“I told you this would happen,” Hillaire says from the shadows of our tree fort. Her voice is eerily calm as she sits in a corner, her robotic hand resting on her knee. “I warned you that if you banned Bliss, you’d be labeled an enemy of democracy. You’re the one who told us we can’t afford to care about other low-citizens. And yet here you are, risking usallover this vote.”
“I meant what I said,” Dad retorts. “But I only meant thatyoucan’t afford to care. Watching out for other Greens is my job.”
“So, you don’t regret banning Bliss?” I ask.
“I regret how it’s affecting you, not how it’s affecting our people.” He slouches further into his chair. “The fallout will be rough at first, but it won’t last. In a week or two, when the withdrawal symptoms die down, people will be thanking me—telling me I was right to unplug them from the toxic shit-pump that’s been screwing up our society for the past thirty years.”
Vivian urges her horse into a clipped trot, her long black braid bouncing. “How can you say that when you’ve destroyed our lives? Our reputations? If I lose one more friend, I won’t have any left.”
“The right thing isn’t always the easy thing, Viv.”
“You see yourself as a hero, don’t you?” Hillaire accuses. “Well, you’renot. A hero takes care of his family. He doesn’t dangle them over a mob for a chance at personal glory.”
Mom, silent until now, rises to Dad’s defense. Her face burns with defiance as she tries to prop him up, but even I can see it’s too late. Hillaire’s accusation lands. The chips in Dad’s resolve are starting to show.
The sight of his lowered head, flushed cheeks, and shifting eyes makes me regret firing so many bullets. With Hillaire and Vivian here, I should’ve saved some of my anger for a private call.
“I don’t expect you to understandwhyI did it,” Dad says to Hillaire, “but Idoexpect you to accept what’s happening as a result.”
Hillaire opens her mouth as if to lash back, but he cuts her off with a raised finger. His voice turns mechanical as he announces that he and Mom will be traveling throughout the Green District for the next two weeks to quell the protests and convince the Greens of the Bliss ban’s merits. He adds that Hillaire and Vivian are forbidden to leave our property, and that I’m not to leave my suite unless it’s for class.
“And starting tonight,” Dad says, “you’re all required to join a family call every evening at 7 p.m. No exceptions.”
“7 p.m. for which time zone?” I ask.
“Yours.”
Then he hangs up.
Both Hillaire and Vivian curse under their breath.
The rules mean Hillaire will miss her shooting competitions and the Society Club’s weekly science presentations. Vivian’s social life, including her pilot lessons and wedding planning, will take a nosedive. But with Dad gone and no one left to argue with, they both hang up.
A long, suffocating silence hangs over the call, one I have no intention of breaking.
Finally, Mom gets up from her desk and, with an air of forced calm, says, “You can still drop out. If you come home now, you’ll avoid the worst of it.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m already a Public Person. Dropping out won’t change anything. It’ll just be a sign to the high-citizens that Bruce Waldsten can’t protect his family.”
Mom’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t flinch. “Hecanprotect us, and he will. But that doesn’t mean we won’t suffer, Loredana. Pain is the price of change, and whether we like it or not, we’ve been called to pay it.”
A faint scream echoes in the background, followed by a slamming door—Vivian and Hillaire fighting again. Mom hangs up abruptly, probably rushing to defuse the chaos before Dad arrives.
Silence.
I move to the window of my suite, my chest rising and falling unevenly as I consider Mom’s words. The Bliss ban itself doesn’t upset me. Even I have to admit the drug is a piss-stain on the pants of our society. It’s the fallout I’m not sure I’m ready for.
The afternoon slips by. A Pinkie orders my lunch while I shower to wash away the sweat and mascara smudged across my face. Clean, but not refreshed, I emerge and look around my suite. I want comfort, even if it’s only surface-level, and it’s there in a luxurious blend of green and gold. My suite includes a salon, a private study, a bedroom, a terrace, and a chamber with pods for the Pinkies to recharge. There’s no kitchen, but plenty of space to dine in the salon or outside on the terrace.
The sight of my unpacked belongings hits me with an unexpected wave of homesickness. My clothes are neatly hung in the walk-in closet, and the patterned wool-silk carpet feels soft beneath them. My diary rests on the rosewood vanity, next to three makeup kits and styling tools. A tap dancing trophy gleams on the marble mantel above a carved fireplace adorned with peacock feather motifs. My boxing gloves dangle from the headboard of my upholstered bed. Even my Grandmaster University acceptance letter is framed and hung on the wall, partially obscured by teal drapes fluttering in the late-summer breeze.
The suite isn’t home, but at least it’s a piece of it.
I search through my closet until I find my fencing stick, a dull practice blade that can barely harm a fly. My weapons ban extends to anything other than a steak knife. The stick is lightweight and flexible, perfect for practicing and maintaining my form. I order my Pinkie to draw the curtains, not wanting to risk being seen with the practice blade, even though it’s harmless.
My bare feet glide over the carpet as I make sharp advances, quickretreats, and parries that slice through the air, as if responding to an unseen opponent. Gradually, calm settles over me, burning away the fog of anxiety that’s been suffocating me since I stepped off Harrison’s jet.
An hour later, breathless and sweating, I stash the stick in the back of my closet, inside a bag of custom golf clubs I’ve never used. I feel energized, like I could go for a long run. I stare at the golf bag, which hides the stick, and remind myself that this is why I’m here. In two years, I’ll be able to fence again. In the meantime, I’ll train. I’ll study physical education, play sports, and stay focused until I can legally join Grandmaster’s elite fencing program.
