Savage Drift

^{CHAPTER FIVE} DEAN

We like to eat early, all together. It’s funny how quickly we found a routine here—all the refugees have. When your life is utter chaos, you cling to little things like sitting at the same spot at dinner each day. Fistfights have broken out about the seating. I’m not kidding. Alex and I found the group at our regular table.

The little kids were writing and drawing. Who knows how Mrs. McKinley got hold of the construction paper and markers. They keep saying they’re going to set up classes for the kids, but everything’s still in a state of flux.

“How do you spell ‘celebrity’?” Chloe asked as we sat down.

I told her and leaned over to read her letter: “Luna is famous here. Everyone loves her so much. Becawse I walk her I am basically a selle…”

“We’re writing letters and doing drawings for Batiste!” Max said, his cowlick bobbing like a rooster’s comb.

Batiste is at a refugee camp in Calgary. We found him at the listings. Every day, they update these thick notebooks filled with old-fashioned computer printouts with a record of the refugees at each camp. People line up for hours to pore over them, hoping to find a loved one. It felt so good to see his name printed on the register. He’s there with his mother and father. I’m glad for him. We all are.

Ulysses’s picture showed a family playing on green grass under a blue sky.

Max’s drawing was of a boy with spiky yellow hair, sitting on some kind of a car, being pushed by a taller figure. The boy was crying—big tears drawn as blue dashes shooting out of his eyes.

Caroline was drawing big circle people sitting at a campfire and Henry was just sitting on his mother’s lap, twirling her hair around his index finger.

“See, this is us around the fire at Greenway,” Caroline said. “Remember when Uncle Jake made us s’mores and cowboy soup?”

Henry nodded, serious. “That was fun.”

Max held up his drawing and I saw he had added red over the child’s black boots.

“This is me when Niko was pushing me in that stroller just before we got to the bus station,” he told me.

Jeez, I had missed a lot, holed up in the Greenway.

“That was a good stroller,” Max said wistfully.

Ulysses showed me his picture.

“This is us now,” he said with his beautiful no-front-tooth grin.

“Batiste is going to be psyched,” I told them.

Alex took a piece of paper and started to write a letter.

“You’re writing, too?” Caroline said, happy.

“Of course. Batiste is my family, too.”

“Just like all of us?” she asked.

“Yup,” Alex said, nodding.

Caroline looked to Chloe. “I told you, Chloe. We’re all family now. For real. Not ‘just a saying.’”

She shrugged. “Whatevs.”

Sahalia came up with her tray and I watched the smile hit Alex’s face. It was bright, unprotected.

Aaah. Made me nervous for him. Sahalia’s not always been the most dependable person.

But the wattage on her smile equaled his. That was good. Very good.

“Dean,” Max said, pushing a piece of paper toward me. “Can you concentrate a story for me?”

“How do you mean, concentrate?”

“Well,” Max began. “This one time I asked my mom to write down a letter to my uncle Mack who was in the pen, doing five to ten for salting batteries. I wanted to tell him about how I was sitting out in the car at Emerald’s, waiting on my dad because he had some business arrangements to straighten out and I wasn’t allowed to go in there anymore on account of all the G-strings.

“Anyway I was just sitting there, doing my multiplication tables homework when a cop car glides in, real quiet.

“And I see a cop get out, walking over to a car that’s way over at the end of the parking lot and he’s moving real slow and suddenly he opens the door and an actual lady, a mom I actually knew, fell right out on the asphalt. It was my used-to-be best friend Channing’s mom and she didn’t have any pants on!”

Sahalia laughed out loud and then buried her face against Alex’s shoulder.

Max continued.

“It turned out Channing’s mom was doing lap dances on the side. And that’s illegal! So she got arrested into the cop car and the man she was sitting on was, too.”

“Oh boy,” said Mrs. McKinley.

“What’s a lap dance?” Henry asked.

“Max, sweetie, I’m not sure this story is for little ears,” Mrs. McKinley said.

I wanted to tell her that Max’s stories never are, but he held up his hand, holding her off, and barreled on.

“So anyways, I wanted to tell all that, about what I saw to my uncle Mack, because he used to hang around Channing’s mom a lot and sometimes buy her things like baby diapers and stuff when she ran out. So I told that whole story to my mom and she was supposed to be writing it down and she only wrote one sentence on the paper. And I said to her, ‘Mom, why didn’t you write down my story?’ and she says, ‘I did, hun. I just concentrated it.’”

“What did she write, your mom?” asked Henry.

“She just wrote, ‘Natalia Fiore got arrested for prostitution.’”

He shrugged.

“Huh,” I said. “And what story did you want me to concentrate?”

“The story of what happened to us!” Max said. “So Batiste will remember us.”

He tapped the paper, like I should get to work.

I looked at him, his blue eyes sparkling and ready to roll.

