They release me from the hospital later that afternoon. Grandfather and I are driven home in a car, which is a special treat. Back in the army he drove a tank, and I know he misses the feel of a steering wheel in his hands. As we enter the neighborhood sector we pass the train stop where we would normally get off. Hordes of people stream through the doors, making their way to their houses. The doctors were right, I would have been too weak to stand for the entire ride home. Not that I tried to argue. I run my hands along the smooth interior of the car door, enjoying the feeling of flying over the ground without other bodies pressed in tightly around me.
We arrive home about an hour before the evening meal is due to be delivered, and Grandfather closes his bedroom door behind him minutes after we enter. Typical. I settle onto the couch to watch the evening news, and only after my face pops up on the screen do I remember that I am the evening news.
My picture fades and a reporter holding a microphone stands next to a girl who looks to be about 16. The Dasset Prep campus is in the background, and the place where I shot that boy, Trenton, is surrounded by police tape.
"Where were you during the shooting this morning?" The reporter asks, holding the microphone in front of the girl's face.
"There," she leans in as she speaks, pointing to a building that faces the street, "in Beckett Hall. I watched everything from the window."
"And did you see Evita Creedy shoot Trenton Caine?"
The girl nods, her tight, black curls bouncing with the motion. "Yeah, I saw her."
"Can you tell us exactly what you saw?"
Her curls bounce again. "She hid behind that bench." The girl turns and points. "Even from the window all the way on the third floor I could see her down there, 'cause of her hair. It's so bright, and kinda frizzy, you know, it sticks out." I smooth down my hair. It is not frizzy.
"The guy's back was turned, and I saw her start crawling out from behind the bench, toward his bag." I sit up and stare at the TV, shaking my head. I never could have done that. He would have seen me. The girl continues. "I wanted to yell at her, like, 'what are you doing?' She was so close to the guy. Then she reached into his bag and took something out. I didn't know it was a gun. I still thought she was crazy for getting so close to him. She went back behind the bench, and when he turned around she shot him."
None of this makes any sense. I know I should just forget about the gun and how it got in my purse. About who may have put it there. But I can't let it go.
The doorbell rings, ejecting the memory from my vision. Dinner. I open the door and spot the delivery truck idling by the curb. The food deliverers are allowed to use trucks because they can't transport everything on the trains or on a bike. The powers that be determined that food delivery was a good enough use of solar batteries and materials. Watching them drive through every day makes me a little jealous, I'll admit. I wave to the driver as he drops a box on the steps next door, before retrieving the one on our own. It feels heavier than usual.
In the kitchen I turn on the oven and grab the box cutter. Inside the box I find tomorrow's breakfasts and lunches and set them in the fridge. Underneath are two trays, one for Grandfather and a smaller one for me. The trays have separate compartments for green beans, each bean uniform in color, size, and shape, a strip of plain chicken, and cups of rice. I could swear that the compartments are emptier tonight than they were only a few months ago.
But then, underneath the trays is something that makes my mouth water. Two slices of pie. Today isn't a holiday or a birthday. At least not one I can remember. A code is embedded in the pliable, clear plastic lid and when I pass my wrist over it, scanning it with my phone, a message pops up.
Evita,
Consider this pie as a thank you for your courageous actions today. And remember, if you have any problems or need to talk, please give me a call.
Best,
Evelyn Sheer
Secretary of Energy
I smile and run my finger over the code, looking past it to the pie underneath. It's beautiful. The edges are rippled uniformly, and the strips of dough on top are laid in straight lines, leaving just enough space between them for the bright red of the cherries to show through. I'll have to remember to thank Sheer for this the next time I see her.
I consider calling and telling her about where the gun actually came from. If anyone could help me find out who put it there, it would be her. However, I know she won't believe me. I need to put the gun out of my mind. Trying to find out where it came from will only stir up more trouble, and I've had enough of that to last a lifetime. Shaking my head, I put the trays in the oven and recycle the food packing in our wall slot.
When the timer goes off I knock softly on Grandfather's door and return to the kitchen. I stare at the perfect slices of pie for a minute before putting them in the oven. I hope Grandfather likes it.
Grandfather is sitting at the table when I bring the trays in, and begins to eat silently after I set his in front of him. I push my green beans around my plate, and despite my resolve not to think about it, my thoughts return to the girl on the news program. Was she just confused in all the commotion? That would make sense. People were running all around us, and screaming too. Maybe her brain just made the most logical assumption. Or maybe someone told her to say what she said. But that's crazy.
