In the dead of night, every night, I checked the helmet, but no message waited for me. By day we did our tasks, took our shifts, and tried to stay safe.
A week passed, and then another.
Our food rations got lower, our meals staler.
We grew sick of waiting, sick of hiding. Patrick and I might have been the key to the survival of the human species, but right now we had nothing to do except wash clothes, clean toilets, and check the perimeter fence.
One night, walking back from a late-night stretch watching the southwest quadrant from the second floor, I spotted Patrick and Alex on the swing set outside. The very same one that Alex and I had sat on. She was wearing his cowboy hat, they were twisted on their swings so they faced each other, and they were making out.
So much for their big fight. So much for Alex saying she could talk to me differently. Who was I kidding anyway? If I had to choose between me and Patrick, it would be no contest.
I felt creepy spying on them, and so I pulled back from the window, closed my eyes, and took a moment to get my head right.
These were my two favorite people on the planet. They belonged together. I was happy for them. These feelings were all genuine, and I kept my eyes closed until I felt them in my heart, strong and true.
Then I headed back to the gym.
Eve stirred as I moved toward my cot, poking her head up from the jacket she used as a blanket. “You drew the graveyard shift, huh?”
Her bangs formed a razor-straight line right above her eyes. Hair was always a problem for the girls these days, but for some reason Eve was able to keep hers looking perfect. It was a rich shade of brown that matched her eyes, though her irises had yellow flecks that lit them up.
I don’t know what came over me, but I leaned down and kissed her. At first she stiffened, caught off guard. And then she melted a little, her hand rising to my cheek. It felt good.
As in really good.
We pulled away. She took in a sip of air.
“Good night,” I said.
She smiled just barely, but it was enough to bring out that dimple in her right cheek. “Night.”
* * *
The next morning was back to business as usual. Eve worked the supply station, and when I walked by, we awkwardly said hi and went on with what we were doing. We didn’t make eye contact the rest of the day.
That’s me, Casanova-Pants.
Later I saw Alex checking the TV set on the bleachers, spinning through endless screens of static. She was leaning over, one foot up on the bottom bench, her forehead scrunched with focus.
I really wanted to not find her attractive.
I really wanted to not like her more than Eve.
I really wanted to choose which emotions to pluck out of my heart and flush down the toilet.
She looked up, caught me gawking and contemplating toilets. “Whatcha need, Little Rain?”
I mumbled out an excuse and took off.
Like I said, Casanova-Pants.
* * *
At dinner there was a confrontation in the cafeteria. Patrick and I heard the ruckus behind the serving counter and ran over.
Ben, Dezi, and Mikey surrounded Dr. Chatterjee in a half circle. His back was to the wall, but he didn’t look intimidated. He looked angry.
“I absolutely will not,” he was saying.
“We’re hungry,” Ben said. “We can eat more and then just go get more.”
“No,” Dr. Chatterjee said. “We will ration what we have as planned. I’ve specified a calorie amount for everyone based on his or her weight and that’s what we will stick to. There’s a schedule we will maintain to minimize risk. When the food stores hit a certain level, we will run a foraging mission. We’re not going to throw out our entire plan because you and your compatriots want an extra sandwich, Mr. Braaten.”
“What if I don’t like that plan?”
“Then you’ll shut your mouth and go along with it regardless. We voted on it. And this is a democracy.”
“A democracy with you as the leader.”
“Yes, Mr. Braaten. That’s how democracies function. With leaders.”
“Give us the keys to the pantries,” Dezi said. His face sported a bruise from when Patrick had taken him down.
“I will not,” Chatterjee said. “And you will not speak to me that way, Mr. Siegler.”
“The key,” Dezi said again.
Mikey said, “We’re not asking.” He stepped forward, pressed a finger into Dr. Chatterjee’s chest, and gave a gentle push. Chatterjee stumbled back on his leg braces and bumped into the wall but kept his balance.
A ripple of excitement and discomfort moved across the tables. The others were on their feet, straining to see what was going on.
It struck me that there was much more at stake in this moment than food rations.
Patrick stepped behind Ben, his boots scuffing the cheap linoleum. Ben turned.
They faced each other. Years of tension simmered between them. You could practically feel the heat in the air.
Ben Braaten was the only person I’d ever seen fight Patrick to a draw. Patrick had called him out in their freshman year after Ben emptied out my backpack in the creek. Twenty minutes of punches and grappling behind Jack Kaner’s barn had ended with them bloody and exhausted, their clothes covered with dirt and bits of hay. Too worn out to keep at it, they’d finally limped off in opposite directions.
“Get your guys under control,” Patrick said to Ben. “Or I will.”
Ben studied him, his expression changing, making his scars shift and realign like living things. The round mark of damaged skin at his hairline looked like a bottle cap, right down to the crimped edges.
The air back here was so thick with the smell of lettuce and ketchup I felt like I was breathing in the food itself.
“This is a democracy, remember?” Ben said. “I don’t have ‘guys.’”
Mikey and Dezi moved away from Chatterjee, who pushed himself back onto his wobbly legs and straightened out his clothes. Ben walked by us, banging Patrick’s shoulder, his lackeys following him out.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Patrick told Dr. Chatterjee.
“I’m not scared of them,” Chatterjee said. “Not one bit.”
Patrick said, “You should be.”