“You know what, Max? That would take me a really long time to write.”

“You’re a good writer. It won’t take too long.”

“How do you know I’m a good writer?”

“You better be. You write in your journal every day!” Max exclaimed.

“Hey, do you write about me in your journal?” Chloe demanded.

“I do,” I told her.

“Do you write good stuff or bad stuff?” she asked, her mouth set in an expectant curl.

“About you? Only good.”

“Will we be in the story, too?” Caroline wanted to know.

“I’m sure you’ll all be in the story,” Mrs. McKinley said. She kissed Caroline on the top of the head. “Now it’s time to put the markers and papers away and go get our trays.”

Back in Tent J, I handed Astrid the meatloaf-on-a-roll sandwich I’d managed to smuggle out under my sweatshirt.

Watching her face light up was worth the glaze stain I now had on the inside of my shirt.

“Mmm,” she said, digging in. “Thanks.”

I handed her the apple I’d pocketed as well.

“Apple a day…,” I said.

Slightly lame, but I wasn’t entirely sure where I stood with her.

“I’m sorry about me and Jake,” I apologized. “I know it drives you crazy when we fight like that.”

She waved it away with her sandwich.

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous?” she asked after she took a sip of water.

She looked up at me.

When she looked at me like this, when she really focused on me, it made me shy for a moment. She was so smart and so perceptive, I felt like she could see right through me.

How could someone as beautiful as she was like me at all? Would she ever feel the same reckless love that I felt for her? The do-anything kind of love?

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous?” she repeated.

I looked away.

“You know that woman, the one from the line?”

I nodded.

“I’ve looked for her every day. At the listings, in the Clubhouse, I’ve never seen her again.”

“You think they took her away,” I said.

Astrid nodded, her blue eyes wide with fear.

I remembered the woman.

We had been on line for breakfast.

It was a really beautiful morning, the Clubhouse was filled with the scent of maple syrup and Astrid was being funny.

“How’s my hair?” she asked me.

I had given her possibly the worst haircut in the history of personal grooming back at the Greenway when we all got lice. Sahalia had since done her best to shape it up. But still… Astrid now basically had a blond faux-hawk, a style from around 2002 that our old barber had always tried to sell me and Alex on. Some of Astrid’s hair curled but in other places it just frizzed out.

“You look like a deranged baby chick,” I told her.

“Nice,” she said. She ran her hand through the blond mess of it. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to flatter pregnant women shamelessly.”

“I meant, a beautiful, radiant, deranged baby chick,” I said. “Obviously.”

Astrid winked at me and pulled on the knit green ski cap I’d given her back at the Greenway.

“Maybe it’s better for everyone if I wear this,” she said.

“Yeah, I think it’s for the best,” I agreed.

We put our trays on the metal serving table and slid forward. Suddenly I was jostled from behind. Pushed aside and some woman was grabbing for Astrid.

“Barbie! Barbs?” the woman was saying, her voice frantic.

She was thin, maybe in her twenties, with blond hair. Wearing a baggy sweater.

The woman spun Astrid around.

She looked at Astrid’s face and gave a cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were my sister.”

“It’s okay,” Astrid said kindly. “I think we all hope to find our lost family members here—”

“No!” the woman moaned. “It’s not that. It’s not like that at all!”

The woman kind of slumped and swayed. I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She seemed like she might faint.

“Come over here.” I led her to a table and sat her down.

Astrid sat down next to the woman and took her hand.

“I saw your belly and I thought you were my sister Barbie,” the woman said.

“Where did you see her last?” I asked, expecting her to say Castle Rock or Denver or Boulder.

“At the medical center,” she said. “Just two days ago. She had some pains and she went in to be checked and they took her!”

“Took her where? To a hospital?” I asked.

“I don’t know! These men from the US government went and talked to her and told her she was needed in the States for medical testing. But she wouldn’t go. She was scared to leave me and she said she just wanted to stay here.”

Astrid’s breathing was speeding up. I saw her put a hand to her throat, absentmindedly.

“What does she look like, your sister?” Astrid asked.

“She’s thin, like you, and is carrying the same way. But she’s a brunette.”

“Does she wear an eyebrow ring?” Astrid asked.

The woman nodded.

“Oh my God, I know her! She’s in my pregnancy group.”

“When we woke up in the morning, she wasn’t in our tent!” The woman went on. “I think they just took her. She said they were asking her all kind of questions about the time she was exposed to the compounds. It was only for a few minutes. I was there, with her. We’re both type AB. We were only exposed for a few minutes before my husband found us and got us back inside. Why would they take her?!”

“Ooh, I don’t feel good,” Astrid said. She was wheezing now.

“And now no one will talk to me or tell me anything!” the woman said, nearly shouting now.

“I need air. I can’t breathe,” Astrid gasped.

