UnSouled (25 page)

“No,” Risa says, not realizing she would say it until she does. “I want to do her shampoo.”

The Juvie doesn’t have a dog on her lap, but she does have a chip on her shoulder. “I don’t go for nothing foo-foo,” she says. “Just keep it simple.”

“I intend to.” Risa drapes her with a smock and leans her back toward the sink. She turns on the water, making sure it’s nice and hot.

“I’d like to personally thank you,” Risa says. “For keeping the streets safe from all those bad boys and girls.”

“Safe and clean,” says the Juvey-cop. “Safe and clean.”

Risa glances out to the waiting area, where her partner obliviously reads a magazine. Audrey peers in at Risa nervously, wondering what she’s up to. With this woman leaning her head
back, totally at Risa’s mercy, Risa feels like the Demon Barber of Omaha, ready to slit her throat and bake her into pies. But instead she just dribbles shampoo into the corners of her closed eyes.

“Ah! That stings.”

“Sorry. Just keep your eyes closed. You’ll be fine.”

Risa then proceeds to wash her hair with water so hot she can barely stand it herself, but the woman doesn’t complain.

“Catch any AWOLs yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Usually we just patrol the detention facility, but a kid slated for unwinding went AWOL on our watch. We brought him down, though. Tranq’d him from fifty feet.”

“My, that must have been . . . thrilling.” It’s all Risa can do not to strangle her. Instead she opts for concentrated bleaching solution, rubbing it unevenly into her dark hair after rinsing out the shampoo. That’s when Audrey intercedes, a moment too late to stop her.

“Darlene! What are you doing?” Darlene is Risa’s salon pseudonym. Not her choice, but it works.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I just put in some conditioner.”

“That wasn’t conditioner.”

“Oops.”

The Juvie tries to open her eyes, but they still sting too much. “Oops? What kind of Oops?”

“It’s nothing,” Audrey says. “Why don’t I take over from here?”

Risa snaps off her gloves and drops them in the trash. “Guess I’ll go get those doughnuts now.” And she’s gone just as the woman begins to complain about her scalp burning.

•   •   •

“What were you thinking?”

Risa doesn’t try to explain herself to Audrey, and she knows
Audrey really doesn’t expect her to. It’s a motherly question though, and Risa actually appreciates it.

“I was thinking that it’s time for me to go.”

“You don’t have to,” Audrey tells her. “Forget about this morning. We’ll pretend it never happened.”

“No!” It would be so easy for Risa to do that, but being that close to a Juvey-cop—hearing what she had to say, the blatant disregard for the fate of the AWOL they took down—it’s knocked Risa out of this local eddy and given her a vector again. “I need to find whatever’s left of the ADR and do what I can to save kids from cops like the ones we saw this morning.”

Audrey sighs and nods reluctantly, already knowing Risa well enough to know that she can’t be dissuaded.

Now Risa understands her awful recurring dream of the disembodied faces. It is the faces of the unwound that haunt her, forever separated from everything that they were, looming over her in desperate supplication, begging her, if not to avenge them, then to make sure their numbers do not increase. She’s been complacent for too long. She can’t deny their pleas anymore. The mere fact that she’s alive—that she survived—bonds her to their service. And giving a spiteful hairdo to a Juvey-cop, while satisfying to her, does nothing to save anyone from unwinding. Her place is not in Audrey’s salon.

That afternoon Risa says her good-bye, and Audrey insists on stocking Risa up with supplies and money and a sturdy new backpack that has neither hearts nor pandas.

“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you,” Audrey says, just before she leaves.

“Tell me what?”

“It was just on the news. They announced that your friend Connor is still alive.”

It’s the best news Risa’s gotten in a long time . . . but then she quickly comes to realize the announcement is not a good
thing at all. Now that the Juvenile Authority knows he’s alive, they’ll be beating every bush for him.

“Do they have any idea where he is?” Risa asks.

Audrey shakes her head. “No clue. In fact, they think he’s with you.”

If only that were true. But even when Connor shows up in her dreams, he’s not with her. He’s running. He’s always running.

