While You Were Gone (2 page)

Vivian's words gnaw at me the entire ride.

I'm applying to Belford, too. Bosca says I stand a chance.

Nothing shakes them—not the music Jonas plays on the car radio, not the stop-and-go traffic, not even downtown rising into view. As he pulls into the Tower complex, they crowd around so close I actually raise my hand to swat them away. I wish I could swat her away, too.

Jonas leaves the engine running as he walks around to open my door. He reaches in to take my book bag.

I place a hand on it. “It's okay. I've got this one.”

He nods and goes to the trunk for my suitcase. I step out of the car and bump the door with my hip, hoping I've shut Vivian's voice inside.

Nope.
You're not the only artist at this school, you know.

What if she gets in and I don't? What if we
both
end up in Edinburgh? What if they assign us to be
roommates
?

Jonas sets my suitcase on the curb. I shift the book bag strap on my shoulder. “Thanks.”

He doffs an imaginary cap and returns to the car. I walk inside and the door closes behind me, sealing me in the Sniffer. Three blasts of air move my skirt and mess up my hair. I exhale and wait through swishing and clicking sounds as the machine analyzes if I'm safe or not. Finally, I get the green light. The Sniffer chamber opens and I'm allowed into the elevator. I press 14 and face my reflection.

Of course I'll get into Belford. I'm Eevee Solomon.

The girl staring back at me doesn't look so sure. My bags fall to the floor and I turn around, holding on to the rail with both hands. The cameras are watching but I don't care.

Does Vivian have to infringe on
every
part of my life? Ever since her dad challenged mine for the governorship, she's been trying to outdo me at everything. She followed me to Kierland Academy, switched to fine arts, weaseled her way into Bosca's master studio. Now she wants to apply for a Belford internship? I doubt she even knew where Scotland was before I mentioned it.

If only I hadn't screwed everything up going down to the vaults. What was I thinking?

I take a deep breath and turn around to look at my reflection. Straighten my shoulders and smooth my hair. Rummage through my bag and apply a fresh coat of Stormy Pink.

I've got this. My jury exhibit will blow everyone away. The public will rave about my paintings. I'll be Bosca's star student again. Belford will beg me to apply. By this time next year, I'll be shining so bright no one will even remember Vivian Hayes, that nobody girl who thought she could be me.

The elevator slows to a stop and the doors open. Smiling, I pick up my bags and walk down the hallway, passing paintings depicting Arizona's history. Arrival of the first settlers. Migrant farmers in citrus groves. Native American tribesmen on horseback. The Battle of Cabeza Prieta. I slip into the East Room, set my bags down and close the doors behind me. The dull light of morning filters through open windows. A vase of spider mums sits on the baby grand. I check the clock on the mantel. Jonas arrived early this morning to pick me up. Twenty minutes to wait now, if Richard has everything running on schedule.

I sweep my fingers across the piano's glossy finish before sitting on the bench and resting them on the keys. Mom used to play in college, but that was a long time ago. As far as I know, I'm the only person who ever touches this beauty. And that's only on weekends when I'm staying here with my parents instead of on campus. They have pianos in the practice rooms at school, but good luck finding one empty. And the music students get angry when nonprogram students invade their space. Can't blame them, I guess. I'd get pretty cranky if I found some trumpet player taking up residence in the art studio.

Winston's “February Sea” begins with soft, slow arpeggios and a repeating low G. I always start quiet, afraid of breaking the silence. As if anyone will hear me. The bedrooms are on the opposite side of the Tower, with too many boardrooms between to count. Seven measures in, I press the keys harder, letting the melody fill the room. The notes run through my brain like miles of familiar road. Scenery I no longer see. My brain slips into autopilot and Vivian's words whisper in the spaces between the notes. When I close my eyes, I see her gloating smile.

If only I could go back and change the night of Bosca's exhibit. That was when the power shifted, when, like an idiot, I handed Vivian the ammo to use against me. I should have known better than to go down to see the Retrogressives. Mom always said my impulsiveness would be my downfall. I hate when she's right.

