Still, it’s better than nothing. We’re allowed to stay in touch with our families once we’ve been reunited, and can earn passes to visit them until we leave Kube 9 for advanced training and our first service posting.
The door opens. Twelve pairs of eyes lock onto the proctor standing in the doorway. She pauses a beat to ratchet up the tension, I’m sure, and then says, “AC Danza Myring.”
Danza, a delicate girl with flyaway copper hair, gasps, pops up, and hurries to the door. She trips, but catches herself on a chair. Then she’s gone and the door closes again. Click.
We wait. I wonder if the waiting is to teach us patience, or if our parents are arriving at different times. Some of them have traveled from a distance, I guess.
It’s at least fifteen minutes before the door opens again and another name is called. The remaining ten of us watch enviously as Bram saunters out, the tic under his left eye belying his seeming cool. Click.
The floodgates open and six names are called within ten minutes. Six excited repos disappear through the door. Two more go half an hour later. There are only two of us left. Patam and I exchange sidelong glances and go back to staring at our boots, our fingernails, anything but each other. It’s been over an hour. My anticipation is turning to worry.
A footstep sounds outside the door. My head jerks up. I watch the knob turn. The door sighs inward. A proctor steps in. There’s a rushing sound in my ears. I can’t hear what she says, but her lips move. Did they form the words “Everly Jax?” I’m sure they did. I lean forward, start to push up. Patam stands, relief lighting his face, and strides toward the proctor. Click .
I am alone.
Where are they? My tummy growls and I put a hand to it. Why aren’t they here yet? I push back my cuticles with a thumbnail, rub a smudge off my soft boot with spit, and climb on a chair to tighten the sputtering light bulb. I sit again. My gaze lights on the maps and I mentally reel off the key dates we had to memorize in Amerada History: 2020, First Wave of avian influenza begins; 2022, international travel suspended; 2026, official proclamation of famine; 2030, dissolution of United States; 2045, Pragmatists come to power. I recite the names of Amerada’s six premiers in order. I finally resort to counting off the minutes in my head: one-Amerada, two-Amerada, three-Amerada . . .
I don’t know how long it is before I know. My parents aren’t coming. I know it long before the proctor opens the door, gives me a sympathetic look, and says, “I’m sorry, AC Jax.”
She leaves.
Click .
People’s parents always show up for Reunion Day, unless they’re dead. Parents dying is not an unusual reason for kids to end up in the Kube, especially kids my age because there was still a lot of flu when we were young. It’s almost as common as parents being unlicensed or unfit. A few kids, like Wyck, opt out of Reunion Day. I suppose it’s remotely possible someone’s parents could die after their kid is repoed and Proctor Fonner not be informed, but DNA is logged for every birth, marriage and death, so it’s an extremely rare death that doesn’t get entered into the system. I try to think of others reasons for their non-appearance, but my brain won’t work. Heartbreak is short-circuiting my synapses. Tears prick behind my lids, but I will them back. I meet two of the repos who met their parents today and brush past, pretending I don’t hear their questions about my reunion.
I’m going to the beach. I need the surge and splash of the waves to fill up this gaping hole that has opened within me, this emptiness that is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Sentries and being put on report be damned. What are they going to do to me now? They can’t take Reunion Day away from me. Someone’s already done that. I blast into the dome, planning to sneak out the east gate closest to the beach. I’m imagining the sand abrading my bare feet, when Dr.
The door opens. Twelve pairs of eyes lock onto the proctor standing in the doorway. She pauses a beat to ratchet up the tension, I’m sure, and then says, “AC Danza Myring.”
Danza, a delicate girl with flyaway copper hair, gasps, pops up, and hurries to the door. She trips, but catches herself on a chair. Then she’s gone and the door closes again. Click.
We wait. I wonder if the waiting is to teach us patience, or if our parents are arriving at different times. Some of them have traveled from a distance, I guess.
It’s at least fifteen minutes before the door opens again and another name is called. The remaining ten of us watch enviously as Bram saunters out, the tic under his left eye belying his seeming cool. Click.
The floodgates open and six names are called within ten minutes. Six excited repos disappear through the door. Two more go half an hour later. There are only two of us left. Patam and I exchange sidelong glances and go back to staring at our boots, our fingernails, anything but each other. It’s been over an hour. My anticipation is turning to worry.
A footstep sounds outside the door. My head jerks up. I watch the knob turn. The door sighs inward. A proctor steps in. There’s a rushing sound in my ears. I can’t hear what she says, but her lips move. Did they form the words “Everly Jax?” I’m sure they did. I lean forward, start to push up. Patam stands, relief lighting his face, and strides toward the proctor. Click .
I am alone.
Where are they? My tummy growls and I put a hand to it. Why aren’t they here yet? I push back my cuticles with a thumbnail, rub a smudge off my soft boot with spit, and climb on a chair to tighten the sputtering light bulb. I sit again. My gaze lights on the maps and I mentally reel off the key dates we had to memorize in Amerada History: 2020, First Wave of avian influenza begins; 2022, international travel suspended; 2026, official proclamation of famine; 2030, dissolution of United States; 2045, Pragmatists come to power. I recite the names of Amerada’s six premiers in order. I finally resort to counting off the minutes in my head: one-Amerada, two-Amerada, three-Amerada . . .
I don’t know how long it is before I know. My parents aren’t coming. I know it long before the proctor opens the door, gives me a sympathetic look, and says, “I’m sorry, AC Jax.”
She leaves.
Click .
People’s parents always show up for Reunion Day, unless they’re dead. Parents dying is not an unusual reason for kids to end up in the Kube, especially kids my age because there was still a lot of flu when we were young. It’s almost as common as parents being unlicensed or unfit. A few kids, like Wyck, opt out of Reunion Day. I suppose it’s remotely possible someone’s parents could die after their kid is repoed and Proctor Fonner not be informed, but DNA is logged for every birth, marriage and death, so it’s an extremely rare death that doesn’t get entered into the system. I try to think of others reasons for their non-appearance, but my brain won’t work. Heartbreak is short-circuiting my synapses. Tears prick behind my lids, but I will them back. I meet two of the repos who met their parents today and brush past, pretending I don’t hear their questions about my reunion.
I’m going to the beach. I need the surge and splash of the waves to fill up this gaping hole that has opened within me, this emptiness that is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Sentries and being put on report be damned. What are they going to do to me now? They can’t take Reunion Day away from me. Someone’s already done that. I blast into the dome, planning to sneak out the east gate closest to the beach. I’m imagining the sand abrading my bare feet, when Dr.
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