Seneca Rebel
22

I DIDN’T REALLY even want to go to this party, but it was important to Reba. It was also a good idea to show my face and stay in G.W. Wallingsford’s good graces. He was a strong ally to have. I didn’t tell Dom about the party because GW had asked me not to talk about it, and I’d always prided myself on my ability to keep my word. So I couldn’t invite him even though I really, really wanted to. To be honest, all I wanted to do was start thinking about all the work I’d have to do the next morning to get into those microprocessors flowing through Dom’s blood. If he was right, then most likely, they were in all of our blood.

But, first the party. Not long after I got back to the residences, there was a knock at my door. It was Reba, dressed to the nines. He’d even taken a brush to his normally unruly hair. “My

Senorita Campbella bonita. You look great.”

I really hoped he didn’t think this was a date. “Thanks. You too, buddy.” I was bound and determined to make it clear that it was indeed not a date. We were just two friends, hanging out. “G.W. has a flighter escort waiting for us with S.O.I.L. officers at the Ascension Point,” I told him. I had received the flex about an hour before.

Reba’s face lit and his posture powered up. “We have our own S.O.I.L. escorts?” That kind of attention made him feel important. I got it, but I had so much more on my mind that being treated like a celebrity really didn’t do it for me like it would have a couple of weeks ago. Everything was different now. Regardless, I smiled and went with the flow. “Yep.”

We traveled parallel to the Potomac along Georgetown Pike, headed east into Washington, D.C. I couldn’t help but think about my mission for the next day. I just wanted to get this party out of the way. Reba could tell something was up.

“This isn’t as fun for you as it is for me, and I can’t quite understand why. Don’t you realize how cool this is?”

“I just have a lot on my mind.”

“I get it, Campbella, but loosen up, chica. Enjoy yourself. Other teenagers where we come from don’t get to do this. Seriously, nobody in Texas would believe this is happening to me. All I ever got called was ‘freak.’ Nobody in my town called me by my name except my family. I heard ‘freak’ so many times that I responded to it like it was my name. And now, ‘freak’ is going to a party that he was personally invited to by none other than G.W. Wallingsford.”

Despite the tension and chaos raging inside, I made a conscious effort to absorb some of Reba’s enthusiasm.

The navy blue night swallowed us. A full moon cast a glow on the river, serene and hypnotic beneath our cruising flighter. I should have been on Cloud Nine like Reba, but my nerves kept getting the better of me. The smooth ride transitioned us from the natural Virginia landscape into the distinguished Georgetown cityscape. Across the river, the edge of the Capitol glimmered in a welcoming amber light. Even though it was well past rush hour, the Key Bridge was smothered in bumper-to-bumper traffic. One thing I didn’t miss at all was sitting in traffic. Who would? We breezed right over it, brushed with sympathy for the poor people below.

When I had first arrived in Washington D.C., Ellen Malone had told me that the Key Bridge was named after Francis Scott Key, the man who wrote our National Anthem, The Star Spangled Banner. A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have been able to imagine a world in which America was no longer the land of the free, the home of the brave– a world leader in all ways. But now I knew that a time was coming when the U.S. government would be overtaken by Seneca. I reminded myself that, by agreeing to remain in the Seneca’s Society, technically I was no longer American... but in my heart that wasn’t going to fly.

Our ride took us up M Street, through the heart of Georgetown, a polished and inviting historic district of D.C. A spectrum of high-end, cutting edge and old faithful restaurants speckled along both sides of cobblestone streets, where conservative glamor could mix seamlessly with youthful trendiness. Our flighter made a wide left turn and we ascended slightly, parallel with the gentle, hilly street below. The further away from M Street we got, there were fewer lights and cars on the streets, and the houses became bigger and bigger. It went from apartments, to townhouses, to well-kept homes, to majestic city estates. Its Federalist architecture was completely different than the weathered stucco and modern metals I was used to in LA. Georgetown had a charm and elegance to it that I appreciated. It was no wonder that the legendary Bill and Hillary Clinton once had called it home.

