THE PLAN: CATCH the bus to city hall tomorrow morning, present my case to whoever will listen. Don’t think about Sherman.
Listen to demonstration outside. Keep not thinking about Sherman.
Have Mayor Darcy congratulate me on my investigative skills, not thinking about Sherman the whole while.
Sit for interviews, receive a medal (that might be a bit far-fetched, but hey, I can dream). Continue to not think about Sherman, ad infinitum.
The reality: Get waylaid by Lyssa as I unlock the door—while thinking about Sherman.
“Where you going?”
“Out.”
She clasps her hands, flutters her eyelashes. “With your giiiiiiirlfriend?”
Any other day, I’d groan and elbow her. Any other day, Sherman wouldn’t have summoned her hissing, bitter ice shield on the inside of my chest.
“No,” I mutter, wrenching the door chain from its latch.
“Hey.” Lyssa pokes my shoulder. “Riles. Monosyllables are my thing. Quit copying me.”
“No,” I say again, just to be an ass. When I step into the hallway, Lyssa trails after me. “No. Get back inside. You’re not coming.”
Lyssa pays me as much attention as usual. “Last night, on the news … Was that really her? She’s really a sidekick?”
“Was,” I correct her. “Still not coming, Lyss.”
Lyssa only looks like Mom when she smirks. It’s in the way her nose wrinkles up. Makes my guts twist, though I try not to let on. She leans against the whitewashed bricks, legs crossed, sunflower shin over brown. “You know I’m just gonna follow you, right?”
“Which is very sweet and noble and sisterly of you, but like hell.”
“I’m not trying to be sweet and noble and sisterly! I’ve just never been to a protest before.” She locks up after us. Her key fob has a plastic Windwalker charm, complete with teeny blond quiff. “That is where you’re going. Right?”
I don’t want to put Lyssa in danger. But equally, I can’t worry about where she is and what she’s doing. Not today, not with so much at stake.
I groan, running my fingers through my lank hair, scraping it back from my face. “… Stay close.” She beams, wrenching her key out before grabbing my arm, tucking against my side. “Yeah, not that close. I don’t want folks to know I’m babysitting.”
“Ass.”
“Goober.” I shove her. She shoves back, then stamps on my foot with her prosthetic foot (“Ow, ow!”) and, for a while at least, life returns to a semblance of normal.
We reach the bus stop in record time. No sign of Sherman. That pangs, the knife in my back twisting deeper. I cover my nose to block the worst of the diesel fumes as I pay our fare. Hopefully, the driver isn’t offended. Buses are tolerable on the vehicles-likely-to-cause-panic-attacks scale, but that don’t make it a happy experience. It becomes less happy still when I spot an unexpected face among the passengers.
Jav is perched on the big back seat. Her dark eyes clock me, then widen to match my own. Guess neither of us thought the other would show.
Awkward. My choices range between confronting her like a sensible, mature seventeen-year-old or sulking by myself on the front seats. I’m veering toward the second option, but Lyssa hurries up the aisle, flowery leg collecting stares from several passengers. I follow at a slower pace, glaring at anyone who doesn’t look away.
Both of us jump when the engine starts. Jav scoots so Lyssa can plop down beside her rather than on top. A duffel hangs off her skinny shoulder, the outline of a rectangular folder inside.
“Hey,” I mutter, squeezing past to flump on Lyssa’s far side, as far from Jav as I can get.
“Wow,” whispers Lyssa, when Jav doesn’t reply. “Cold.”
Jav folds her arms, hugging her bag to her chest. “Why you here, Lyssa?”
“To annoy Riley, mostly.”
Jav still won’t look at me. “Yeah, I respect that.”
They pause, like this is a sitcom and they’re waiting for my laugh track. I just press my cheek to the warm, fly-splattered window, gazing along the street as the bus door seals in a gush of sticky summer air.
I could tell Jav to get off again, that I don’t want her help. But there’s a difference between want and need. And pissed as I am, bristling from last night’s stand-off with Sherman, I know I’d regret it.
Jav’s good at pitching an argument. She can persuade everyone at city hall that our theories aren’t the result of a night spent huffing whippits from empty whipped-cream tins. I meant what I told Sherman, about Project Zero being the most important thing right now. How hypocritical would it be if I let beef with my ex-bestie get in the way?
That beef’s still there, though. Whole bull’s worth.
I should apologize, I know, but Jav owes me something, too. Why can’t she admit it? That just this once, she was wrong?
Our bus climbs the humpbacked suspension bridge, over the marina with its bright white sails and the constant chime of tackle.
“I’m sorry,” Jav blurts as we rumble over Clearwater’s stinking expanse. Then, before I can hope—“’Bout your friend, I mean. Sofia Sherman.”