My fingers pound the keys, sending shudders through the piano.

This is probably just one of Bosca's wacky plans, encouraging her to apply for the internship and Belford. Promoting Vivian is his way of keeping me on track. Not because she's actually his new prize student or anything. There's just no way.

When my fingers begin to ache from the punishment, I switch gears, running quieter patterns in the upper registers while my brain runs through the day ahead. Richard will retrieve me and we'll scurry off—not a minute to waste—to Conference Room B for debrief. Then, fashionably late, the governor will barge in with all the bluster of a tornado. Christine will follow, tablet and stylus at the ready. The governor will bark orders at Richard, then place both hands on the table before moving his gaze over to where I stand behind the second chair to his left. I'll see wariness in his eyes, but then he'll smile at me and I'll kiss him on the cheek and say, “Hello, Daddy,” like a good daughter should.

The bridge races beneath my fingers, punctuated by accents and trills.

He'll ask about school and I'll tell him what he wants to hear. Both of us will ignore the uncomfortable stuff. Later today, he and Mom and I will travel together over to the stadium and make our appearance at the Patriot Day celebration. We'll wave. We'll smile. We'll leave.

Approaching the coda, the music slows, and my fingers press the keys with care, each note growing quieter than the one before.

Will Vivian be at the celebration, too?

My shoulders slump. The arpeggios slow to a stop. My mind is blank. I stare at the vase's reflection before starting six measures back, playing the low arpeggios leading into the transition. At the same spot, my fingers stop again.

I look at my hands like it's their fault I can't remember the next chord, let alone the next note. Suspended sixth? No. Repeat of the bridge? That isn't right either.

The last, wrong chord hangs in the air, the keys pinned down by my fingers. The room is so still even the dust motes float motionless in the window's light.

The floor trembles and the water in the vase ripples. I lift my hands and listen, fingers hovering just above the keys. Above me the chandelier sways.

The floor trembles again and this time the piano strings whisper a ghostly moan. Chills run up my arms. My foot slips from the sustain pedal. Far off, I hear sirens.

Then footsteps. Not Richard's long strides, but hurried, staccato ones. Both doors bang open and two security guys swoop into the room.

“Miss Solomon,” the big one says, taking my elbow. The other speaks into his wrist: “Sparrow in the East Room.” In a rush of movement, I'm out the door, half carried down fourteen flights of stairs. Fluorescent lights and floor numbers blur past: 12, 10, 7, 4. By the time the basement bunker doors open, I'm dizzy and my heart pounds a fierce rhythm in my ears.

The darkness spits me out, hurtling me through a rush of light and sound. The ground breaks my fall and I shatter in an explosion of pain.

And silence.

Fingers press against my neck. I squint open my eyes.

A cop kneels over me. His lips move, but I can't hear him. Can't hear anything. My hands claw the pavement. Where am I? He talks into a radio and motions for me to stay. Faces move in and out of view. More hands reach under me, lifting me up from the ground. Gray sky and swirling ash fill my eyes before everything bleeds away to white.

My hands won't stop moving. My fingers wring around each other, curl into fists, press flat against my jeans and curl into fists again. Mom stills them with her own firm hand and gives a quick shake of her head.
Stop.
I look over at Dad, sitting on the other couch. His face is serious but composed.

Some moments are bigger than others. They weigh more. They stop you in your tracks. When you're in one, somehow you know: This is going to matter, so pay attention.

Like when Dad was sworn in as governor. Watching him raise his hand and repeat the oath, I had this feeling, this knowing, that nothing would ever be the same again.

It's the feeling I have now.

Images flash on the wall of monitors. Ash and smoke. A tattered Arizona flag. Soldiers and security and everyday people helping each other sort through the chaos. Three screens broadcast the latest news reports, a bank of black-and-whites displays live Spectrum security feeds from the site of the attack, two monitors wait on standby for incoming communications, and one shows Barcelona winning three to zip.

