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Dita Versus The World

Monday, November 26

My 10th birthday is in a week, and everyone's acting weird. Like it's some kind of horror movie or a funeral or something.

Dita hated it when her dad did this to her.

“But I'm supposed to see the doctor, Kos—mom said I had an appointment at 4, and that you'd—”

“Well, the plans changed,” Kos enunciated loudly, making sure she understood his words were final. “You don't need to see no gov'ment doctor, anyway—it's just that pre-10 bullshit they started forcing on us a few years back... Your sister didn't have a doctor, and she did fine when her time came. Just the damn bigwigs sticking their noses into everything...” Her dad's voice turned into a grumble, blending with the whining thrum of the car's engine as they drove down the highway.

But Isabel doesn't think it's right, was what Dita wanted to say. But the last time she mentioned her imaginary friend to Kos, he slapped her so hard she saw bright fairies dancing around her head. Good thing spanking your kids ain't illegal, he'd often say.

Instead she stared out the passenger side window at the bleak landscape of abandoned housing and run-down businesses. Kos had taken her on many outings these past few years, and she was beginning to recognize certain landmarks. They seemed to be heading to the other side of the county.

“Where are we going?” Dita spoke softly, afraid to look at Kos.

He remained silent for a few seconds, and curiosity forced Dita to cast a sidelong glance. A devilish grin and a twinkle in Kos's eyes forced her to turn and question him with her face.

“I got a surprise for you—think of it as uh early birthday present.”

Dita narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She didn't like surprises.

They continued driving down the nearly empty highway in silence, paralleling the raised track of the old light-rail train, unused for many years. The setting sun revealed just how old the omnipresent billboards were: dirty, tattered ads with public safety warnings about washing one's hands or wearing a mask around infected people. Dita was too young to remember the global pandemic named GP1—that happened even before the Swarm arrived—but evidence of its effects were hard to miss. Even for a girl with an invisible friend.

When they finally turned off the highway the first thing she saw was a church. What in the world are we doing here? Torn placards and other litter sullied the bushes in front of the austere building, the signs of a recent protest, and Dita realized it was a Church of the Swarm. She furrowed her brow, and knew without a doubt that Kos wouldn't be taking her to what he called The Temple of the Devil Bugs. She had never been to one, and didn't really understand what the Swarm was, but she imagined a colony of bees buzzing in the rafters of the church and stinging the worshippers below into a religious frenzy.

Halfway down the street, Kos turned left into a charging station, and then it started to make sense. His Jeep was an older model, a hybrid that required both electricity and biofuel, so he pulled up next to the pump.

“How is this a surprise?” she grumped as he turned off the engine. “It's not like I haven't been to a charging station before.”

Kos's expression was a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Don't get mouthy, girl—this one's got a carwash.” He turned and got out to fill up his Jeep, shutting his door behind him and leaving Dita alone with her confusion.

“What's the big deal about getting your car washed?” she asked invisible Isabel, then peered into the charging station's convenience store. She couldn't see the store clerk, but she knew there must be one inside. Probably sitting behind the cash register, which was blocked from her view by a display filled with boxes of ammunition.

Her dad returned to the car and started it, grinning but not saying a word. He brought his Jeep around to the front of a building that at first Dita thought was a garage, then drove up to the entrance and waited for the clerk. Mechanical arms lurked in the shadows holding ropey constructions of various colors, while a grooved track in the pavement ensured no vehicle could escape the course laid out for it. Dita drew her feet up onto the seat and hugged her knees to her chest.

Kos rolled down his window and told the pudgy, dark-haired man who approached that he'd like the Super Eco-Deluxo Wash. After verifying Kos's receipt, the clerk turned to a small console next to the carwash entrance, put a key into a lock and pushed a button. Kos's Jeep lurched forward, and Dita couldn't stop a squeal from escaping her throat.

“Kos!”

Her dad laughed, rolling up his window as the Jeep was pulled into the dark chamber. Soapy jets of water hit the windshield with an exhilarating splash and Dita's eyes grew large.

“Oh, yeah! I forgot about these things! You took me once, when I was little, I remember now! I was scared of the big floppy tennacles...” Dita giggled as the mechanical arms extended their spongy mops onto Kos's Jeep and flopped around as they'd done before.

As the car made its creeping journey through the sudsy contraption, Dita's delight was spoiled as she sensed the mood turn sour. She glanced at Kos's face, long and serious, and wished immediately that she hadn't. It seemed to spark his next words.

“You know what you need to do. And don't gimme any mouth about it—you won't have to do this stuff for too much longer. I got one more grand plan in mind, and then that's it. But I'm gonna tell you something—call it my pre-10 counseling... You're gonna figure it out as you get older, so you might as well know now.”

Loud jets of water rinsed the car for a second time, before more soapy rollers. Dita groaned at the thought of another of Kos's grand plans.

“There're times in life when you gotta do things you don't like. Times when you might have to do quote-in-quote bad things—even kill—just to get by.”

Dita's brows cast shadows on her eyes.

“Don't look at me like that, now, you know I said it before—and with your birthday coming up and all—” Kos pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow.

“All I'm saying's if you wanna survive in this world, sometimes killing's necessary. You'd best wrap your head around that, Edyta Mazurek.”

Dita breathed through her nose, wrinkled her chin, and made duck lips in response.

Fading sunlight glistening on the windshield signaled the end of the carwash. Kos took the wheel and drove out to a parking spot alongside the convenience store, turned off the ignition and glanced once more at his daughter. He didn't need to say a word. He got out and raised the hood of his Jeep, then nodded to her and headed to the store entrance. She climbed out of the car and skipped up to him as he pulled open the glass door.

A picture of an astronaut and his rocket hung on a column, a lost hero, the only image in the store that wasn't advertising. As they approached the man standing behind the counter, Dita noticed the cash register was a Barion model six-eight-eight.

“Easy cheesy pineapple queasy,” she singsonged, raising a curious glance from the clerk.

Kos smiled at the man and held his hands open before him. “Sorry to bother you, bud, but do ya think you could gimme a hand? I'm not sure, but I think there's something going on with my Jeep, and I need someone who can rev the engine while I tinker with it, and the girl, well... It'll only take a minute or two of your time.”

Kos glanced around at the empty store while Dita peered over the countertop at the racks stuffed full of magazines with brown paper covers and titles like Vintage Gals and Bathing Suit Beauties. She knew she wouldn't be able to stop herself from taking a peek.

The clerk smiled and conceded that he could spare a minute or two, then came out from behind the counter. Dita strolled over to the comic book rack near the candy and pretended to be interested in Flying Wombat issue number two hundred and eleven while Kos and the meek man went out to look at his Jeep. She waited thirty seconds, then reached into her coat pocket and pulled out several thin, metal rods.

Later, back on the highway traveling in the opposite direction, Kos looked straight ahead at the road and asked, “See anything you like at the store?”

“Yes,” she sighed, familiar with the routine. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Placing the money on the seat between them, she spoke clearly, ignoring Isabel's protests: “The nice man gave me an early birthday present.”

Kos grinned. “That's my girl.”

Tuesday, November 27

Mom's even worse than normal. She saw someone I don't know, and got scared. She didn't like him, that's for sure. I've never seen her this sad.

Dita sat at the big table and drew fantastical creatures while her six-year-old brother, Leshek, played with toy cars on the floor with the other young kids. A sixteen-year-old girl sat cross-legged among them, tasked with watching the children while Sister Margie made phone calls in the nearby office about the upcoming St. Andrew's Day festivities.

Today, Dita drew a fire-breathing unicorn with tiny fairy wings. She decided to name him Bazzle.

Two pictures of Jesus Christ hung on the wall, one of his radiant, unblemished face, and the other of Jesus bleeding on his cross. Dita always imagined that Jesus's cross was his rocketship, just like Captain O's.

“Baka Jo!” Leshek exclaimed. He rushed up to his grandmother as she entered the church's daycare room and wrapped his arms around her wide hips.

“Ah, it's good to see you, Leshek, and you, Dita—” She extended her hand to the young girl, and Dita couldn't resist. Abandoning her drawing, she jumped up and ran to hug her grandma. “If only I could see you every day of the week...” She spoke with a Serbian accent, despite having arrived in the US as a young woman—before the current traveling restrictions were enforced. “How was your day, little Leshek—did you have fun with your toys?”

Dita's slow-witted brother smiled up at his grandma and blathered, “I was got, I got pick by da elefan guy to race da cars!”

“Awww, such a sweet boy. And you, Dita—” Baka Jo's face grew solemn all at once. “Tell me, what trouble did you get into today—and don't lie to me, devojka!”

Dita made her face as long as she could and looked off to one side, causing Leshek to giggle at her goofy expression. Baka Jo laughed as well, and caressed the young girl's cheek before turning and leading the children out of the room.

“Come, your mother is waiting for us.”

She insisted they call her Baka Jo—like the American Joe, despite the fact that her name, Jovana, was pronounced Yovana. Dita's dad never seemed to get along with her, using the Polish Baba Jovana instead of Baka Jo. She never had a smile for him, but she showered her grandchildren with affection.

Kos is a dick, her older sister, Lidia, had once explained to her. He thinks being Polish is better than being a Serb.

Kos hadn't yet told Dita the details of his upcoming grand plan, but she knew it was just a matter of time.

