Internment(68)

Little vortexes of dust spiral around the block as I step down from the trailer with my parents. Others from Block 2 trudge their weary bodies into line for roll call, shading their eyes from the dust and sun. The minders are out, their annoyingly cheery smiles spackled across their faces as if they aren’t turncoats, as if their grins make them likable or legitimate. I can barely stand to look at their faces anymore. What they’ve agreed to. What they’ve made themselves party to. What they allow to happen to other human beings so that they can have the illusion of power, the barest whiff of control. I think again and again of a story we read last year by Ursula Le Guin about a utopian city whose bliss can only exist because of its one horrifying atrocity. That’s who the minders are like—the adults of Omelas, the ones who smile and go about their day and revel in the false illusion of freedom while their souls are withered, desolate things.

But for me, the most chilling aspect here is the automatic feel to it all. The roll call, everyone exposing the underside of their wrist to have their barcode scanned, like we’re all fucking produce in a grocery store. The very fact that we all have barcodes now. I rub my finger over the invisible ink. It can only be seen under UV light, but it’s there, burned into my skin, branding me forever.

Even the mere knowledge of this mark breeds fear. Enough to make people forget the essence of who they are.

All the more reason not to give in.

Not to give up.

To resist.

When she gets to me, Fauzia drops the pretense of her cold smile. She scowls as she scans my barcode. Good. I prefer her grimace to her syrupy fake smiles anyway. I look back in the line and lift my fingers in a little wave to Ayesha. Ayesha’s parents are trying to keep her away from me, afraid of my bad influence, but Ayesha ignores them. Because she is awesome. She pantomimes gardening gestures at me and taps her index finger on an imaginary watch. I smile and nod. Not being alone is everything. Her friendship, a benediction.

I linger outside on my doorstep as my parents head to the Hub a little early for their work assignments. They enjoy the quiet solitude together. I watch them walk away from me, holding hands. A lump forms in my throat. I wish they could understand, be less protective or scared. But for now, I know this growing distance is a kind of barrier I put between us. Not because my parents are the enemy; they’re the opposite—the people I love most in the world, and I want to protect them, even in a small way. I hope I’ll make it right with them one day. If I can’t fix our relationship, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make, because my lying to them keeps them safer. They’ve done the same calculus, too.

I remember happier times—movie nights in our old basement, sharing popcorn, and my mother’s un-ironic love for eighties movies starring Molly Ringwald. Sometimes David would join us. David. An invisible hand squeezes my chest. I try to bury thoughts of him, of us, deep in my mind, in the part accessible only to dreams. I have to keep my sentimentality in check or I won’t be able to go on—I’d be crushed by the weight of memory. I press my palms over my eyes, trying to push back the tears that are about to drown out my vision.

“Are you okay?” I hear Jake’s voice and look up. His broad shoulders block out the sun.

“Dust,” I reply, blinking.

The block is empty, so I inch over to make room on the metal steps in front of my trailer. Jake wavers. “It’s okay,” he says. “Everyone is already suspicious of me.”

Jake whistles to his friend Fred, who is also on block duty, and puts up five fingers. Then he hesitantly takes a seat next to me. The step is small, and suddenly I’m aware of how close we are. Close enough that I can smell the smoky sweetness of coffee beans on him. “That does not smell like the coffee that’s in the Mess. Contraband?”

He chuckles. “I grind my own. It’s one of the lessons my dad imparted to me about military life. He was Army to the core. And when I left for basic training he said, ‘Always grind your own coffee.’”

“Is that, like, a metaphor?” I ask.

“No, he literally meant grind my own beans. Basic-training coffee sucked.”

We share a laugh.

A wisp of a cloud moves by in the sky, allowing the morning sun to shine brightly on our faces. For a moment it feels good. Warm. But it’s not long before the warmth turns to blazing heat. Jake rolls up his sleeves, revealing that compass tattoo I first noticed on his right forearm when we were on the train. It’s small. Simple. Two crossed arrows with a black N inked between the shafts.

I touch his arm with my index finger, barely making contact. His muscles twitch, so I pull my hand away, but I’m curious, so I ask, “Why the compass?”

Jake rubs his thumb over his tattoo, then turns to look at me with a sad smile that’s like a dagger to my heart. “Have you ever been to Castle Lake?”

“By Mount Shasta?” I ask.

Jake nods.

I continue. “My dad sometimes gets a cabin there to write. A couple years ago, my mom and I met up with him while he was on a retreat. For a long weekend. We did a few hikes around there. My dad wrote a poem about it, actually. Well, maybe not that lake specifically, but a glacial lake with still, silvery stars overhead.”

“Sounds like a good poem,” Jake says and gives me a half smile. “My mom was a big hiker, and when I was eleven, she and I took this hike together, from Castle Lake to Heart Lake. The two of us. She gave me a compass. Made me lead the way, across the outlet creek, eventually getting to a narrow, unsigned trail. It’s really a short hike, only two or maybe three miles. Moderate elevation gain. Nothing tough. But man, was I nervous. There’s a saddle where you have to choose your path, and my mom wouldn’t tell me which one. She just pointed to my compass.”