The flighter landed in front of an imposing mansion with four colossal white pillars framing the doorway, and above it, a black wrought iron balcony. The home was perfectly symmetrical, with ornate white moldings framing large, gleaming windows dressed in grand draperies that must have been worth more than the entire building I lived in back in LA. It was exactly the type of residence I imagined senators and congressmen would live in. Definitely not the type of place I expected to go for a raging high school party, that was for sure.

A giant music sound system’s bass vibrations radiated through me as we got out of the flighter and walked up the smoothly paved driveway. I was dwarfed by the entryway staircase, and felt like a tiny figurine. I glanced over at Reba who exuded enthusiasm from head to toe. This guy was seriously feeling it. Two men in blue were standing on both sides of immense glass French doors. Still as statues, they didn’t even acknowledge our arrival. It was pointless to knock or ring a doorbell. Nobody could possibly have heard it with the loud music, so we let ourselves inside.

A cyclone of debauchery vacuumed us in. I assumed the extremely dim lighting was designed to try and keep the faces of the privileged from being captured and plastered on social media by moles. Flashes of light that pulsated from a DJ booth set up in the foyer were all that helped us see where we were going. We made our way inside through throngs of people. There must have been a hundred teenagers, if not more, upstairs and downstairs, too. A molecular mixologist was serving up beverages from high-end bottles of liquor which were being consumed as quickly as they could be created. Moderation wasn’t in the cards tonight.

It was so loud in there that Reba and I didn’t bother to try talking to each other. Reba’s eyes were bigger than his head. I, on the other hand, was not fazed by all of it. It was just like an LA party, with more money. Ultimately, teenagers partying were teenagers partying and there was nothing more to it. One difference I noted between LA and here, though– the array of art on the walls. This stuff was truly classy, and obviously of such tremendous value that it could only clash with the brazen consumption ritual G.W. had arranged.

Hot and heavy make-out sessions seemed to block our way every ten feet or so, more for exhibition’s sake than from honest passion. Still, I’d be a hypocrite not to admit I’d engaged in a few of them before myself. I couldn’t picture Reba making out, though. He was starting to feel more like my brother than just some guy I hung with.

I didn’t see G.W., or anyone else I knew. A few people looked familiar, when I got close enough to them to see. I turned around to look for Reba but he was gone. He must have followed his curious nose in another direction. I decided I would just wander and we’d catch up later. I noticed a sliding glass door to a back porch and, thinking I could get a break from the head-pounding sound, I headed out that way.

Illuminated only by the half moon and flickering candlelight, it was really dark out there. Just enough light to recognize that a few people on lounge furniture were injecting themselves with Mojo Sticks. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey, Doro, right?”

“Hey, yeah. Brittany.”

“You made it.”

“Yep, thanks for having me. Fun party.”

“Eh, yeah, if this is your thing, I guess.” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“What, it’s not yours?”

“Me? No way. I can’t wait for it to be over.”

“But isn’t it your party?”

“Theoretically. Really, though, it’s for my boyfriend. G.W. likes his fun in all forms, what can I say? My idea of fun is an afternoon on horseback in the foothills or popcorn and a movie.”

She grinned. “Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. Maybe you should date a jockey.” “Not a bad idea!”

Brittany and I laughed. Apparently she wasn’t the vapid, entitled daughter of a politician that I’d expected. Just another lesson in not judging a book by its cover, something I would probably have to remind myself of until the end of time.

And then, in the candlelight, I saw something that nearly made me hit the wooden deck. One of the people on the lounge chairs was Dom. He laid back, his head in a girl’s lap. He couldn’t see me from there, but I squinted, trying to see who the girl was. Once I recognized her I literally could have spewed my insides out. McKayla Gordon.

“You okay?” Brittany took my arm.

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t.

“Want some water?”

“No, no, I’m good.”

I took a step back behind Brittany, making sure to obstruct Dom’s view of me. I could see him perfectly, though I so deeply wished I couldn’t. His eyes flickered open and closed, and kept rolling back behind his eyelids. He was unquestionably out of his head on something. On the table in front of him there was a bowl of Mojo Sticks. The icing on the cake was McKayla Gordon seductively rubbing his head, leaning down and whispering into his ear. He didn’t respond to her, he was just lost in this Mojo’d out state. I was shattered.