When they entered the sanctuary, the primary and largest room in St. Andrew's Catholic Church, Dita spotted her mother at once. She sat in her usual place among the pews, five rows back on the righthand side. She turned frequently and seemed to be agitated as she waited for her mother and children to reach her. Her dark eyes wore worry lines like unwanted plumage.

Baka Jo knew it as well: something was up. “What's the matter, Nadanje—you act like a whirlybird,” she joked while Dita and Leshek found their spots on the pew. Lidia wasn't here, but that wasn't surprising; she hadn't come to evening mass with her family for a couple of years. And Kos had declared himself to be agnostic, which Dita figured meant he didn't have to believe in anything.

“It's the bishop,” her mother hissed, drawing Baka Jo closer. “He's here—Bishop Stanczak, he's here for Saint Andrew's Day.”

Dita didn't recognize the name, but it was clear that Baka Jo did. She looked sternly at Nada in silence, then placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder. “Give it no thought, Nadanje. What is he to you? He is nothing. He's part of a story that's over—I tell you, don't give it another thought.”

Her mother had no response, but Dita didn't think she would listen to Baka Jo's advice. During the evening service Nada sat, kneeled, stood, and sang at all of the appropriate places, but she was clearly distracted, glancing over and over again at the man in the funny hat who sat behind Father Frank. As the congregants stood and sang a hymn, Nada turned and scanned the pews, taking stock of the two or three dozen worshippers. She knew most of them by name, but at one point her head stopped and her mouth slowly dropped open.

“No.” Her lips mouthed the word but no sound came out. Dita's heart raced as she watched terror increase the size of her mother's eyes. Nada turned to Baka Jo and said something, then grabbed Leshek by the arm and dragged him away.

Baka Jo shook her head and instructed Dita to follow after her mother and brother. Stopping at the end of the pew and ignoring the stares of her fellow worshippers, Dita knelt and crossed herself, then ran down the aisle toward the church's exit.

“He's here!” her mother whispered as Baka Jo met up with her outside. “The bishop's son—in the church!”

Dita's grandmother tried to calm her daughter, instructing Dita and Leshek to walk ahead of them so she and Nada could talk.

That was the first time, at least in Dita's memory, that her mother had ever walked out of church before the end of service. She wanted to talk to Isabel about it, but her desire to eavesdrop on her mother and grandmother's conversation was greater.

The only thing she heard before her grandma had to split off and follow a different path home was something about prison, and then her mother uttering these words:

“I just wish he was dead.”

Wednesday, November 28

Baka Jo once said there's a 'first' for everything, and you should never be afraid of it. I don't think she's ever lied to me.

I had a 'first' today: I thought I was going to be sent to jail.

Leshek could be the most confusing—and irritating—brother in all of God's brown earth. Dita sometimes wondered if he even was her brother.

“Buh-buh-but he said I wasn't reeeal!” he blubbered nonsense between sobs.

“Who said? Your little friend in kiddiegarten?”

Dita could see that her mother was trying to react to Leshek's whining with patience, but she didn't have much in her. Her right arm crossed over her body as if she was hugging herself during their walk home from school. A cloth grocery bag hung heavily from her left hand. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them, blacker than normal, and she seemed to be staring at something far away under the sidewalk.

“No!” Leshek was outraged. “Sandy Claws!” Then more wailing.

Meanwhile, Dita was trying to get Nada's attention for herself, trying to have a normal conversation like normal people do. She didn't get to spend as much time with her as she wanted due to her mom's work schedule at the hospital, and Dita was eager to recount her day at school.

“My favorite part was when we learned more about lines and angles, about how two points form a line and how a cute angle is smaller than an ob—attuse one—oh wait, or... did I learn it the other way around? Oh, shut up, Lesh! You're mixing me up.”

“Buh he wasn't real! Where will the presents go-o-o-o-o?!”

As they passed the neighborhood mini-mart, Leshek saw flashing red and green lights had been draped around the windows, and this really set him off. Not only did his wailing grow louder, but he dropped to the ground and began to kick the air.

“I don't want I want da Sandy Claws to be real!” he nearly shrieked.

At the same time, a group of teenagers were teasing a blond-haired kid in the alley next to the mini-mart. Dita heard them accuse the boy, who must've been eleven or twelve, of being a bed-wetter. With tears streaming down his face he cried out, “I do not wet my bed!” Rapid convulsions shook his small body at once. His eyes bugged out and face contorted, his arms went spastic and elastic for a few seconds until the seizure ceased. The other kids howled in laughter, pointing at and imitating their victim.

“Swarm'll get ya if ya lie!” one of them taunted.

Dita tried to ignore them too. “We also learned about a new statue they built downtown, a memorial for the victims of GP1. Did you know more people died because of GP1 than any other flu or virus in all of history?” She was amazed by this fact.

Her mother, however, had finally had enough. Yanking Leshek up from the ground by his arm, she first directed her vitriol at the rowdy boys in the alley.

“You there, you brats—stop picking on him! You're gonna shorten his life! Go and find something better to fill your time with. And you—” turning to Leshek, dragging him along next to her as she continued on the path home. “Lech Mazurek, what in God's name do you think you're doing? You're a kindergartner now—you're not a baby anymore! Why are you acting like one? There's no need to cry about what that boy said to you—tell him people are allowed to believe whatever they want to believe, there's no law against that, and if you want to believe in Santa Claus, that's none of his business!”

Shocked by her mother's anger, Dita stood rooted to the spot in front of the mini-mart for a few seconds before catching up. She heard one of the bullies mutter, “Whatev, he's still a baby bed-wetter,” while the blond-haired boy ran away.

Her mom looked worn-out, like she could use a ten-day nap, as Kos would say. Dita hoped the rest of the walk home would be more peaceful, but Nada had one more thing to get off her chest.

“And yes, Dita, I did know. Your brother Raymund, born three years before you, died as an infant because of GP1.”

Dita saw again the melancholy in her mom's eyes, and ached to dispel it.

I just wish he was dead.

That was definitely something she'd never heard her mom say before. Who was this man she was talking about, and what had he done? She was determined to talk with her sister about it; she knew that if she asked her mom directly she'd get nothing but a stern look and a Never you mind about that, you should be worrying about bluh and bluh and bluh...

“Don't forget about the fundraiser this weekend, Edyta,” her mom spoke hollowly as they turned the last corner onto their street. “You'll have a lot of responsibilities at the church on Saturday.”

“I know, mom, you don't have to constantly remind me.” Her mom was more forgetful than Dita was.

Instead of reacting to Dita's exasperated response, Nada stopped and nearly caused Leshek to trip over his feet. Dita looked up to where her mother stared, and her heart started to gallop.

A policeman.

The officer stood alongside his car in front of the fourplex where they lived, watching Nada as they approached.

“Dita, take your brother inside and let me speak to the policeman—go on now, get started on your homework, you hear me?”

Dita didn't want to take her brother inside, but she nodded anyway, then took her mother's keys and Leshek's hand. After unlocking the bottom unit on the north side of the building, she let her brother in, then lingered by the doorway.

“Missus Mazurek, we have reason to believe your daughter may've been involved in a burglary at a charging station in West County.” His words emblazoned themselves across Dita's mind. We have reason to believe your daughter was involved in a burglary. “May I ask how old she is?”

Dita couldn't hear how her mother responded, but she thought she might have heard the word birthday.

“I see.” The officer, a handsome man with blond hair, blue eyes and an athletic build, glanced over at the front door, slightly ajar.

“I belieeeeve in Sandy Claaaws! I belieeeeeve!” Leshek's irritating voice obscured some of what the policeman said next. Dita tried to hush her brother, but he was twirling around the living room like an alien spaceship, oblivious to her pleas.

“...new law... ...year-olds—especially the last... ...lenience. Just make sure it...

“I believe I am Sandy Claws!'

“Shut it, spaznozzle!”

“Ha ha!” Leshek was tickled by funny words. “Shpanish Noodle! Dita said I'm a Shpanish Noo! Ha ha! Nooda nooda nooda nooda!”

When Nada came into the house, shutting the door behind her before the policeman had even gotten into his car, she didn't look at Dita. Instead she brought her bag of groceries into the kitchen and set them on the counter with a sigh.

“Settle down, twirlybird, settle down! Go play with your crayons while I get dinner ready.”

But Leshek didn't want to settle down. Distressed by learning that Santa Claus wasn't real, he was desperately seeking ways to make it right again. “I'm a Noodle Claws!” He spun himself dizzy and fell on the floor giggling after that one.

Dita retreated to the kitchen table and started another drawing, trying to ignore her little brother. When Lidia came home from school, Leshek was still spinning around the living room, but at least he was doing it quietly. Lidia retreated to the bedroom the three siblings shared and slammed the door.

Typical.

Leshek sat on the floor for a full twenty minutes, piecing together tracks for his racecars, but the lure of the whirling spaceship eventually pulled him into motion. He didn't get far, crashing into his mother just as she was about to transfer a box of macaroni to a boiling pot of water.

Ssscrasssh!

Noodles everywhere.

“Noodle Claws!” He seemed so pleased with himself.

Just then, Kos walked in through the front door, and the mood grew chill. Leshek trotted over to the kitchen table next to Dita and pretended that he'd been drawing the entire time. With the air sucked out of her chance to shriek at her youngest child, Nada scooped up the spilled noodles into a bowl and picked through them for dirt.

