I knew then, being my true self now more than ever, I was a child of God. I stood, walked towards school and never returned home.
12
Do you know how to use this?” A sound technician holds a body microphone between his thumb and forefinger. Adea and Amana nod in unison. The technician wears a Boot uniform, albeit sadly. One can tell by its ill fit that underneath the leather jacket he is just a ninety-pound geek who serves the regime with his expertise but not his heart.
“Do you need me to wire it up for you?” His voice cracks. Adea and Amana look at each other knowingly, then look back at the technician, who is quizzically inspecting their enormous skirts, bridged together as if they are conjoined twins in golden sparkles and pink tulle.
“No. We’re good,” they say in semi-convincing rounds.
“You sure?”
Rather than look at the diminutive technician to assert her authority, Liv looks into the bulb-framed mirror and removes a smudge of lipstick from her two front teeth. She interjects from her lounge chair in the dressing room.
“They said they were good. Now leave.” Liv shifts from one bum cheek to the other to deliver a sly grin at the technician, her black pantsuit in drastic contrast to the twins’ skirts. “I want to have a conversation with these two young ladies before we start.”
The technician looks at Adea and Amana, then leaves reluctantly, assuming that Liv will discipline them. The door shuts.
Liv hears static on her walkie-talkie, and she picks it up. “Liv here.”
“What’s your ETA? The delegates are already in place and are waiting.”
“We’re just putting mics on the twins and then I’m escorting them out. Give me five.”
“Five it is. Over.” Static. Liv shuts off her walkie-talkie.
The twins each quickly pinch a body mic onto their respective bone corsets and expertly thread the wire along the inside of its seams, then connect the wire to a receiver. They help each other clip the receiver to the back of their corsets, barely moving the parade float of a costume.
“Are the body mics off?” The twins check each other’s receivers and nod at Liv. “Good. Everyone is in place. When I give you the signal, we will begin.” They all hug as much as the skirts will allow, foreheads touching. The twins’ faces have healed from the cigar burns, and their heads are evenly shaved now to appear intentional, fashionable, and not an act of humiliation. Just in time for this internationally observed event. Breathing heavily, their heads all meet in the centre of this circle and their arms intertwine in a last embrace. Liv releases herself from the circle to meet eyes with the twins. She holds their hands in hers, the corners of her eyes gathering water. They embrace one more time. Looks of fear. Of ending. Everything final. Liv turns on the twins’ mic receivers and places her forefinger to her mouth to alert the twins that people may be listening. The twins nod.
Liv walks to the double doors of the dressing room and opens them. They continue through a darkened theatre, slowly walking past marble walls, empty box office windows and dusty chandeliers towards the sound of a raucous crowd. Two Boots stand at the doors of the theatre and open them for the procession.
Liv speaks into her walkie-talkie.
“This is Liv. We’re about to exit the theatre. Over.”
“Copy that.”
Liv leads Adea and Amana out into the hustle and bustle of the Summit of Nations. Cameras. Reporters. Microphones. The twins squint their eyes against the dazzlingly bright sunshine.
A tall brunette woman, wearing a pantsuit and a headset, approaches Liv.
“Hi, Liv. I’m Joan. Is everyone ready?”
“Yup. They’ll stay right behind me.”
Joan rushes to the front of the procession, where a marching band awaits in their crisp red-and-white uniforms, and gives a signal. A team of baton twirlers in maple-leaf-printed track suits waits patiently behind the marching band. A whistle is heard. A rhythmic percussive intro starts a rollicking rendition of “O Canada.” The twins begin to step forward and Joan rushes to intervene.
“Not yet,” she says with her arm blocking them, looking at the marching band’s progress down the street. “I don’t want any bottlenecking. I want it to be nice and smooth.” Joan talks into her headset, then another signal. “Baton twirlers . . . Go!” The team obliges by dancing in the direction of the marching band. Joan lifts her arm. “Okay. Twins. Go!”
Amidst the noise, Amana looks at her sister and sends her a silent message through her eyes and the tight grasp of her hand. Adea looks back, her breath shaky and her eyes clear, confirming that the message is received. The twins gracefully step forward. Joan signals for three Boots to clear the path for Liv and the twins as they make their way from Victoria Street to Yonge Street, then to Yonge-Dundas Square. Joan waves goodbye and says, “Have fun!”
“And we’re off to the races!” says one of two commentators sitting in an elevated platform overlooking the procession, their image broadcast on the giant screen in the square. One commentator with blond ringlets flashes a lipstick smile at the camera, and the other’s bushy moustache hovers over his handheld microphone. Both of them sport Canadian flag T-shirts and white straw hats.
“Well, Kelly, it looks like thousands of proud Canadians are gathering here today to kick off the Summit of Nations. Why, people are so rowdy, you’d think this was the Santa Claus Parade!” says Moustache, buoyant and cheerful.
Kelly giggles and waves at the crowds. “Well, Paul. It’s not Santa Claus, but we certainly celebrate our esteemed delegates from afar . . .”
The international media representatives do not don the same smiles. Instead, they each wear a face of determination. A reporter in the crowd squeezes between several spectators holding Canadian flags to reach the twins. “Adea and Amana! What does your presence say to the world about the Renovation?” she asks in an Australian accent.
Other international reporters materialize and chime in.
“Are you being held captive?”
“Are all Others like you safe?”
“Do you believe the Renovation was beneficial to you?”
The media scrum that has appeared on the parade route is tight. Another reporter manages to elbow her way between two cameramen. “Adea and Amana! Delegates from New Zealand and Ireland refused to attend today’s summit after expressing concern that the Renovation is a sign of the rise of a fascist regime here in Canada. Do you agree?”
They move slowly in their immense skirts, observing the banners celebrating the Summit of Nations and Canada’s birthday. Yonge Street is a sea of spectators wearing white straw hats with red bands, all fighting for a better view. Once they gain access to the front of the barriers, they gawk at the twins walking freely on the street and tainting the city. Some eyes are wide at the sight of them. Some laugh. Some take pictures. Some spit at them.
On the east side of the street, a vendor sells straw hats, Canadian flags and popcorn. He catches the eyes of the twins as he twists a plastic bag closed and hands it to a young couple. His glance is solemn and serious. Is it apologetic? Disgusted? It is unclear.
Farther south, a father carries his toddler on his hip and points at the twins. His older child jumps in front of him, begging for a better look at the procession.