Maybe I was too sensitive to things. Most girls my age worried about unimportant stuff-what to wear, hanging out with the right tier, using the right slang, and guys. They didn't think turning sixteen was something to worry about-not the way I did. Of course, everyone had their dread about the tattoos, although most girls I knew wouldn't admit it. They said they were afraid of needles or that it would hurt. But they never said that they didn't feel ready to have sex, or that it scared them to be so vulnerable to the advances from guys. Maybe they weren't afraid, but it terrified me.
Then there was the whole FeLS application and the Choosing. At least with Ginnie having bought out my contract, I could cross that off my worry list. Still, Sandy was stressing to the edge of the universe about getting chosen. Her best chance to get out of low tiers was FeLS. I had art and my Creatives, but Sandy wasn't smart enough to get a scholarship and she certainly wasn't interested in anything creative. There was the possibility that she'd meet some higher-tier guy, but every low-tier girl hoped for that. It didn't mean it ever happened. Maybe I should be a better friend and call Ed-but how could I bring him into our lives when it was everything I could do to keep him away from Dee? Who knew what he'd want in return for a favor? I shuddered.
I'd resigned myself to either staying a low-tier, or maybe getting a scholarship. My grades were good, and with the Creative designation, I'd have a chance to get into the Art Institute. Creatives who came from lower tiers were usually serious about their art, whether it was music, painting, acting, or writing, and the GC left them alone, unless their work crossed some aribitrary line and became uber-political. Those Creatives just disappeared. No one ever talked about what happened to them. I had no plans of being political, ever.
I was depressing myself by overthinking when Derek snapped me out of it. "You know, Sal's cool. He likes music and his brother has all those great trannies. How'd you meet him anyway?"
"Actually ..." Should I tell them how? So far only Sandy knew about the incident in the park. What could it hurt? They were my friends, too. And with all the noise in TJ's I wasn't too concerned that AS cops would pick up on a conversation that was some girl talking about some guy.
"Some 'letes in Lincoln Park were beating up on him. I, uh, told them to take off."
"'Letes." Derek made a face, shaking his head and shoulders.
"Shut up, man," Mike hissed and nodded in the direction of a table full of guys wearing Chicago University letter jackets.
Derek shrugged. "Huh, so that's how come Sal was all cut up and bruised."
"Yeah," I said. "They really did a number on him. Anyway, I kinda helped him. Made sure he was okay. You know ..." They both nodded. "He was dressed homeless, and I still don't understand why he was dressed that way. What's up with that?"
"Girls," Mike said, shaking his head. "Skivs! The guy's lying there half dead and you're worried about what he's wearing?"
"Could be he's into stuff he doesn't want anyone to know about. Black-market parts? Big business there, soupin' up trannies. Maybe that's why he hasn't had us over to his brother's shop yet?" Derek's eyes crinkled mischievously. "Or maybe he was playing around-like when you change your hair color or wear different clothes."
"I don't change my hair color," I retorted, "and I wear the same clothes all the time."
"I know." He pinched his nose and made a face. "P-U."
"Oh, what are you, five years old, Derek?" I gave him a little shove. He was sitting on the edge of the booth and he slid off, landing on his butt.
Mike howled; I laughed. The waitress scowled.
Derek stood up. Grinning, he brushed off the seat of his pants and sat back down. "Don't know your own strength, eh? As far as Sal goes, why not just ask him?"
"Yeah. I'll do that. But I think I'll leave out the part that you think he and his brother are big-time gangsters." I didn't bother telling Derek I already had asked Sal about it, not to mention that Sal's answer had been cryptic to say the least. "I wish Sandy were here. I miss her. I can't wait to be back in school again and see everyone."
"Well, we mith you, too," Mike mumbled through the fries in his mouth.
"Uh-huh." Derek looked at me with the same dreamy eyes as before. I fingered the horse charm around my neck.
Once again, the memory of what Ginnie and I had been going to talk about that night surfaced. I'd eventually figure out how to deal with Derek. But I didn't have a clue how to deal with missing Ginnie.
XIV.
On Monday morning, Dee and I stepped off the number 33 transit at the corner of Dickens and Clark and into our old neighborhood. I doubted she remembered it the way I did, since she'd just turned six when we moved.