“I won't let you spoil dinner for all of us,” she muttered, barely acknowledging her husband's entrance. Kos solemnly took off his shoes and sat in his easy chair, as he did every day before dinner.

A mischievous urge prompted Dita to comment on her mom's cooking. “It's already spoiled if you're using that ento-meat stuff, it's gross—”

“You mind your tongue, little girl,” Kos's gruff voice cut her off. “We can't afford fancy hamburgers and steak, you know.”

“Is that what you tell her to get her to steal for you?” Nada's voice was as tense as violin strings.

Kos's eyes turned black, but her mother wasn't through.

“A cop came by today—waiting for me outside our house when I got home. Yeah, that's right,” she nodded when Kos flinched at her words. “The police. He said they had video of Dita busting into a cash register—our Dita! Is this how you're raising our little girl, Kosmy? Raising her to think that stealing's okay as long as you don't get caught? You're just setting her up to be punished after she turns ten—is this how you're gonna raise Leshek? To be nothing more than a thief?”

Kos remained uncannily detached throughout Nada's fury, right up to when she mentioned Leshek. It was clear to everyone in their family that Kos didn't care for their youngest child, and the twist of his lip, the tension in his left nostril, both signaled his disgust at the thought of raising the boy. Thief or not.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Kosmy Mazurek,” Nada pressed on, her cheeks aflame with indignation. “To take advantage of your children in such a way.”

“Dita!” Kos barked, jumping up from his chair. Dita stiffened, but didn't look up from her drawing. “Take out the trash, then make a peanut butter sandwich for you and your brother. It's time for—”

Dita could already hear her mom groaning in protest.

“—your mom and I to have our playtime.”

“No, Kosmy, please—I'm so tired, and the kids need a proper—”

“You heard me! Dita!”

Leshek scrambled off to the kids' bedroom as fast as he could, while Dita slammed her pencil on the tabletop and stomped off to retrieve the trash.

She hated it when her dad did this. It made no sense.

It made her sick.

She brought the kitchen trash to the can they kept outside near the house, and said goodnight to the giant oak at the end of their block. For a mere second, she was tempted to walk down the street and keep walking, never turn back, and never have to see Kosmy or Leshek or anyone ever again. The thought was flushed away at once, however. Her family was awful. But the world was too terrifying for a nearly-ten-year-old girl on her own.

As she reached for the doorknob to go back inside, she heard Nada's muffled protests turn to sobbing and moaning, and Dita knew that Kos had already begun. For the next hour or more, Dita's parents would stay locked up in their bedroom, as they had many times before. She knew that her dad would stuff something into her mom's mouth, gagging her and garbling her pleas for mercy. She'd hear what sounded like slapping, sometimes punching or kicking. Cutting into her heart like an ax blow, Dita would hear each of her mother's muted groans, each time her dad gibed at Nada for forgetting their safe word.

Sometimes her family made her want to die.

“At least I have you, Isabel,” Dita whispered to the cold sky before going back into the house.

Thursday, November 29

We learned about Captain O in school today. His name was Yuriy, but people called him George. He left Earth eight years ago, before the Swarm came, on a mission to Mars, but he never made it. Something happened to his ship. Some people think he's still alive, out there in space, and that he's going to come back and save Earth or something. But wouldn't he be a human popsicle by now? I think space is pretty cold.

We also played some ancient game called square dancing. I wanted to keep doing it all day and all night, so I wouldn't have to come home, but everyone else thought it was stupid.

At daycare I learned about St. Andrew and his saltire. A saltire is a cross in the shape of an x instead of t. Andrew was a follower of Jesus Christ, but some people didn't like what he was doing, so they decided to crucify him. He said he wasn't good enough to be crucified on the same kind of cross as Jesus, so they put him on a saltire.

I think that's silly. If you have to die, why does the shape of the cross matter? Death is death. The point of life is to avoid it as long as possible.

Kos was at it again. He'd spent three hours the previous night torturing Nada, but that wasn't enough it seemed. Muffled moans and cruel taunts filled their home; the kids did their best to ignore them. Leshek listened to his radio and hummed to himself, but that wasn't enough for Dita. She hated Kos more than anything during playtime.

She decided she'd go find Lidia. Opening the front door as quietly as possible, she snuck out and climbed the stairs to the landing pad and entryway to the upper unit. No one lived there, although a woman lived in the upper unit on the south side of their fourplex. She was probably in her living room surrounded by her many cats.

Dita went to the end of the balcony and climbed up a ladder to the roof. Crouching down as she ascended the shingled slope, she found her sister sitting in shadows, her back pressed against the brick chimney. Lifting her head at the noise of Dita scrambling up the roof, Lidia frowned then put her head back on her knees as she hugged her legs.

Dita sat next to her sister, and Lidia grudgingly shared the wool blanket she'd draped over herself. In one hand she held a small bottle, unopened and containing a brown liquid. They sat in silence for a few moments, and Dita looked at her favorite tree at the end of the block, the enormous oak that was as wide as a house. That tree awed her, made her sure that life was worth living. It changed with the seasons, and it had an entire society of animals and insects that lived in, on, under, and around it. It was its own world.

“We missed the meteors,” Lidia spoke quietly, worn out from the cold. Her pale skin looked almost blue in the dim light from the streetlamps. “Meteor swarms that come around every year in November, but I learned about them too late.”

Dita imagined a flock of winged rocks swooping and buzzing past Earth in a strange outer-space migration.

“Like the Swarm?”

Lidia scowled. “No, stupid, the Swarm's always here.”

“What's in the bottle?” Dita asked after another few moments had passed.

“Bourbon.” Lidia lifted her head again and looked directly at Dita's face for the first time tonight. “It's a kind of alcohol.”

“But that's for adults, isn't it? Why do you have it?”

“It's not illegal anymore for kids to drink alcohol... but I haven't tried it.” The way she phrased her words it seemed as if she had more to stay, but nothing came out.

“How come?” Dita prompted.

Lidia's head sank back to her knees. “I'm scared.”

Dita didn't understand that, but she let it pass. “Well, why do people drink that stuff in the first place? Doesn't it taste terrible?”

Lidia raised her head again, but not to respond to Dita's questions. Leshek's head had just popped up over the edge of the roof. His eyes asked if he would be allowed to climb up and join his sisters. Dita sighed.

Before their brother reached them, Lidia looked at Dita and something in her sister's eyes made Dita's heart race: they were cold and hard, like their dad's.

“You'd better do it soon, before it starts counting against you. If you don't, it'll be up to Leshek, but that'll be years from now. I don't think mom'll survive that long.”

Dita had no idea what her sister was saying. The words bounced off her head like inert pine cones, but the tone of her sister's voice terrified her. Shaken, she welcomed Leshek's arrival and hugged her brother close to her while they sat on the roof.

Friday, November 30

I might get arrested before my 10th birthday. Kos finally told me about his grand plan.

Looking down at two men on the ground, convulsing as if they'd been shocked by live wires, Kos spat. “Damn bugs. Come on, let's get outta here.”

They left the gun range after witnessing an argument turn into fisticuffs. Normally Kos had Dita practice with a small rifle, since that's what kids were taught, but today he had her use a small semi-automatic handgun.

You never know when you'll need to protect yourself from a thug or a rapist, he'd said. The handgun's your best bet.

It turned out she was just as good a shot with a handgun as she was with a rifle. Shooting a gun felt natural to her. Still, she was annoyed at her dad for taking her to the range. Today was St. Andrew's Day, and there was a special mass at church tonight. Dita would much rather be with her mom and Baka Jo in church than at the firing range.

Back in the Jeep, Kos didn't start the engine right away. Instead, he lit one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and lowered his window just enough to let the smoke out. Dita wrinkled her nose: she detested the smell of burning tobacco. He took a few drags and breathed deeply for a moment before he spoke, saying something that Dita knew she wouldn't want to hear.

“The world's uh effed-up place, Dita. People do some crazy shit just to get by... and some people do crazy shit just for the hell of it—just to get off on it.”

Like you? Feeling nauseous from a mix of smoke, adrenalin and bile, Dita shot her eyes over at Kos, not daring to utter her thought. He ignored her anyway, looked out his window and kept speaking. She turned away and stared out the passenger side window at the brick wall of the gun range building, graffitied with the phrase OBEY THE SWARM.

“About six or seven years ago, when it all started... when it was worse than it is now, when people started losing their shit and killing themselves, and killing each other... Someone hurt your mom, hurt her real bad. He did something to your mom that—” Something seemed to catch in his throat, so he cleared it, swallowed, and paused for a moment before resuming.

“He polluted her,” he said more loudly, anger rising in his face. “And cuz of who he was, the son of a god-damn priest, he got off light.”

Kos turned to Dita and made sure she was looking at him.

“There ain't no way he's paid for the damage he's done. If I could get away with it... I'd make sure justice was done.”

Dita didn't dare utter a word. She understood exactly what Kos was telling her.

“Tomorrow at the fundraiser,” he continued. “You'll be busy helping Sister Margie with the bake sale and kid stuff, right?”

Dita nodded once.

“You'll have your jacket with you, right?”

Dita nodded twice.

“Well, just be sure you don't forget it, you know, back in the back office or whatever, cuz... Well, I wouldn't want you to be without your jacket, cuz I guess I'd have to bring you back later and see if we could get it... right?”

