch and sit up straight. Footsteps shuffle down the hall toward us. Mom returns, followed by Dad. I sit farther back in my chair as if the wooden back can provide the support I need. Instead of a gun in his hand, it’s wrapped with an ice pack and a hand towel.

Benji stands up.
What’re you doing?
my brain screams.
Sit down.
Are you insane?

Dad and Benji face each other, father and son, military men. Dad’s hands are balled into fists at his sides, and so are Benji’s. It’s like a western movie where someone must pull the trigger first or die. I don’t know who will win. I grip my fork like a weapon just in case the action somehow turns on me.

Mom sits in her seat and places the napkin back in her lap. “Ben,” she addresses Dad. “I think you have something to say to your son.”

Dad clears his throat. “Family sticks together. We’re a family.” He puts out his right hand to shake Benji’s. I still expect him to deck Benji with his left, ice pack and all. Benji’s body starts to tremble uncontrollably, so Dad abandons the handshake and delivers a quick, one-armed hug with several strong pats to Benji’s shoulders. I wait for Dad’s sneak attack.

“Now let’s eat,” Dad announces.

Sometimes people hide their true feelings while guests are present. Sometimes people give up their predilections since the world’s ending as they know it anyway. And sometimes, people just shock you. In Dad’s case, I don’t know where to put his reaction in my list of possibilities. Like the vertexes and holograms, it’s something I could’ve never predicted in my wildest dreams.