Across the table Grandfather eats without speaking. When I was younger I would try to engage him in conversation, but now I don't normally bother. Today is different though. Today there is pie.
When the timer dings I am out of my chair and retrieving it from the oven before the beeping can stop. The sugary scent of warm cherries rises with the steam coming from the pie, and the red filling spills between the lattices of the crust. I plate the slices and carry them to the table.
When Grandfather sees the pie his eyes, normally dull, widen in a bright, icy blue.
He frowns. "What's this?"
"Secretary Sheer sent it. As a thank you." I scoop a large bite onto my fork, making sure to get an equal amount of crust, filling and cherries, and put it in my mouth. The flavors burst across my tongue and I have to stop myself from moaning. It's the most delicious thing I've eaten in months. Grandfather finally takes his first bite, his hand trembling. I watch him, crossing and uncrossing my legs under the table. As he chews and swallows his shoulders drop and his face sags.
I sigh. "What's wrong?"
"It's not the same." Grandfather slams his fork on the table and shoves his chair back so hard that it tips over and hits the floor with a thud. I grip the edge of the table, not daring to move. He presses his thin, wide lips together and his nostrils flare. "It's never the same." He leaves the room and his slice of pie on the plate, uneaten.
I'm used to Grandfather's complaints about the food. He's always grumbling that nothing tastes right, it's all more bland than he remembers, and just plain wrong. He still remembers before, when plants weren't genetically modified to be more nutritious or when, I shudder to think about it, animals were butchered for meat. During the rebuilding, it was decided that farm animals used too much water and put out too much methane to keep raising them for slaughter. Now, beef is grown in labs from stem cells, as long as we have enough clean energy to do it. We haven't had beef in awhile.
I take another large bite of the pie, but the flavors seem duller now, and the cherries are like glue going down my throat. I almost push the plate away, but I won't let him ruin this. I force myself to finish every bite.
When I've chewed and swallowed the last cherry I clear the table and put the dishes into the dishwasher. It's not completely full yet, so I'm not allowed to run it. That would be a waste of water. I take Grandfather's uneaten slice of pie to the compost pile just outside the back door, feeling guilty. It feels wrong to discard so much food. I'm about to scrape the pie into the pile when I stop. I was so happy to see this in our delivery. Why should I throw it away just because of Grandfather's bad mood? I take the plate back into the kitchen and eat it standing at the counter. This time I let myself enjoy every bite.
Back in my room, I try to block the memory of a bullet tearing through Trenton Caine's stomach from my brain. Lying on the bed I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palms against the side of my head, but it's no use. The image, in fact, seems to grow sharper.
It's too quiet; I need a distraction. Rolling out of bed, I cross the room to get my screen from my purse. As I'm reaching my hand inside, the motion reminds me of what happened this morning. I recoil. Turning the purse upside down, I dump the contents on the floor instead, and pick up my screen. I send a quick message to my professor asking about making up today's midterm, then switch to my textbook. Once it's loaded I stare at the page. The words blend together. I sigh and turn off the screen. This all might be easier if I had someone to talk to.
I cross the room and open the top drawer of my dresser. To see more deeply into the drawer I push onto my tip-toes and dig through the clothing until I see the picture. The note from my mom, tucked farther beneath my socks, rustles as I lift the frame. I leave it there.
I run my fingers over my mother's face, feeling the texture of the photograph against my skin. The glass has been missing for years. Grandfather broke it one day, when he saw the picture displayed on my desk. She looks like me, the same red hair and pear shaped figure. I think that's why Grandfather can't stand to make eye contact with me.
For a moment, I try to think of what she would do in my situation. Would she go on with her life, pretending the gun was never in her purse? Or would she go looking for answers, even though the questions might put her at risk? I put the picture back into the bottom of the drawer and close it. I never really knew my mother. Her unexpected abandonment of me proved that. I have no idea what she would have done.
But I know what I want to do.
I reach for my phone, but it's not on my wristlet. I must have accidentally thrown it into my purse again. Did I learn nothing from the whole mess this morning? Sighing, I retrieve it from the pile I dumped out of my purse and pull up the non-emergency number for the police station. My finger hovers over the call button.
What am I doing? If I call the police, they'll think I'm crazy. They won't believe that I have no idea where the gun came from. I hit end instead and dock my phone on my wrist.
It's better to just forget all this. I'll wake up tomorrow, go to my internship like I always do, and pretend everything is back to normal.
***
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to vote if you liked this chapter :).