29 • Cam

Lunch with the general and the senator is in the dark recesses of the Wrangler’s Club—perhaps the most expensive, most exclusive restaurant in Washington, DC. Secluded leather booths, each in its own pool of light, and a complete lack of windows gives the illusion that time has been stopped by the importance of one’s conversation. The outside world doesn’t exist when one dines in the Wrangler’s Club.

As Cam and Roberta are walked in by the hostess, he spots faces he thinks he recognizes. Senators or congressmen, perhaps. People he’s seen at the various high-profile galas he’s attended. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. These self-important folk, wheeling and dealing, all begin to look alike after a while. He suspects that the ones he doesn’t recognize are the real power brokers. That’s the way it always is. Lobbyists for surreptitious special interests he couldn’t begin to guess at. Proactive Citizenry does not have a monopoly on secret influence.

“Best foot forward,” Roberta tells Cam as they are led to their booth.

“And which one is that?” he asks. “You’d know better than me.”

She doesn’t respond to his barb. “Just remember that what happens today could define your future.”

“And yours,” Cam points out.

Roberta sighs. “Yes. And mine.”

General Bodeker and Senator Cobb are already at the table. The general rises to meet them, and the senator also tries to slide out of the booth, but he’s foiled by his copious gut.

“Please, don’t get up,” says Roberta.

He gives up. “The burgers win every time,” he says.

They all settle in, share obligatory handshakes and obsequious niceties. They discuss the unpredictable weather, raining one minute, sunny the next. The senator sings the praises of the pan-seared scallops, which is today’s special.

“Anaphylactic,” Cam blurts out. “That is, I mean, I’m allergic to scallops. At least my shoulders and upper arms are. I get the worst rash.”

The general is intrigued. “Really. But just there?”

“And I’ll bet he can’t do any brown-nosing on account of his nose is allergic to chocolate,” says Senator Cobb, and guffaws so loudly it rattles the water glasses.

They order, and once the appetizers arrive, the two men finally get down to the business at hand.

“We see you as a military man, Cam,” says the general, “and Proactive Citizenry agrees.”

Cam moves his fork around in his endive salad. “You want to make me into a boeuf.”

General Bodeker bristles. “That’s an unfair characterization of young people who are military minded.”

Senator Cobb waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we all know the official military opinion of the word—but that’s not what we’re saying Cam. You’d bypass traditional training and go straight into the officer program—and on the fast track, to boot!”

“I can offer you any branch of the military you like,” Bodeker says.

“Let it be the Marines,” Roberta says, and when Cam looks
at her, she says, “Well, I know you had that in mind—and they have the crispest uniforms.”

The senator puts out his hand, as if chopping wood. “The point is, you would float through the program, learn what you need to learn lickety-split, and emerge as an official spokesperson for the military, with all the perks that come with it.”

“You’d be a model for young people everywhere,” adds Bodeker.

“And for your kind,” adds Cobb.

Cam looks up at that. “I don’t have a ‘kind,’ ” he tells them, which makes the two men look to Roberta.

She puts down her fork and composes her response carefully. “You once described yourself as a ‘concept car,’ Cam. Well, what the good senator and general are saying is that they like the concept.”

“I see.”

The main course arrives. Cam ordered the prime rib—a favorite of someone or another in his head. The first taste brings him back to a sister’s wedding. He has no idea where, or who the sister is. She had blond hair, but her face did not make the cut into his brain. He wonders if that kid—if any kid inside him—would have ever been offered a crisp uniform. He knows the answer is no, and he feels insulted for them.

Brakes in the rain. He must apply them slowly, so as not to set this meeting fishtailing out of control. “It’s a very generous offer,” Cam says. “And I’m honored to be considered.” He clears his throat. “And I know you all have my best interests at heart.” He meets eyes with the general, then with the senator. “But it’s not something I want to do at this”—he searches for a suitably Washingtonian word—“at this juncture.”

The senator just stares at him, all jovialness gone from his voice. “Not something you want to do at this juncture . . . ,” he repeats.

And, predictable as clockwork, Roberta leaps in with, “What Cam means to say is he needs time to consider it.”

“I thought you said this would be a slam dunk, Roberta.”

“Well, maybe if you were a little more elegant in your approach—”

Then General Bodeker puts up his hand to silence them.

