Arena One: Slaverunners

Finally, he says: “It’s in Canada.”

I am speechless.

“I was going to take the boat all the way up the Hudson. Find out for myself.”

I shake my head. “Well, I guess we all have to believe in something,” I say.

The second I say it, I regret it. It comes out too harshly. That’s always been my problem – I never seem able to say the right things. I can be too tough, too critical – just like Dad. When I get nervous, or embarrassed, or afraid to say what I really mean – especially around boys – sometimes it just comes out wrong. What I meant to say was: I think it’s great that you still believe in something. I wish I did, too.

His eyes darken, and his cheeks flush with embarrassment. I want to retract it, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I’ve screwed things up already.

I try to quickly think of something, anything, to change the subject. I’m not good at conversation. I never have been. And it might be too late to salvage it anyway.

“Did you lose anyone?” I ask. “In the war?”

I am such an idiot. What a stupid question. I’ve just gone from bad to worse.

He breathes deeply, slowly, and I feel as if now I’ve really hurt him. He bites his lower lip, and for a moment, it looks like he’s holding back tears.

After an interminable silence, he finally says: “Everyone.”

If I wake up in the morning and he’s gone, I won’t blame him. In fact, I’d be surprised if he sticks around. Clearly, I should just shut up and wait for dawn.

But there’s one more thing I need to know, one thing that’s burning inside. And I just can’t stop myself from mouthing the words:

“Why did you save me?” I ask.

He looks at me with intensity, through red eyes, then slowly looks away. He turns, and I wonder if he’s going to respond at all.

A long silence follows. The wind whistles through the empty windows, the snowflakes land on the floor. My eyes grow heavy and I’m beginning to fall back asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness. And the last thing I hear, before my eyes close for good, are his words. They are so faint and soft that I’m not even sure if he really says it, or if I just dream it:

“Because you remind me of someone.”

* * *

I fall in and out of sleep for the next few hours, partly dreaming and partly flashing back. During one of my episodes, I finally remember what happened on that day we left the city. As much as I’d like to forget, it all comes flooding back to me.

When I found Bree in that alley, surrounded by those boys, and threw the Molotov cocktail – there was a small explosion, and then shrieks filled the air. I managed to hit their ringleader, and the boy lit up in a ball of fire. He ran about, frantic, as the others tried to put him out.

I didn’t wait. In the chaos, I ran right past the flaming boy and right for Bree. I grabbed her hand and we ran away from them, through the back alleys. They chased us, but we knew those back streets better than anyone. We cut through buildings, in and out of hidden doors, over dumpsters, through fences. Within a few blocks, we’d thoroughly lost them and made it back to the safety of our apartment building.

It was the last straw. I was determined to leave the city right then and there. It was no longer safe – and if Mom couldn’t see that, then we’d have to leave without her.

We burst into our apartment, and I ran straight to Mom’s room. She was sitting there, in her favorite chair, staring out the window, as she always did, waiting for Dad to return.

“We’re leaving,” I said, determined. “It’s too dangerous here now. Bree was almost killed. Look at her. She’s hysterical.”

Mom looked at Bree, then back to me, not saying a word.

“He’s not coming back,” I said. “Face it. He’s dead.”

Mom reached back and smacked me. I was stunned. I still remember the sting of it.

“Don’t you ever say that,” she snapped.

I narrowed my eyes, furious that she’d dare hit me. It is a hit I will never forgive her for.

“Fine,” I seethed back to her. “You can live in your fantasy as long as you like. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. But we’re leaving. I’m heading to the mountains, and I’m taking Bree.”

She snorted back derisively. “That’s ridiculous. The bridges are blocked.”

“I’ll take a boat,” I answer, prepared. “I know someone who will take us. He’s got a speedboat and he’ll take us up the Hudson.”

“And how can you afford that?” she asked me coldly.

I hesitated, feeling guilty. “I traded my gold watch.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “You mean Dad’s gold watch,” she snapped.

“He gave it to me,” I corrected. “And I’m sure he’d want to see me put it to good use.”

She looked away from me in disgust, staring back out the window.

“Don’t you get it?” I continued. “In a few more weeks, this city will be destroyed. It’s not safe here anymore. This is our last chance to get out.”

“And how’s your father going to feel when he comes home and finds us all gone? When he discovers that we have all abandoned him?”

I stared at Mom, incredulous. She was really lost in her fantasy.

“He left us,” I spat. “He volunteered for this stupid war. No one asked him to go. He’s not coming back. And this is exactly what he’d want us to do. He’d want us to survive. Not sit around some stupid apartment waiting to die.”

Mom slowly turned and looked at me with her cold, steely-gray eyes. She had that awful determination, the same awful determination I have. Sometimes I hate myself for being so much like her. I could see in her eyes, at that moment, that she would never, ever, give in. She had gotten it into her head that waiting was the loyal thing to do. And once she got something into her head, there was no changing it.

But in my view, her loyalty was misplaced. She owed it to us. To her children. Not to a man who was more devoted to fighting than to his family.

“If you want to leave your father, go ahead. I’m not going. When your plans fall through and you don’t make it upriver, you can come back. I’ll be here.”

I didn’t wait a second longer. I grabbed Bree by the hand, turned and strutted with her to the door. Bree was crying, and I knew I had to get out of there quick. I stopped one last time before the door.

“You’re making a mistake,” I called out.

But she didn’t even bother to turn, to say goodbye. And I knew she never would.

I opened the door, then slammed it behind me.

And that was the last I ever saw Mom alive again.

Thirty