Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) (10 page)

Two tall boys enter the central room
wearing jet-black suits and golden ties. They knock each other’s chests in a playful kind of roughness, and I zero in on the one who sits in Flora’s old seat. That must be Bing. But—he can’t be a Troublefield. He’s an Easy, for God’s sake, and he doesn’t look a thing like me. His skin is strangely tan, and his honey hair looks slick and hard, as if it’s been polished with wax. He’s a pretty boy—and he might even be wearing makeup. No, we are not related. We are barely the same species.

I know he
has the family name, but that has to be a coincidence. It has to be. He must be from a different line because my Troublefields—true Troublefields—would never have stayed up here when their family was still trapped in the Dark Zone. They would’ve found a way to join us in Dark DC or they would’ve died trying. That’s how strong the Troublefield bond is supposed to be: Walls can’t separate us and scarcity can’t divide us. We are bigger than that. Better. This Bing can’t be my cousin—or uncle, or nephew, whatever.

Still, I
can’t help but squint my eyes and scour him for any sign of Aura, Burn, or me. Bing sits with his back slouched and one leg angled lazily across the other. He raises an arm to scratch his neck, and his sleeve falls slightly to reveal the Troublefield family crest on the soft side of his wrist. My mouth drops open. The thick black
T
is there. Inside the shield. On Bing.
His shield is more elaborate than mine—with leafy ivy curled around the sides and eagle wings spread in the background—but the core of the tattoo is right in front of my eyes. I can’t deny it anymore—he is family.

I’m in shock:
Troublefields. Here. Not just in America, but
here
.
Part of my family is Easy and worse: They are part of the ruling class. They are one of thirty Families behind everything I’ve ever despised, and it’s enough to make me feel sick, or at the very least, betrayed. My gut wrenches. Troublefields are supposed to stand up for each other, but these people—these Easies—abandoned us for this. I feel my eyebrows fall as disbelief sours into anger. In seconds, I am seething. Bing smirks with Easy confidence and rests his hands on a small mound of fat spilling over the top of his pants. Those hands don’t deserve to touch Star, and they don’t deserve the name they carry. I want to rip them off.

“Welcome, ladies,”
his interviewer says. I keep my eyes glued to Bing. “My name is Tristan, and I’m here to interview my man, Bing. We’re both excited to have a house full of ladies tonight.”

Bing smirks. “Very,” he says.

“I’m Bing’s best friend,” Tristan says. “We go way back.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Look at that spice, ladies,” Tristan says.

Bing slides his chin back into his neck and snickers. A layer of fat bulges beneath his
jaw, and the smug sound makes me want to kill him. These idiots aren’t showing a shred of respect for the interview. Hell, it doesn’t look like there’s an honorable bone in Bing’s fleshy body at all. He’s disgracing our lineage—and our name.

“I watched Clementine’s interview style
, and I have to say, well done,” Tristan says. He claps a little bit and Bing laughs. “My style is a little bit different. I like to keep it a little more casual. Lighten the mood. You ladies will get to know the real Bing, the way he is naturally. Bing is a pretty laid-back guy, you’ll see, and I just want to let that shine through. So, let’s get this show going.

“
Bing, tell us about yourself,” Tristan says. “Start with the boring stuff.”

“Sure thing,” Bing says, smoothing the hair above his ears ligh
tly with his fingertips. “I’m seventeen. Grew up in the city—”

Star can’t be taking him seriously. I turn
slightly and see her scrawling notes on her forearm in black pen. She finishes curling the
y
in
city
, and I stare at the ink in horror. She must sense me looking at her, but she writes on. I don’t want her to write anymore. She can’t play him. She absolutely cannot play Bing.

“
Star!
” I whisper forcefully before I can stop myself. The word just jumped out of my mouth, but she doesn’t even flinch. She keeps writing, and I have the urge to rip the pen out of her hand. Not Bing, I want to tell her. Anyone but Bing. It hits too close to home—playing him would hurt me too much. I snap once to get her attention, but she doesn’t seem to hear that, either. She must be in one of her goddamn dazes, and I grip the arm of my seat in anger. She’s lost her mind again.

