1.1
CHRISTINE “CHAOS” ROE:
Why am I fighting?
Elise would say for a sense of control. Ivy would probably adjust her glasses, stare at my face and stay silent.
Really, I fought against Andi and his stupid lectures every time I left the house.
He stepped in front of the door, arms crossed. “Say it. The three steps.”
“I do this every week,” I groaned.
“Then tell me.” He ran his hand through his buzzed hair. “How are you gonna stay safe?”
I held up my folded pocketknife, and his face fell.
“Prevent, run, attack.” I laughed, “Those are the steps. Can I leave now?”
Sunlight, sweet and bright. Andi shielded his eyes, and I jumped down the porch steps before he could stop me.
The street: cracked, choked with weeds. Up ahead: shadowy, hollow buildings. I didn’t have to glance back to know Andi stood in the doorway, inventing a new nightmare. Last week, murderers. This week, probably thieves or kidnappers or something.
Fourteen years old, and he treated me like I was ten. Where was the respect? The appreciation? Thank you, Chaos, for running the Greenhouse. Thank you, Chaos, for bringing home fresh food.
I kicked a pebble as hard as I could, sending it into the air, bouncing past a few boarded-up storefronts. An aluminum sign hung above each doorway. Reclaimed Property. The emblem below it: three interlocking rings.
One of the stores used to be my karate studio; I would’ve been a black belt if everything hadn’t shut down. Would’ve been going to school, too. And the ice cream shop Mom and Dad used to take us for special occasions.
Don’t think about that. Pressure behind my eyes.
I past the blank, dead traffic lights. Pass the stagnant retention pond. Pass the years-old graffiti, covering an entire brick wall. Mandatory WorkForce. Make ’em Work Forever.
I turned a corner and the grocery store came into view—busted windows and empty shelves, and like everything else: Dusty and abandoned.
Except for the storage room in the back. It had glass windows at the top, letting in plenty of sun. Perfect for kale, and tomatoes, and sometimes even strawberries.
Andi picked the lock, planned the layout. Ivy sorted the plants and seeds. I took care of it all.
My one contribution.
I ducked through the store’s broken door. It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
I saw them: Footprints. In the dust. Much bigger than mine.
I clicked open my pocketknife.
Checkout counter, cart storage, International Food hanging by one buckle. The store was empty. Just me. Right?
The footprints led me around the store, behind a shelf, and stopped. Strategic. This person could be long gone, or right behind me.
I spun around, knife out. No one. I crept around the store, straining my ears. Was that someone inhaling? No, just the wind. That creaking? Me. My own feet. Chill out.
I kept my pocketknife in my hands, fiddled with the lock, slipped inside. Bolted the door behind me.
The Greenhouse: It could’ve been heaven. Sunlight on the tomato vines, the dwarfed orange trees, the potatoes. My face.
I slipped my knife back into my pocket, opened my duffle bag, and got to work.
It was supposed to be peaceful, leaves rustling, the crunch of my footsteps, but this time I rushed, glancing back at the door every now and then.
I filled up my bag until its straps dug into my shoulders. I cracked open the Greenhouse door and peeked into the store. No new footprints. No one in sight.
I ran all the way home.
◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥
Elise and I got home at the same time. She set her bag by the door, pulled her beanie over her ears, sat down, and kicked off her loafers.
When I dumped the food onto the kitchen table, Ivy ran over, dug through the pile. “You got apples!” She held one up.
I plucked it out of her hand and laughed, “Don’t eat them all.”
Andi was at the counter, peeling apart green beans, dropping them in a bowl. Sometimes, he’d come up with fancy names for our simple meals, like artisan grains, accented with green legumes. Anything to make us laugh.
Today, he served our plates without a word. Rice and green beans. Looked at me. “You’re all sweaty.”
“It’s June.” I scoffed. “That bag was heavy.”
I’d tell him about the footprints later, when he was in a better mood. Maybe he wouldn’t freak out.
Ha. Who was I kidding? Andi would freak out no matter what.
I wouldn’t tell him at all.
Andi sat down. “Elise, how was work?”
“Fine.” She picked at her food. Ink covered the tips of her fingers. “Kind of boring.”
I asked, “Did you get the files?”
Andi shot me a glare. Ivy set her book down.
“I don’t—” Elise tucked her hair behind her ears—“have access to that. Not yet.”
Six months. Elise had been working that filing job, hoping to find information about Mom and Dad. So far, we’d gotten nowhere.
“Don’t make that face.” Elise’s voice was tight. “I just need more time. I’ll get the info. Pay off their debt.”
Ivy laid her head on the table. “It’s been two years.”
Two years since they were taken.
Then the power and water shut off, and there was no one left to check on us, and the four of us had to figure out what we were gonna do.
I glanced at Ivy. She had Mom’s red sweater on. In June. She wiped her eyes with her sleeves.
“Oh, Ivy.” Elise’s voice softened.
Andi placed his orange slice on Ivy’s plate. Our version of dessert. “They’ll come home, and the town will rebuild itself, and maybe we’ll get ice cream like we used to.”
“You think so?”
Ivy was young enough to believe Andi’s comforting lies. Part of me wished I could still believe them, too.
I slouched in my chair, staring at the wood grain.
The truth: Our parents are gone, and we might never get them back. This town is hopeless, and no one’s coming to save us. And I wasn’t brave. Not tough. Not even a little bit.
