Gods of Anthem (12 page)

We’re at the laundromat, washing our grey clothes while she fills me in on her life. “You know, my mothah never said much, ‘cause she was always drunk, but when she did, she told me, ‘Manda, doncha evah give up. Nevah-evah.’ Life’s just crap, and you gotta push on, ya know? So here I am. Found my sistah aftah the flood, and we’ve been togethah evah since. She’s got some fancy job down at the coit howse.”

“The court house?”

“Oh yeah.” She draws out the last word, extra-long. “Big deal up there with them wigs. Even some loiya money man’s been comin’ around, and I found them in the computah room, makin’ out. I says to her, ‘Honey, I know ya love him, but come on down here where’s you belongs.’ When this thing hit, I found her and told her I’m a minute oldah, so no mattah what, I’ll be the biggah sistah.”

Something sharp sits in Manda’s dark eyes when she says this. An expression that’s cold and calculating. Manda’s the survivor of the two. You begin to recognize these things.

By the hickeys on her neck, I’d be willing to guess her job involves a lot more touching than I’m comfortable with, so when she asks if I want a job, I remember Journee’s words and shake my head.

Today,
boredom has me going to Journee to ask him about a job. The need to do something has become unbearable. Well, that, and my dwindling supply of real toothpaste.

He and Serena are speaking quietly near the computer when I arrive. She sounds stressed.

After she leaves, Journee doesn’t even look up from his rapid typing when he says, “How can I help you, Blue?”

“It’s Liza. I wondered about the job you’d mentioned before. Is it still a possibility?”

Journee types a moment longer before he spins around to face me. He stretches his arms behind his head with a grin. “So, you’re ready to join the team.”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, it’s about damn time, Blue.”

“It’s Liza. What did you have in mind? I’m not good at very many things.”

“First, I call you ‘Blue’ because we all have new names around here. It’s only fair we move on from where we were before.” Then, his voice changes. “And you ain’t the only one with dem kinda past, gel.”

His spot-on mimic of Desi’s accent makes me laugh. “I see.”

“If you don’t like ‘Blue,’ what would you like?”

“Um …”

“Any special talents?”

I avoid his gaze. “The piano.”

“Oh, really? How good are you?”

“Um …”

“That good, eh? Gel, dis man be tinkin’ we give you a new name, den.”

“I think Liza is fine.”

“Well, yes, but everyone deserves a new start.” He rubs his chin. “How about Mozart?”

I shrug while Journee claps his hands, not caring about my opinion in the slightest. “Mozart it is!” he says. “Now, what to do about that voice of yours …”

“What?”

“That accent.”

I draw a blank.

“You can’t hear it yourself,” he explains, “and it’s faint, but it’s there. Some kind of British. This job needs an American accent. Can you sound more American if you try?”

“I think so,” I reply with a country accent.

Journee stifles a laugh at my terrible attempt. “Good,” he says. “Or just don’t talk.”

“I can do that.”

“Even better! No offense, but a girl who doesn’t talk much around here will be more than welcome. Now”—he puts a finger to his chin—“for that hair.”

It’s actually grown a bit. For me, that is. Even my eyelashes and brows are back.

“I think I’ll just add some wigs to the list,” he says. “Other than that, get with Serena in the morning, and she’ll give you the lowdown.”

“What is it? The job, I mean.”

“Oh, right. Well, the rich people around here don’t like jury duty much. Ever been? No? I didn’t think so. Anyway, you go, hear the short arguments, using a reader in front of you all day for evidence. With the strict rules, and new ones every day … lots more hearings. Getting a proxy to go instead is big money, but you kind of have to play the part. If you look or sound dicey, they’ll pick you up in a heartbeat. Plus, we can’t use the same proxies over and over again, so you’ll have to sort of … change your identity.”

“What?”

“It’s no big trouble, or technically illegal. Plus, the rich don’t want to get caught any more than you do, so they pay a lot of hush money in the off chance that you do get into trouble. Been doing this for years.”

“But what about your rules?” I ask. “The ones about keeping out of situations like this?” I didn’t mention the other, but he smirks anyway.

“That’s just something we say to the newbies, to try to scare them into giving us all of their good rations.”

“You mean, I didn’t have to give up my desserts?”

Journee laughs. “So that’s why Manda looks like she’s put on ten pounds.”

I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow.

“Nah, Mozart. Chill. We got you. Don’t worry, mon, ‘cause every little ting gonna be all right.”

After a weekend
spent with Serena, my wardrobe includes a dress suit, a wig, heels, and some sunglasses. Pearls, too.

“They’re fake,” she said with another eye roll. “Stuff your bra and put on some makeup. You have to look a lot older than…?”

“Sixteen,” I supplied.

“Yeah. We need to make sure you don’t look like jail bait.”

“But I …” I began, and then, “You know what? Never mind.”

I didn’t want to start a dialogue on why I didn’t even own a bra. I’d tape socks to my chest if I had to.

Today, Serena wears a pant suit, herself. It’s sharp. And Journee’s out in the alleyway, his own tailor-made suit and tie perfect for his physique.

“I know, right?” Serena nudges me, and we start toward a waiting taxi.

The rules are simple: Act rich. Get paid.

My fake ID is snapped onto my jacket, and Serena dabs some lipstick on me. The dark grey looks silly with my pale skin, but I’m trying to keep my confusion to a minimum for this job.

As I enter the courthouse, my blonde wig and heels turn a few heads, but I’m too busy gawking, myself. Massive white pillars bracket the entrance. Banners of the Authority’s eagle insignia hang from the ceiling. Inside reminds me of a cathedral, but instead of saints on the walls, statues of the Authority figures stand—the same man and woman I’d seen from the train.

Below these, however, are their names: Reginald Cromwell, and Karma Cromwell.

“Next!” At the entrance, a guard wands me down, and I hope he isn’t the same one I’d choked after my arrival to the city.

Just getting through this one step at a time is my only plan.

“The defendant pleads
‘not guilty,’ your honor.”

The judge fixes his wig, mops his brow, and waves his hanky in reply to the defense attorney’s statement.

All day it’s been boiling hot, like the fans are broken, and everyone looks melted.

“A treason sentence is the same either way,” the judge says between pants, “so I wouldn’t expect him to plead otherwise.”

The juror next to me whispers into my ear for the fourth time during the trial. He says, “Death,” with a chuckle like it’s all too much to contain the fun he’s having. “See that thing in his arm? It’ll lethally inject him as soon as the verdict’s in. You ever see one?”

My head shake is stilted. I’m not interested in seeing the guy die. Well, kid. Boy. He’s in the wooden chair across from where we jurors sit, staring at the floor, IV taped to the crook of his elbow. Can’t be much older than me, but taller by far, and heavy is the head that rests on his shoulders, too. Framing his face is shaggy brown hair that’s grown long while waiting in jail.