Bing and Tristan are snickering about something.

“So Bing,” Tristan prompts, letting his laughter subside. “Describe your dream wife.”

Bing leans forward. “Can I be honest with you?” he asks.

“Yeah, man. That’s the point of today.”

“
Mr. Chauncer told all the prizes to be direct,” Bing says. Oh no. I feel the dread of something even worse about to happen. “DZs can get confused, you know. Everything is so new to them, or something like that. I wasn’t really paying attention. But the point is I’m going to say exactly what I want out of the Carnival. I’m not going to dress it up.”

“Go for it, man,” Tristan says.

“It’s going to sound crude,” Bing warns.

“You gotta be honest,” Tristan said.

“Okay, then,” Bing says. “So, I’ve followed the No Touching rule my whole life. That means I’ve never put my hand on a girl outside the Family and, honestly, I’m sick of it. I’m here because I’m looking for a DZ with some experience. You get me?”

“Of course,” Tristan says.

“It’s been a nightmare,” Bing says, leaning back and playing with his tie. “I mean, Tristan, you know what it’s like, we’ve gone through it together, and it’s been hell. So I want a DZ who knows how to please a guy. Not some shy girl. I’m not teaching anyone how to kiss, okay?”

“Hey, if you’re not a teacher, you’re not a teacher,”
Tristan says, shrugging.

“
And I want someone attractive,” Bing says. “DZs are all pretty skinny, so that’s fine, but in America, she has to keep her body tight.”

I might actually kill him. Star
writes his filth on her arm. The words
tight body
are sprawled across the soft bend in her elbow. I can’t take it anymore. I reach over and pull the pen out of her hand. Her jaw drops in shock, but I don’t care. There’s no way I’m letting her near Bing, and that starts with making sure she has no chance with him. It’s not just that seeing them together would tear me apart—it’s that he would hurt her. Mistreat her. Use her. And then forget her. He’s not looking for true love at all. Couldn’t care less about true love if it hit him in the middle of his Easy face.

Star swivels to make sure no one
else saw me take her pen. None of the other players are paying us any attention, so right now, I think we’re safe. Goddammit, Phoenix, that was too close. I can’t put us in danger like that again. If anyone found out Star and I are in love, we’d be disqualified just like Laser and Sunshine. Wick would never get the power he needs, and we’d end up in isolation quarters. Whatever the hell that means.

“We have a question from one of the ladies now,” Tristan s
ays. “One player wants to know what turns you on.”

“Experience,” Bing says. “One of us has to know what we’re doing.”

“I get that,” Tristan says.

“And makeup,” Bi
ng says. “Lots of makeup.”

I can’t listen to Bing anymore. I rest my fingers on my temples
and stare at my knees. For the rest of his interview, I fade in and out until he gets to his autobiography. Bing talks for less than a minute about his family—he has one older sister, two parents, and they all call each other by their first names—and then he moves on. Doesn’t mention them again for the rest of the interview. I gape in disbelief. He has the crest but none of the conviction, and it makes me realize: I’m not so different from Aura and Burn after all. Now, looking at Bing, I see what different really means.

“Well, i
t’s been lovely spending this night with you, ladies,” Tristan says. His sarcasm drips like oil. They stand up to leave and exit with a proud bounce in their steps. Because they have no cares and nothing to carry. Tristan pats Bing on the butt.

“
My
pen
,” Star prompts in a faint whisper.

I stare
vacantly at the chair where Bing was sitting. I must look exactly the way she did after Flora’s interview, and now I understand how she was feeling: jealous. Angry at someone who didn’t deserve the other. But more than anything else, helpless to stop it. I rest the pen on the end of my arm rest, and Star takes it quickly. Rustles and whispers continue around us as the players digest Bing’s preferences. Some of the girls look afraid.

