The Rift Uprising, page 21
“Listen,” he says, “I don’t know what it’s like to be a super soldier, or a killer. I don’t know how to do a somersault in the air or what it’s like to fight vampires.” Ezra takes his hand back and closes his eyes, shaking his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to go through The Rift. To lose everyone you love or care about or to have the thing that you feel like you understand best—for me that would be physics—turned on its head so that the basics no longer make sense. It doesn’t matter what we don’t know. What matters is that, for whatever reason, you chose to help me that day and I am so grateful. However much time we have together, let’s make the most of it. Let’s focus on the things we have in common. Let’s just be here for each other. I don’t know what that looks like, but let’s try.”
I nod and rise up to my feet. “I’ll be back up in a couple hours. It’s funny how the whole brain-surgery thing can take the pep out of a girl. Please do what you can to figure out how to counter the behavior modification.” I push open the bookshelf. I walk downstairs, take a shower, and slip into bed. Sleep finds me eventually, but it is filled with dreams of sex and bruises—the vampire’s mouth on my neck and a gun in my hand. The green light of The Rift is everywhere, and even when I awaken, the scent of pine and sap lingers.
When I walk up to Ezra’s room, he’s at the computer. He’s got my chip in a glass. It doesn’t look like he’s done anything with it so far, which is good. The thought of him tinkering with that thing fills me with dread. I’m going to have to get used to carrying it with me at all times now and keeping it safe when I’m fighting, like I don’t already have enough to worry about.
“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the bed. I furrow my brow. “Don’t freak. I’m not going to try to make out with you. I’ve started with the research and I think I know where to begin. Here . . .” Ezra hands me a pad of paper and a pencil.
“Are we going to draw sexy things? Gotta tell you, stick people are about as much as my skills allow in that department.” I smile weakly.
“No. You are going to write a list of everything that makes you feel safe and calm. Divide the list into your five senses. And really think about it, especially the things that made you feel that way before you became a Citadel, before you even got the chip. It could be a particular song or singer, maybe you have a stuffed animal that—”
“I don’t have a stuffed animal,” I interrupt.
“No, I didn’t think so.”
What the hell does that mean? But I begin to write anyway, categorizing each item by placing them in double-outlined boxes I’ve drawn according to my senses. When I’m done I hand it back to him.
“That took fourteen seconds, Ryn. This is serious. You could break every bone in my body and that’s a best-case scenario.”
I shrug and point to my head. “Super brain,” I say sarcastically as I hand over the paper.
He raises his eyebrows when he sees that it’s filled. “Buffy? The Vampire Slayer?”
I narrow my eyes at his raised eyebrows. Nobody fucks with my love of Buffy.
“Clearly Buffy and I have some things in common. I suppose you could make an argument that Angel and I are more similar, considering that every time he has sex he turns into a monster. But no, Buffy and I have a connection.” He reads the rest of the list and sighs.
I start to fidget. Suddenly I feel like I’ve failed some sort of test. “Look, I’m not an intellectual,” I explain. “I do read. A lot. But I read things that help me escape. Were you expecting Nietzsche? Or that I write up papers in my spare time about eastern Europe and the rise of nationalism? Or that I love to spend my Sunday afternoons staring at modern art? I’m not a scholar. I’m a soldier. And the things that make me feel safe and calm are banal. Harmless. I don’t need the extra stimulation.” I bite my lip and hunch my shoulders a little. I’m embarrassed and I’m annoyed that I’m embarrassed. Ezra is really smart. I’m smart, too, but I’ve done nothing, really, to stretch my intellectual muscles. If we’re being technical, I didn’t go to school past the eighth grade. I don’t get to go to lively seminars with amazing professors who help me reframe the world, like he does—or did, anyway. And from what Edo told me, a lot of my knowledge is rote memorization, not actual applied learning.
Apparently Ezra makes that realization, too. “I’m sorry, you’re right. This is a judgment-free zone. Besides, you do have NPR on that list. And some cool classical stuff.”