This wasn’t the intelligent, alert Dom I’d been with just hours before. Dom was different than these insipid Mojo Stickin’ types.

I didn’t understand. We’d experienced such powerful moments in total clarity. He didn’t need Mojo Sticks.

And McKayla Gordon. She was horrible. Why her? He must not have felt what I was feeling. My entire world was crashing down on this deck. The stars above us were still twinkling so I knew that it wasn’t officially the end, but it sure felt like it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Brittany lunged to the edge of the deck and hit the solid wooden railing circling it.

A flighter pulled up alongside her and hovered in the air as the tinted passenger side window lowered. G.W. was piloting– he leaned forward, peering across a giddy Mikey, in shotgun. “Hop in, Brit! Come do some loops at the bridge with us!”

“G.W., no way! I told you, my dad will lose it if he finds out you were piloting his flighter!”

“Don’t worry, baby, just a quick spin.”

“G.W., please, just put it back in the garage, before anything happens.”

“Relax. Ten minutes!” Mikey stuck his tongue out, and with that, the flighter popped off into high speed, leaving a small trail of white steam behind it. Half of the people on the deck who weren’t too Mojo’d out to realize what was happening jumped in excitement, cheering on the speeding flighter.

Brittany rubbed her temples with her fingers and clenched her teeth. It obviously wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

“Now it’s my turn to ask. Are you okay?”

“I can’t even watch this.” She turned her back to avoid seeing the flighter. And I was avoiding Dom. What was supposed to be a fun party had turned into a night of torture for the two of us, flung together in an unlikely connection.

“There you are!” Reba came running out the back door just in time for the spectacle. “Campbella, chica, I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

We had sweeping views of the river and the Key Bridge all the way to the Washington Monument. Cars and flighters were abiding by traffic laws for as far as the eye could see, but one lone flighter was twisting and turning as it gained speed towards the bridge. The cheers on the deck became wilder and more intense as everyone watched G.W.’s antics. Amidst the escalating jubilation, Brittany actually started to calm down, visibly attempting to block it out. I tried to do the same with the horrendous scene on the lounge chair.

Reba had grabbed a cookie from a nearby tray and nervously chomped at it as he watched the flighter. Through no fault of his own, this guy hadn’t gotten out in a long while and he was soaking up every minute of it. I actually think this was his first high school party ever, and what a first it was. The chomping was too much for me, though; I was already way over the edge. I elbowed him in the side.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“Chew with your mouth closed.”

He gave me a hurt look but dutifully closed his mouth. I felt bad. I was taking things out on him and he didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have hit his positive vibe with my negative one.

“Sorry,” I said.

I was trying to think of a way to explain my reaction when his face changed completely, as if something had possessed him. His eyes glazed over in a controlled stare toward the bridge. The Reba I knew was gone. He started to hum anxiously and rock back and forth. I didn’t care that his mouth hung open with chewed up cookie inside. I was just worried about him.

Something wasn’t right.

Just then the cheering thundered with elation as G.W. looped the flighter three times around the Key Bridge. People jumped up and down to the music’s thumping bass... and then the flighter went for a fourth loop… and did a nosedive crash into the top of the Key Bridge!

A billowing cloud of purple flame burst into the sky. The hooting and hollering suddenly changed to complete silence. The music stopped. Everyone was pressed up against the back of the deck, mouths agape. The boom from the crash reverberated through the sky.

Brittany let out an agonizing scream and dropped to the ground. After a brief moment of silent shock, complete chaos hit the back deck. Everyone scattered, even the Mojo’d out ones fumbled to bail. Everyone was aware of the consequences to come and nobody wanted to be anywhere near the scene that had started it all.

Reba stood, frozen, holding the last little bit of cookie up to his quivering lip. Sirens blared in the distance, and we could hear the muffled sound of a helicopter. I looked down at Brittany on the ground, alone and completely destroyed. With one hand planted on the deck, she lifted herself just enough to look up at the clouds of smoke invading the clear sky. She wailed in desolation, at the same time gripping a hand over her heart and pummeling her chest over and over. She hit herself so hard I could feel it vibrate across the wood planked floor we shared. As the rest of the guests fled, I bent down and wrapped my arms around her. What she needed right then was the one thing I could be– a friend.

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