EVERY DAY YOU MAKE ME PROUD TO BE YOUR MOM !”
I was pretty lucky to have her. We’d only gotten closer since Dad died.
Screens bubbled at the top of the subway’s doors. A news reporter sporting a fearsome unibrow flashed across one.
“Good morning,” she said, “I’m Priscilla Gurley and the time is eight o’clock. Today’s top story: LOST BOYS STILL LOST.”
The press got smarter everyday.
Mom might not have been able to come, but she’d sent Charlie with me. That was probably the next best thing. And if I was being honest, it might even have been better. Charlie had also just gotten her vaccination a few months ago.
Charlie pushed a strand of dark brown hair away from my eyes, then crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was antsy. “You nervous?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nah. I’ve made it this far, right? I’m one of the winners. Just a couple hours now.”
She nodded. The odds were good I’d make it, but I could tell she was scared. Our lives were fragile, and we knew it. The Carcinogens could strike a kid down at any time. The Indigo vaccine was the only thing that kept the adults in our world alive.
The Federation must not fall. The Federal government drummed that mantra into our heads as fervently as it pumped the vaccine into our irises when we turned fifteen.
“Plus,” I said, “I’ve got my lucky socks on today.”
I rolled up my jeans to show her. They were Dad’s old pair. Red with pictures of cheeseburgers printed across the sides.
Charlie smiled and rolled her eyes. “I swear, Kai. You and those frickin’ cheeseburger socks.”
I grinned and quoted my father: “If a man’s brave enough to wear cheeseburger socks in public, he’s brave enough to do anything.”
I still missed Dad pretty much every day. His euthanization had been three years ago. I was lucky Mom still had two years left. Both of Charlie’s parents were already gone.
She smiled. “That’s a cheesy line, if I ever heard one.” She paused, then smirked. “ Bun intended.”
You have to admire a girl who’s good with puns. I shook my head, feigning embarrassment. “Lord, just stop. Or I’ll quit taking you out in public. The chopsticks are already a bit much. But the puns? Now you’re pushing it…”
Charlie had pinned her blond hair back into a messy bun and secured it in place with a pair of chopsticks. She’d worn it like this every day since I’d met her in the fifth grade. The color of her chopsticks was determined by the day of the week. Mondays were maroon. Tuesdays, teal. Wednesdays, white. Thursdays, blue. And Fridays were whatever she wanted.
Today was a Friday (she’d skipped school to come to the clinic with me), and her chopsticks were lime green with margarita pendants that dangled from the ends. Her mom gave her this pair when she was seven. A souvenir from her work trip to Club 49.
I pulled the chopsticks from Charlie’s bun and shoved them under my lip. “Walruth,” I said.
She snatched them back and shook her head. “So immature, Kai-Guy.” I loved when she called me Kai-Guy.
She put a chopstick to her forehead and grinned.
“Unicorn!” I yelled.
An old woman—probably forty-eight or forty-nine—shushed us from the row behind. Charlie shook her head, holding the chopstick in place. “Not unicorn,” she said. “Narwhal.”
We both burst into laughter. Charlie’s laugh was something between a snicker and a snort. She was really beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made guys like me get sorta sweaty hands—but her laugh didn’t fit her looks. It belonged to an old woman choking on corn on the cob. It was the kind of laugh that made people wipe their brows, thinking: Thank god—she’s like the rest of us.
I wiped one of my sweaty hands against my leg. “Narwhals are extinct,” I said, “like whales. Like seals. Like lots of things.”
“Like your dignity?” she teased and winked. I think she was trying to be seductive—she did that sometimes. But
I was pretty lucky to have her. We’d only gotten closer since Dad died.
Screens bubbled at the top of the subway’s doors. A news reporter sporting a fearsome unibrow flashed across one.
“Good morning,” she said, “I’m Priscilla Gurley and the time is eight o’clock. Today’s top story: LOST BOYS STILL LOST.”
The press got smarter everyday.
Mom might not have been able to come, but she’d sent Charlie with me. That was probably the next best thing. And if I was being honest, it might even have been better. Charlie had also just gotten her vaccination a few months ago.
Charlie pushed a strand of dark brown hair away from my eyes, then crossed and uncrossed her legs. She was antsy. “You nervous?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nah. I’ve made it this far, right? I’m one of the winners. Just a couple hours now.”
She nodded. The odds were good I’d make it, but I could tell she was scared. Our lives were fragile, and we knew it. The Carcinogens could strike a kid down at any time. The Indigo vaccine was the only thing that kept the adults in our world alive.
The Federation must not fall. The Federal government drummed that mantra into our heads as fervently as it pumped the vaccine into our irises when we turned fifteen.
“Plus,” I said, “I’ve got my lucky socks on today.”
I rolled up my jeans to show her. They were Dad’s old pair. Red with pictures of cheeseburgers printed across the sides.
Charlie smiled and rolled her eyes. “I swear, Kai. You and those frickin’ cheeseburger socks.”
I grinned and quoted my father: “If a man’s brave enough to wear cheeseburger socks in public, he’s brave enough to do anything.”
I still missed Dad pretty much every day. His euthanization had been three years ago. I was lucky Mom still had two years left. Both of Charlie’s parents were already gone.
She smiled. “That’s a cheesy line, if I ever heard one.” She paused, then smirked. “ Bun intended.”
You have to admire a girl who’s good with puns. I shook my head, feigning embarrassment. “Lord, just stop. Or I’ll quit taking you out in public. The chopsticks are already a bit much. But the puns? Now you’re pushing it…”
Charlie had pinned her blond hair back into a messy bun and secured it in place with a pair of chopsticks. She’d worn it like this every day since I’d met her in the fifth grade. The color of her chopsticks was determined by the day of the week. Mondays were maroon. Tuesdays, teal. Wednesdays, white. Thursdays, blue. And Fridays were whatever she wanted.
Today was a Friday (she’d skipped school to come to the clinic with me), and her chopsticks were lime green with margarita pendants that dangled from the ends. Her mom gave her this pair when she was seven. A souvenir from her work trip to Club 49.
I pulled the chopsticks from Charlie’s bun and shoved them under my lip. “Walruth,” I said.
She snatched them back and shook her head. “So immature, Kai-Guy.” I loved when she called me Kai-Guy.
She put a chopstick to her forehead and grinned.
“Unicorn!” I yelled.
An old woman—probably forty-eight or forty-nine—shushed us from the row behind. Charlie shook her head, holding the chopstick in place. “Not unicorn,” she said. “Narwhal.”
We both burst into laughter. Charlie’s laugh was something between a snicker and a snort. She was really beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made guys like me get sorta sweaty hands—but her laugh didn’t fit her looks. It belonged to an old woman choking on corn on the cob. It was the kind of laugh that made people wipe their brows, thinking: Thank god—she’s like the rest of us.
I wiped one of my sweaty hands against my leg. “Narwhals are extinct,” I said, “like whales. Like seals. Like lots of things.”
“Like your dignity?” she teased and winked. I think she was trying to be seductive—she did that sometimes. But
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