Veneer (20 page)

Finding the conversation exhausted, Jalay stood and looked towards the cafeteria. The serving line had dwindled to nothing; he still had time to eat some lunch.

“Leaving so soon?” asked Sebo.

“I’m hungry.”

“Can you bring me back a burrito?”

Jalay shook his head, checked his palette to make sure it was blank. “Not coming back.”

24 - Deron

The closer it got to noon, the more Deron’s leg shook at the notion of abandoning the safety of his home for the uncertainty of the city. It was the memory of her face that made him even consider it, her face that blossomed in his mind and beat back the fear.

Rosalia had the lunch period after his, which meant there was a fair chance she would be sitting outside enjoying the fresh air between twelve and twelve forty-five. That was the window and though it was as discrete as anything else, he couldn’t be certain when it started and ended. There were no clocks in the house that weren’t just numbers in a portal on a veneer. The only other indicators were the shadows outside, the grid that the patio wall made as the sun rose behind it, one that gradually shrank until it barely pulled away. That meant the sun was more or less overhead, that it was noon.

It was time to brave the wilderness.

Deron remembered Easton as a relatively safe city, but that was when he could still interact with the veneer. Now, it lacked basic information. It went far beyond color, a fact he became aware of as he watched his mom combine ingredients from similar cans in the cupboard. What was to stop her from pouring drain cleaner into her coffee? From that one example, he extrapolated the walk to school. Even though he wouldn’t need them, all of the street signs might be blank. And if those were gone, what else? How much of the world was just a veneer and how much of it was real?

Sitting on the stairs with his chin in his hand, Deron tried to visualize himself opening the front door. Rosalia was out there, maybe on her way to the cafeteria to collect her lunch. She’d stand in line with the rest of the sighted and ask for the light ranch, the skim milk, and the other healthy alternatives to the city-mandated lunches. Maybe that Ilya girl would be tagging along behind her.

Flashing on a foggy veneer, he saw Rosalia standing in the distance, looking at him, her eyes gleaming. And then Ilya emerged from the haze and took Rosalia by the hand, pulling her away, pulling her back into the land of color, of veneers and reconciliation, where boys could only see the beauty that girls created for themselves instead of the truth that hid beneath, the plainness or maybe even the ugliness. It wasn’t a pleasant idea to think that the girl he loved could be something less than perfect under her decorations. All he had to do was look at his mom to see what could happen eventually. Would he even recognize her? Would he recognize anybody?

It didn’t matter; he was fucked no matter what he did. They would categorize him as handicapped and treat him with special gloves until he died and the burden of his well-being was lifted from those who were paid to maintain it. He’d be an affliction to his mom and even Rosalia. No woman would want his company now that he couldn’t function in the real world.

Deron took a deep breath, sought solace in the simple act. His concerns were valid, but none of them needed immediate resolution. The trick was to break everything down into easily digestible fragments. All he needed to do was take that first step.

“Fuck it,” he said.

He was talking to the world in general: to the railing he used to pull himself up, to the floor he walked across, and to the friction of his shoes against the tile that propelled him forward. The front door swung open and Deron put a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.

Truth: the grass was not as green and luxurious as the veneer had made it out to be. Brown patches dotted the pale green lawn, the dead grass both natural and wrong at the same time. The sidewalk that took him from the front door to the street was cracked and stained, so unlike the previous sandstone veneer. When he reached the street, Deron turned and glanced back at the house, saw the same drab box he had seen when he returned home Saturday night. It didn’t look any better in the daylight, but at least now he understood its lack of color.

Deron felt the warmth of the sun on his neck and arms despite the chill in the air. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked slowly down the street, checking out the houses as if he had just moved into the neighborhood. At the intersection, he looked up and saw that the street signs lacked any writing. After crossing the unnamed street, he turned left.