“Perhaps you don’t understand,” the general says with calm control. “Let me explain it to you.” He waits until Cam puts down his fork, then proceeds. “Until last week you were the property of Proactive Citizenry. But they have sold their interest in you for a sizeable sum. You are now the property of the United States military.”

“Property?” says Cam. “What do you mean, ‘Property’?”

“Now, Cam,” says Roberta, working her best damage control. “It’s only a word.”

“It’s more than a word!” insists Cam. “It’s an idea—an idea that, according to the history expert somewhere in my left brain, was abolished in 1865.”

The senator starts to bluster, but the general keeps his cool. “That applies to individuals, which you are not. You are a collection of very specific parts, each one with a distinct monetary value. We’ve paid more than one hundred times that value for the unique manner those parts have been organized, but in the end, Mr. Comprix . . . parts is parts.”

“So there you have it,” says the senator bitterly. “You wanna leave? Then go on; git outta here. Just as long as you leave all those parts of yours behind.”

Cam’s breathing is out of control. Dozens of separate tempers inside of him join and flare all at once. He wants to dump the table. Hurl the plates at their heads.

Property!

They see him as property!

His worst fear is realized; even the people who venerate
him see him as a commodity. A thing.

Roberta, seeing that look in his eyes, grabs his hand. “Look at me, Cam!” she orders.

He does, knowing deep down that making a scene will be the worst thing he can do for himself. He needs her to talk him down.

“Thirty pieces of silver!” he shouts. “Brutus! Rosenbergs!”

“I am not a traitor! I am true to you, Cam. This deal was made without my knowledge. I’m as furious as you, but we both must make the best of it.”

His head is swimming. “Grassy knoll!”

“It’s not a conspiracy either! Yes, I knew about it when I brought you here—but I also knew that telling you would be a mistake.” She throws an angry glare at the two men. “Because if it were your choice, the technical issue of ownership need never have come up.”

“Out of the bag.” Cam forces his breathing to slow and his flaring temper to drop into a smolder. “Close the barn door. The horses are gone.”

“What the hell is he babbling about?” snaps the senator.

“Quiet!” Roberta orders. “Both of you!” The fact that Roberta can quiet a senator and a general with a single word feels like some sort of victory. Regardless of who and what they own, they are not in charge here. At least not at this juncture.

Cam knows that anything out of his mouth will be just another spark of metaphorical language—the way he spoke when he was first rewound, but he doesn’t care.

“Lemon,” he says.

The two men glance around the table in search of a lemon. “No.” Cam takes a bite of prime rib, forcing himself to calm down enough to better translate his thoughts. “What I mean is that no matter what you paid for me, you’ve thrown away your money if I don’t perform.”

The senator is still perplexed, but General Bodeker nods. “You’re saying that we bought ourselves a lemon.”

Cam takes another bite. “Gold star for you.”

The two men look to each other, shifting uncomfortably. Good. That’s exactly what he wants.

“But if I
do
perform, then everybody gets what they want.”

“So we’re back where we started,” says Bodeker, with waning patience.

“But at least now we understand each other.” Cam considers the situation. Considers Roberta, who is all but wringing her hands with anxiety now. Then he turns to the two men. “Tear up your contract with Proactive Citizenry,” he says. “Void it. And then I’ll sign
my own
contract that commits me to whatever you want me to do. So that it’s my decision rather than a purchase.”

That seems to baffle all three of them.

“Is that possible?” asks the senator.

“Technically he’s still a minor,” Roberta says.

“Technically I don’t exist,” Cam reminds her. “Isn’t that right?”

No one answers.

“So,” says Cam. “Make me exist on paper. And on that same paper, I’ll sign over my life to you. Because I choose to.”

The general looks to the senator, but the senator just shrugs. So General Bodeker turns to Cam and says:

“We’ll consider it and get back to you.”

•   •   •

Cam stands in his room in his DC residence, staring at the back of the closed door.

This town house is the place he comes back to after the various speaking trips. Roberta calls it “going home.” To Cam this does not feel like home. The mansion in Molokai is home, and yet he hasn’t been back there for months. He suspects
he may never be allowed to go back again. After all, it was more a nursery than a residence for him. It was where he was rewound. It was where he was taught who he was—what he was—and learned how to coordinate his diverse “internal community.”