Saturday, December 1

You'd better do it soon.

I'd make sure justice was done.

I just wish he was dead.

The voices of her family haunted Dita as she and Nada took the county bus to the Lake Park cemetery. Somewhere deep inside she understood what they were all saying to her, but she was reluctant to examine their words too closely. Reluctant, or perhaps, repulsed by what she might find. It was all too much for her young soul.

She wanted to talk with her mom about it, but at the same time she didn't. Nada was the most frustrating person in the world to talk to. She could try to discuss it with Isabel, but that'd become unsatisfying as she grew older. She'd never actually seen Isabel, but ever since she could remember she simply knew Isabel existed. There were times when she thought she could hear her imaginary friend, as a high-pitched ringing noise, which is how she got her name: Is a bell?

The electric bus sped away from them quietly, as if it'd never been there, and Dita glanced up at her mother's face. Clutching some flowers she'd picked earlier this morning, Nada eyed something ahead with suspicion, but Dita couldn't tell what it was. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to pose one of the many questions burning in her mind.

“Why was Uncle Miki buried here instead of at Saint Andrew's with Raymund and grampa and gramma Mazurek?”

Nada turned with anger in her eyes and scowled, but didn't reply. After a moment she sighed, then walked up to a wooden booth near the cemetery's entrance. While she signed her name on an open book that'd been placed on a pedestal, a woman approached holding a stack of folded paper. At first glance, her hair appeared neat, but it was really just a jumble of quarrelsome curls.

“Hi, my name's Beverly,” the woman spoke with a slight lisp, holding one of her pamphlets out to Nada. “Have you considered joining the Church of the Swarm?”

Nada looked up, confused and irritated, and refused the pamphlet by waving her hands in front of her.

“We're the first religion based on rational thought and proven science,” Beverly offered, but Nada took Dita's hand and walked away from the woman.

When they reached the wall where the ashes of her brother were interred, Nada touched the plaque which bore his name: Mihailo Damjanović. Placing her sorry bouquet in a tin vase attached to the wall next to the plaque, she spoke softly to her daughter.

“Your uncle Miki was a good man, Dita. Caring... generous... kind. He liked to play golf... and paint watercolors. You remind me of him sometimes—he was so stubborn. He never let anyone tell him what to do... or how to be. He had a hard time when he was younger, but he figured it out. He was ... happy.”

Tears began to well up in Nada's eyes as she touched the wisps of hair around Dita's forehead.

“Then, when everything changed... when the Swarm... it was hard on people like your uncle. He'd always been Catholic, but he... he did things. Sinful things. It was too much for him to bear.”

Nada watched Dita as her words sunk in, then bent closer and placed her hands on Dita's shoulders.

“Now listen to me, Dita: your birthday's coming up, and you're going to be asked to make a choice. You'll have some time, but I want you to think carefully about everything you've learned from—and about—the Church before you do. No matter what you decide, I want you to know that I'll always love you. Okay?”

Dita smiled and nodded. Her mother rarely said those words to her.

“One more thing.” Her eyes grew dark. “I know Kos has something brewing, either today or tomorrow. I won't ask you to resist, because I know what he's like, but I just want you to remember one thing: be true to yourself, Edyta Mazurek. In your heart, you know the difference between right and wrong.”

Dita's pulse quickened. She wasn't sure if her mother was right.

Dita spent most of Saturday afternoon at St. Andrew's Church. She and some of the other children helped Sister Margie and Father Frank with their annual St. Andrew's Day fundraiser, where they sold food and hand-made crafts to help fund the daycare and other charitable work. Long tables draped with white sheets filled the entryway near the baptistery, as well as the chancel, the raised area where the priests conducted the services. Half the tables were covered with plates of paczki, poppy-seed cake, and other baked goods, while the rest were adorned with holiday-themed wreaths, wall hangings, statues and dozens of hand-crafted items donated by members of the community.

“But I want da Sandy Claws!”

Dita could hear her younger brother screeching all the way on the other side of the nave. She spotted her mother and Baka Jo nearby, engrossed in a conversation with the woman who'd made forty dozen pierogi for the sale, then saw Kos and Leshek near the wooden Santa Claus statues.

“Why can I have da Sandee Claaaaaaws!” His demands turned to sobbing, and Dita knew that he'd pushed it too far. Kos slapped the six-year-old boy hard, knocking him to the ground, then dragged him away from the sparkling red and white figurines and away from the eyes of onlookers. Dita abandoned her table and ran across the church's sanctuary to a wide hallway that led to the administrative offices in the back. Kos had already removed his belt and was yanking Leshek's pants down as he made the young boy bend over.

“Kos!” she pleaded, but her dad ignored her. Folding his belt in half, he flogged Leshek's buttocks five times fast, eliciting squeals of pain. Stopping, he looked up at Dita with a sneer on his face, then all at once his face changed. His sneer vanished, his eyes grew wide, and he seemed to be looking at something past Dita. She turned and saw a man walking away, a tall man who was somehow familiar, though she couldn't get a good look at his face.

“Go find your mom,” Kos barked to Leshek as the boy buttoned his pants and sniffled. Her dad turned his gaze upon Dita. “You're coming with me.”

“But, Kos, I gotta—”

He took her by the hand and dragged her with him toward the front entrance of the church, the way the man had walked. He released her as they exited the church and put his hand into his jacket pocket while they walked around the building.

When no one was nearby, Kos pulled out a small gun and handed it to Dita.

“Hold it in your sweatshirt for a bit—it's too heavy with my keys and everything.”

Dita breathed through her nose, but she didn't have the nerve to defy him. She took the gun and slid it into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, holding onto it so it wouldn't bounce around as she walked. As they followed the man toward the building that housed the offices and guest quarters, Kos spoke in a low voice.

“That's Simon Stanczak. He raped your mom seven years ago. Hurt her so bad she was in the hospital for almost a week.”

Dita had learned what rape was from Lidia, who'd said it was the worst thing a man could ever do to a woman. Worse than death.

Simon Stanczak didn't seem to notice Dita and Kos as he entered the building. When the door closed behind him, a strange thought came to Dita. Seven years ago? Leshek is almost seven years old.

“I would understand it,” Kos continued. “If you wanted to hurt that man, you know, in retribution. I wouldn't condone it, but I'd understand it.” He was using his official voice, the precise enunciation and conditional sentences that indicated he was trying to say something else to her. “If you walked in there, knocked on his door, and shot him in the face—I don't think anyone would be surprised.”

Dita's eyes grew wide. Her heart galloped like a frightened horse.

“I can't—wouldn't ever want to see you do such a thing, you know—I couldn't lie to the police about anything...”

He looked at her as if he was waiting for her to do something, and then she realized: she needed to go in alone. She glared at him, then walked up to the building's entrance and opened the door.

She knew exactly where the guest quarters were, having spent many of her afternoons in the church's daycare which was housed in the same building. She could probably guess which one had been assigned to the bishop's son: colorful panels of stained glass next to the entry doors showed which rooms were currently lit or unlit, and only one glowed with bluish light. Dita blinked rapidly, cleared her mind and took a deep breath. Her heart still raced, but she felt as if she was on a path laid out for her, and she didn't know how to stop.

She knocked on the door, timidly at first, but ending with three loud raps. The gun felt cold and lifeless in her hand as she withdrew it from her sweatshirt pocket, making sure to load the chamber.

Footsteps approached the door, and Dita's vision went black around the edges.

As Simon Stanczak opened the door his face paled with shock. Dita held the gun as if she knew exactly what she was doing and aimed for his heart. The man's eyes were wide, his hands presented palms forward, as he sputtered. “Wh-wh-whoa, little girl, what are you doing with that? Put that down before you hurt someone.”

Dita tried to focus all her pent-up rage and use it to drill through his quivering, fat face with her eyes, but his expression softened.

“You're her baby girl, aren't you?” Something about the familiarity of his tone made Dita's heart grow black. “Listen, I'm sorry, I'm real sorry for what I did—I didn't mean, I didn't—”

“I'm not a baby.” Dita's hands trembled. She grew perplexed by the realization that she wasn't going to squeeze the trigger. That wasn't for her to do. That decision belonged to someone else.

For most of dinner that night, Kos fumed at her, but didn't say a word. Dita did her best to avoid his gaze. The uncomfortable silence was punctuated by occasional and inappropriately mirthful outbursts from Baka Jo.

“And those wreaths! Best I've ever seen, hands down. The Bruskis really outdid themselves this year,” she proclaimed.

“What happened to your jacket, Dita?” Her father's gruff voice startled her. “I noticed you didn't have it when you got home.”

Nada eyed Kos with some suspicion. Dita didn't look up, instead speared a potato pierogi with her fork and stuffed it past her teeth. With her mouth full, she mumbled, “I yeft it at da furff.”

Kos chewed on that for a moment. “I need some tobacco. I'll take you to the store with me and we can stop at the church and see if anyone's still there.”

Dita didn't say a word. Both Leshek and Lidia kept their eyes on their plates, as they did most nights.

“Why not wait until morning?” Baka Jo's voice was cheerfully mystified. “You'll be there again for morning mass, won't you?”

“What if something happens before then—a fire, or something, you never know. You don't want your granddaughter to be without her jacket, do you Baba Jovana?” Kos sneered.