It would all be okay if he could stay at Gillock Pond. The realization hit him as soon as he saw the micro-park still alive and vibrant. Nature’s colorful display melted away the anxiety. The smell, the sounds, and yes, even the sight of the pond, it all made him think that maybe everything could work out. The turtles, for instance, the ones sunning on the rocks, had no awareness of the veneer at all. Yet they lived their lives, swimming and sunning and breeding until they finally died. Every living thing was driving that long highway towards death; the veneer was just the decoration, the ceaseless billboards along the side of the road that briefly made an impression and then receded.

Although he wanted nothing more than to stay, Deron couldn’t ignore his sole motivation for leaving the house. There was still a chance Rosalia was out there and while that chance existed, he had to try to see her, tell her what had happened. It couldn’t have been easy for her to come all the way to his house only for his mom to turn her away. It sure wasn’t easy for Deron.

Again, the fog crept in, carrying with it the conversation they would have. She’d be happy to see him, maybe throw her arms around his neck in unrestrained joy. They’d kiss and look into each other’s eyes.

His smile faded when he thought about her eyes, her
real
eyes. Not the green she wore to entice him, not the blue she used to brighten his day, and certainly not the red, the passionate crimson that spoke of her attraction, the only indication of the lustful thoughts going on behind the scenes. They would never burn for him like that again. And even if they did, he wouldn’t be able to see it. He paused, stymied by the weight of the underlying truth. He was on the other side of some invisible barrier, occupying the same space, maybe, but existing in a completely different world.

Deron turned the realization over in his head and was surprised when he looked up and found himself already on Parker Avenue. He was standing at the light where it met with Treaty Oak or, more exactly, at what used to be the light.

So much of Easton’s transit system depended on the veneer, not only to distinguish one car from the other but also to direct traffic and let pedestrians know when it was safe to cross the street. Hanging above the roads on thin wires were blank rectangles that lacked their yellow framing and colored circles. The cars on Treaty were moving, so that must have meant the light was green, but Deron saw nothing.

Despite waiting for several minutes trying to pick out a pattern in the madness, Deron still managed to get a few honks from the passing cars. Evidently he had stepped out into the crosswalk at the wrong time and had to sprint to the curb as a tram came barreling down the inside lane. The noise attracted attention from the midday shoppers who all looked like paper dolls in their off-white clothes. The exceptions were the two men standing in front of a parking meter—they didn’t need their signature black and blue for Deron to know they were uniforms.

Before they could react, Deron slipped into the thin alley between Jilly Beans and a Get Ripped gym. He knew what was supposed to be happening on the walls as he passed them; the presence-sensing advertisements would have followed him all the way to the other side if he could have only seen them. He tried to imagine what they would have looked like, what they’d be selling at this time of day. There were always a few fast food ads, whatever new hamburger McDonald’s was trying to pass off as innovation. Someone would be hawking new cars and reminding even buyers with bad credit that they could afford a shiny gray hunk of fiberglass. Public service ads were rare, but he found one on the evercrete towards the end of the alley.

Deron stopped, blinked a few times. It was actually there on the wall in color he could see. He approached the sign, put his hand up to verify its existence. Some of the red marking got on his finger when he touched it.

So it wasn’t a veneer; someone had actually written on the wall.

YOU ARE NOT BLIND.

It was vindication, but from what source? Deron hadn’t considered the possibility that his was not a unique affliction. If there were others...

Beneath the block letters, he found smaller text.

Fifth & Navasota.

Deron looked away towards the school, to a distant destination that seemed to recede even further. Rosalia was there. He needed to see her.

But these words. This address. How could he ignore them?

25 - Rosalia

There had been a moment at lunch when something on the wind drew her eyes to the north, past the faculty parking lot with its aging cars and lone scooter, past the neighborhoods and mini-malls—past all of the empty places that were nothing more than obstacles, asphalt and evercrete that separated her from Deron. She had looked into the distance, seen nothing, but felt his mouth at her ear, felt him saying her name in one smooth whisper, drawing out each syllable. Then the wind had come up, rustled the trees enough to drown out the cry in the darkness, and when the sound abated, nothing remained. Not the voice. Not the swaying leaves.

Perhaps not even Deron.

