MY SCOOTER IS stashed in the usual spot. It’s covered with a tarp so filthy nobody would ever want to touch it, and locked underneath with the thickest chain I could steal. I pull the scooter out and head downtown. I love my scooter. It’s a real relic, but I’ve tuned it to the max. Fresh brake. New wheels. Dense foam grips. I’ve seen pictures of kids from fifty years ago wearing helmets to ride, but that’s not for me. I love feeling the wind in my hair—the way it tickles my neck and whips back over my ears. It feels like flying.
I timed my breakout pretty close to the end of class, so they might not wise up until third period. Of course, sooner or later, they’ll realize I’m missing. For sure, I’ll get another write-up and another mark on my record. But at this point, does one more really matter? I already made it to the last semester of my senior year without getting totally expelled.
Besides, this meeting today might be my way out. The lawyer’s letter said that something had been “bequeathed” to me. The mystery is: from who? As far as I know, my family is just me and Grandma. I barely remember my parents, and they sure as hell didn’t have anything to leave me. So it looks like I have a mysterious benefactor. Who knows? Maybe I’m the long-lost heir to a Caribbean island or a big juicy yacht. If so, I’m definitely getting out—assuming I can escape the city, that is. Dropping out in the last half of my last year of high school would make me a legend!
The city police are on almost every corner, as usual. They’re a notch up from the school guard variety. Better trained and a lot more dangerous. They wear all black and their helmets have some kind of weird crosshatch pattern at the bottom. Whoever designed it was probably going for “evil skull.” But it ended up looking more like braces. TinGrins. That’s what everybody calls them. Just not to their faces. They eye me as I roll by, more curious than anything else. I’m not worth a stop—or a bullet.
Being locked up in school all day is a pain for sure. But being out on the street reminds me how bad things are everywhere. The only businesses still left for us are little shops selling basic foods and stuff like batteries, soap, and candles.
The rich people and government types get everything they need in their neat daily deliveries. They don’t even need to step outside of their mansions. And mostly, they don’t. The only books I ever see are in the library, and they’ve whittled the approved list down to almost nothing. Basically, history before the Alignment doesn’t exist. Kids in kindergarten now will grow up thinking this is all normal. But I know it’s not.
“Have a beautiful day!” A man’s voice.
It’s a guy on the corner selling bootleg magazines from a cardboard box.
I’ve seen him before. The expected response to “Have a beautiful day” is “And you as well.” It’s just what people say. Not a law exactly. More like a strong suggestion passed down from on high, which I almost always ignore. I decide to do the vendor a favor though.
“Patrol squad. Two blocks up,” I tell him. He nods, then folds up his stuff in about two seconds and starts to move out. He doesn’t want to get caught with historical material. People get disappeared for that. I kick hard against the pavement and I’m off again toward midtown. Like flying.
The avenue is a crazy patchwork of the haves and have-nots. On one block, gated estates with irrigated lawns. On the next block, people in tents and plywood shacks. Some of the slum-dwellers wear masks to throw off the facial recognition cameras. Cartoon bunnies, frogs, foxes, stuff like that. It’s a small way of protesting, I guess. Or “acting out,” as the school shrink would say. I’ve been known to wear a mask myself when I’m out and about, but never when I’m riding. Messes with my peripheral vision.
Most of the old skyscrapers in this part of town are empty now or just used for government offices or surveillance towers, so I’m curious about the address in my pocket. But mostly, I can’t wait to collect my inheritance. It better be something great!