We passed the ancient brownstone walk-ups and trendy little boutiques. Mike and Derek were waiting for us at the next corner. The four of us swished our way through the leaves toward Dee's school. Halfway down the block we ran into her friend Maddie. They were so thrilled to see each other I had to tell Dee twice to wait for me by the trans stop after school. Seeing her PAV receiver clipped to her bag reminded me of Ed. I grabbed her arm. "Dee, be careful and don't go anywhere with anyone else. Promise?"
"Skivs! What kind of idiot do you think I am? See ya!" She yanked her arm away and ran off with Maddie, instantly swallowed up in the crowd of elementary school kids surging toward Dickens.
Several blocks later, I was standing in front of Daley High, nerves jangling. Even though it had been four years since I'd seen them, I recognized a couple of girls. They remembered me, too, and said hi, and I calmed down some.
"Nina, meet us back here at lunch," Mike said. "We'll go to Mickey's."
Inside, we went our separate ways. I checked my receiver for my schedule; I'd downloaded it the night before. My first two classes were predictable and boring, then I got to homeroom. No sooner had the teacher pointed me to an empty desk than a petite Asian girl, with straight black hair that hung halfway down her back, danced into the room singing "One-way Flight to Venus" at the top of her lungs.
"Wei Jenkins," the teacher commanded, "sit down and be quiet."
She saluted him. "Yes, sir, Mr. Haldewick." Marching to the desk across from mine, she flashed me a smile and plopped down.
Mr. Haldewick rolled his eyes and sighed. He sat down, too, and shuffled through some papers.
"I see we have a new student." Peering over antique glasses that pinched his nose into a point (they had to be for show; no one wore glasses anymore, unless they were tier one and couldn't afford the correction surgery), he pointed me out. "You there." He motioned to me. "Come up front and introduce yourself."
I'd been dreading this. None of the other teachers I'd had so far bothered with this part. Everyone stared as I made my way down the aisle. I recognized three kids, but that was cold comfort. My mouth felt like I'd been on the Martian desert for a year, and I was sure my lips were stuck fast to my teeth.
I looked out over the class, managing a tiny wave. "I'm Nina Oberon." Good, at least my lips were moving. With great effort I eked out, "I used to go to Granite Middle School. I just moved back to Chicago."
Somehow, in spite of my jelly legs, I managed to get back to my desk and sit down without collapsing into a little pile of body parts. I wondered if I'd ever be able to swallow again.
"Oberon?" Wei leaned across the aisle. "Are you-"
"Miss Jenkins!" Haldewick's salutation snapped us both to attention. "Quiet is the word. One more peep out of you and it's off to Mrs. Marchant's office."
She gave him a thumbs-up. He didn't look amused.
During the lecture on the Socialization of the Mars Colony in the Twenty-second Century (of all the luck, I got Health and Soch for homeroom), I noticed a tattoo on Wei's wrist, right where the XVI was supposed to be. She's probably fifteen, I thought. It was illegal to cover your XVI; it had to be a wash-off. Otherwise she'd be ... well, I wasn't sure what would happen to her. I hadn't heard of anyone messing with their XVIs. Not since the incidents that made the underground blogs ... One girl tried to burn hers off, and more than one girl bled to death after trying to slice it off with a razor blade. The Media reported the incidents as suicides; maybe they were.
Wei saw me staring and tapped her wrist with her rapido. Then I saw the XVI-right in the center, completely untouched by the intricate tattoo surrounding it. She winked at me.
I wanted to talk to her. There was something about her, the way she held herself, her attitude. And I had to know about her XVI. Maybe she was a Creative. I'd heard about Creatives inking around their tattoos; some of the higher-tiers in my art classes had talked about some places you could get it done, but I'd never seen anyone actually do it. Maybe after I got my designation ... no, I'd never be able to afford a tat. That was just for upper-tiers.
The bell rang, and we all filed out of the classroom. I saw Sal hurry over to Wei as I got a drink at the fountain, but neither of them even glanced at me. I watched them leave together down the hall. I told myself the empty feeling in my stomach was hunger.