Now, sitting in the waiting room of the nurse’s office, Rosalia stared blankly at the empty chairs around her. It wasn’t a very welcoming room, not with its bright orange color scheme and strongly worded posters reconciled on the wall. She tried to take her mind off her discomfort by reading them carefully, repeating in her head the necessity of protected sexual intercourse. It was sound advice, but its presentation was too cartoony for its intended audience.

She was halfway through the benefits of regular flossing when Nurse Hendricks appeared from the examination room. Her veneer was spotless, as always, with a pressed uniform and a cute hat on her perfectly arranged hair. The smile on her face looked permanently tacked on, but it grew when she saw her patient.

“Ms. Collier,” she said, approaching the counter. “It’s been a while.” With a quick movement, she spun the sign-in sheet around in its portal and frowned. “You forgot to sign in.”

“Sorry,” said Rosalia, standing up. She shuffled from foot to foot, wondering if running out of the room screaming at the top of her lungs would be considered rude.

“No worries. I can put you down.” Her rosy fingertip traced across the portal, leaving behind Rosalia’s name. “What is the nature of your visit today?” she asked, mock-professionally.

“Just... questions.” Rosalia raised her eyebrows a little, looked around again at the empty waiting room.

“General health concerns it is.” With a satisfied smile, she beckoned to Rosalia. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go have a chat.”

Unlike the waiting area, the examination room was decorated for its purpose, with solid white walls and gleaming metal cabinets. A large exam table dominated the center of the room, a wide strip of paper running its length. As Rosalia sat down on it, she noticed the facing wall was shimmering, as if the entire surface were a portal instead of a simple veneer.

“Let’s do a quick checkup first,” said Nurse Hendricks, approaching the wall. When she touched it, the mirage dissolved into an image of an office. Seated at a desk was another woman wearing a white lab coat adorned with the Easton General Hospital emblem. A moment passed before she realized they were watching her.

“Lucy,” said the woman. She stood leisurely and came towards the wall as if she expected to shake her colleague’s hand. “How are things at Central? Any Westlake flu going on around there?”

“No,” laughed Nurse Hendricks. “Not on my watch.”

“And who do we have here?”

Evidently, this woman could see them as easily as they saw her.

“Ms. Collier, this is Dr. Blake.”

“Hello, dear,” said the doctor, her voice growing softer.

Before Rosalia could answer, Nurse Hendricks spoke, “Just a little woman to woman chat today, nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s fine,” she replied, nodding approvingly. “So, just the vitals then?”

“Yes, Doctor.” The nurse pulled a stethoscope from the wall and approached Rosalia. She slipped one end under Rosalia’s shirt without warning and placed it against her chest. “Alright, Ms. Collier, let’s have three good breaths.”

As she concentrated on breathing, Rosalia noticed that boxes of data were appearing on the wall. All sorts of metrics spilled into the portal, displaying figures that represented her heart rate, oxygen levels, and average blood pressure over time. After the last breath, Nurse Hendricks turned around and examined the data with the doctor.

“To be young,” said Dr. Blake. “If only I had your blood pressure.” She touched a finger to the wall and her signature appeared at the bottom of the report, followed by the date. “Everything looks fine to me. I’ll leave the rest to you, Lucy.”

“Thank you,” replied Nurse Hendricks.

The far side faded out under the chart. After signing her own name, the nurse minimized the charts to the left, where they disappeared amongst the thousand other scribbles on the wall.

“Well,” she said, “now that that’s out of the way. What can I help you with today?”

Rosalia thought about telling her the whole story, how the night had begun at the mall with Ilya, turned to dinner, to shopping, to drugs. Then she thought about the sleepover, about describing the way Ilya had put her hand on her neck before she knew why. In that hazy moment of indeterminate motives, she had considered the possibility that—

“Sweetie?”

“Oh, sorry.” It took a moment to come out of the fog. “I... my friend and I had a question. We both have something in our necks. Here.” She pointed to where her skull met her spine. “If you press on it, you can feel something under the skin.” She had to dip her head to show the nurse, but upon looking up, she found her smiling kindly, the way an adult would look at a child who had just dropped her ice cream cone.