Chapter 11
Thomas
When the meeting is over, we’re led out by the guides, four at a time, to various places around the edge of campus. There is no Identity Police round-up this time, just a silent march of robed figures gliding through the backwater paths and alleys to our destinations.
There is no chance for Veritas and me to talk in private about what happened tonight. With our helmets on, walking single-file, there’s no way I can ask the question that’s burning in my mind. Veritas looks at me briefly before we part. A slight smile on her viewscreen disappears as she does, and I realize what I’m feeling must be showing on my avatar. But we can’t stay here, can’t talk this out, not now.
We’re behind a trash bin, our guide serving as a lookout while the other four of us remove our robes and stash them inside of our suits. Veritas is done before me, but I can tell she’s hanging back, not wanting to leave. The first person is already gone. The guide motions to the next person to go, and I see them start walking away, deftly reaching up to remove the tape from their helmet when they reach the alleyway entrance before disappearing around the corner.
The guide’s hand is out, fist closed, indicating Veritas shouldn’t go yet. I finish putting away my robe and see that she’s staring at me, the furrowed brow of her avatar likely matching my own. She takes a step towards me, taking my hand in hers, squeezing it slightly. I barely have time to squeeze back before the guide taps her on the shoulder, and it’s her turn to go.
And then she’s gone.
* * * * *
Hope is a strange thing.
It can turn certain disaster into a promise of better things in the space of a few moments. That single gesture gave me hope.
I’m not sure why it matters so much to me, but it does. I guess, after all, the whole reason I started this journey—went to the reveal party—the whole thing, was because I wanted to be free to be known for who I really am, to be free to know others for who they really are, and to hopefully connect in meaningful ways with those other people. To value and respect them and to be valued and respected in return. Isn’t that what makes life worth living in the first place? It’s not just about being safe and having food, shelter, and clothing. I had all those things before, but it wasn’t enough. I needed meaning, purpose. And right now, having hope that maybe Veritas has some feelings for me after all is beating the value/meaning/purpose drum pretty loud.
The worst part of the whole thing is the waiting. I have no idea how to contact her without using the dead-drop, and based on our drop/pickup schedule, it’ll be Thursday before she’ll read anything from me and Friday before I can get her response. It’s tormenting.
I muddle through Saturday and Sunday like a zombie, going through the motions of studying, working on a project that’s due next week, and even managing to force myself to go on a run. But none of it gets me out of my funk. Every time I think about her reaching out to hold my hand, I second-guess myself and end up not really sure it meant much of anything. Maybe it was just a ‘hey, friend, cheer up, but I don’t really like you that way’ kind of thing.
I’m still in my slump on Monday when I come back from lunch to find a familiar-looking piece of paper folded in half and taped to the door jamb of my room. My heart skips a beat as I take it down and almost read it before I remember my helmet camera will be broadcasting everything I see to some government censor. Once I’m in my cubicle and my helmet is safely perched on its stand with said camera facing the wall, I look at the note.
Schoolhouse 7 p.m. – V
I smile so big it hurts. My mind may not be made up yet about whether she really likes me or not, but my heart is on the ‘loves me’ petal of the flower. I stave off the ‘loves me not’ line, refusing to let this good feeling pass me by.
I barely pay attention in my next class. Seeing her is all I can think about. I take a shower. I make sure to put on enough deodorant and then think I put on too much, so I wash my armpits again and re-apply a lighter dose. I spend ten minutes brushing my hair even though I know the helmet will just mess it up again. I brush my teeth—twice.
By 6 p.m., I’m a bag of nerves and can’t wait any longer. I decide to go now and forget about trying to be suave and show up right on time like it’s no big deal. But what if it isn’t a big deal? What if this is just another step in the recruitment process and I’m reading too much into this? No. I won’t let those thoughts kill the buzz I’ve got right now. Without giving it another thought, I head out the door.
I arrive predictably early at the shed where we stored our helmets the last time. Twenty minutes early, in fact. I remove my helmet and store it the same way as before, then wander around behind the school building, making sure to keep the shed in sight so I won’t miss seeing her when she arrives.
I glance down at my arm pad. It’s 6:55 p.m. Where is she? Did I miss-interpret her note? Impossible. It has to be here. A feel a pang of panic as I wonder if she was picked up by the Identity Police. Then I hear a twig snap, and I see her at the edge of the forest behind the school, just coming into the clearing.
I walk back towards the shed to meet her, trying not to walk too fast and appear over-anxious. All the doubts and uneasiness I’ve been keeping at bay flood back in and wreak havoc on my emotions. I’m a mess inside. By the time I reach the shed, I’ve plucked through the entire loves-me, loves-me-not flower in my mind, and I’m not sure what to think.
She’s just finished putting her helmet in the shed and closes the door. As she’s turning around, I decide the best course of action is to confront this head-on. I take a step forward and speak.
“I just have to know . . .”
I never get to finish my question as she steps forward, puts her hands on either side of my face, and pulls me in for a kiss. I instinctively wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer, caught up in the moment, an explosion of emotion captured in our embrace.
I take in her smell, the softness of her skin, the taste of her lips on mine. When we finally stop kissing, she looks up into my eyes, smiling.
“Is that better?” she asks as she brushes a shock of my hair away from in front of my eyes.
“Yeah. Much better.”
She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and pushes away from me, grabbing my hand and leading me up the back steps of the schoolhouse, my hopes for another passionate kiss temporarily postponed.
We end up in the band room, which looks out over the back part of the school property and into the woods. She steps away from me, walks over to the windows, and looks outside.
“This is my favorite room in the whole school. With all of these windows, it gives the best view of the forest. It makes me feel . . . safe.”