Mike, Derek, and I had lunch at Mickey's Diner, a little cafe right next to the school. It was packed with students of all tiers. The only adults in sight were Mickey and his wife. Mickey's took cafeteria credits and everyone would much rather stuff themselves with tempeh burgers and tofu fries than the watered-down, reconstituted TVP glop the school passed off as food.
We squeezed into a booth by the window just as its occupants were leaving.
"So this girl in my homeroom, Wei-"
"She's in your homeroom?" Derek said.
"You're in for a wild year," Mike added.
"Her tattoo," I said. "How'd she get away with that?"
"The thistles aren't touching the XVI," Derek said.
"Thistles?"
"Yeah, after some archaic symbol is what I heard. She got it last spring. Some parents made a big deal about it, so government inspectors showed up. Since it didn't interfere with a wrist scan, they couldn't do anything. Besides, she's a Creative, they can do almost anything. I think it's cool."
Mike gulped down the last of his food. "She's upper tier-ten, I think." He reached across the table. "Can I have the rest of your burger?"
"Sure." Hoping to come across as nonchalant, I asked, "Is she Sal's girlfriend?"
"I dunno." Mike shrugged and chomped into the remaining burger.
"He showed up after class and they left together."
Derek narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "So what if she is?"
He was watching for some reaction from me. "No big deal. I just wondered."
At that very moment Sal and Wei walked by the window. She noticed me and smiled-she had a really nice smile and I couldn't help but return it. She said something to Sal as they passed. He looked over his shoulder at me and then turned back to Wei. As they walked away, I noticed they weren't holding hands, not that it would've mattered if they had been.
XV.
The rest of the afternoon at school was uneventful. I saw a few more people I remembered from middle school, but I didn't see Wei or Sal again. The rush of relief I felt when I saw Dee waiting on the corner surprised me. I hadn't realized how worried I was about Ed until then. She was so excited about her first day at school that she chattered the entire way home and I couldn't get a word in edgewise.
After dinner Dee was arranging her text chips on the table when Pops asked, "Want some help with that?"
"Sure." Dee scooted her chair close to his and pulled an AV viewer out of her backpack.
"What kind of homework do you have?" I asked.
"Regional History and ..." She wrinkled her nose. "Math."
"Pops is great with math. That's why he's an engineer." I planted a kiss on his cheek.
"Newfangled way of doing it on this tiny little screen." He retrieved his glasses from his pocket. "Think I can get close enough?" He touched his nose to the viewer and Dee laughed.
Hearing her laugh made my heart sing. I finished clearing off the dining-room table and was heading to my room to see if I could take some time to examine Dee's baby book when I noticed Gran sitting on the sofa. She was dabbing at her eyes.
"You okay?"
"Here, dear." She patted the cushion beside her. "I found this old album while I was unpacking."
I recognized the worn red cover. "We used to look through this when I was little." I snuggled in beside her on the couch. "There's my father." I pointed to a photo of a little boy wearing a black-and-red costume with a big E in the middle of it and a cape flowing behind him. "How old was he here?"
"He was nine. That's his costume for Imagination Day. He wanted to destroy evil." Gran's eyes got all misty. "I should have known ..."
"He was always the good guy, wasn't he?"
"Yes." Gran turned the page. "Here he is in high school, just about your age now, maybe a little older."
In that picture even I could see how much we looked alike. Brown hair, parted on the same side, wide eyes, and a straight nose. "What's he holding there?" I pointed to a medal in his hand.
"He'd just won a debate on Media influence and the erosion of free will. He was pro-citizen-his unfortunate rival was pro-Media."
I could hear Ginnie's voice in my head: Don't ever believe what comes out of government sources. Find out the truth for yourself. Don't be a Media sheep-promise me. I always promised. But still she taught me not to question things out loud in public-you never knew what would happen.
Gran brought me out of my thoughts. "See here?" She pointed to a photo. "Ginnie and Alan were perfect for each other."
The two of them, side by side. My father's arm was around my mother's waist. They were looking at each other instead of the camera.
The next page was him and another guy in front of a building under a huge awning. I'd seen this album so many times, but I still didn't know half of the people in it. "Gran, who's that?"
