Victoria Scott - Fire & Flood

Am I really this easy?

Please. They could have tied little blue boxes to the back of the moving truck and I would have chased after them until my feet bled.

I fly across my room and leap onto the bed, a smile spread across my face. I’ve spent these last nine months with no Internet or cell phone, and right now I feel like a wild dog eyeing its prey.

Holding the box to my lips, I tell it, “You’re mine, precious. All mine.”

I’m about to tear in when I stop myself. This moment of wondering what’s inside will be over so quickly. And once it’s finished, I’ll have nothing to anticipate. Perhaps I should postpone gratification, hold off until I can’t stand it any longer. I could be happy for days just knowing I have something to look forward to.

I pull the box away from my lips and give it a small shake.

Put the box down, Tella, I tell myself.

“Screw that,” I say out loud.

I close my hand around the lid and pull it off. Inside is a tiny pillow. I imagine all sorts of miniature animals using it in their miniature beds. But that’s dumb, because how would they ever find a pillowcase to fit?

My fingers pinch the pillow, and when I lift it up, I’m surprised by what I see sleeping beneath it. Flicking the pillow onto my bed, I reach into the box and grab the small, stark white device. It’s no longer than a nickel and curves in all sorts of funky ways. It looks … it looks like a hearing aid.

My nose scrunches up as I turn the device over in my hand. Then I nearly squeal with excitement when I see a raised red blinking light on the other side. Blinking lights are cool, I decide. They indicate technology and advancement and maybe a connection to the outside world — to my friends. Or maybe it’s music. Who knows what wild stuff they’ve come out with in the last year? I bet this baby holds, like, a billion songs. And I’m going to listen to them. Every. Single. One.

Vowing to give a solid, halfhearted apology to my parents and hoping I’m about to hear Lady Gaga’s latest, I stick the device into my ear. Hallelujah, it fits! I couldn’t be happier if my Boston boy toy just gave me diamonds.

I fumble for a second before my fingers land on the red blinking button. Annnnnd … give it to me, baby.

Once I’ve pushed the button, I hear a clicking noise. The sound goes on for several seconds. Long enough that I start to feel all kinds of devastated. But then the clicking turns to static, like someone on the other side of a radio is tuning in.

Jumping from the bed, I walk around the room, tilting my head like I’m searching for a signal. I feel like a moron, and it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever. I shoot straight up when I hear a woman’s voice. It’s a clear, crisp sound. Like this lady has never mispronounced a word in her entire life. My eyes fall to the floor in concentration. And I listen.

“If you’re hearing this message, you are invited to be a Contender in the Brimstone Bleed. All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions. If you do not —”

“Tella?” my dad asks. “What are you doing?”

I spin around and do a little happy dance. “What is this thing?” I point to the device in my ear. “Where did you guys get it? Because it’s fan-friggin’-tastic.”

“Get what?” My dad’s face goes from confused … to alarmed. For a moment, I feel like a little kid. Like, any second, I’m going to be placed in the time-out chair and fume while Cody flaunts his freedom like back when we were four and seven. “What’s in your ear?” My dad sounds strange. His words are calculated, slow to leave his mouth. “Give it to me.”

“What? Why?” I say.

Dad holds out his hand. “Now.”

There’s no room for argument. My dad’s a fairly small guy, but right now he seems enormous. I pull the device from my ear and drop it into his palm. As he closes his fist, I’m certain my new toy has been permanently confiscated.

“Why’d you give it to me if you were just going to take it away?” I ask.

Dad looks at me like he’s going to say something profound, but then he mutters, “Your mom needs help in the kitchen.” He walks out of the room, my only source of excitement for the next eon tucked in his pocket.

I grab the sides of my door frame and hang my head. My dad’s freak-out tells me he’s not the one who left the talking hearing aid in my room, which makes me wonder who did. Then it dawns on me. Passing Cody’s room, I yell, “Nice joke, ass hat.” Even as I say it, I imagine what it would be like if it wasn’t him. Nothing exciting happens to me. Ever. But that doesn’t stop me from daydreaming.

I’ve got a world of possibilities ticking away in this noggin. And right now I’ve all but decided the leader of an underground cult has recruited me to be a part of the Brimstone Blood. Or Bleed. Or whatever Cody named it. Either way, it sounds kind of gruesome. He’s apparently gotten more twisted in his sibling brutality. And I do count getting my hopes up as brutality.

The real question is how he recorded that woman’s voice. Apparently, the kid’s been holding out on me. Mom insisted Cody relax once we moved here, hence the Technology Prohibition, but he must have stashed something away. A laptop. A smartphone. Something.

Just thinking about it makes me foam at the mouth.

I briefly wonder if I might be coming down with rabies.

Mom isn’t in the kitchen, but I do spot her standing in her bedroom, talking in a hushed voice with Dad.

“You promised!” my dad hisses. “You promised that they wouldn’t find her here.”

“I’m sorry. It’s too late now.”

“Not yet, it’s not —”

When my mom sees me, she holds a hand up to shush him.

“Tella,” she says, “I want you to finish making dinner and meet us in Cody’s room.” Then she closes the door.

“Jeez, rude much?” I say, mostly to myself. For a moment, I wonder what my parents were talking about. I can’t say what I heard didn’t unnerve me, but when you live with a chronically sick sibling you get used to overhearing your parents say weird crap behind closed doors. So I dismiss their crankiness and turn my attention to my marching orders.

Tonight is Sunday Funday, which my dad made up, and which equates to eating spaghetti in Cody’s room. We all sit around his bed and dine off paper plates, and no one’s allowed to say anything negative. All it really means is that everyone saves everything terrible they have to say for Monday, which kicks off the week real positivelike.

I drain the spaghetti and pour in a can of marinara. Then I do that finger-kiss thing that Italian chefs do on TV. Tipping the oversized chrome pot, I cover four plates with pasta and top them with packaged Parmesan cheese and a slice of freezer-stored garlic bread.

Everything we eat is made with love and kindness, and packed with as many preservatives as humanly possible. Living thirty miles from the nearest grocery store pretty much guarantees we’ll never eat fresh again, unless we grow something ourselves, and that so isn’t happening. My parents have always chosen their wallets over manual labor; another reason why we shouldn’t have left the city.

Walking toward Cody’s room, I carry a tray covered with plates and glasses like a well-tipped waitress. I even keep one hand cocked on my hip so I can sashay past our too-expensive-for-this-house furniture. When I get to the hallway, I overhear Mom and Dad whispering hurriedly to Cody. I make a point to stop and eavesdrop, but the floorboards choose this exact moment to creak beneath my shoes.

Everyone stops talking.

“You got the spaghetti?” my dad asks. The way he says it sounds like he’s digging for information beyond dinner.