Once my feet are planted firmly on asphalt again, I suck in a few breaths of fresh air. Then, I turn and unzip the duffel bag as quietly as possible, pulling out a bottle of water Michelle gave me yesterday and a prenatal vitamin.
I just hope I can keep it down.
As I unscrew the cap, Lamar throws an elbow over his face and groans.
“Morning,” I mumble, tossing the giant, chalky pill into my mouth. I swallow with a shudder.
“Why’s everybody so loud?” he whines, making me realize that it is pretty loud out here.
I turn in the direction of soon-to-be Burger Palace Park, and my jaw almost hits the Cadillac’s chromed-out bumper. Dozens—no, hundreds of people have gathered around our handiwork.
Last night, Lamar and I laid Quint’s body in the middle of Plaza Park, his arms and legs spread out like a human X. Then, we went and found the dead Bony I’d seen on the side of the road yesterday. I took his King Burger mask to put over Quint’s face, and Lamar took a can of orange spray paint he’d found in the guy’s hoodie pocket. Once the bloodstained mask was in place, I painted the words HERE’S YOUR SPONSOR in a circle around Quint’s body.
“Lamar.” I shake his shoulder. “Lamar, look!”
He grumbles and sits up, dreadlocks smashed against the side of his head as he turns and squints in the direction of our human protest sign … and the crowd gathering around it.
“Oh shit …” he says, almost to himself. “It worked.”
Turning to me, Lamar’s brown eyes go wide. “The sublimi-whatever thing! It worked! People are coming! Holy shit, Rain! What pictures did y’all use?”
“Just some photos I found on Google. People marching with their fists in the air. People rioting in the streets. Oh, and a picture of Governor Steele’s banner from the capitol building with a bull’s-eye Photoshopped right onto his forehead.” I smirk.
Lamar snorts and shakes his head. “You ’member, before all this shit started, you had blonde hair and wore cowboy boots and dresses. Now, look at you.” He gestures from my head to my waist. “Black hair. Boned out. Savage as fuck. You’re like … Post-Apocalypse Barbie now.”
“I feel more like Morning Sickness Barbie,” I say with a forced smile. But it fades the moment I let my gaze drift over to the growing crowd circling the body of my dead best friend.
I wrap an arm around Lamar’s shoulders and exhale.
“What do we do now that they’re here?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say with an honest shrug. “Go start a riot, I guess.”
Lamar nods. “For Quint.”
“And Wes.”
“And your folks.” He gives me a sympathetic look.
“And Franklin Springs.”
“And all the people pushin’ up oak trees down there.”
Sliding my free hand into the front pocket of my hoodie, I splay my trembling fingers across the biggest reason of all.
And for you, little one.
My matted hair suddenly blows into my face as a van flies past us on the road, weaving around all the abandoned cars like an Olympic downhill skier. Then, it slams on its brakes with an ear-splitting screech. A second later, the Channel 11 news van backs up next to us. Michelle rolls her tinted window down, revealing a fresh-faced reporter with a sparkle in her eye, an entire tube of concealer covering her bruises, and a breaking story to chase.
“Do you see that crowd?” she shouts. “It worked! Come on! Let’s get over there!”
I grab the duffel bag as Lamar climbs out of the trunk. Michelle hops out and opens the giant side door on the van for us.
“Where’s Quint?” she asks as we pile inside.
Lamar drops his eyes, and I raise a single finger in the direction of the park.
“Oh, he’s already over there?”
“You could say that,” I mutter.
Ever the good journalist, Michelle’s eyes narrow to slits as they shift back and forth between Lamar and me. It doesn’t take her more than a second to deduce from our tear-streaked faces and blood-soaked clothes what happened.
“Oh my God. No.”
I nod.
“Quint is …”
I nod.
“Are you serious?”
I nod.
Lamar stares out the window, practically catatonic, as I fill her and Flip in on what happened.
Michelle reaches for the bottle of vodka in her cupholder and takes a long swig as I tell her the story, her red lipstick staying perfectly intact.
“And the governor said they’re moving the execution up to this morning?”
After everything I just told her, that’s what she’s focused on?
“Yeah, but I don’t know when.”
“Oh my God.” Michelle takes another swig. “We have to start broadcasting now. Here, put this on.”
She tosses a bundle of soft red material at me. I catch it in my lap as the scent of lavender fabric softener fills the air.
“I grabbed you a wrap dress from my closet since it’s kind of one-size-fits-all. It was the best I could do on such short notice.” She gives me an apologetic look. “At least it’s red—the color of revolution.”
“Revolution?”
“You got ’em here. Now, you gotta tell ’em what to do.”
All of our heads turn toward the crowd flooding into Plaza Park as we drive past. I can hear their shouts from inside the van as the riot cops with Plexiglas shields try to push people off the field.
My palms begin to sweat as I turn my back to everyone in the van and strip my hoodie off over my head, followed by my once-white tank top. I then pull off my hiking boots and peel my blood-encrusted jeans off my legs. The skin underneath is stained maroon, and fresh tears fill my eyes as images from last night flash before them. Quint’s body in my lap. The kindness of the security guards who helped us—I don’t even know their names. Holding Lamar as he cried himself to sleep. I consider taking the bottle of water and rinsing my legs clean, but it doesn’t matter.
I’ll probably be covered in my own blood by the end of the day anyway.
Or Wes’s.
With a heavy sigh, I slip on the wrap dress and tie it around my waist. The fabric is soft and clean and somehow comforting.
“Here.” Michelle hands me a tube of lipstick and a comb from her purse. “You don’t want people to just hear you. You want them to listen to you. A bold lip draws their eyes to your mouth.”
I remember another woman I saw on TV with a bold red mouth.
“My name is Dr. Marguerite Chapelle. I am the director of the World Health Alliance. If you are seeing this broadcast, congratulations. You are now part of a stronger, healthier, more self-sufficient human race.”
I shudder.
We sure as hell listened to her, didn’t we?
“What do I even say to them?” I wonder out loud, using the reflective surface of the lipstick cap as a mirror to help me apply it.
Michelle thinks for a minute, vodka sloshing out of her bottle as Flip pulls up onto the curb next to Plaza Park. “I read a study a few years ago about social media that said that people are addicted to outrage. It said that news stories about major events got way fewer likes and shares and comments than posts from people reacting to those events with outrage. We’re drawn to that kind of fiery passion. It makes us feel alive, powerful … connected. No successful movement was ever started without outrage, so I say, you get up there and get pissed off.”