“Whoa, easy there, Mr. Snobby. I can also speak fifteen—wait, now sixteen—languages,” I say in perfect Arabic with a smile.
“Fine. I won’t make a single comment even about the items on your list. The thing is, to me, you’re incredible. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even real. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that you like Doctor Who. It’s so . . . normal. Well, normal for a dork ass like me.” We both smile at that. “Grab one of those pills Edo gave you and then go and get some of your dad’s clothes.” It’s an order, but he made it sound like a suggestion. I nod and leave.
When I’m back, I look at the red pill in my hand. Edo could have been lying. This could be poison. It could even make me more violent. I don’t remember taking any pills that week when I was fourteen, so they must have dosed our food or water. I suppose they could still be drugging us that way. It could be in our protein shakes. Shit, for all I know, they could be pumping it through the ventilation system at the base to make everyone there more compliant. This cluster fuck just gets bigger and bigger. But I can only solve one problem at a time. I quickly swallow the pill. Maybe it will kill me. Right now I’m more afraid of living my entire life without ever being able to be close to anyone, about what that would do to me. That scares me way more than dying. I wait ten minutes. Nothing happens. If it was going to kill me it probably would have by now. I feel the pile of sweaters I took from my dad’s closet. They’re on my lap, and I pull one up and put my nose into the wool. This smell, this is safety, this is love. With my face pressed into this sweater, I am a little girl again.
Ezra holds out his hand, and for a moment I think he wants me to take it. But I realize he wants the sweater. I give it to him and he puts it on but doesn’t say anything. He angles the computer monitor so I can see it from the bed. He logs into Netflix—I had given him my account so he wouldn’t go out of his mind being alone all day—and chooses Buffy.
“Wait,” he says before I press Play. “This won’t work if you try to fight it. That’s what you do, right? You feel attracted or turned on and then you and your brain have an epic fight for control. That can’t happen. You might even need to say some of this stuff out loud. In fact, you should, like a mantra. You have to acknowledge that this is who you are, that this is how you’re wired, and that you can be different. You have to say that nothing bad will happen if you allow yourself to be touched. You can’t fight this the normal way. You have to surrender a bit, admit that it’s a weakness, and push through it. Can you do that?”
I think about what he’s said, and maybe it’s the red pill, but I get it. I can’t fight. “Yeah.”
He nods, presses Play, and the TV show begins. He comes to sit down on the bed, both of us surrounded by pillows. At first all I can think is: Ezra is beside me. Close, but not touching. I’m glad he’s here. What’s more, I don’t feel like killing him, which to me is a win, considering that I can feel the heat that’s coming off him. We watch an entire episode this way. I can feel myself relax some. Ezra is right here, so close that I can smell him. But of course, it’s not Ezra I’m smelling—at least not completely. Some of it is my dad.
“Okay, start talking, Ryn.”
I wince. I don’t want to say what I’m feeling out loud. It’s mortifying. But if this is what it takes to get it done, I’m going to have to buy in.
“I like it that you’re next to me. I know that if you try to kiss me, I will hurt you. But I am safe here with you. I don’t need to hurt someone I want to be close to. There is something wrong with my brain that makes me lose control when I am attracted to someone. This is a problem only I can fix.” I look at Ezra, wondering if I’ve said enough.
“Go on.”
Guess not.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not—”
Ezra interrupts me. “Stop saying that, please. I’m worried that it will become some sort of reverse self-fulfilling prophecy. You only have to acknowledge that there is a part of you that is not working right and that you understand that. The key here is to feel close to someone and feel safe at the same time. It’s not that you might hurt me—that’s not the issue. The issue is that you won’t be hurt.”
I nod. Another episode of Buffy begins. I watch the slayer, with all her blond, perky cuteness, kick butt and still have friends and a life. I’ve always been jealous of her in that way. That and the fact that she is awesome with puns.
