“This is going to be bad,” I say after Tami and Ash have gone to change their clothes.
“You don’t know that,” Ivy says.
“How could it be anything else?” I say.
“The truth is going to come out,” she says. “Isn’t that a good thing? Tami’s going to lose.” She takes my hand, and we just sit there in silence for the next few minutes, looking out the window at the poisoned sky.
I don’t know what Tami and Ash talk about while they’re gone, but I can feel the tension as they emerge from the hallway. Ash immediately goes to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle, and stuffs it in the oversized purse on Tami’s shoulder. She just nods and says, “Let’s go.”
Ivy and I stand up in unison. Ash doesn’t even look at us.
“Ivy, let’s take your car,” Tami says. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of those monstrosities. It’s so entertaining to see the ridiculous things new money will buy.”
27
We drink in the car. We drink on the ferry. By the time we are in the middle of the Puget Sound, halfway between Commodore Island and Seattle, everyone except Tami is on the verge of drunk, and it’s not even dark yet. We are in a private VIP room on the boat, which I never even knew existed before today. “For privacy,” Tami says. “We don’t want anyone to bother our little star, do we?”
Tami talks constantly, as if hearing her own voice will crowd out the reality of what’s right in front of her, as if she can make it go away by sheer force of will.
“I cannot wait to get off this fucking island,” she says. I don’t mention we are on a boat floating in the middle of the Sound. “Right, Ash? We’re going to have the perfect life.” She takes his hand and holds it to her chest, and I have never seen anything more fake in my life.
We are all actors. We are all terrible fucking actors.
“Huh?” He is looking out the window. He has gone away from us. But his shadow is heavy on the floor, somehow darker, thicker, more substantial than ours.
Ivy and I are sitting across from them. She is pinching the flesh on the underside of her arm so hard it’s bruising.
“Life is really going to start when we get to Yale. Even though it’s in Connecticut.” She laughs, but no one else does.
“What’s wrong with Connecticut?” Ivy says.
Tami sighs. “Have you ever been to New Haven?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s certainly not New York. And it’s half underwater now anyway.”
“I don’t really like New York,” Ivy says.
Tami looks her up and down like she’s some kind of alien. “How could anyone not like New York?” she says.
“It’s too crowded. And it’s scary how it’s just those storm walls that are keeping the ocean from covering the whole island.”
Tami rolls her eyes. “If the walls broke, the water would just go up to the second floor. And anyway, the important parts of the city are elevated. I wish Seattle would get their shit together and elevate downtown the way they did in Manhattan. It’s so much more civilized.”
“Walls and gates aren’t enough for you?” Ash says, still looking out the window. “Some might say that’s elitist.” His shadow seems to tremble, almost like it’s laughing.
“If other people want in the elevated city, they can pay the toll like everyone else. What do you have to worry about? You can afford it.”
A voice comes over the loudspeaker and announces we are approaching Seattle.
“Let’s go,” Tami says, standing up.
“Where are we even going?” Ash says.
“Back to the car, dummy.”
“Then what?”
“I have a stop to make.”
I feel myself shrivel like all the dying plants outside.
* * *
• • •
The news keeps saying the protests in Seattle are getting worse. Daddy says they just flare up when it gets hot and the air gets bad, but Papa says we’re going to end up like Portland soon, like so many other cities that have either given up to the separatists or been put under complete police lockdown. He said I shouldn’t go into the city for a while. But he doesn’t know I’m here.
People have broken through one of the gates that separates the restricted toll area of downtown from the rest of the city. There are protesters everywhere. The police have managed to set up barriers along the street so cars can get through. A line of cops in full riot gear protect us from the yelling crowd.
It could be anything, what they’re protesting. It could be so many things. There’s so much to protest that protests have become meaningless. One sign says something about refugees from El Salvador. Another says something about refugees from Mississippi. Another says something about debtors’ prison and A-Corp slave labor. Something about reproductive rights in the south. Child brides in Kentucky. A little girl is carrying a blown-up photo of Penelope the Polar Bear, the last known wild polar bear on earth, who died nearly a decade ago.
“God, people really need to get over that fucking bear already,” Tami says.
Then limbs start flying and the crowd surges. The police drones circling overhead start shooting sedative darts into the crowd, and people start falling. The line of riot cops move in, and there’s something almost graceful in their precision. They know what they’re doing. They’ve done it so many times before.
One by one, the protestors’ hands are zip-tied behind their backs, and they are lined up on the sidewalk side by side, waiting for their turn to be hauled into the police van.
And just like that, the fight is over. It is so fast, this taming. All of this while we’re driving along in Ivy’s beautiful tank, untouchable. The glass of the windows is so thick, we couldn’t even hear anyone scream.
The child with the polar bear sign has disappeared. Maybe her mother whisked her away. Maybe she got trampled by the crowd. Either way, she is gone.
“They’re better off now,” Tami says. “Non-violent protesters get sent to one of those nice prisons along with the debtors. They’re practically resorts. Most of those people were probably trying to get arrested on purpose. They do that, you know. Have you seen photos of the rooms they get? Everyone has their own TV with all the channels. They have internet. They get time to socialize and take classes. They’re even allowed to get passes to visit each other’s rooms to fuck. When you think about it, their lives aren’t that different from the guards’. They’re both owned by A-Corp. The only difference is the prisoner doesn’t have to commute to get home.”