“Players’ Box, attention please,” Mr. Chauncer calls. “The last eligible daughter of the evening has arrived. Gentlemen, please welcome
the next prize: Hazel Smith of the Michigan Family.”

A Suit
enters the protected oval, followed by the girl who must be Hazel. I have to focus again. It’s difficult, but I have to forget Bing’s dreams for sex right now and move on. Focus, Phoenix. I pretend I’m lying on my stomach outside my house, watching another white-tailed deer. The deer is completely unaware, and this time the deer’s name is Hazel. Forget Bing, forget Star, forget Flora and everything else.

Hazel’s
violet shift is very long and shapeless. It falls loosely down to an inch above her heels, where the ragged hem looks very slightly torn. A silver snake-shaped bracelet curls up one of her forearms, and she looks irritated as she sinks into her armchair. Her nose is wrinkled in distaste, and she’s staring only at the floor. I look more closely at her face and see that she is not wearing a speck of makeup. Her olive skin is bare, and she scowls with a fierceness I wouldn’t expect from an Easy.

“I will be interviewing Hazel tonight,” the Suit says. He sits rigidly with the tablet on his lap. His large body looks
awkward in the chair, as if he’s unaccustomed to sitting down. “Her recent trouble with the law requires a slight bending of tradition.”

Hazel crosses her arms and
narrows her eyes.

“Please tell th
e players what happened,” the Suit says.

Hazel is silent.

“Go on, Hazel,” he orders.

“I
got a DUI a few days ago,” she says firmly.

“A DUI means—
” the Suit begins.

“That I was driving drunk,” Hazel
interrupts.

“You proceeded to throw a beer bottle at a police officer from your car,” the Suit says. “He had to be rushed to a hospital.”

Hazel starts tapping one of her black high heels. They are studded with dull silver spikes and decorative chains that jostle with her fidgeting. She lifts her eyes to stare at the Suit and uncrosses her arms briefly to scratch her head. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and she fidgets with the hair tie for a second before yanking it out completely. Her hair falls down to her shoulders, and she flicks the hair tie across the room. It bounces off the glass right in front of me, making a couple of players flinch.

“
Please excuse us, players, but today’s interview with Hazel will be condensed,” the Suit says. “Hazel, describe the person you would like to marry.”

She sits silently
.

“Go on,” the Suit presses.

“I don’t know,” Hazel says.

“Try,” the Suit urges once more.

“I said I don’t know,” Hazel answers sharply. She recovers herself slightly and runs one hand through her hair. A horizontal wave remains from where the hair tie used to squeeze. “I mean, I guess I’d like a guy who gets me.”

“
Explain,” the Suit demands.

“
I just did,” Hazel says.

“
Explain more.”

“
This is exactly what I mean!” Hazel snaps. “You don’t get me. No one gets me. I’m always made out to be the freak and, you know what? It pisses me off. So, yeah, I drink. Yeah, I screw up, but maybe I want a guy who doesn’t treat me like I’m so different. Maybe I want a guy who lets himself get angry or mean because, you know what? No one is perfect, and I’m sick of people pretending to be. Maybe I want someone just as flawed as I am, so we can cut all the bullshit and just have something real.”

The boy sitting next to me screams. Star and I
turn to see Blaze lift his hand from the red Swiss army knife he has just lodged in the boy’s thigh. Its red handle sticks straight up, and Star covers her mouth in horror when she realizes that Blaze has stabbed him. The boy’s hands hover in shock over the wound that bleeds in a tight circle around the blade’s edges. Blaze turns his head away from the boy indifferently to stare at Hazel through the glass. He bangs his fist on the partition to get her attention.

“Hazel!” he shouts. “I’m your man!”

The seated Suit presses two fingers to his ear and stands. He beckons Hazel after him with a massive hand, and she follows him instantly out of the oval. Blaze continues to whale on the glass even after the central room is empty. I take a cautionary step back because I think he just might shatter it.