Middle Ground (21 page)

“Madeline will be fine,” Molly assured us. “I really think this is temporary—”

“You don’t know that,” Pat interrupted. “You don’t know the long-term effects this place has. You said it yourself—you have your evidence. So let’s get her out of here.
Now.
”

Pat glared at Justin, daring him to disagree.

“I can’t tell her what to do,” Justin said calmly.

“Tell her what’s best for her. Do you think you’re the only person in this room who cares about her?”

Justin raised his eyebrows. “Are we really going to get into this right now?”

Pat took a step closer to Justin. “Since you’ve met her, all you’ve done is mess with her life.”

“You mean save her life,” Clare argued.

“What is wrong with you people?” Pat said. “Don’t you care about anything other than your precious mission?” He looked from Molly to Justin. “You guys don’t even see people. You just use them for your own purpose, for your own experiments and connections. But I’m not going to let you use Maddie.”

“They’re not using me, Pat,” I cut in.

“Oh yeah?” He glared back at Justin. “Where were you when she moved to L.A.? I know you never called her. You’re not involved in her life. You’re only down here now because you see her as a way to fight DS.”

“That’s not true—” I began but Pat interrupted me.

“You’re too blind to see anything but your job. You don’t care about anyone except yourself.”

I widened my eyes at Pat. Did he honestly believe that? I’d never heard anyone cut Justin down before, especially by calling him selfish. He never thought about himself.

“I care more than you think,” Justin said, his mouth tight. He was losing his cool and his eyes bore into Pat’s.

“What classes is she taking? What color did she paint her bedroom? What’s her favorite TV show? You don’t know the day-to-day things.”

“Don’t ever assume what I know,” Justin answered him, his voice fighting to stay calm. Pat’s hands balled up into fists and the muscles in his arms flexed. I stood up before a fight broke out.

“Would you guys stop talking about me like I’m not in the room? I’m staying. I’m not giving up and I don’t care what any of you think. It’s my decision. No one’s making it for me.” I turned to face Pat. “Justin doesn’t want me in here any more than you do. But I made a commitment. I’m not leaving until we know how to get everyone in this building out, until we have a plan in place. I’m your eyes and ears right now. You guys need me in here.”

“You’ve been through enough,” Pat said. He glared at Molly. “Take your tests. Do your little psychological experiments. But I’m not going to sit here and watch you do it anymore,” he said, and he opened the basement door and stalked out. We were all quiet for a few moments. Justin’s face was flushed. He refused to meet my eyes.

“You’re right, Maddie,” Molly said. “I think we need to let you carry this out.”

“Maybe we should listen to Pat,” Clare grumbled. She slumped into her seat and rested her head in her hands. “We’re your friends. We need to keep you out of harm’s way, not throw you in it. We’ll figure out something else.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m staying in here until my sentence is up or until we find a way to break every kid out of here. I have less than two months left.” I forced my voice to steady. “Besides, I’ve survived the worst part. They haven’t broken me yet.”

“Her funeral was online,” he said.

Justin and I sat on a rock, perched above the beach. There was a soft wind blowing. The air was humid and it smelled like rain was close. No stars were visible. The sky was stained black.

He pulled his baseball cap low so the brim shaded his eyes. I stared straight ahead because I didn’t want him to stop. You can puncture a moment with the wrong words. So I stayed silent.

“Kristin’s funeral,” he said. “It was a virtual service.” He spoke slowly, and for the first time I realized he struggled with words only when they were ones he’d never said before.

“I’d never been to a funeral before. I didn’t know what to expect. They set up a website to host the memorial service. You could log on and add comments and feedback and post pictures and share stories. There was a slide show and a forum. There were advertisements. They turned her life into a commercialized website.”

His body was rigid. Tense. He tried to keep his voice calm but I could hear it tainted with bitterness, like something toxic was coming out of it.

“It’s pretty easy to build a website for funerals,” he said. “I checked it out after Kristin’s death. It’s laid out in ten steps. It takes about a half an hour.”

I nodded as I listened.

