Escaping Elysia

Chapter 2 - Cherry Pie (cont.)

They release me from the hospital later that afternoon. Grandfather and I are driven home in a car, which is a special treat. Back in the army he drove a tank, and I know he misses the feel of a steering wheel in his hands. As we enter the neighborhood sector we pass the train stop where we would normally get off. Hordes of people stream through the doors, making their way to their houses. The doctors were right, I would have been too weak to stand for the entire ride home. Not that I tried to argue. I run my hands along the smooth interior of the car door, enjoying the feeling of flying over the ground without other bodies pressed in tightly around me. 

We arrive home about an hour before the evening meal is due to be delivered, and Grandfather closes his bedroom door behind him minutes after we enter. Typical. I settle onto the couch to watch the evening news, and only after my face pops up on the screen do I remember that I am the evening news.

My picture fades and a reporter holding a microphone stands next to a girl who looks to be about 16. The Dasset Prep campus is in the background, and the place where I shot that boy, Trenton, is surrounded by police tape.

"Where were you during the shooting this morning?" The reporter asks, holding the microphone in front of the girl's face.

"There," she leans in as she speaks, pointing to a building that faces the street, "in Beckett Hall. I watched everything from the window."

"And did you see Evita Creedy shoot Trenton Caine?"

The girl nods, her tight, black curls bouncing with the motion. "Yeah, I saw her."

"Can you tell us exactly what you saw?"

Her curls bounce again. "She hid behind that bench." The girl turns and points. "Even from the window all the way on the third floor I could see her down there, 'cause of her hair. It's so bright, and kinda frizzy, you know, it sticks out." I smooth down my hair. It is not frizzy.

"The guy's back was turned, and I saw her start crawling out from behind the bench, toward his bag." I sit up and stare at the TV, shaking my head. I never could have done that. He would have seen me. The girl continues. "I wanted to yell at her, like, 'what are you doing?' She was so close to the guy. Then she reached into his bag and took something out. I didn't know it was a gun. I still thought she was crazy for getting so close to him. She went back behind the bench, and when he turned around she shot him."

None of this makes any sense. I know I should just forget about the gun and how it got in my purse. About who may have put it there. But I can't let it go.

The doorbell rings, ejecting the memory from my vision. Dinner. I open the door and spot the delivery truck idling by the curb. The food deliverers are allowed to use trucks because they can't transport everything on the trains or on a bike. The powers that be determined that food delivery was a good enough use of solar batteries and materials. Watching them drive through every day makes me a little jealous, I'll admit. I wave to the driver as he drops a box on the steps next door, before retrieving the one on our own. It feels heavier than usual.

In the kitchen I turn on the oven and grab the box cutter. Inside the box I find tomorrow's breakfasts and lunches and set them in the fridge. Underneath are two trays, one for Grandfather and a smaller one for me. The trays have separate compartments for green beans, each bean uniform in color, size, and shape, a strip of plain chicken, and cups of rice. I could swear that the compartments are emptier tonight than they were only a few months ago.

But then, underneath the trays is something that makes my mouth water. Two slices of pie. Today isn't a holiday or a birthday. At least not one I can remember. A code is embedded in the pliable, clear plastic lid and when I pass my wrist over it, scanning it with my phone, a message pops up.