“Another,” Richard says, swiping a finger across his tablet. “Death toll at four.”

“Wearing a hole in the carpet won't change that,” Dad says. “Sit down.”

Richard sits on the arm of the couch because he does what Dad tells him to do. It doesn't stop him from checking for updates, though. His hair is turning gray at the temples. It'll be white by the time he's done serving as Dad's chief of staff. “Christine sent the draft of your public statement.”

He passes Dad the tablet, then turns up the volume on the news. A reporter stands a safe distance from a military blockade. Behind her, smoke rises from the rubble that used to be Port Royale Way. South of where she's standing is Jansen Fine Arts Services, where my work is getting prepped for installation. My hands escape their lockdown and I chew on my thumbnail before Mom stops them again.

“Power is still out for thousands as crews continue to search for survivors. Though the investigation is ongoing, an anonymous government official said a terrorist-detonated EMP is suspected—”

Dad hands the tablet back to Richard. “Tell Christine this needs more grit. People need to understand the dangers they face.”

“They?”

“
We.
More inspiration, too.” He stands and stretches. “We're in this together,” he says in his speech-giving voice. “We'll get through if we all work toward a stable society. There is no room for those who…” His voice fades as he and Richard disappear into the kitchen. Mom picks up the remote and mutes the TV.

One of the monitors flashes a spinning graphic—
PATRIOT DAY PANIC
—as the news ticker scrolls across the bottom. The screen shows a replay of the explosion, caught by Spectrum. A rising plume of smoke fills the view from across the mall parking lot. People duck and scatter in every direction. The camera shakes and debris flies as the second blast hits. The whole thing plays again in slow motion. It's surreal watching with the sound off. Makes it feel like it's happening somewhere far away. Makes me realize how quiet it is down here, cut off from all the people and noise.

Mom lets go of my hands and pats me on the knee. “Don't worry. We're safe.”

The last time we were in the bunker, I was a moody twelve-year-old, annoyed that I had to get off the phone to go underground. That was when Red December blew up the light-rail tracks over by Goldwater Field and turned downtown into a total mess. It never crossed my mind that something bad could have actually happened to us that day. With the concrete barricades and closed-off streets around the Executive Tower, it seemed impossible anyone could get close enough to try.

I don't know if it's me that's changed or the world, but this seems worse. Bigger. Closer to home.

This time people weren't just inconvenienced. People died.

I close my eyes but still see the images in my mind. “I'll be back,” I mumble as I walk to my room—well, the room that's considered mine down here in the bunker. I leave the door cracked a smidge so I can hear what's going on in the main living space, and fish my book bag out from where I stashed it under the bed. After a quick check to make sure the coast is still clear, I sit with my back against the wall, the door almost closed beside me. My hand slips inside the bag and pulls out the slim hardback book. Its corners are worn with age and from me lugging it around, no doubt. The title is scratched up, too, stamped gold against the plain black cover.
Retrogressive.

I know my fascination with the paintings is wrong, and that there's something not right with my brain that draws me to them, but I can't help it.

I open the book and my fingers navigate past the flyleaves and long-winded introduction. They know the way; they've done this countless times. The pages are thick and glossy. I flip through until I find the artist that fits: Pablo Picasso. As my eyes take in the feast of line and shape, my hands go quiet, my shoulders relax. I let the painting fill my mind until it's all I can see and the ugliness out there is erased by this beautiful chaos instead. My finger traces the progression of angles and shadows down to the words. My lips form them silently.
Ma Jolie.
My pretty girl.

If anyone saw me with this, if anyone knew my secret—

Vivian.

I turn from Picasso over to Ramsey. The faces in his
Iterations
laugh, scream, cry. I haven't looked at this one since the night of Bosca's exhibit. I haven't been brave enough. Seeing them now brings a flood of emotions. Fear. Anger. Regret.

Deconstructing Complacency
was set to be the event of the year. The Department of Public Compliance had lifted curfew the day before and people were itching to get out and live again. The line to get into the museum wrapped clear around the building and stretched all the way down to McDowell Road. This was big-time. And Bosca had put me in charge.