Baka Jo shrugged, wrinkled her nose and smiled at Dita, then served herself more green beans.

In the car ride to the church, Kos asked Dita what she'd done with the gun after she ran from Simon Stanczak.

“I threw it in the bushes behind the church.”

She stared straight ahead as she replied, ignoring the tiny bells in her ears, and Kos said no more.

It was dark when they got to the church. Kos said he'd wait outside while Dita went around back to see if anyone was there to let her into the administrative office. She knew there wouldn't be this late at night, but he needed to say it aloud.

“Go on in and see if you can find your jacket—and if you see the cash they collected from all the sales today, don't you touch it now.” He winked. “I'll go see if I can find that gun.”

Dita screwed up her lips, then did what her dad's unsaid words told her to do. It was easy getting into the administrative offices—she had done it before with her tools—but the hard part was walking down the hallway. There were no windows on this side of the building, hidden from the streetlamps and autumn moonlight of the world outside. Once she got more than ten feet in, the light coming through the glass entrance doors grew dim and useless. Shadows crowded the corners and Dita nearly froze with fear, reacting to every little noise.

Her galloping heart forced her to press on.

“I know this is wrong, Isabel,” she whispered as she crept toward Sister Margie's office. “But I don't think I have any other choice.”

Once inside, she felt her way to the nun's desk and dared to turn on the small lamp that was clamped to one side. The money wasn't even hidden. A box sat open on top of the nun's paperwork. What was probably over a couple thousand dollars in cash lay within Dita's reach. She wasn't surprised: she knew from experience that people had become too relaxed about security, lulled by how little crime there was these days. She stared at the money and listened to every noise, the buzzing, clicking, breezing sounds of a large building at night. Minuscule sounds made large by fear and darkness.

The frantic rhythm of her heart was the loudest thing here: blood booming in her ears. She opened the top drawer and saw a familiar set of keys, and knew that her next decision was the most important of her life so far.

She looked again at the box of money: a messy pile of ashen bills in small denominations. Dita saw in that cash a whole year's worth of food for her family, or new clothes, or maybe even a car for Nada. It had been so easy before, when she'd stolen from charge stations or GovMed clinics or corner mini-marts. She wasn't taking much—their businesses wouldn't fall apart because of Dita's nimble fingers. But taking from the daycare, from the church's outreach programs and charities: that felt vastly different. People Dita liked had spent their own time and resources to help raise that money for the church.

“Lidia's right. Kos is a dick.”

Dita reached down and grabbed the keys, knowing they'd be faster than her lock-pick skills, then rushed to the men's restroom before she changed her mind. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of going into a space that was reserved exclusively for men, then barged in. Squinting her eyes in the bright, motion-activated light of the bathroom, she found the key to the supply closet and unlocked the door. At the back of the small room she pressed her ear against another door, this one leading to the restroom for the guests of the church, and listened.

Nothing but her galloping pulse. She put the key into the lock and turned it, dreading the inevitable click. Pushing the door open, she could see at once that the restroom was unlit. The motion detector must've been facing the other way. Enough light shone in from the staff restroom for her to spot the tall garbage can near the sinks.

Dita removed the lid from the trash can and reached into the mass of damp, crumpled paper. She had to tilt the plastic container to reach further down, then she felt it. The cold steel was unmistakable. She lifted the gun out of the rubbish and stared at it, spellbound by the instrument of death in her hand, speaking in hushed tones to Isabel, her constant friend.

“I wonder if this has ever killed anyone?”

“Dita! What the fuck are you doing?!”

The angry whisper startled Dita, but she didn't lose her grip on the gun. Instead, she swung around with her finger on the trigger and faced Kos, pointing the weapon at his heart.

“What the—you lied to me!” His voice was growing louder now, his anger overriding caution. “Gimme that thing—”

“Stop!” Dita nearly shouted. “Stop right there—I've got something to say to you!”

His face in shadows, Dita thought she saw a sparkle in Kos's eye as he laughed. “What's this? Is little Dita stomping her feet and demanding the world pay attention to her? Waaa, waaaa, listen to meeee! Ha! You better give that up right now, little girl, and get used to being a nothin! Cuz that's what you are, a nothin, just like the rest of us. Anything you get in life, you get because uh me, you hear that? Now, gimme that gun before I beat ya silly.”

“No!” She snarled as best as she could. She'd never stood up to Kos before, not like this, and she thought her heart might explode from all the blood pumping through it. But she didn't falter.

“You have to make a promise!” Dita looked as serious as she could, wanting to convey the importance of her words, but Kos only raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Listen to me!” Her voice was almost a screech, her pitch heightened by frustration and dread. “You have to stop hurting us—especially mom! No more playtime, okay. Now promise!”

Dita shook the handgun at her dad, stood straight and tried to appear as if she wouldn't back down this time.

But her dad came at her fast.

Kos hunched over and rushed Dita, snarling like an underfed junkyard dog. Fumbling to gain control of the gun, he knocked it out of her hand and shoved her hard. She landed on the plastic garbage can, causing it to tip over as she slid to the ground.

Kos was hovering over her before she could scramble away. He first grabbed her by the hair and broke her nose with a quick punch: bones fracturing bones, then an immediate flow of blood.

Dita's memory of the next few seconds were of bright fairies and drowning.

Barely able to determine which direction to flee, she attempted to stumble out of the men's restroom, but Kos yanked her by the hood of her sweatshirt and swung her back toward the supply closet door. She slid across the bathroom floor and struck her left shoulder and head on the wall, pain shooting down her neck, blood everywhere.

Kos was saying something to her, but she couldn't really hear his words. She was too distracted by screaming pain and the familiar black object that lay right in front of her. As she lifted the gun and pointed it for a second time that night at her dad, Kos was unbuckling and removing his leather belt, fire burning at the bottom of the black pits where his eyes should've been.

Dita sat on the bathroom floor with her back to the wall and braced herself for the recoil. Isabel's peal of condemnation rang in her ears, but she ignored it.

“You think by killing me you can change the world?” Kos punctuated his question with a snap of his belt across his hand. “Wake up, stupid girl! Nothing's gonna change! We're already in hell—haven't ya figured it out yet?”

“You're wrong, Kos, it doesn't have to be that way!”

“Stupid bitch—you're just like your mom used to be, you know that? You think there's room in this world for good things, for a better world. A better world—ha! There's only this one, ya idiot, controlled by the almighty Swarm, and there's not a fucking thing you can do—”

Isabel screamed louder than she ever had before, but it wasn't enough.

Sunday, December 2

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm afraid. I think Isabel is my pilot.

“Missus Mazurek, hello. My name is Doctor Diaz. I wanted to first tell you how sorry I am for your loss, I can't imagine what you must be going through right now.”

Silence prompted the doctor to continue speaking.

“I know this must be a hard time, and if there was any way to delay this visit, I would. But as part of the Swarm Act signed by President Parimoo, it's required by law that all US citizens must receive at least one pre-10 counseling session before their tenth birthday.”

The doctor had a soft voice, with a lilt at the ends of words that sounded foreign. She was a pretty woman with dark hair and eyes, her eyes unadorned and her hair pulled back tight.

“A house call is required if the scheduled appointments are not met—it should only take twenty or thirty minutes at most, and you may be present for the entire interview.”

Dita's eyebrows rose at that last word, yet her focus didn't stray from the blank piece of paper on the kitchen table. Her pencil stood erect in her right hand, the tip touching the white surface. She hadn't been able to draw a thing. The small fracture in her nose was throbbing with pain, dulled by the medicine she'd been given. She had hoped for a cast or a patch to cover her black eye at least, but she'd been disappointed.

“She's been poked and prodded by doctors and detectives all night long—she only just woke up from a nap, and she's probably still in shock. Can't this wait until tomorrow?” Nada's voice was weak. Dita was surprised she spoke at all, considering how widthdrawn she'd been for the past fifteen hours.

“I'm afraid not, Missus Mazurek. I am sorry, but I'll try to be quick. May I?”

Nada reluctantly stepped aside and allowed Dr. Diaz to enter her home. Baka Jo, sitting nearby on the couch, frowned at the woman, then took Lidia and Leshek with her into the kids' bedroom.

The attractive woman stepped up to the kitchen table and set her briefcase down. Pulling a chair out, she smiled at Dita and said, “Hi—it's Edyta, right? I'm Doctor Diaz. May I sit with you for a moment or two?”

The doctor didn't wait for Dita's permission.

“I know you must be exhausted. I'll keep this as simple as I can. I don't know how much you've been told about the Swarm, but it's my job to make sure you're prepared for what's about to happen to you.”

Dita put the pencil down on the blank paper and glanced over at Dr. Diaz. The pain medicine made her mind fuzzy, and when her heart raced, it felt like it was sliding on slick ice.

“Can I ask you to tell me your full name, please?”

Dita blinked. “Edyta Aniela Mazurek. But everyone calls me Dita.”

“Good, okay, Dita. Now tell me your date of birth?”

Dita told her, then added, “Lidia says I'm a Sagittarius.”

“Good—that's right, you are. I'm a Sagittarius too. Now, I just need to do a short examination—listen to your heart, and such.”

Dr. Diaz pressed her stethoscope to various places on Dita's body, inspected her eyes, ears, and mouth, and wrote notes on her pad of paper. When she was done with her exam, the doctor put her pad back into her briefcase and folded her hands on her lap.