It was a panic attack. I’d seen her have them before.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

But we were moving away from her then, Astrid leaning on me and me telling people to get out of our way.

It was scary. But…

But the woman had said she was type AB—that’s the blood type that suffers from paranoid delusions when exposed to the compounds.

That fact made it hard to give her full credit. She seemed a little crazy, was acting a little crazy. I’d assumed she was a little crazy.

But Astrid had assumed she was telling the truth.

It was a little tricky, knowing what to say to her.

“I know you’re scared,” I said. Wrong thing to say. Astrid’s eyes blazed.

“It’s not that I’m scared, Dean. It’s that I believe they are taking pregnant women who’ve been exposed away for testing. And I don’t want to be taken away.”

“We’re in a bind.” I tried to reason with her. “Because, eventually, you’re going to have to go to the clinic. Even if it’s just for your checkup.”

She shrugged and turned her attention back to the meatloaf sandwich.

“How are you feeling? Are the cramps better?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It just happens when I’m stressed out. I’m too hopped up. Sometimes I can’t get myself to calm down.”

“I get that same way. It’s why I get so out of control with Jake. This energy comes up in me out of nowhere.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Astrid agreed.

We were getting along again. It was a relief, and I should have let it be, but I pushed it.

“When Jake edges me on like that, it’s not cool!” I said. “He’s always pushing me, trying to make me lose my temper.”

It was like a shutter closed behind her eyes.

“Don’t talk about Jake,” she snapped. “I’m sick of you both putting each other down to me all the time. It’s exhausting.”

Oh, so Jake was putting me down to her? I’d suspected but now I knew.

And before I could tell myself to chill out, I realized my hands were in fists.

I looked over to Astrid and she was watching me.

I shrugged. “I’m sorry,” I said.

Her eyes flitted away, as if she was embarrassed by what she was seeing in me.

“Well, thanks for standing up for me, even if you think I’m being paranoid,” she said. She bit into the apple.

“Do you want to go for a walk before lights out?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Hey!” Sahalia called. She and Alex were making their way toward us through the bunks. She held up a guitar.

The Canadians had distributed a few musical instruments this way—and sometimes little jam sessions broke out, which was amazingly nice, actually.

Other teens and kids were returning from dinner all around us. Some of them seemed really nice—some of them seemed rotten—just like you’d expect of any group of kids.

But I’d not made friends with a single one.

I didn’t want any new people to worry about—I had my family of friends.

“It’s my night with the guitar!” Sahalia said happily. “Is there anything you want to hear?”

“Do that Jamaican song!” Alex requested.

Sahalia rolled her eyes.

“You have the worst taste in music,” she teased.

“You’re the one who knows the song!” Alex replied, grinning. “If it’s so bad, why did you memorize it?”

Sahalia launched into an old reggae song, “No Woman, No Cry.” It had been one of our dad’s favorites.

Had Alex told that to Sahalia? Had they started to share personal stuff with each other from the past?

Astrid got under her covers, clothes and all. She watched Sahalia playing. Her face relaxed.

Kids from all around us were listening, too.

Seriously, the Canadians were genius.

Sahalia played a couple more songs, but was interrupted when Niko came over and practically threw himself down on his cot.

“I tried to get to the base. Stupid guards wouldn’t call a shuttle for me. I said I’d walk and they threatened to arrest me!”

“Hey, Niko,” Alex called. “You have to hear this new song Sahalia wrote.”

“Alex, no!” Sahalia groaned. A smiling groan.

“Come on, you have to. It’s so good, you guys.”

“It’s kind of personal,” Sahalia said.

“What is there about you to know that we don’t already, Sasha,” Astrid teased. “I mean, really!”

Sahalia looked around at the four of us.

“Okay, if you really want to hear it.”

She clearly wanted to play it for us and wanted us to make her play it for us.

“We do,” I said.

“We really do,” repeated Astrid. She gave me a smile. Thank God.

Sahalia started to play. The song was slow and thrumming with a steady rhythm, really pretty. And the words broke my heart.

A stillness fell in our corner of the tent. All the kids around us had stopped to listen to Sahalia’s raw, raspy, beautiful voice.

When she finished, everyone burst into applause.

“That’s a really good song! You wrote it?” I asked.

She nodded, blushing. Alex was all red in the face, too. Man, they had it bad.

“Sahalia, that song could go on the radio in a heartbeat,” Astrid gushed. “You guys should make a video for it someday.”

It was nice to see Astrid so excited.

“Niko, did you hear how it’s about your uncle’s farm?” Alex asked.

Niko nodded.

He was looking up at the roof of the tent.

“Didn’t you like that part so much?” Alex wanted Niko to join in.

“I liked the part where it says we’re supposed to stay together,” Niko said.

Then he turned his back on us.