“It made me so sick. That’s all people are worth these days, a half an hour of our time. No one travels to funerals. No one’s expected to make the sacrifice anymore. We can’t be inconvenienced.” He paused for a few seconds and his face tightened. I didn’t know what to say so I just squeezed his hand.

“That’s how desensitized we’ve become,” he said. “I’m scared of only one thing. One. That we don’t value people anymore. I can’t accept that. Because if it’s true, if we don’t value human life, what’s the point? What are we living for?” He pushed out a heavy breath. “Her funeral was a wake-up call on so many levels. People don’t appreciate each other when they’re alive. Why would they go out of their way for someone who’s dead?”

When my grandmother passed away, we organized an online memorial; that way, more people could attend. It was convenient because family didn’t have to travel across the country. It made sense, economically. People didn’t have to buy expensive airplane tickets and take leave from work. Kids didn’t have to miss school. People didn’t have to miss out on their own plans. It was practical. I never thought of it being less intimate. Until now.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I told him.

“I placed her there. I stationed her at the protest. On the steps, right on top of that bomb.”

“You told me once it can take lives to prove a point,” I said.

He took a long, haggard breath.

“It’s not your fault,” I repeated. “Justin, you can’t save everyone.”

He nodded like he was finally willing to accept it.

“I can see why fighting DS is so personal to you now,” I said. “Is that the only way to discover what you want to do with your life? When it becomes personal?”

He lay on his back and looked up at the sky and laced his fingers over his chest.

“You like to get deep,” he said, and looked over at me.

“If it isn’t deep, what’s the point?” I asked, and I smiled to myself after I said the words. A year ago, I would have thought the opposite was true.

“I’ve always been against DS,” he told me. “I dropped out when I was fourteen. I never liked being on a computer all day, it’s just a world I didn’t fit into. It always felt like I was outside of life, looking in but never living it. I was always on the cusp of knowing people. But I knew I was missing something and I hated that feeling. It’s like staring at a photograph full of holes. I wanted to see the full picture.

“And then Kristin died.” He swallowed. “Okay. This might sound strange, but I don’t think you ever know completely what you want until you get hurt. It takes pain. And I’m not talking about getting a bad grade, or missing people, or getting in a fight with somebody. I’m talking about the kind of hurt that feels like torture. It twists your mind until it feels like it’s bleeding. It’s like a part of you dies. It gives you a new set of eyes. Life slows down so much you can hear all your thoughts and that’s when you start to question things. You start to wonder what the point of life is and why you’re in it, who you wish was in your life, or out of it. And then you figure it out. You dig your way through all that pain so you never have to experience it again.”

He told me that’s how he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. He told me he was convinced most people were motivated not by what they wanted but by what they wanted to avoid.

He looked at me. “That’s the strangest thing about hitting rock bottom,” he said. “It makes you start over again. It sets you free.”

The LADC trained me to be a programmed machine during the day. At night, the rules were optional and shoved aside like curtains. Life became a different kind of production—one without directions or scripts or dress rehearsals. Meeting people face-to-face was the only antidote I needed. It pumped life back into my veins.

One night, Gabe and I walked down to the basement hallway where I was meeting Molly for my weekly series of tests. When we rounded the corner of the generator room, I froze. A group was waiting for me, gathered around glittering light on a folding table. I took a few steps closer and realized the lights were candles—real candles flickering on top of a cake. Justin was there, Clare, Molly, Scott; even Pat showed up. I walked over and read the icing.
Happy Eighteenth: Convict, Felon, and Friend.
It was fitting.

I smiled at my friends. They didn’t keep track of dates in the DC. I’d had no way of knowing it was my eighteenth birthday.

My birthday celebration usually consisted of a frozen cake my mom ordered online and thousands of birthday wishes from my contacts with happy one-liners. My wall screen flashed all day with messages I could never keep up with. I felt so popular scrolling down a list of thousands of names. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, but I still called them my friends because we were matched with similar profiles and interests.