"Jonathan. He was Alan's best friend. The last time I saw him was at the memorial service fifteen years ago. He and his wife, Jasmine ... No, that's not it ..." Gran searched the ceiling, like the name might be hiding up there. "Oh yes." She smiled. "Jade. She's the one who got your grandfather hooked on candied ginger." Gran chuckled. "They were there with their baby, who was just a little older than you ... cute, very cute. Dark hair and big brown eyes. I can't remember if it was a boy or a girl. You know, I never did see them again. I believe they eventually went overseas. At least that's what Ginnie said."
Funny, Ginnie had never mentioned them to me. "Did they keep in touch with Ginnie?"
"I think so, yes. At least until she started seeing Ed." Gran frowned. "After that, I don't know. I think she lost most all of the friends she and Alan had in high school. If it hadn't been for you, and then Dee, I doubt we would've seen her, either."
"You treat Dee like she's your real granddaughter," I said. "Even though Ed's her father."
"Of course we do," Gran said. "She didn't get to choose him, but we certainly got to choose having her in our lives. We would never have treated you two differently. You're both our granddaughters, blood or not."
I snuggled close to Gran. "I love you."
"I love you, too, dear." She laid her hands on the album. "Do you want to keep looking? I'm not boring you with all these old pictures, am I?"
"Oh no, Gran, these are great." Maybe there was more in the book, something that might give me a place to start in my search for my father. I looked back at the photo. I supposed Jonathan, Jade, and their baby were long gone.
I stared closer at the photo, and noticed something else in the background. I took the album from Gran and looked more closely. There was a sign on the building behind them. "Do you know where they are? It says 'Roost.'"
Gran adjusted her glasses, squinting at the picture. "Oh, that's Robin's Roost. They all practically lived there. What a grand hotel it was. It's where Alan and Ginnie had their wedding reception." Her eyes got that misty faraway look old people's do when they're drifting back in their memories.
"Robin's Roost? Where was it?"
"It was at Wells and Lincoln. But, the government closed it down after several forays confirmed it as a hotbed of NonCon activities."
"NonCons? Ginnie was outspoken about the government," I said. "But she wouldn't have been involved with NonCons, would she? She never would have put me and Dee in that kind of danger." I wasn't sure what my father was capable of doing.
"Oh, no, never. Alan didn't go for underground activism either. He was candid and publicly vocal with his views, which did eventually get him in a bit of trouble. But nothing underground."
"I wonder if the building is still there." I was curious about a place where Ginnie and my father had spent so much time together. Knowing Ginnie, there must have been something really special about it.
"Oh, it's still there. First it housed a Bureau of Safety and Security office. The location was too public for them." She sniffed. "Didn't want people to figure out what they actually do. Several groups tried to have it converted to housing for homeless, but the Governing Council refused. They boarded it up and there it sits, empty and useless."
"Really? But they always go on about not wasting space and how they provide for homeless. Maybe since it's old, the building's not safe."
"Humph. Hold this." Gran handed me the album and left the room. When she returned she was carrying a little black machine, no bigger than a box of tissues, which she plugged in and flicked a switch. I'd never seen anything quite like it. And I'd never seen Gran do much of anything with electronics. She rarely even got online on her PAV.
She sat down next to me. "This is my safety net." She tapped it with her finger. "The GC wouldn't approve that building as housing for homeless because it wasn't a rat-infested dump in a bad neighborhood." Her eyes were flashing and I was startled by the vehemence in her voice. "What the government does approve is substandard housing in dangerous neighborhoods, minimally nutritious food, and menial jobs that barely pay enough to cover the cost of everything. It's total crap!"
"Gran!" I couldn't believe she was saying this; what if there were surveillance satellites turned to us? She sounded like Ginnie going off on an antigovernment rant. "Think about ..." I looked upward, hoping she'd pick up on my concern.
"Don't worry. This little box is taking care of any surveillance. Nina, dear, you mustn't believe everything-maybe not anything-the government says. For several generations the GC has been blatantly brainwashing society through Media messages. Look at your friend Sandy-see what sixteen propaganda has done to her? Why, two years ago she was as sweet and innocent as they come. Now she's on the verge of becoming a wild sex-teen. The GC wants to keep people in their place-GPS implants, XVIs ..."