“Well, as I said, I don't know how much you may've been told about the Swarm, but there are things you'll need to know as you start the next year of your life. You'll learn more about the origins of the Swarm in school, as you grow older, if you haven't already from your friends or family. But here's what I can tell you.

“The Swarm is a network of self-sufficient, aerial nanobots—I know that's quite a mouthful, Dita, but what that means is they're a bunch of tiny computers, so tiny they could be flying all around us right now and we'd never see them. And like all computers, they have a program, a purpose. Do you know the purpose of the Swarm?”

Dita heard the question, but it prompted no reaction from her. She knew the Swarm was responsible for shocking people when they lied, but when she was younger she'd been told they were angels. More recently she'd begun to question the idea of angry cherubs and wonder if they were bugs after all, more akin to tiny, vengeful insects. Like electrified fireflies.

A hive of micro-robots was a concept that made Dita's mind explode with questions and implications. Who made them? And why?

“They impose morals. What those morals are, exactly, is determined by a person's chosen belief system. I'm sorry if this is all a little confusing right now, but it will make sense, I promise.”

Dita had learned about morals at Sunday school. She wasn't confused; things were beginning to make more sense than the doctor understood.

“Each one of us, starting at the age of ten, is assigned one bot from the Swarm cloud—we call it the pilot. It stays with us for the rest of our lives, and for the first seven weeks it guides us with a gentle ringing in our ears as we navigate our new relationship.”

“Ten? Do kids who're younger than ten ever get a pilot?” Dita asked, unsure which response she wanted.

“No, I haven't read of any cases where a pilot was assigned before age ten—they are quite precise. Why do you ask, Dita—have you been hearing a chiming noise?”

“No, I was just wondering,” Dita answered reflexively, then realized her lie a split second before she heard the familiar ringing.

It was in her nature to lie. How in God's brown earth am I going to survive without lying?

Isabel?

Dr. Diaz nodded, and seemed to accept Dita's response. “So the pilot guides us, helps us to understand the rules. For everyone, religious and non-religious people alike, there are four general laws that are imposed upon us. These are laws that are basic to all of humanity—do not lie, do not cheat, do not steal, and do not kill. We all agree that those four things are bad, right?”

Dita turned away at the word kill, and for a moment she thought her vision might go black, but the pain meds had slowed her heart enough. She breathed deeply and focused her attention on the softly lilting tone of Dr. Diaz.

“Plus, if you believe in God, as millions of Americans do, and adhere to a recognized church's beliefs and codes of conduct, those codes will also be imposed upon you by the Swarm. For instance in the Catholic tradition, divorce is a sin, and will get you punished. And that's what they do, Dita—they punish. The Swarm monitors our behavior, and punishes us when we're bad. The punishment is light at first—loud ringing bells, then small electric shocks. But it will get worse, and the more often you're punished, no matter how small the crime, the greater the punishments will be. On your fifteenth birthday, if you haven't yet publicly declared your religious status, the Swarm will assume that you are agnostic, and continue judging you solely against the Four Laws. But if you've chosen to follow a set of religious beliefs, you'll be bound to obey them. Countless thousands of people have lost their lives testing the limits of the Swarm. And this is the important thing, Dita: the Swarm will not hesitate to kill, especially those who break the fourth law—those who murder.”

Dita's eyes burned. Anger and resentment that had built up over the past five or six years of her small life overflowed from her heart and into her bloodstream. She trembled as Kos's face flashed before her eyes with the crack of gunshot. His death gaze was as vivid and tangible as the air in her lungs.

“Fortunately, these laws do have some leeway. You'll learn more as you grow older, but here's one example to get you thinking. The fourth law, do not kill, is more precisely stated do no harm. If one of your friends punches you in the arm, he or she will be punished. But if a surgeon has to cut you open in order to save your life, or a dentist has to drill into your teeth, they won't be punished for that. Not if they're doing their job in a professional setting. And there are countless other exceptions and special situations that you'll learn as you experience them. But don't worry, it's all commonsense stuff, and for the first fifty days, you don't have to think about getting shocked—you'll just hear a faint ringing noise when you've broken one of the rules.

“Do you understand, Dita?”

A nauseating river of thoughts and emotions flowed through her foggy head. Fear of the future, of the following day. Horror at the idea of having her every action scrutinized by a robot. Unquenched rage at her father for using her to commit sins, for making her a murderer. Spite against the doctor for pointing it out.

And gall, coating everything else like a bitter syrup.

She began to wonder if she was wrong to believe that death is death. Maybe what kind of cross propped you up as you died was important after all. Dita knew she didn't want to die like Kos had.

But the Swarm? She would figure it out. Maybe even figure out a way to stop it. No one should have to go through what I've been through.

“What does it matter?” She spoke softly, so only the doctor could hear. “We all die. You just gotta make sure you go the way you want to.”

She picked up her pencil and began a drawing of Captain O's rocketship.

By Christopher Charles.

#The Swarm #writing

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

Text

Hiched chapter 20

I glance at the clock. I now have forty minutes before I can expect Selena home, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say to her when she gets here. How the hell am I going to convince her about us? It’s been days and I haven’t come up with jack shit.

Rising to my feet again, I begin pacing the room. When I see the black lacquered box that sits atop my dresser, I stop and go to it. Cradling the box in my hands, I sit back down on the bed. I don’t often take trips down memory lane; just keeping the mementos safe in my home is usually enough. But today, I need some guidance.

I take each item out, holding it and inspecting it before setting it down one by one on the bed beside me. One of my mother’s lockets. A leather bookmark from her favorite dog-eared romance. The token my father received from the New York Stock Exchange the day his company went public. A water-stained coaster from the seafood restaurant where he proposed to Mum. A friendship bracelet Selena gave me in the sixth grade, its braided thread fraying and dull. I smile and set it aside as I look through the rest of the treasures I saw fit to save.

After inspecting all the various small tokens that hold meaning in my life, I come to the last thing, buried in the bottom of the box. The folded square of newspaper that contains my mother’s obituary.

Just the feel of the soft, worn paper in my hands makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What would she think of me?

I’m forced to take deep stock of my life. It’s unraveled to the point that I can barely recognize it. Where did I go wrong? I put trivial things that don’t matter before love. If the company goes down . . . so what? We have to look for new jobs? Big fucking deal.

Of course, I don’t want to lose the company and watch my friends and employees struggle to piece their lives back together. But as far as my own life goes, my marriage is so much more important than the company name printed on my paycheck. To save those jobs, to save myself from loss of face, I put everything above my wife. If Selena grants me a second chance, I won’t do that again.

I unfold the newspaper, delicate with age, and gaze upon the words I’ve read many times before:

Dahlia Emerson Tate was taken from this world too soon. Having moved to the United States as a teenager, she later attended Smith College and then married William Tate of Briar Grove, New York. She is survived by her husband and a bright, caring, and inquisitive son, Justin. She firmly believed that her son was her biggest achievement, and raising him was her greatest pleasure in life.

Mum sure as hell knew the importance of love and family. She would probably be so disappointed in me right now.

The lump in my throat grows, and I force a deep breath into my lungs. I haven’t cried over my mother’s passing in many years, but something about her loss feels fresher than ever. Maybe it’s because I’ve destroyed the only good thing in my life, and I don’t have her here to dole out advice, or pat my head, or hug me close.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I murmur. “I’ll fix this somehow. I will make you proud. I promise.”

Chapter Seven

Selena

I check in at the spa to discover that Justin has booked me for the works. I’m being treated to a European facial, a French mani/pedi, a hot stone massage, and finally a blow-out. I’m briefly annoyed that Justin booked my appointment under “Mrs. Tate” instead of “Miss Cane.” But I shrug it off. Whatever . . . it’s a free spa day, and after everything that’s happened in the past week, I badly need some downtime. If this is his way of groveling, I’ll take it.

But I’m so tense that I don’t even begin to relax until the massage, over an hour into my appointment. Even while I’m lying on my front, my eyes closed, the tiny blond masseuse rubbing my sore, knotted muscles, my mind can’t help wandering back to the same dismal ground I’ve been mentally pacing for days now.

All along, I was operating under the assumption that once we got married, Justin and I would have ownership on our side. Those extra rights and responsibilities would both force the board to listen to us and make them more willing to take risks, since we’d assume more of the burden in case their gamble went sideways. But the fucking heir clause means that inheriting Tate & Cane isn’t an option anymore.

Is that really the end of the world, though? Is there still another way out?

In a matter of weeks, the board members will meet to cast their votes and decide our company’s fate. But the question isn’t settled yet. They still have a choice to make—either retain Tate & Cane or sell it off. And they’ll approach that choice like businessmen.

It all comes down to which option will make them more money. How much value we’re likely to create in the future compared to how much they can convince another company to buy us for. Long-term versus short-term profit. Risk and reward.

Even as things stand now, it’s not like the company is a terrible bet. It’s performed pretty well under its new management; our profits have definitely started climbing toward the black over the past couple months. But our gradual turnaround hasn’t quite been the jaw-dropping comeback that would banish the board’s doubts. We’re still more of a gamble than they would like.

If we can’t use our ownership privileges for extra clout . . . well, that definitely still handicaps us, but our defeat isn’t assured yet. We’ll just have to make ourselves indispensable in other ways. We need to demonstrate two things: Tate & Cane is worth more alive than dead. And it’s worth more with Justin and me at the helm than with anyone else they can dig up.