She turns around and looks at me, smiling, one corner of her mouth rising slightly higher than the other side and causing a smile line to appear. I’m confused and happy all at the same time, but I’m smiling too, all the same.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I stammer. “I uhh . . . this is definitely not how I thought this meeting was gonna go.”
She giggles.
“I felt horrible the other night,” she continues. “I could tell you were upset about the way things went, the deception, the whole spy/recruitment thing. I hope you know I was just doing what I was told. We have to play by their rules if we want to be a part of this group and keep everyone safe.”
I nod my head.
“Yeah. I get it. So . . . the kiss?”
“I wanted to let you know how I feel about you. I picked you as a possible recruit for the cause, to begin with . . . but it’s more than that now.”
“So, this isn’t just another test to see if I’ll get involved with someone in the cause, but it’s really against the rules or anything like that?”
She moves her head from side to side before answering, “No, it’s the real deal.”
I step forward, so we’re inches apart, and look down into her beautiful brown eyes.
“Well, since we’ve got that cleared up. I think I’d like to try that kiss again.”
* * * * *
After our second kiss, we walk around the school, just talking. I feel completely relaxed around her.
“So, how did you get involved with the freedom movement?” I ask.
“My mom was a psychologist. She had several clients who were having difficulty living life hidden behind a mask and suit all of the time. They felt like no one really knew them—like they were alone. Mom started counseling them without wearing her mask and encouraged them to do the same—so they could both see each other. One of her clients apparently let that piece of information slip to the wrong person, and that someone turned mom in. She was sent away for re-education and lost her job.”
“Wow. That’s . . . that’s intense. So your mom was sent away for five years?”
“Yeah.”
“How old were you when it happened?”
“I was seven.”
“Wow. I mean . . . wow. That must’ve been horrible. I can’t imagine my mom getting sent away when I was that young.”
I see her head droop a little, and she reaches up and wipes away a tear that’s just started coming down her cheek.
“Hey, I’m sorry. We can talk about something else.”
“No, I want you to know. I want you to know the truth . . . about me and what happened to my mom. When she came back, she was different . . . harder. Something about her had changed. They didn’t let her go back to her old job—the job she loved and was good at. They gave her a job at a crisis counseling center where she counsels people over the phone, and everything she says is recorded and reviewed by government censors.
“My dad didn’t agree with what she’d done—breaking the rules and all. And I think he resented her for all the trouble it caused him. They were never in love—my parental pair, I mean. And after my mom went away for re-education, my dad pretended like she never existed. He took down all of her pictures from the walls. He never took me to see her. It was like he wanted to erase her from existence.”
“Wow. That must’ve been hard.”
“Yeah, it was,” she says as she wipes away more tears with her hand.
We’re sitting down now on a bench in what used to be the gym. I put my arm around her in a side-hug, and she leans into me.
“When my mom finally came back, she and dad didn’t talk. I mean, she tried and everything, but he wouldn’t even say hello to her. He’d leave the room whenever she came in. It was horrible. But she put on a brave face and tried her best to stay happy around me. She spent every free moment she had with me doing stuff—like she was trying to make up for the time she’d lost. We became best friends. She even took me to get my nose pierced. She got her nose pierced too, at the same time.”
She smiles wistfully.
“That’s cool. Your mom sounds like a great person.”
“She is.”
I can tell she’s not done, and I don’t want her to stop, so I just sit in silence, waiting.
“About six months after she got back, she took me up to the storage area in the attic and told me everything. About the shock treatment they gave her when she first got there to temporarily erase her memory so it would be easier to re-educate her, about the indoctrination tactics. It was really horrible—what they did to her.”
“That’s terrible. How come no one ever talks about that stuff? How come it hasn’t been reported in the news?”
“Because they tell them that if they ever tell anyone what happened to them while they were inside, that they’ll be brought back in, and their memory will be erased for good.”
“I’m so sorry . . .”
As I say the words, she sobs and leans into me even more, putting her hands over her face and shaking as she lets the pain come out. As I hold her, the final vestiges of trust that I had in the government drain away. If they’re willing to do things like that to keep the equality laws in place—the lies, the shock treatments, the coercion—then they can’t be trusted to tell us the truth or to play by the rules.
As I look down at Veritas, whose sobs are beginning to lessen now, I can sense something inside of me changing. This is something different than just trying to make us all equal. Whatever good intentions this whole thing started out with, it’s devolved into something entirely different. It’s apparent we’re now dealing with a totalitarian regime that is using these laws to control us. What started out as a movement to protect our freedoms is now a movement that’s actually repressing our freedoms—and the government is willing to do practically anything to maintain control and prevent things from changing.
Veritas sits upright.
“I must look a mess right now,” she says as she uses the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her face.
“No, you don’t. You look . . . beautiful.”
She manages a chuckle as she continues to dry her tears.
“I bet you say that to all the girls who break down in tears when you go out with them. Some first date, huh?”
I’m surprised when she calls this a date, but I guess it really is. Just not the typical kind.
“Why me?” I ask. “I mean, I’m sure you could’ve had your pick of guys.”
“Well . . . it started with your answer at the reveal party.”
She picks up my hand and presses hers against mine, our fingers straight and lined up with each other. The tips of my fingers extend well past her own. Then she sits up and begins tracing the outline of our joined hands with her finger.
“It wasn’t so much what you said as the way you said it. I could tell you were beginning to see the system for what it is. That . . . and I thought you were cute.”
She giggles, and I smile as she turns to stare into my eyes.
“Then, when you risked yourself to keep me from getting caught by the Identity Police, that’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“I knew that if you were willing to take that risk, that I could trust you . . . to have my back. And that sealed the deal for me.”
“You can . . . trust me to have your back,” I say.
“I know.”