He was in rare form, making demands left and right. Being lead intern, I took the brunt of his drama. The others did whatever they could just to stay away. As the clock ticked down to opening, Bosca got snippy. When he demanded to see the museum director for the hundredth time, I asked Vivian to go instead. Twenty minutes to opening, I still needed to change my clothes and fix my hair. She stormed off, muttering under her breath, resentful that I'd given her something to do. I blew her off, grabbed my things and headed to the restroom.

I slipped into my dress—a red, strappy design I'd been dying for an excuse to wear—and tried to get myself fancied up. Even with hair pinned up and perfect lipstick, I looked stressed. My forehead was etched with worry and my hands wouldn't stop moving.

So instead of returning to the green room, I took the stairs down to the vaults. I knew it was a risk, but I had a few minutes and my feet led the way. With the museum closed and all the Bosca action happening upstairs, the hallways below were empty. Still, I tried to keep my heels quiet as I walked across the concrete floor toward the storage room at the far end. Unlike the passcode-protected vaults full of prized works of art, the reject room's door is never locked.

It's small and crowded in there. I crept around the statue of the man with stick-thin arms and inched past the paintings stacked against the baseboards. Crouching down, I flipped through them. Some are framed, some are just raw canvas. Others are rolled up and stand on end in the corner. I've never taken time to investigate those. Whatever they are, like all the other pieces stuffed in the room, they've been labeled Retrogressive, unfit for society. They're dragged out from time to time to be shown as cautionary examples of disorder, illness, depravity, and then put away again for fear of corrupting minds.

That night, I stopped on Ramsey's
Iterations,
a collage of faces exhibiting a range of emotions. Dread, sadness, joy. Rather than disorder, my mind filled with a sense of wonder, a sense of ease, just as it had the other times I'd snuck down there.

“Eevee?”

I pushed the paintings away with a gasp.

Vivian made a disgusted face. “What are you doing in
here
?”

“I—”

She crossed her arms as the disgust turned to a sly grin. “Caught ya, didn't I?”

My hands fell limp at my sides. She raised an eyebrow and turned, saying, “What will Bosca think of his little star now?”

Bosca was angry. Dismayed. He promoted Vivian to lead intern and put me on provisional status.

My parents don't know. Yet.

Which is why I have to make sure the work I present to the jury is acceptable. Not only so I can prove that I'm a good artist and upstanding citizen, but also so I can go somewhere else, like Belford, a place where I wouldn't be considered different, weird or disgraceful.

Dad passes by outside. “We need to make them realize it's for their own good.”

My hand braces against the door. The other grips the book.

A second set of footsteps—Richard's—follows. “They'll get on board. Trust me. The hardest part of all this will be the cleanup.”

“When do we get to go back upstairs?” Mom asks.

“Soon.” Dad's voice moves from one side of the room to the other. “They have to make sure the complex is secure first. Where's Eve?”

“I think it was too much for her.”

“Yes, well…” Dad's voice turns to a mumble and I can't make out what he says or Mom's response. The knock on the door startles me. “Eve?”

My hands fumble as they shove the book back into the bag. The door begins to swing and I press against it with my knee. Too hard. It bangs shut.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.” I scramble across the floor and slide the bag back under the bed. “Hang on.” A swipe of my foot and the strap disappears under the dust ruffle. I brush off my jeans and smooth my hair. By the time I open the door, Dad's over by Mom again. They stop midconversation and stare at me. Richard looks up from his tablet, too. Behind them, the images of the attack flicker across the monitors. “I was…” My hands resume their fidgeting.

Mom opens her mouth to say something to me but turns to Dad instead. “You were saying?”

Richard looks back down at his tablet. Dad picks up the remote. “I'm afraid we're down here until security decides we're safe.”

“Well, I wish they'd hurry,” Mom says with a sigh. “I just want everything to go back to normal.”

“It will.” Dad turns up the volume on Barcelona. “It always does.”