I never went out, of course, but sometimes I’d have a virtual dress-up party or my parents would pay for me to get into an exclusive gossip club (VIP online parties where you could chat with a celebrity for a steep cover charge). I would dress my profile picture up in makeup and glitter and glamour, all in the comfort of my pajamas. I watched my avatar smile. My cartoon was so happy. I even had a happiness meter on the side of my profile in the shape of a cart. It filled up with yellow bubbles according to how many friends I had, how well I was doing in school, and how many clubs I joined. On my birthday, my cart was always full to the top, overflowing with yellow joy.

I used to look at that yellow meter and feel happy. But I was always feeling happy for someone else. I was only playing dolls.

Tonight, we played card games around the table, and the noise of the generators and the thick walls of the basement kept our voices from being heard outside the room. In a strange way, it was the best birthday I ever had. Even though I had lost nearly everything, I’d gained so much. I saw so much love and support around me. It fed me like food.

We played games for hours; we talked about freeing people in the DC; and we talked about change. I watched Justin and Scott joke back and forth and I watched people smile and I watched real eyes shine, and the energy was better than any drug. When you know you’re breaking the rules, it fires you up. It’s a rush to know you’re bending something solid. It’s a high to see how far you can twist your fate. We all glowed that night.

I thanked my friends and told all of them I loved them, because I did. This was my family. Gabe was like a brother. I was closer to him than to Joe because Gabe actually saw me, not the idea of me. He accepted me, he encouraged me. Most important, he took the time to know me. Relationships can be built only if you invest time in people, whether they’re your family or not. I was beginning to believe friends could replace family. When it comes down to it, you want to be around people who appreciate you.

Molly handed me my birthday present, a small blue box wrapped in a red bow. I opened it and found a clear vial inside, but it was empty.

I turned the glass in my fingers. “Thanks?” I asked. I looked up at her and she smiled.

“It’s the counter-drug,” she said. “It’s ready.” I looked from the vial to her and she explained it was a gas form. “That’s the only way we can administer it to the entire dorm,” she said. She pointed to the air ducts and said that the gas could be pumped from the basement into the ducts three times a day on a timer. Gabe said he could help set it up. The drug was odorless, and Molly said there weren’t any side effects.

“It acts as a shield,” she said. “It attacks the drug before it can shock you. We hope to bring back your insanity soon,” she said with a smile.

“What about the other students?” I asked.

“The ones that are still in here should be fine,” she said. “The ones that have already been released can get rehabilitation, if they’re open to it. Memories can be erased as easily as they’re inserted. It would just take some time and willingness for them to get help. I think when they find out what’s been going on in here, they’ll be willing to get the treatment.”

We passed a bottle of champagne and everyone took a sip. It was Justin’s idea. He said champagne was the liveliest drink. It was used to toast life’s accomplishments: weddings, graduations, wins, milestones. We toasted to our future success.

I looked around the basement and thought it was strange that in the darkest places you could find the most light. Hope works like that. It hides and blends in, only to pop out when you least expect it. It’s always a surprise, something you step on, trip over, or stumble on by accident. It hides in the divots of our lives, in the loneliest valleys. It’s like a child, always playing hide-and-seek to keep our lives unpredictable. Just when we’re about to give up, hope turns on, like light, to guide our way.

I heard a knock at my door and yelled, “Come in.” I had my stereo on and was nodding along to the music while I finished a paper for DS.

“What’s up?” I asked. I turned in my seat with a smile, expecting to see Gabe. Connie stood in the doorway, the woman who’d escorted me into the DC and given me the tour. She studied my appearance with a frown.

“You’re awfully perky these days,” she noted, as if looking alive and healthy were unattractive traits. I reminded myself to be careful. We were close to freeing the detention center’s inmates and I didn’t want to raise suspicion. I was supposed to cower from people, not welcome them.

“It must be the coffee,” I explained; mistake number two. I wasn’t supposed to want to leave my room, especially for something as frivolous as coffee. I shut off my music and scooted back my desk chair, then jumped out of my seat with a little too much energy. I stopped midway through the room and winced at my wall screens.