When It Rains

Chapter 15 - Teamwork Makes the Dreamwork

Crinae had tried to talk me out of seeing Greg. She told me I wasn't cleared to see him. I told her that wasn't going to stop me. She told me I was going to get in trouble. I told her that I've been in trouble many times before and have managed it so trouble is no trouble. After a long drawn out stretch and yawn, Crinae finally consented to let me see Greg. 

"You can see him tonight," she said.

 "Tonight? That's a bit fast, isn't it?" 

"Do you want to see him or not?" 

"Yes. I want to see Greg."

 "For all you know," Crinae said, "he might hate you." 

"Why?" I asked. 

"He fought for your freedom and look who you turned out to be. You ended up costing him his freedom." 

I'm thinking about that right now. I had no idea of knowing that I was related to Sebastian back then. I had no idea Mom was his sister and she was working on bringing us to Newtopia. I'm sure Greg will understand all of this. Right? Crinae said I have to dress in my cadet uniform to get access to the Funnels. She's going to use the excursion as a teachable moment. How awesome for me.

"Be outside at 4 p.m.," she said. "Sharp." 

"I'll be there," I said and then went to my room. I've been so busy that my stomach hasn't realized it missed lunch. Until now. My belly rumbles as I sit at the mirror, trying to make my hair look as nice as Crinae's. She has such nice, straight, straight hair that stays exactly in place and looks exactly the same no matter what time of day. My stupid curly hair is springing out all over the place and is a puffy, fuzzy frizz of an entity sitting on my head. I wouldn't be surprised if one day it jumped off my skull, said, "Thanks but no thanks," and bounced away. 

I give up on combing the beast and leave it as it is. A mess. 

"I wonder if Mom's stylist could help me?" I think. "Don't be ridiculous, Naia," I say out loud to myself. "Do you think Greg will care what you look like? Especially if he's in prison? Get a grip" To stop from pulling out all my hair, I go find lunch. Steam creeps out the kitchen door and when I open it, heat rolls out along with delicious smells of sugar and ginger.

The place is bustling with staff. There are cooks stirring huge pots on the range. Bakers roll and shape and cut pastry and breads and biscuits on long marble countertops. A red-faced chef rushes past me, large patches of sweat stain the back of her white uniform. 

"Excuse me," I say to her. "Is there anyone who can get me some lunch?" 

The chef stops and looks blankly at me. "Are you picking up the order for the Lieutenant-General?" she asks. "She only put it in a couple of minutes ago." 

"I'm not here for the Lieutenant-General," I say. 

"Oh, then you're here for Ms. Aliah. Her mother hasn't had her soup yet today. If you go to the back, I'll heat some up and put in a bowl for you. Bread or crackers?" 

"Excuse me?" I ask. 

"Do you want bread or crackers to go with the soup?" the chef says, putting her hands on her hips. 

"Um, crackers, please. The kind with the salt on top." 

"OK. I'll be right there. Just have to tell the pastry chef he can't put the croissants in the oven until the turkey is done." 

"Right," I say, moving out of the way of a man wielding a long ladle.

I weave my way through people, pots and pans and get to the back of the kitchen. There's an alcove with a green coloured range. On one of its burners, simmers a pot of soup. I pick up a red dishcloth and lift the lid. The rich smell of chicken, thyme and leeks wander up to greet me.

"Does it smell good, Miss Naia?" someone asks me as they hurry by. I nod as I let the lid settle back on the steaming soup. I wonder if I can take some of it to Greg. I'm allowed to bring food to the Org Village so I should be able to bring it to the Funnels.

"No," I think to myself. "Soup is not an ice breaker."

"Did that cook just call you Miss Naia?" asks the woman from a couple of minutes earlier.

"Yes," I say.

"I'm so sorry," the woman says, her red cheeks turning white. "I had no idea who you were. I'm really very sorry."

"That's fine," I say. "I still would like a bowl of this soup."

"Ok," the chef says. "Here's a box of the crackers you wanted."

She passes me a small package before grabbing a white glass bowl off the shelf above the range and. She deftly scoops steaming soup out of the pot, dumping it into the bowl. She puts it on a beige tray along with cutlery and serviettes.

"Enjoy!" the woman says, smiling at me.

"I'm sure I will," I say, adding the crackers to the tray before picking it all up and walking back into the chaos of the main kitchen.

I'm sure Aliah will come pick up her mother's food. I'll leave that for her to do. My muscles are straining already from the heavy soup-and-crackers laden tray.

I don't want to bring this up to my room. I'll pop into one of the reception chambers to have my meal. I leave the kitchen and all of the frantic chefs, cooks and bakers and push open a door on my left.

There are so many rooms and floors that I've yet discovered in this place but I know this room. It's one often used to host lower-level GlobalGov officials. The space isn't large but it's big enough for a long table with chairs around it, a couple of side tables with lamps and a buffet table piled high with white plates. On the yellow walls are some artwork featuring, of course, Uncle in different landscapes. He likes his mountain scenes. I guess that's because that's where he's from. In at least two paintings, he's perched at the top of a high peak, smiling down at us with his white, white teeth.

I put the tray down on the table and take a seat under a painting where Uncle is lying on his back in a bunch of colourful flowers. His head is thrown back and his mouth open wide in supposed laughter. But to me, it looks like he's about to gobble down everything in the frame.

I take a slurp of the soup. Chicken noodle has become my favourite go-to meal. I couldn't have dreamed of this taste back at home, in 33. There's no way I would have understood all the complexity that fat, spices, cream and vegetables add to food. Mom and Dad cooked basic food for us. But that's because we didn't have a lot.

Hyla and Chuck have enough to eat but they don't have variety. That's one reason why I like to bring them the scraps from here. There's no way I want to eat onions for breakfast, lunch and supper.

It's interesting how food has become the focus of many things in my life. Family meals, sharing food with my friends and even just being able to grab something tasty from the kitchen. I don't know how I'd do if I didn't have regular meals again. I'd starve.

No, I wouldn't but I wouldn't be happy. I think that food is almost as precious as freedom. I wonder why Hyla would say if I said that to her? She always sees another side of things than me. I think she would agree with me, though, that the one thing that ties us all together is weather. Without sun and rain, we wouldn't be able to grow much of anything. I think Sebastian has come through for us on that.

I scrape my bowl with my spoon, trying to get every last drop. Then I let the spoon drop into the porcelain with a clatter. I wipe my mouth with the serviette and crumple it beside the box of crackers. I'll bring them to the Funnels.

Back in my bedroom, I put up on my stiff and prickly cadet uniform. I squeeze into the trousers that feel extra tight since I've been wearing loose scrubs for a few days. The jacket is just as uncomfortable and as I do the buttons up one by one, I feel like I'm putting myself in a cage.

At 4 p.m., I'm outside with my box of crackers waiting for my sister. A red GlobalGov car with its engine revving and it's tires spinning zooms up the driveway. I swear it's heading straight for me. I jump out of the way before the vehicle slams into me.