Amy Foster - The Rift Uprising

“Uh-huh,” I reply. I look at her and smile quickly. Her pale blond hair falls loose to her shoulders. She is wearing jeans, a cotton button-down blouse, and sneakers. Since she works at Nike, her clothes are sporty and comfortable, but somehow she always manages to look chic. She layers necklaces, winds scarves brilliantly around her neck, stacks leather and gold bracelets on her wrists, has big chunky belts, and even the cut of her jeans—slouchy but fitted—is elegant. I can attribute this only to her being European. A cultural thing—not genetic—because no one would accuse me of being stylish. I rarely think about what I wear. More often than not it’s yoga pants and boxy T-shirts with Converse sneakers in the summer and boots in the winter. In a way, my sartorial choices are great, because the rules are clear: We are not to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves. I think I’ve worn makeup maybe twice in my life. I’m sure this must be somewhat disappointing to my fashion-conscious mother, but to her credit she never says anything. She takes a look at me and opens her mouth to say something but closes it. How could she not want a normal daughter who rambles on about boys and clothes and teachers at school? Instead she got me: a kid who talks as little as possible and keeps her mother at arm’s length.

I am a good girl. She says that a lot. “Ryn, you’re such a good girl …” She tries to be validating, because that’s what I am. That is all I can offer my parents. I am good. I do not sneak out at night, I don’t water down their liquor, I don’t come home smelling like weed, I don’t break my curfew, I don’t date. For a while there, my parents thought I was gay. They sat me down and quite sweetly said they would love me no matter what and that if I liked girls, I should just tell them, get everything out in the open. “I’m not gay,” I said softly. “I’m shy.”

The thing is, I am not shy. I’m quiet only because I hate that every other word out of my mouth is an untruth. I probably should have just said I was asexual … which is pretty much what my job requires of me anyway. Besides, that’s a thing now. It would have given them something to research and they would stop smirking at each other every time Boone or Henry comes over … and then frown when it’s clear nothing is happening between me and either of them.

It’s almost like my parents would welcome me having sex. I think they’d breathe a sigh of relief even as they grounded me. And it hurts sometimes that I can’t even give them that .

“Dinner in fifteen,” I say, and go back to stirring the peppers. I am always hyperaware of my body language. I know how to close myself off, how to disinvite a conversation with a slight turn of my chin, a shuffle backward, a drawing in of my shoulder blades as if they were wings that needed hiding. I try not to be dismissive, but I know that’s what she sees. We both hear Abel come in, and my mom—with some relief—walks to the door to greet him. He’s been at football practice. I pretend I don’t know his schedule, like I couldn’t give a shit. The truth is I know where Abel is almost every minute of the day. I know where everyone in my family is, because if trouble that can’t be contained comes through The Rift, I might need to get to them quickly.

I put the pasta bowls on the kitchen table and neatly set a folded paper towel and a fork beside each one. I fill up a carafe with ice water and lay out four glasses. My family arrives from their separate corners of the house and everyone sits in their chairs. The conversation bounces lightly between them … and mostly off of me.

“We just got a prototype of a running jacket that I designed and I’m really excited about it,” Mom gushes. “I know you don’t run, Ryn, but it’s supercute. It would look great on you. You could use it as a light coat when the weather gets cooler.” I run, on average, about twenty miles a day—not that my family would know. When I tell my parents I hate working out, this is not exactly a lie. I don’t love exercising, but I don’t exactly have much choice, either. “I’ll order you one when it goes to market— if it goes to market. But I’m sure it will; everyone seems really positive about it at work.”

“That’s great, V,” my dad says, and gives her a broad smile.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say politely.

“So,” my dad begins, “how’s varsity looking?”

Abel’s mouth is full of food. I have never seen anyone eat as much as Abel does, not even Henry and he’s way bigger than my brother. Abel begins to nod his head as he swallows. “It’s good. I think it’s there if I want, only I’ll probably be benched most of the season. Greg Casiano is a great QB, and I’m just a freshman. I don’t think I’ll get much field time. Maybe I should just do JV so I can really play.” Abel takes another mouthful.

“I don’t know …” Dad ponders, lifting his thumb and index finger to his chin as if to stroke an imaginary beard. “Playing varsity all four years of high school looks great on a college application.”

Abel shrugs. He’s fourteen. He’s not thinking about college. He just wants to get out there and have some fun. I get it, and I think my mom does, too, but she doesn’t say anything. I know she will bring this up to my dad later, when they are alone. I also know what’s coming next.

“Speaking of college,” my dad says, turning his eyes to me. I groan inwardly but keep my face passive. “I hope you’re giving some serious thought about where you want to apply. Now’s the time, Ryn, and you have got to do some extracurricular activities. I know you’re in ARC, but it might not be enough. It’s not just about grades.”

My parents believe that ARC stands for Accelerated Rate Curriculum. They think I’m in a highly advanced scholastic program, but it’s a cover for the real acronym—Allied Rift Coalition. They moved to Battle Ground from Portland just so that I could be a part of the program. Even though I start my days off at Battle Ground High, I don’t even go to school. I don’t need to. When I was fourteen and my chip was activated, I had a secondary and post-secondary education downloaded straight into my brain. I still haven’t decided if this is the best or worst part of being a Citadel. ARC robbed me of the opportunity to learn like a normal person. I will never have to sit through a boring lecture or do homework or worry about getting to class. I don’t know if I got super lucky or completely cheated.

“She does all that volunteer work at the old military base,” Abel says brightly, and looks at me. God, my brother is a nice guy. He has so many reasons to be an asshole, but he’s just not wired that way. The taller Abel gets, the more protective of me he feels. It’s cute. I smile genuinely back at him.

“I just want you to find the right place, Ryn, where you can really open up and find out who you are, you know? A place that will help you come into your own. Nothing would make me happier.”

That would make me happy, too. And the fact is, I will leave Battle Ground in a couple years. My parents believe I am a junior in high school and think I will be off to college soon. In reality, though, I will be working another Rift site. I feel the dull throb of a headache emerging. I reach back with my hand and rub at an invisible scar at the base of my skull.

“I know, Dad,” I respond, but I don’t say anything else. There are a couple of seconds of silence before Abel tells me how much he likes the pasta, effectively switching the subject.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully. The talk resumes until dinner is over. I have said six words throughout the entire meal. My parents do not know me. They truly have no idea who I am. I hate that The Rift has denied them the opportunity. I excuse myself and walk upstairs to my room, grabbing my knapsack on the way. I close my door, turn some music on, and unzip my bag. I take out a binder, open it, and put it faceup on my bed. It is filled with fake assignments and handouts from nonexistent teachers. The ARC program (that is, the Accelerated Rate Curriculum) has us use an iPad instead of textbooks, and it is where all of our papers, written by God knows who, show up in the appropriate folders. I flip the iPad so the attached keyboard sits propped up beneath the screen, so if one of my parents happens to walk in, it’ll look like I’m working.