“I’m safe,” I say out loud. “I’m safe and you won’t hurt me.” I say this over and over again. I watch Buffy. I look down. Without even realizing it, somewhere along the way, Ezra has taken my hand.
“Keep talking, Ryn,” he says softly.
“I’m safe and you won’t hurt me. I’m safe and you won’t hurt me.” There is a part of me that recognizes Ezra’s hand in mine. It feels good there, right. There is another part of me that is detached from this contact. I am focused on Buffy, on feeling safe, on knowing I am not going to experience pain, though oddly I am expecting to. I guess there is just so much going on at once that I can’t totally focus on Ezra’s hand. But it’s there. It’s happening. The episode ends. I stop speaking. Ezra lets go of my hand. I feel a tiny ache once he’s pulled away. He smiles. It is a bright and hopeful smile. His blue eyes are filled with light. There is nothing but silence in the room. Ezra takes my hand again and I do not flinch. I do not push him away or try to strangle him. I’m also not particularly turned on, either. I try not to think about what would happen if I was. It doesn’t matter, though. Finally. I am holding hands with a boy.
“Do you feel up to doing some more?” Ezra asks patiently. “We don’t have to if you’re too tired.”
“No, I’m good, unless . . . do you want to get some rest? Or do some more work? I could go. Or if you need to go . . .” The last thing I want him to feel is obligated. My cheeks flush a little at the thought. And at my total descent into babbling.
Very smooth, Ryn.
“I’m up for it. Maybe you want to take another pill, though?” I nod my head in agreement. “Great. Have you got cake downstairs? Or Voodoo Doughnuts? Whatever those are.”
I don’t bother to explain. The perfection that is Voodoo goes beyond words.
My parents had gone overboard with the grocery shopping before they left. It’s become a kind of tradition with them, to prepare for doomsday with the amount of food they leave me when I’m on my own. They got me a chocolate cake, which they know is my favorite and always on the list. I bring the cake upstairs, along with two forks and some whipped cream, which I prefer to frosting. Ezra wisely says nothing when he sees the can. I spray a generous amount of cream on a portion of the cake.
“Ready?” Ezra says.
“I am, but I’m not even that hungry,” I admit.
“It doesn’t matter. Just take a bite and keep it in your mouth. Focus on how it feels on your taste buds. Try to associate other good memories with the cake.”
I do as he asks. I close my eyes with the chocolate in my mouth. I think about birthday parties, goofy hats, and brightly colored presents. These are home-movie type of memories. I am watching a younger version of myself, with pigtails, laughing, happy. I am not seeing these images through my own eyes.
“Okay, now I want you to sit here,” he says, spreading his legs a bit, “with your back on my chest. Keep saying the mantra in your head, or out loud, whatever. I won’t touch you. I just want you to lean against me, get used to what it’s like to be close to me.”
My heart hammers. Holding hands is one thing, but nestling against him is something else. I trust Ezra. I trust that he knows what he’s doing, and most important, I trust myself. I will not be hurt in this room. I take another bite and position myself so that I’m kind of tucked into him. I feel his thigh muscles against mine. I hear his heart beating. I smell him, but I also smell, because of the sweater he’s wearing, my dad. If I wanted to, I could turn around, put his mouth on mine, grab his hair, seriously make out with him . . . No—too much. I say my mantra. “I’m safe and you will not hurt me. I’m safe and you will . . .”
Baby steps. I focus on the sweet chocolate in my mouth instead. I focus on being safe. Yes, I am basically sitting on top of a boy, but that isn’t the point. Like before, this is more than sex. It’s literal closeness, and I’m blown away by how wonderful it feels. I take a few more bites and Ezra sits perfectly still. He doesn’t seem afraid, which is amazing to me. I sit there for twenty minutes, pressed against him, eating, thinking, chanting. When I get up, we both smile.