Okay, so we show them some new numbers. Some flashy, sexy predictions they haven’t seen before. But based on what? We can’t just pull a bunch of graphs out of our ass. I know enough finance to massage the statistics a bit, but there’s got to be something to massage in the first place. Optimistic projections are one thing; bald-faced lies are quite another. Even if we can fool the board in the short term, we’ll just be left holding the bag later, and begging for another chance won’t go nearly so well the second time around.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I try to loosen my stiff shoulders so the masseuse can do her job. It’s damn near impossible to relax with all this on my mind.

There’s no way around it—we need solid evidence to back up our fairy-dust forecast. We need an assload of new clients, or at least some promising prospects, and we need them ASAP. But already we’ve been hustling like crazy for months. We’ve tried everything. We’ve tapped everyone. At this point, we’d just be pestering the same people and annoying the hell out of them in the process. How pathetic would that be? Nobody enjoys a hard sell. And I don’t even know if I have the energy for that anymore.

Unless . . . we can encourage them to come to us, instead of us chasing them. Can we create a scenario where corporate bigwigs actually want to hear our pitches? Or at least something to make them receptive, relaxed, willing to listen, willing to take a chance on new deals.

A fun, laid-back atmosphere . . .

Free food and drinks are always a guaranteed hit, even with billionaires who can damn well afford their own. Ideally, in the interest of time, we would gather as many prospects in one room as possible so we can woo them all at once instead of scheduling a zillion individual meetings over the course of several weeks.

But we’d need it to be more than that, it would have to be the best damn party this city’s ever seen.

Inspiration strikes like lightning. I bolt up from the massage table with a gasp.

“Mrs. Tate? Is something wrong?” the masseuse asks, startled.

“No, it’s okay.” Something is very right, in fact. I can’t stop myself from grinning with excitement; she probably thinks I’ve gone crazy. “Sorry to be so abrupt, but I have to leave. Please go ahead and charge me for the full hour.”

Without waiting for her response, I dash behind the curtain and throw on my clothes while texting Justin.

Selena: Meet me in my office. I have a plan.

And if my instincts are on the mark, it’ll turn this company around for good.

• • •

After dark like this, especially on a Sunday night, the building is deserted. I’ve been here before at odd hours, and such deep stillness always gives me an eerie feeling, like I’m the only person left on the planet. But I’m on a mission now, so I hardly notice. The silence gives way before the quick, steady tapping of my footsteps as I walk to my office.

By the time I hear Justin coming down the hall, I’ve already typed out a press release and fired it off to the New York Times. Boom! I pump my fist in the air, feeling giddy with the surprise attack I’m about to unleash on the business world.

Justin steps inside my office without knocking. “What the hell is going on? You said you had an idea?” He doesn’t need to add, It better be a fucking fantastic one to drag me into work on a Sunday evening. He must have dropped everything to hurry straight here—he’s wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, his hair disheveled.

“I do. I’ve already sent out a press release.” I take a deep breath to ease the fluttering in my stomach. “Picture it—we’re going to throw the biggest, best gala New York City has ever seen. We’ll invite all the corporate bigwigs from firms we’ve wanted to woo, but didn’t know how to snag meetings with. We’ll show a brief presentation at the start—no more than ten minutes—just a few bold, hard-hitting, buzz-worthy clips of our company in action, the results we’ve achieved for our clients . . .” I wave my hand. “And then we mingle.”

Justin is still standing in the doorway, squinting at me like he can’t quite parse my words. “So you’re saying . . . we’re going to throw a party?” he asks skeptically. “This is the grand plan I put on pants and hauled ass halfway across the city for?” His tone is serious, but his smirk tells me he’s not actually mad. I’ve found there’s very little he wouldn’t do for me.

I nod eagerly. “Exactly. It’ll solve everything.”

“You’re going to have to convince me.”

Unable to sit still any longer, I jump up and start pacing the narrow space between the wall and my desk. “How many times have you been to a conference or whatever, and by the end, you’ve seen so many presentations you can’t even remember who was promoting what, because they were all abstract and boring and nearly identical? If we want people to remember us, we have to be memorable. Which means being fresh and different—and being fun. This party will make Tate & Cane stand out in their minds and will create a psychological association between us and all sorts of positive feelings.”

Justin sits down in the chair in front of my desk, as if he’s a client I’m pitching to—which I guess he kind of is. “I get what you’re saying, but it still seems all very fuzzy and touchy-feely. It’s hardly a guaranteed solution.”

“I know this party idea isn’t money in the bank, but I’m not just spitballing here, either. Storytelling is a well-proven branding strategy.”

“For content marketing, yeah, but—”

“When clients contract with us, they’re not just purchasing our services—they’re buying into the idea of us as people, on a personal level. Our charisma or our character or whatever. It’s not necessarily wise or rational, but it’s human nature. We’re social, emotional creatures . . . we value relationships and narratives and ‘gut feelings’ very highly, even when we don’t consciously know we’re doing it.”

And I learned the importance of this idea from Justin himself. I almost have to laugh when the irony of my words hits me. We’ve had so many arguments about business just like this, but on opposite sides of the table. If only briefly, I’ve turned into Justin, the optimistic, intuitive social butterfly, and he’s turned into me, the practical, analytical worrywart.

“Instead of just drowning people in dry numbers,” I say, “which is hard to pay attention to and even harder to remember, we give Tate & Cane a face they can identify with. We show off our business by showing off ourselves. The two new young CEOs who are ready to think outside the box and push boundaries. People eat up that kind of story with a spoon!”

As I grin at Justin, his own lips start to quirk up. “Okay, okay . . . maybe you’re on to something here.”

I cross my arms and cock my head, pretending to be insulted. “Just maybe? Please, do try to curb your enthusiasm.”

He chuckles. “Fine, Snowflake, it’s a fucking fantastic idea. When did you tell the press this party was going to be?”

“Next Saturday night.”

“That soon? Damn, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” But Justin is still smiling. Evidently my excitement is contagious. “I guess we should get started.” He rubs his hands together and gives me the broad grin I’ve been waiting for since he arrived.

“Right now?” I assumed he’d want to get back to whatever he was doing at home.

“What better time?” He pauses to look at his watch. “Actually, let’s get some dinner first.”

My stomach growls in agreement and we both laugh. I forgot that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, before I left for the spa. Speaking of which . . .

“Thank you for the spa package. It was perfect. Really, thank you.”

He nods. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

We debate between ordering pizza or Chinese, call the latter, and break into our delivery boxes at the long oak table in one of the conference rooms. As we wolf down our egg rolls and chow mein noodles, Justin asks, “Does your dad still keep a bottle of Scotch in his desk drawer for clients?”

I swallow my mouthful of rice. “Yeah. Why?” At Justin’s smirk, I shake my head. “Oh, hell no. We’re not getting drunk . . .” But then I stop. Because, really, why not? I’m in a celebratory mood, and one drink with dinner won’t kill me.

“Come on, one drink. Two tops,” Justin says with an airy wave of his hand. “We’ll buy him a replacement bottle. He probably won’t even notice anything different.”

“We’re breaking into Dad’s liquor stash like a couple of teenagers.”

“Yeah, isn’t it nostalgic? I don’t think we’ve done that since I was . . . a junior?”

I chuckle even as I roll my eyes. “Sure, let’s have a toast. I think we’ve earned it.”

“Hell yes, that’s the spirit.” Justin gets up. “I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, he returns with a squat crystal bottle of honey-colored whiskey, about half full, and two tumblers.

“Sorry there’s no ice,” he says as he pours our drinks. “We’ll just have to take them neat, I guess.”

I’m not much of a hard-liquor drinker, but I shrug. “Whatever. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

I scoot my brimming glass closer, bend low to the table to take a sip—then immediately start coughing. Oh God, I spoke too soon about the “surviving” part. It’s like inhaling fresh hot smoke, with the way it burns on the way down. Ugh . . . people drink this stuff willingly?

Justin laughs at me and I give him the evil eye, but soon I’m giggling too.

He tastes his own and gives a little lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction. “Damn, that’s good.”

“How can you drink that?” I say with a grimace.

“It’s an acquired taste . . . just like you.” He dodges my playful swat.

As we polish off our Chinese dinner, we toss around party plans including theme, catering, decorations, and guests. One shot of Scotch somehow becomes two, then three. Turns out it goes down easier the more you have.

Even though we both still don’t know where we stand with each other, the mood is jubilant. My flash of inspiration, and the optimism it brings, is too strong to be undercut by any relationship awkwardness. I’m even more drunk on hope than I am on Dad’s whiskey.

I stand up to throw away my empty takeout box and the room sways a little. Okay, maybe hope and whiskey are about equal by now.

“Whoa, there,” Justin says, rising to his feet. He reaches out to steady me with a hand on my hip.

I turn . . . and find myself far closer than I expected. If I took even one step forward, I would be in his arms. The mood changes from one of business to a sultry encounter between two old lovers swamped by sexual attraction and history.

“You okay?” His voice is low and smooth, just as intoxicating as the liquor.

“Y-yeah,” I reply, suddenly even more light-headed. “You?”

Why did I say that last thing? I must be a lot more drunk than I thought. But Justin answers with a serious tone and only a slight smile, as if my question made perfect sense.

