Chapter 12

The next day I skip the final mod-screen session and make my way to the building on 9th Avenue. I don’t pause to look at the chandelier I’m the only one here. My goal is to get in and out as fast as I can. If my experiment goes according to plan, it should be no more than seven minutes. I climb the stairs two at a time and pause for thirty seconds by the banister. The room is silent, no orchestra music and no footsteps. I enter the room and sit cross-legged in front of the trunk. I pull the bobby pin from my breast pocket and bend it back and forth until the two sides snap apart. I slot one piece into the top of the keyhole and bend it to the left. I hold it there with the thumb of my left hand and maneuver the other piece into the bottom of the slot. I bend it a little and pull it back out. The bobby pin’s end is now crimped slightly, making a small hook. This should work nicely. I push down on the bobby pin at the top and I feel the pressure from the tumbler inside. I insert the hooked piece and start wiggling it. It catches on one of the pins and I push to the left. It gives way and I feel a small surge of exhilaration. I keep jabbing the piece of metal in the keyhole until the pins let go and I can turn the top piece all the way to the left. The locking mechanism releases and the shackle slides smoothly from the body of the padlock.

I feel a sense of elation. I’d been unsure how to open this lock and it turned out to be easier than I expected.

I slide the padlock out of the clasp and rest it on the floor. I get to my knees for better leverage and lift the lid, until it’s resting on its hinges. The trunk is almost empty. The briefcase-sized object is sitting next to a cardboard container the size of a shoebox. I pull the larger item out of the trunk, surprised at how light it feels. I rest the object on my knees and unwrap the oilcloth cover. It’s a portrait of a young couple, sitting on a park bench. Tall willow trees sway behind them and yellow rays of sunlight filter down from the canopy. The woman is wearing a wide brimmed hat and a demure, long sleeved dress. A ruffle at her throat accentuates her high cheekbones and long nose. Her head is tilted back, her mouth open in laughter. The man is dressed in a dark brown suit and a bowler hat sits on the bench beside him. He’s holding her hand in both of his and smiling, a twinkle in his eye. The man looks familiar some how, but I can’t place him. There’s something about the cast of his jaw, the bow of his lips that I’ve seen before.

I rewrap the painting and I place it back in the bottom of the trunk. Even though I know the tablet isn’t inside the cardboard container, I lift it out. I tug the lid off and peer inside. It’s filled with small rectangles of paper with images printing on one side. Photographs I think they’re called. The pictures are a collection of people, in one, a woman cradles a baby, in another a small boy toddles along a garden path. A collection at the back of the stack shows a celebration of some kind. They’re wearing paper hats and waving streamers. Everyone looks so happy and colorful in the shots. They’re wearing shorts and dresses in a myriad of colors – ochre, canary yellow, blood orange and lilac. I feel an ache in the center of my chest looking at these people. They’re from a world before the meteor collision, before the Earth’s atmosphere was ruined by silica. I wonder if they were still alive when the world’s ecosystem started to die. When the plants shriveled up from lack of sunlight, when the last wild animal starved to death and the acid rain finally corroded away the planet’s greatest cities.

I tuck the photographs back into their box and place it next to the painting. I’m about to close the lid, when a voice surprises me.

“Are you looking for this?”

I spin around and the painter is standing by the staircase banister, the tablet held up in his left hand. I’m struck again by his height and slender build. The planes of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw give him a lean look. His skin is pale and clear but marked on one side with a yellowing bruise. His eyes are an icy blue, stern and accusatory.

“You’ve got some nerve breaking in here.”

“So you own this building?” I retort. “It’s your private property?”

“It doesn’t matter if I own it,” he says. “It’s my space, these are my things. How would you feel if someone went snooping through your stuff?”

“I don’t have any things,” I say. “So I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re completely out of bounds. I’m reporting you to judiciary. Then we’ll see how smug you are.”

I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “And what are they going to do when I tell them about your secret set up? Your trunk full of old world photographs. It’s not exactly contraband, but there’s a reason you’re hiding it. I think they’ll want to come and investigate, don’t you?”

His face flushes with anger.

“Not to mention all the artwork you have hidden in building 947. Why are you hiding it over there anyway? Why not just keep it all here?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says.

“And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“You do, when you won’t stay out of my space!”

“Yours? That’s not very benevolent of you. What happened to sharing in the community spirit?’

He gives a small shake of the head, as if flicking the idea away in disgust. Well, he’s clearly not a model citizen with that attitude.

“How do you feel if I play with your precious piece of metal?” He twists a little and holds the tablet suspended over the staircase banister. I take an automatic step towards him.

“Don’t.”

He narrows his eyes and I see he’s about to let go. I spring forward and grab his arm, but I’m too late. The tablet drops onto the fifth step, bounces and tumbles down the staircase in a pinging ricochet. I lose sight of it at the fifth floor but I hear it continue its journey further, no doubt a shattered ruin.

“No!” I can’t help the involuntary cry. My future has just crashed down eight flights of stairs.

A burst of fury engulfs me and I push the painter hard in the chest. At a hundred and twenty pounds, I’m no match for his six feet, but it takes him by surprise. He hits the banister and his feet lift off the ground. For a moment he looks like he’s going to topple over the edge, but he rights himself by grabbing the front of my shirt. He pulls me into a kind of headlock and I pummel my fists into his sides. He grunts but he doesn’t let go.