Not the sorry I’m after. I slouch, folding my arms. “You retweet every callout post you see.”
“Yeah, well.” Jav winds her thick braids between her fingers. “Feels different, when you know the person. Don’t think we got the whole story, is all.”
She’s right—but that’s not my tale to tell. Anyway, after last night, pitying Sherman’s at the bottom of my to-do list.
We go back to glaring out the window. If I focus on the passing city, the seat rumbling under my ass, I can almost pretend I’m on a moving massage chair. Or back on Sherman’s bike.
Downtown bulges up in a forest of glass and steel. The bus cuts between the towers, sunbeams pinging around us like balls in an old arcade game. It seems like every stop lets on a new load of tourists fresh from the lakefront. My nostrils clog with the oily odor of sunscreen and patent leather sandal.
Lyssa’s savvy enough to suss out that Jav isn’t in my good books. She abides by the age-old laws of sisterly loyalty and doesn’t force conversation. The three of us scowl at our phones in silence until the bus pulls up outside city hall.
While Bridgebrook gets carved up like a jacked car in the chop shop, a patchwork of old and new, this is the sector of Sunnylake everyone wants to immortalize. A monument to Mayor Darcy’s vision for our city, a shiny edifice that oozes dollar bills. Souvenir shops jostle on all sides. Selfie sticks bristle like masts at the marina. City hall—a long box striped with pillars—multiplies across a million batch-printed postcards and I <3 SUNNYLAKE tees.
But though a few tour groups amble around, they’re not the majority. I’m terrible at guesstimation, but I’d say over five hundred protesters have gathered, though the demonstration won’t kick off for an hour. They wear familiar uniforms: red tabards from a local mini-mart, the high-vis jackets of garbage men. As we walk toward city hall, I spot the deep green of a Hench suit, hear the scratch of markers over a makeshift cardboard sign. The heady reek of Sharpies mingles with cheap coffee and anticipation. The thrill of making a change.
I hope to make a bigger one. I elbow my way through the crowd, Jav and Lyssa close behind.
We reach the steps with minimal casualties, although my feet have been trodden on so often they’re practically two-dimensional. Arrows direct wheelchair users along a dank side alley. I guess the planning office decided a ramp out front was too much of an eyesore. Lyssa bounds up the stairs, the casing of her new shin catching the sun.
“Aren’t you guys joining the protest?” she asks once we’re at the top, thumbing back over her shoulder.
I make accidental eye contact with Jav. “Nope. We got other business.”
A row of Normie cops stand sentinel under the pillars of the hall, watching the protestors prepare. I expect them to stop us, or at least ask what we’re doing—but they move aside, letting us pass.
Weird. Growing up in Bridgebrook has given me an instinctive freeze-or-flight reaction to flashing blue lights. Still, I ain’t complaining.
The foyer smacks us with conditioned air. Jav adjusts her braids, straightens her skirt, and struts to the reception desk. She uses her Ralbury voice to address the guy behind the counter. From their conversation, she must’ve called ahead, set up a meeting with some environment-department official called Mr. Caluna.
She’s handling this sensibly as ever. Fondness bubbles through me, until I remember we’re mad at each other.
The receptionist rattles off a floor number and an office, buzzing us past security without bothering to search our bags. We thank him and head off to save our city. No heroes required.
First thing that strikes me about city hall? It’s nice. Walls lined with gleaming russet wood like an old colonial house, fancy lights that remind me of the chandeliers in the Crow Building’s basement. Maybe they shop at the same department stores.
Second thing: It’s empty.
“Not just me,” whispers Lyss as we step out of the elevator, onto the third floor. We have yet to pass a single person. “This is creepy, right?”
“Everyone’s at lunch,” says Jav. “Got off early, before the protest starts.”
We pass the security office—also abandoned, though the guard’s coffee cup steams on the edge of his desk. A long line of identical doors later, we arrive at one whose placard reads MR. JOHANNES CALUNA // DEPARTMENT OF ENVIRONMENTAL HEALTH.
I take opening duties upon myself, as Jav’s engaged in a last-minute dress rehearsal, mumbling her key points under her breath. The door is the sealable fireproof sort that makes you picture what’d happen to your fingers if they got caught in the hinge. The underside drags on the fluffy carpet.
Mr. Caluna’s office seems designed to muffle his visitors. The carpet eats the sound of our steps, while abstract canvases blare from the wall (one of which I swear is a blown-up version of my first potato painting from kindergarten). The black, cycloptic eye of a camera keeps watch from above.
It doesn’t seem like the sort of place you come to be heard. Which makes it surprising that Mr. Caluna isn’t sitting behind the desk.
Mayor June Darcy is.