“I’m feeling pretty good right now.” He pauses, then adds, “But I could be better.”

Somehow, without noticing, I’ve leaned closer. Or was I always this close, and just never noticed the tickle of his breath on my lips? I inhale his familiar spicy scent and feel my knees weaken again.

“H-how do you mean?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” he replies. Then he hesitates again. He traces his thumb over my lower lip. “It’s nice to see you smiling. I . . . missed you.”

Closer again. The atmosphere in the conference room, once happy and uncomplicated, holds its breath as we gaze at each other. Justin’s dark eyes are solemn. But if I look deep into them, I can see something smoldering. For me.

I can’t tell who moves first, me or him. Closing the distance feels as natural and inevitable as falling. All I know is that his lips feel warm and soft and so good, so right against mine. I open up and hear him sigh as our tongues tangle together.

“Missed you,” I hear him murmur again against my mouth. “So much, Snowflake.”

Our kiss soon deepens, urgent and wild. The heat of his hands all over me—my breasts, my ass, my thighs, seemingly everywhere at once—burns right through the fabric of my clothes. I’m softening like taffy, melting and melding into him. I suddenly realize that the longer I avoided this, the more explosive it was bound to be when we rekindled.

The back of my legs hit the conference table. I lose my balance and sit down with an ungraceful thump. Without breaking our kiss, Justin slides between my parted knees, pushing my cotton skirt up to press his whole body against me hungrily, as if he can’t get enough contact. We fit together perfectly, chest to chest, the hard length of his cock insistent on my belly. When he lifts my legs to haul me even closer, my calves wrap around his angular hips automatically, even before my squeak of surprise escapes my lips.

His mouth descends again, coaxing my lips to part as he strokes his tongue so skillfully against mine. His warm palms massage my breasts and I reach down between us, flicking open the button on his jeans. And then he’s in my hands, and I take pleasure in each stroke, every labored breath, every moan I draw from this big, sexy man—evidence that he’s mine and mine alone. Nobody else can make him react like this. His cock is warm, steely, and I massage every inch of it, delicately rubbing the hot drop of fluid that’s leaked out over the tip.

“Snowflake, I . . .” Justin’s voice is tight with need. But he doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to say anything else. I need this too.

I wriggle back, just far enough away to snag my purse with one hand and drag it over the table to me. I take out the foil packet hidden in my wallet. His eyes widen at the sight. But neither of us speaks; the silence is deafening as I tear open the condom.

He pushes his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down his hips. I roll the condom over his cock. We barely dare to look at each other. This moment floats as light and as fragile as a soap bubble; the touch of reality would burst it instantly. One careless comment, one reminder of our unpleasant situation, and we’ll come crashing back down to earth.

But it’s obvious that we’re both thinking about the condom. Such a small thing, so heavy with significance now. A minefield of uncomfortable, unresolved questions still stretches between us, my own emotions reflected in Justin’s hesitant expression. What does this mean in the long run? Are we okay again? Am I okay? Or will tonight be the last time we ever touch?

I can’t bear to answer those questions yet. I just want Justin. I don’t want to think about why I want him, or whether I trust him, or what the future holds. In this moment, I know he’s my everything.

I pull aside the dampened crotch of my silk panties. Unprompted, he guides himself into me, pausing when I hiss through my teeth, and slowly pushes forward when I roll my hips in impatience. Inch by hot, thick inch, he fills me, taking away the empty space between us. And then his mouth descends on mine, our kiss hungrier and fierier than ever before.

Words are too heavy and too light, too sharp and too blunt, all at the same time. The low, breathy sounds of pleasure are all the communication we need, anyway. So I push all other unpleasant thoughts away and enjoy this, enjoy him. The sensation of skin on skin dissolves the past and future, leaving only the present. My whole world shrinks down to the sensation of his thick length parting me, of hot breath and hotter friction.

“Justin.” I gasp when he reaches between us to rub my exposed clit in gentle circles.

“I know.” He grunts, still buried to the hilt. “So perfect. Me and you.”

And he’s right. It is.

I flex my inner muscles around him and he groans.

Our gasps and moans wordlessly guide us toward bliss as we writhe together. Soon Justin is slamming into me, giving me every hard inch of himself, the soft sounds of wet flesh slapping so erotic and forbidden in the dim, silent office.

My toes curl and I clench around his girth with every thrust. I abandon everything and let myself fall into him—Justin Tate, my husband, my rival, my betrayer, my partner. This walking contradiction, the one man I can’t seem to stay away from, who makes my emotions simultaneously so confusing and so clear.

Tomorrow morning, I should come back to this hot, tender memory and try to figure out what it means. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll tell myself it was all a dream.

For now, though, I don’t ask questions. I just feel.

Chapter Eight

Justin

Watching Selena work the room is incredible. Everything we’ve worked so hard for over the last few months has led us to this very moment.

“Hanging in there?” she asks, stealing a moment away from the crowd trying to garner her attention. Lifting onto her tiptoes in her already sky-high heels, she presses a quick peck to my cheek.

Ever since our erotic encounter in the conference room last weekend, things have been good. Not great, but good. She’s been polite and chatty at home, and while we haven’t totally made up—or had sex again, for that matter—things have felt okay. Like we’re moving in a positive direction, even if it’s only by an inch at a time.

It’s safe to say that the party Selena dreamed up is a smashing success. Tate & Cane has delivered—big fucking time. We’re winning over everyone from the tired old CEOs to the young, hungry marketing execs ready for the next big thing. I’m practically beaming with pride for my gorgeous wife. I’m trying to keep my optimism cautious, but damn, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the moment.

“This is amazing, baby.” Giving her waist a squeeze, I return her chaste kiss on the cheek. I won’t cross the line and show her too much affection, because I know this isn’t the time or place and it would only make her uncomfortable, but I can’t resist taking a moment to let her know how much her sweet gesture means. We’ve worked hard to get here, and while I’m still not sure what the future holds for us, this is a huge step in the right direction.

The look in her eyes is tender, and there’s a small smile on her lips. “I’ll check in with you again later.”

For the most part, we’ve divided and conquered. I’ve hardly spoken three words to her all evening, but I’ve kept her in my line of vision, and she’s never been far from my thoughts. I watch her blend back into the crowd. With her simple black slacks and emerald-green silk blouse, she looks stunning. Professional, but more casual than usual, which fits the mood perfectly.

This is no boring business meeting, nor is it the politically correct, awkward, boring “work outing” that everyone silently dreads. We have fucking Beyoncé performing. Okay, so she’s not Beyoncé, but the girl is gorgeous and fiery and she can sing her ass off. The atmosphere is casual and chill. And the waiters aren’t serving chilled champagne, they’re serving cucumber cocktails strong enough to put a smile on the lips of even the stuffiest company leaders.

Hell, most everyone else is in bare feet on the sod floor we had brought in. Beach balls are being kicked around. Hammocks where Fortune 500 leaders lounge with a cocktail. These people don’t ever get time off, so Selena’s ingenious idea tapped into the one thing that they truly needed—to chill.

Maybe I really have rubbed off on her. A smile pulls on my lips.

I head toward the buffet line, scoping out who else I might talk with tonight.

The food isn’t pretentious. It’s accessible and reminiscent of childhood. Simple finger foods. S’mores over a fire pit. The smell of grilled hot dogs in the air. It’s friendly and easy. And since I haven’t eaten since lunch, I stop in line next to a gray-haired man I recognize as the chairman of a major tech firm.

When I meet his eyes, his gaze skitters away, and a look I recognize flashes across his features. The guy is overworked, tired, and probably has another four or five hours of crap to do tonight once he gets home. He just wants to be left alone. The last thing he wants to do is talk shop. Which is fine by me. I remember my own dad sitting at the dining table with his laptop long after Mum and I went to bed at night.

“Hi, I’m Justin.” I offer him my hand and he shakes it. No last name, no title, because I can read his hesitation like it’s a flashing neon sign.

“I’m Howard Dillon of Spherion, but before you begin . . .”

“Have you ever had a walking taco?” I ask him, grinning like I know the world’s best secret. Because I do.

His mouth closes, then opens, then he shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” he says finally.

My smile grows wider. “Dude, let me hook you up.”

Howard chuckles and follows me up to the front of the buffet line.

And soon, we’re seated cross-legged on a blow-up couch overlooking a water balloon fight, bonding over corn chips and seasoned ground beef.

Howard kicks off his shoes and wiggles his toes encased in black silk socks. “So this is a walking taco, eh?”

I help myself to another bite and nod. “Strangely good, isn’t it?” It’s all the standard taco ingredients mixed into an individual-sized bag of corn chips, which can be eaten with a fork. I had a roommate in college who once introduced me to the idea.

“You guys at Tate & Cane seem to have it all figured out.” He takes another bite. We haven’t even talked business, but I already know I have him right where I want him.

“We work hard, we play hard, and most of all, we get it. You’re a busy man with a lot on your plate. If we can make your job a little bit easier, that’s what we’re here for.”

He makes a sound that sounds a lot like approval.

My gaze swings over to find Selena again and she gives me a quick thumbs-up. She’s bounced from table to table, doing her best to show each guest the same level of personalized treatment and respect. She approaches every conversation like it’s the only one that matters, like the person in front of her is the most important, interesting thing in the world. It’s a major talent, that’s for sure.

-Iy¢

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