“Stop it, you crazy-“ he shouts as I try to twist myself out of his grip. I can’t get away from his long arms so I sweep my foot behind his leg and push it out from under him. He trips forward and we both crash to the floor, me on my back and him crushing the air from my lungs. That didn’t work out the way I thought it would.

I struggle to shove him off me but it’s impossible to shift his weight. I kick my legs and shove at him with my hands. I sink my teeth into his shoulder and he yelps.

“Stop. Stop it!” He seizes my wrists and pins them to the ground by my head, but far enough away that I can’t bite him again. He sits firmly on my hips, his feet looped over my legs to stop me from kicking him. I’m completed overpowered. I don’t like the feeling.

“Let me go!”

“No.” He says, his face suspended inches above mine. His face is still red, but he looks more uncertain than mad, like he’s wondering what to do with me. His hair is longer in the front and the bangs hang across one eye. He flicks his head to move them out of the way. He smells like wood shavings and paint and fresh air. It’s a pleasant smell and I find myself breathing it in. I stop myself.

“You can’t keep me here,” I say.

“Yes, I can,” he says. His eyes are very blue. “I’ll lock you in the trunk.”
“You wouldn’t.”

He just stares at me.

“How did you get that bruise?” I ask with a smile, taunting him. ”Run into something?”

His lips turn down and he lifts himself a little higher, as if to get away from me. “You’re a bully,” he says. “You know that?”

“What, never been punched by a girl?” I hadn’t really punched him that first time but close enough. It’s been more than a week since and the bruise is only just starting to fade. I wonder why he didn’t use heal-gel. Maybe his parents are against chemical enhancement. That is of course if he still lives with them. I’m not really sure how old he is, but he doesn’t look like a minor.

He narrows his eyes and squeezes my wrists tighter. The skin burns at the pressure but I try not to wince. I don’t want him to think he can hurt me.

“You’re infuriating,” he says. “What do you want from me?”

“I wanted my tablet back, but you screwed that up. You screwed everything up.” My anger flares again and I buck my hips. “Let me go!”

“So you can smash everything in this room?” he asks. “I don’t think so.”

“You won’t get me in that trunk,” I say, hoping it’s true. If he decides to knock me out and stuff me into the trunk, there’s nothing I can to do about it. I start to rethink my strategy.

“I’m not going to smash up your studio,” I say. “All I wanted was my tablet. You don’t understand how important it is. My whole future is in that device. Or was. It’s probably shattered now.”

“You could have just asked for it,” he says. “You didn’t have to follow me around, break into this building, invading my things.“

“You would have just handed it over? No questions asked?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You seemed pretty eager on reporting me to the Judiciary,” I say.

“I could still do that.”

“And I can do the same.”
He looks away from me and I know I’ve got him. He won’t report me as long as he thinks I might divulge his secret. We’re bound together in our duplicity.

“If I let you go, you’ll leave?” he asks. “You won’t come back? And you won’t tell anyone about this building?”

“As long as you agree to do the same. I’m not a telltale.”

He studies me for a long moment, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. I have the urge to smile at the silliness of the situation but I suppress it. I don’t want him to think I’m being insincere. Which I’m not. There’s no reason for me to come back here or report him. I have more important things to do, like fixing the tablet and making sure I’m out from under Head’s rule.

“Let’s shake on it,” he says.

“All right.”

He pauses for another second, as if he’s going to change his mind, but then he sits up and scoots back so he’s sitting on his knees. He looks wary and a little scared of me. I want to laugh. Who would be scared of me?

I sit up and wince as a twinge of pain runs through my back. I must have twisted it when we fell to the floor. I push the hair out of my face, straighten my shirt and hold out my hand. He takes it in one of his and we shake. His hand is soft but I can feel the strength in the muscles, like he’s used to lifting heavy objects or holding a paintbrush for long hours.

He drops my hand and we’re silent for a moment.

“So, you’re leaving,” he says and I can’t help smiling. He looks so earnest.

“Yes, yes. I’m leaving.” I get to my feet and flex my shoulders, trying to straighten my neck.

He lifts himself from the floor in a graceful arch that reminds me of a picture from a book on dance I found in the library. His limbs have the same long look, and his movements seem like they are measured against some internal harmony I can’t hear and I’m suddenly struck by his beauty. With the anger gone from his face, I can see that he’s handsome. The strong jaw compliments the wide mouth, the nose balances the up-tilted eyes. His eyes are the blue I imagine an old world sky would be, clear and fresh and endless. I realize I’m staring and I flush. I look away.

“Um, okay. I’m… well, I guess I’ll be going now.”

I step around him and reach for the banister.

His voice stops me. “What’s your name?”

I look up in surprise. “Arela,” I answer before I can stop myself. I should have given him a fake name, in case he changes his mind and decides to report me.
“What’s yours?” I ask.

“Cenric.” He looks like he’s going to say more but he closes his mouth. “Cenric,” he says again, like he’s trying to make a point.

“That’s really your name?”

He cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “What else would it be?”

I shake my head and smile slightly. “Never mind.”

“I hope you can fix your tablet,” he says.

“So do I.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 13