Would she have turned out like them if we weren’t in the World After?
My mother sits cross-legged by Paige’s cot, humming her melody. We’ve tried giving my sister the two things I could get from the disorganized mess in the cafeteria that is supposed to turn into a kitchen by morning. But she couldn’t hold down either the canned soup or the protein bar.
I shift my weight on the canvas cot, trying to find a position where my sword hilt won’t jab into my ribs. Having it on me is the best way to keep anyone from trying to pick it up and finding out that I’m the only one who can lift it. The last thing I need is having to explain how I ended up with an angel sword.
Sleeping with a weapon has nothing to do with my sister being in the room. Nothing at all.
Nor does it have anything to do with Raffe. It’s not like the sword is my only memento of my time with him. I have plenty of cuts and bruises to remind me of the days I spent with my enemy angel.
Who I’ll probably never see again.
So far, no one has asked about him. I guess it’s more common than not to have your group break up these days.
I shut down that thought and close my eyes.
My sister moans again over my mom’s humming.
“Go to sleep, Paige,” I say. To my surprise, her breathing relaxes and she settles down. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
My mother’s melody fades into oblivion.
I DREAM that I am in the forest where the massacre happened. I am just outside the old Resistance camp where soldiers died trying to defend themselves against low demons.
Blood drips off the branches and plops onto the dead leaves like raindrops. In my dream, none of the bodies that should be here are here and neither are the terrified soldiers who huddled together back-to-back with their rifles facing outward.
It’s just a clearing dripping in blood.
In the center stands Paige.
She wears an old-fashioned flower-print dress, like the ones those girls hanging on the tree wore. Her hair is drenched in blood and so is her dress. I’m not sure which is harder to look at, the blood or the bruised stitches crisscrossing her face.
She lifts her arms toward me as if waiting for me to pick her up even though she’s seven years old now.
I’m pretty sure my sister was not part of the massacre but here she is anyway. Somewhere in the forest, my mother says, “Look into her eyes. They’re the same as they’ve always been.”
But I can’t. I can’t look at her at all. Her eyes aren’t the same. They can’t be.
I turn and run from her.
Tears stream down my face and I call out into the woods away from the girl behind me. “Paige!” My voice cracks. “I’m coming. Hang on. I’ll be there soon.”
But the only sign of my sister is the crunching of the dead leaves as the new Paige shadows me through the woods.
4
I WAKE to my mom scraping something out of her sweater pocket. She puts it onto the windowsill where morning light filters through. It’s yellow-brown goo and crushed eggshells. She’s quite careful about it, trying to get every yucky drop onto the sill.
Paige breathes evenly, sounding like she’ll be knocked out for some time. I try to shake off the last of my dream, but wisps of it stay with me.
Someone knocks on the door.
The door opens and the freckled face of one of the twins peeks into our classroom. I don’t know which one so I just think of him as Dee-Dum. His nose wrinkles in distaste when he smells the rotten eggs.
“Obi wants to see you. He’s got some questions.”
“Great,” I say drowsily.
“Come on. It’ll be fun.” He throws me an overly bright smile.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
“I like you, kid,” he says. “You’re a rebel.” He leans against the doorframe and nods his approval. “But to be honest, no one has the obligation to feed you, house you, protect you, be nice to you, treat you like a human being—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I drag myself out of bed, glad that I slept in a T-shirt and shorts. My sword thuds onto the floor. I had forgotten that I had it with me under the blanket.
“Shh! You’ll wake Paige,” whispers my mother.
Paige’s eyes open instantly. She lies there like the dead, staring at the ceiling.
“Nice sword,” Dee-Dum says too casually.
Alarm bells go off in my head. “Almost as good as a cow prodder.” I half-expect Mom to zap her prodder at him, but it hangs innocently on her cot frame.
More guilt hits me as I realize how glad I am that Mom has the prodder in case she needs to defend herself from… people.
More than half the people here are carrying some kind of makeshift weapon. The sword is one of the better ones, and I’m glad I don’t have to explain why I’m carrying it. But there’s something about a sword that seems to catch more attention than I like. I pick it up and strap it across my shoulder to discourage him from trying to play with it.
“Got a name for her?” asks Dee-Dum.
“Who?”
“Your sword.” He says it the way I might say Duh.
“Oh, please. Not you too.” I pick through the random assortment of clothes my mom collected last night. She also came back with a bunch of empty soda bottles and other junk from who knows where, but I leave that pile alone.
“I used to know a guy who had a katana.”
“A what?”
“A Japanese samurai sword. Gorgeous.” He clutches his heart like he’s in love. “He called it the Sword of Light. I would have sold my grandmother into slavery for that.”
I nod like that’s a given.
“Can I name your sword?”
“No.” I pull out a pair of jeans that might fit and one sock.
“Why not?”
“Already has a name.” I continue digging through the pile for a matching sock.
“What is it?”
“Pooky Bear.”
His friendly face suddenly becomes serious. “You’re naming your collector’s-item, kick-ass sword that’s made to maim and kill, specifically designed to bring your ginormous enemies to their knees and hear the lamentation of their women—Pooky Bear?”
“Yeah, you like it?”
“Even joking about that is a crime against nature. You know that, right? I’m trying desperately not to make an anti-girl comment right now, but you’re making it pretty hard.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I shrug. “I might call it Toto or Flossy instead. What do you think?”
He looks at me like I’m nuttier than my mom. “Am I mistaken? Do you actually have a purse dog in that scabbard?”
“Oh, I wonder if I can find a pink sheath for Pooky Bear. Maybe with little rhinestones? What? Too much?”
He walks out shaking his head.
He’s just too easy to tease. I take my time changing and getting ready before following Dee-Dum out the door.
The hallway feels as crowded as the Oakland coliseum during the World Series.
A pair of middle-aged men exchange a feather for a prescription bottle of pills. I guess this is the World After’s version of a drug deal. Another shows off what looks like a little finger, then snatches it back as a guy reaches for it. They begin whisper-arguing.
A pair of women walk by huddled over a few cans of soup as if they held a pot of gold in their arms. They scan everyone nervously as they weave through the hallway. Next to the main door, a couple of people with freshly shaved heads tape up apocalypse cult fliers.
Outside, the overgrown lawn is eerily deserted with trash blowing in the wind. Anyone who looks down from the sky would assume this building is just as abandoned as any other.
Dee-Dum tells me that it’s already a big joke that the Resistance upper echelon has taken over the teachers’ lounge and that Obi has taken the principal’s office. We walk across the school grounds to Obi’s mission-style adobe building, staying on the covered walkway even if it means going the long way around.