see the ripples the U.N.A. have set in motion. Aside from the directors and their teams, Freya and I are the only ones to realize what they’ve done.
Damn, I need a cigarette. What did I do with my jean jacket last night? I pad into the bedroom and throw my shirt on, scouring the bed and floor for any sign of my jacket. “I hung it in the hall closet,” Freya shouts in after me. “If you’re quitting, how come there’s a package of cigarettes stuffed into your pocket?”
“Last pack,” I swear. “When I finish them, it’s over.”
I trek back into the living room and along the hall , where I reach into the closet and tug my cigarettes and lighter from my jacket pocket. Then I bound back across the room and pull the sliding door open. The brown-and-grey bird has flown off somewhere, leaving the balcony to me. Out there with my feet bare and my shirt hanging open I feel like someone who desperately needs to quit smoking. As the first cigarette of the day fills my lungs, my shoulders unknot and my brain begins to relax.
“Hi, Robbie,” a voice greets. It’s my neighbour’s kid, Dawn, out on the next door balcony, and I stare at my wrist to check the watch I’m not wearing. Shouldn’t she be at school now?
“Hey, Dawn,” I say. “What time is it?”
Dawn shrugs, her straw-coloured hair rippling in the breeze as she leans over the railing. She’s about thirteen years old and wearing the same purple corduroy overalls that I see her in roughly every third day. Sometimes Freya and I hear Dawn’s mother shouting through the wall, her words thick like someone trying to speak with their mouth full, and a couple of times when I passed her in the hallway I would’ve sworn I’d smelled alcohol on her breath. But mostly when I see Dawn, her mom’s either out somewhere or asleep.
“Around eight-thirty,” Dawn adds, chewing on her hair. “Time to do up your shirt, maybe.” Her sarcasm makes me laugh and I jab the cigarette between my lips so I can get down to buttoning. Dawn has more tolerance for Freya, who let her hang out at our apartment and fed her mint ice cream with chocolate sauce the time she got locked out, than she does for me. I think Dawn just accepts me as part of the package deal.
“Better?” I ask, turning to give Dawn a look at my buttoned shirt.
“If you could line the buttons up properly,” she says dryly.
I glance down at my wrinkled shirt and hear her snicker. The buttons are perfect; Dawn’s just entertaining herself.
“You’re way too easy,” she says, pulling away from the railing to reach f or the sliding door behind her. A second before she disappears into her apartment, she cranes her neck back and adds, “See ya, Robbie.”
“See you,” I tell her.
Alone on the balcony I finish my cigarette before stubbing it out against the railing. When I move back inside Freya hands me a bowl of Count Chocula mixed with Wheaties, my cereal combo of choice. We settle back onto the couch together, a worry line between Freya’s eyes as she methodically chews her Cheerios. “I’m going to be thinking about this all day,” she says, “wondering what they’re planning next.”
“Me too . They must’ve already made a lot of changes that weren’t high-profile enough for us to pick up on.” The talking heads on the TV are long-faced and craven, and I squeeze Freya’s knee reassuringly. “They’ve probably given up on us. They have bigger things to worry about.”
I don’t entirely believe that , but maybe it’s true. They were relentless in their pursuit last year. If Freya hadn’t seen them coming, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. But with the future’s fate resting on their shoulders, how much could two young people like us matter to U.N.A. forces anymore?
Our hands wind together as Freya and I watch Reagan take a bullet to the neck again. People will be seeing that image repeated all day long. The entire nation must be in a state of shock.
One of the newscasters
Damn, I need a cigarette. What did I do with my jean jacket last night? I pad into the bedroom and throw my shirt on, scouring the bed and floor for any sign of my jacket. “I hung it in the hall closet,” Freya shouts in after me. “If you’re quitting, how come there’s a package of cigarettes stuffed into your pocket?”
“Last pack,” I swear. “When I finish them, it’s over.”
I trek back into the living room and along the hall , where I reach into the closet and tug my cigarettes and lighter from my jacket pocket. Then I bound back across the room and pull the sliding door open. The brown-and-grey bird has flown off somewhere, leaving the balcony to me. Out there with my feet bare and my shirt hanging open I feel like someone who desperately needs to quit smoking. As the first cigarette of the day fills my lungs, my shoulders unknot and my brain begins to relax.
“Hi, Robbie,” a voice greets. It’s my neighbour’s kid, Dawn, out on the next door balcony, and I stare at my wrist to check the watch I’m not wearing. Shouldn’t she be at school now?
“Hey, Dawn,” I say. “What time is it?”
Dawn shrugs, her straw-coloured hair rippling in the breeze as she leans over the railing. She’s about thirteen years old and wearing the same purple corduroy overalls that I see her in roughly every third day. Sometimes Freya and I hear Dawn’s mother shouting through the wall, her words thick like someone trying to speak with their mouth full, and a couple of times when I passed her in the hallway I would’ve sworn I’d smelled alcohol on her breath. But mostly when I see Dawn, her mom’s either out somewhere or asleep.
“Around eight-thirty,” Dawn adds, chewing on her hair. “Time to do up your shirt, maybe.” Her sarcasm makes me laugh and I jab the cigarette between my lips so I can get down to buttoning. Dawn has more tolerance for Freya, who let her hang out at our apartment and fed her mint ice cream with chocolate sauce the time she got locked out, than she does for me. I think Dawn just accepts me as part of the package deal.
“Better?” I ask, turning to give Dawn a look at my buttoned shirt.
“If you could line the buttons up properly,” she says dryly.
I glance down at my wrinkled shirt and hear her snicker. The buttons are perfect; Dawn’s just entertaining herself.
“You’re way too easy,” she says, pulling away from the railing to reach f or the sliding door behind her. A second before she disappears into her apartment, she cranes her neck back and adds, “See ya, Robbie.”
“See you,” I tell her.
Alone on the balcony I finish my cigarette before stubbing it out against the railing. When I move back inside Freya hands me a bowl of Count Chocula mixed with Wheaties, my cereal combo of choice. We settle back onto the couch together, a worry line between Freya’s eyes as she methodically chews her Cheerios. “I’m going to be thinking about this all day,” she says, “wondering what they’re planning next.”
“Me too . They must’ve already made a lot of changes that weren’t high-profile enough for us to pick up on.” The talking heads on the TV are long-faced and craven, and I squeeze Freya’s knee reassuringly. “They’ve probably given up on us. They have bigger things to worry about.”
I don’t entirely believe that , but maybe it’s true. They were relentless in their pursuit last year. If Freya hadn’t seen them coming, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. But with the future’s fate resting on their shoulders, how much could two young people like us matter to U.N.A. forces anymore?
Our hands wind together as Freya and I watch Reagan take a bullet to the neck again. People will be seeing that image repeated all day long. The entire nation must be in a state of shock.
One of the newscasters
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