“That was really good, Ryn. But I think that’s all we’ll do today. I’ve got a bunch of work to do with the data, so you can just do whatever you normally do. Don’t let me stop you.”
I cross my arms. Is he dismissing me? Seriously?
“I just work better alone,” he says, as if he’s read my mind.
“I can help,” I offer.
“At some point, yeah, I think you can. I’m just collating the data still. I know the patterns I’m looking for. It would be faster if I did this part on my own.”
“Okay, thanks for . . . everything. I know this whole thing is really insane and dangerous for you. I want you to know that it means a lot to me that you’d take such a risk.” I pick up the cake and forks. I want to say more. I literally don’t know how to express my gratitude in words.
“Ryn, I like you. I mean . . . I’m into you. My motives aren’t entirely unselfish, so don’t put me on some kind of pedestal. Right now, I just want to do as much Rift work as possible, but tomorrow I’m hoping we can actually talk. I want us to get to know each other, like normal people do. I’m hoping our entire relationship isn’t going to be based around deprogramming and math equations, you know?”
My cheeks burn a little. “We have a relationship?” I ask hopefully.
“Well, we for sure have something that’s a big enough deal to make both of us put our asses on the line in the hugest way possible. We don’t have too much time to figure out what that is, but . . . I don’t know.” Ezra smiles sheepishly and waves his hands around. “Let me get back to work.”
I guess neither one of us is so great with the whole talking-about-our-feelings thing, which suits me just fine. For now.
CHAPTER 17
I walk into the locker room at work the next day with a lightness I haven’t felt in years. I have a secret, which isn’t quite the same as a lie. People my age keep these sorts of secrets all the time. This is ordinary. Liking someone, not wanting to explain it yet to your friends, wanting to keep it to yourself so that it doesn’t get picked apart and analyzed in its newness is unremarkable, even if the feelings aren’t. I take off my clothes, and just as I do, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and see that it’s Audrey.
And I am suddenly deflated.
It takes a lot of work on my part to keep my face indifferent.
Why is she here? They must know at the Village that Ezra is gone by now. Did they send her to The Rift to watch me? To get answers? They must have, and yet, I’m not sure that makes complete sense to me. I know Audrey is crazy, but I don’t peg her for a tattletale, especially if she could get into trouble, too. Something doesn’t add up. Unless they caught her, they figured out she helped me and narking was her Get Out of Jail Free card. She’s psycho, but she isn’t stupid.
She pulls me into an embrace. I am naked except for my underwear. Who does that? It’s beyond awkward. Violet’s right beside me at her locker and I can see her “what’s going on?” face over Audrey’s shoulder.
“Bonjour, Ryn. I am here!” Audrey says brightly.
“I see that,” I say passively as I take a step back from her and grab my uniform.
“Yes, the Village, so boring. Well you know; you’ve been there. No action. No fighting. Just guarding stupid sheep. Immigrants. It’s all dinner parties and karaoke. Mon Dieu! I asked them to reassign me to The Rift. I could not get full reassignment, but three shifts a week, better than nothing. Now we can have some fun—together.” Violet gives me a second questioning look, but I glance knowingly at Audrey. Vi nods, knowing I’ll explain later.
And the thing is that I actually want to—explain, that is. Yes, I could lie. It would be so easy to say she’s a friend of Levi’s and that he introduced us. But I’m so tired of the bullshit. I want the lies to be over . . . at least with my friends.
Because it’s clear ARC has their suspicions. I’m certainly not buying that Audrey’s sudden appearance is a coincidence. Not for one minute. Her presence is a game changer, but it’s a game I’m confident I can win. “Great, Audrey. I’m sure you’ll be an asset in the field. I’m just going to get dressed now. Don’t want to be late.” I smile in a way that tells her I’m not buying what she’s selling, but the French woman is undeterred.
“Of course. See you on the playground, mon amie.” She turns and walks away.
Violet shuts her locker and looks at me as I’m zipping up my suit.
