I rolled my eyes. “It’s just a baby. So really, you two should get along fine.” I stormed out of the room and went to clean out the refrigerator.
As I moved through every inch of Pietre’s home, small pieces of conversation drifted towards me like music. My initial reaction was to gag. Pietre was cooing to my kid and blowing raspberries. I heard my child clapping. Then Orry started to cry. A low and beautiful thrum wove its way soothingly through the house washing down the walls. A warm, deep voice, a song I’d never heard, but felt in time with.
It’s up to you
And it’s not fair
Nothing you do comes out easy in the end
The sound and intention behind it was so soft and sweet. I honestly couldn’t believe it came from Pietre.
You’re only new
But it has begun
You’ll reach for stars and they’ll fall down as much as they shine
Please don’t cry
I’m in it with you
We’re all part of the same chain, the same fight
I paused in the doorway, letting the chorus trickle over me. The heartbreaking truth of it wracked me.
Time ticks forward
Time takes away
It will take you away
Away from me
We’re fighting against the seconds
But they always catch you in the end
They always catch you in the end
He was right. We were always fighting, against time, against each other. It never ended, and it never got easier.
I hovered through the house, stripping sheets and dusting the sills, with Pietre’s amazing singing voice stalking me, the words of his song echoing in my own heart. So much of what I felt was in that one chorus. I was baffled.
Everything was always unexpected. I would never have guessed that Pietre was some kind of baby whisperer. The knowledge that he had this soft side had a weird effect on me, turning my stomach and warming my heart at the same time.
I hung in the arch between the kitchen and the living room, watching the two boys interact. I spoiled it by breathing too loudly. Pietre’s head snapped to me, and the moment was broken.
“What are you staring at?” he grunted. I eyed his hand, which was still clasped around my son’s chubby little stomach.
I smiled. “Nothing.”
“You know, I’m not the monster you think I am,” he said, scruffing up Orry’s blond curls. “I wanted one of these for myself one day.” His eyes connected with my son’s. “And then I could teach them all about great Indie rock.”
“You still can,” I said flippantly, noting the name of the band so I could look up the song.
Pietre gave a sour laugh. “Not here.”
I finished cleaning up and left. Pietre didn’t thank me. I didn’t really expect him to.
There was something coming. A change. Not here, he’d said. He was right. We couldn’t stay here.
The idea sucked the air out of me.
Surrounded by the Spiders, the beat of unsteady and different voices drummed at my head. It looked like a small circus had arrived at the Survivor’s settlement. These people were as far from All Kind as you could get, and that distance was pushed even further by their need for change. They were the dissidents, the unwanted, and the mistreated. Except for perhaps Olga. Despite her odd appearance, I was interested to learn she was a well-respected scientist. But like Apella, she found the breeding program hard to stomach.
Eleven Spiders, including my father, hovered around the front of the stage. Some leaned with their arms over a table, others talked to the eager Survivors. It was noisy, and I was glad I’d left Orry at home with Odval.
A circle of red, shiny cans mixed with greenish-blue ones glowed on the table under the theater lights. The Spiders turned them over in their hands suspiciously. I laughed in amusement, as I watched the reactions when the cans were cracked open. Noses were pinched and gulps were taken, resulting in burps. I shook one up and tossed it to Rash. It exploded as soon as he opened it, soaking his shirt with sugary, brown liquid. He flashed his white teeth and took a swig. He seemed to like it. I noticed he had changed his shoes as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against a pillar, chugging the rest of his drink and swiping his mouth. He now wore the canvas sneakers we all wore. It suited him.
The Spiders had been summoned, along with the senior members of the community and any of us who had gone on the recovery mission. So Joseph and I were there, Matthew, Gus, Pietre, and Careen. Rash was invited and stood casually leaning against one of the theater chairs, wearing a bemused expression, his eyes running up and down the heavy, velvet curtains. My face cracked into a grin when our eyes connected. There were so many things to explain to him about this place.
The leaders sat at the front as they always did, and the man with the long braid called out, “Welcome Spiders. We are so pleased you made it to our settlement.” He pulled the braid over his shoulder and started twisting it in his fingers. “Unfortunately, we have do not have much time in which to plan our next move. So I will forgo formalities and ask you to submit your passports immediately.”
There were a few murmurs. I searched Joseph’s eyes; he shrugged and returned his gaze to the stage. There was something stiff in his manner. Rash beamed at me. His eyes said, Can’t wait to see what happens next. We watched as the Spiders moved towards the tables, rummaged around in their pockets, and threw handfuls of small, black discs on the table that clanged against each other like plastic coins.
“Can everyone take a seat?” the braid man asked, his face serious.
We filled the first two rows of the theater. I was sandwiched between Rash and Joseph in what felt like a one-sided tug-o-war. Joseph’s hand clamped down on my thigh. I eyed it, and then swept it off. His hand turned to a fist, resting on his own leg. The lights went off, and the velvet curtains parted with a squeak and a roll. The sound of age-old ropes and pulleys not used for years. Clumps of dust the size of cotton balls fell from the ceiling, landing on the stage and at my feet. People coughed and sneezed. A cloudy atmosphere surrounded us, oppressive and dark. My mind wrapped around the moment a little too tightly. Uncomfortable, I squirmed in my seat, my legs jittering. Rash went to put his hand on my leg, but Joseph’s stare was like a shot of flame, even in the half dark, and Rash withdrew.
Gus and Matthew lifted a large, metal box onto the table and fiddled around, aiming it towards the white screen that was revealed behind the curtain. A spot of light grew until it filled the entire space. Gus grunted as he picked up one of the discs, placed it inside a tray on the box, and shoved it closed.
The light flickered, and a wobbly image appeared and slowly stabilized. It was a picture of a crowd of Woodland soldiers, all in black. Two white tents were set up, and the soldiers were lining up. The image focused closely on one soldier sitting in a chair, a woman pulling his hair back as she carefully smudged his face with tan colored paint. The soldier was young, his eyes scrunched tight, and his black curls strung back from his face by the unforgiving woman’s hand. The theater had become so quiet. People leaned forward in their seat, scrutinizing the bizarre behavior. Some soldier were laughing and milling around outside the tents with plastic caps on their heads. The sun hit them when they passed outside the shadow of the wall and brassy strands of dyed hair glinted in the light.