Authors: Masha Leyfer
Well.
So much for courtesy.
But two can play this game.
“You’re not in the position to ask questions,” I reply coldly. “Now let
me
ask: who are you?”
“The less you know, the better,” he replies, adopting my cold tone. I raise my eyebrows.
“Are you inviting a fight?” I challenge him. He rolls his eyes and my anger sparks inside of me, although his reaction is perfectly reasonable. If we were to fight, I would lose, and he knows that.
“Just step aside and let us in, before anybody gets hurt.” He revs his snowmobile a few millimeters forward. I don’t budge.
“Tell me who you are.” I lean forward and place my hand on the handlebar, “And why you’re here, and I’ll decide whether or not I want to let you in.”
I am surprised that I haven’t faltered yet and I’m even more surprised that the snowmobiles haven’t run me through. The adrenaline rush of seeing motorized vehicles and more importantly, other people, people who could be anyone, cancels out the fear.
The young man doesn’t answer me. Instead, he throws a hand toward the back. The young woman on the last snowmobile hops off and walks up to me. She lowers her glasses and looks into my eyes. I frown, but don’t break eye contact. There is something oddly mesmerizing about the blueness of her eyes. What is going on? I feel like she is analyzing me, but how can she do that just by looking at me?
After several seconds, she seems to make a decision, although I’m not sure what about. She steps back and nods at the man in the front.
“We are the Rebellion,” he says drawing himself up to his full height so that he looks down on me. “And we just want lodging.”
The Rebellion.
I stop breathing.
The Rebellion.
Here. In Hopetown.
I let go of the handlebar and step back for the first time.
The Rebellion that I’ve idolized for years, the Rebellion that I considered the last speck of hope in the world, the Rebellion that was almost a myth, and now, here they are, in front of me, as real as the fearful tremors in my hands.
How can that be? What does the
Rebellion
want in
Hopetown
? I don’t believe it, I decide. It’s too perfect to be true. Things like this simply don’t happen.
But...what if just this once, it did?
My mind floods with emotions I can barely identify, but all I know is that my mind is begging for
something,
something more, anything more, and
more
was just dropped at my feet. More has arrived in the form of the Rebellion.
“The Rebellion,” I stammer, “But I thought…”
“You thought
what?”
The young man says, taking advantage of my hesitation to lean forward and close the last few centimeters between us.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess just something… different.”
“Well, here we are. Are you going to let us in or not?”
“Um...yes,” I say forgetting myself. “Wait, no.” I grab the handlebar again in a vain attempt to reassert dominance. It is too late, of course. He can already see that he’s won.
“You can stay one day, and then you leave. And you don’t touch anything while you’re here. One complaint, and I will personally slit all your throats. Are we clear?”
“All right.”
“Do you doubt me?”
He looks at me critically, then decides.
“Yes. Alright, gang, let’s move.” The four riders rev their snowmobiles forward, leaving behind a trail of disturbed snow. As they leave, my thinking begins to clear again.
Dear lord,
I think coughing as my lungs fill with gas.
I just let the Rebellion into Hopetown.
CHAPTER 3
When I return to Hopetown, the gate is still closed and the snowmobiles wait in front of it. One of the watchmen leans over the wall and shouts at me.
“They say you let them in. We thought they killed you.”
“No, I’m still alive,” I say with the same disbelief as the watchman.
“They say they’re on a mission from the CGB headquarters. Is that true?”
I glance over at the man on the first snowmobile and he nods.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You better be really goddamn sure about this!”
“Yeah, I am,” I say absentmindedly, still looking at the snowmobiles.
“Okay, then,” the guard stands suspiciously. “Stand back. We’re opening the Gate.” We move aside as the Gate creaks and rises up. The snowmobile rider turns around and smiles at me. Then, the four of them ride inside, leaving a trail of snow.
“You better hope to God they don’t screw anything up!” the guard shouts at me.
“They won’t,” I say, and run inside. I run to my house, not paying attention to everyone else. I know they’re all looking at me anyway, stares filled with eager accusation. They need someone to blame. Why not let it be me?
But in this situation, it really is me.
My mother is waiting for me at the door of our house, her hands crossed, biting her lip in anger. Her normally calm gray eyes are clouded with the same accusation as the rest of the townspeople.
“Molly, what did you do?” The vehemence in the voice I’ve always associated with calm and comfort draws me back into the reality of the situation and dissipated the godlike feeling that came with the events of the last several minutes.
“What?” I say, dodging her gaze. “We’re all supposed to support each other, right? They seemed harmless. They just want lodging.”
“No! You have no way of knowing that. If anyone gets hurt, it’s on
your
head.”
“I know, mom.”
“Do you? Are you ready to accept that responsibility?”
“They won’t hurt anyone.”
“Really? How can you be sure?”
Because they’re the Rebellion, Mom. Don’t you see? They can’t hurt anyone. They’re the only ones that can help us.
Because if they do, I’ll lose all of the hope I had left, and that can’t happen. It won’t happen.
“You don’t even know who they are!” my mother shouts. I falter. Somehow, telling her their identity would be betraying them. She sees the hesitation in my eyes and starts shouting at me again.
“You do know who they are! What aren’t you telling me, Molly?”
I falter again. But after all, she’s my mother. What harm could come of telling her? I throw a glance behind me to assure myself that no one can hear us here.
“That’s the Rebellion.”
“The Rebellion? Molly, they’re just a myth, for Christ’s sake! A myth you have to stop pretending exists!”
That hurts.
“Actually, you can clearly see that they’re not a myth. And they’re here, right now,” I spit out venomously and turn away from our house. I run back to Centre Street, still stung by my mother’s words. Most of the people have gone back inside and closed their shutters and I am alone on the street except for the drunks, and even they seem quieter today, as if they sense the uncertainty of the situation.
I run back to work. Maybe the monotonous action of pouring drinks will take my mind off of-
No way.
Parked outside the door are the four snowmobiles.
I stop. Should I enter?
The two opposing instincts of safety and curiosity battle inside of me. Nobody would miss me if I didn’t return to work today. In fact, I’m not sure I’m welcome back at all. I bite my lip in indecision, but the choice has already been made. Of course I should. The Rebellion is here. How can I miss it? They will only be here for one day. And what happens today is inconsequential; after all, I’ll never see them again. I enter.
Our usually busy bar is now completely empty except for the Rebellion. They are all sitting in a spot of grimy illumination at the edge of the bar. I move myself into one of Thirty One’s many shady corners and observe them from a distance. I don’t want them to know that I work here, for some reason.
The Rebellion is composed of two men and two women. They are all pretty young, not much older than I am. I wonder if this is all of them. That seems fairly unlikely to me
—could four people make that big of a difference?—
but then again, how much do I know about the Rebellion? Anything could be possible.
The young man who I had argued with earlier is taking puffs from his cigarette. One of the girl
s
–
she has straight, shoulder-length, blond hair and is very tall
–
sits next to him, muttering what sounds like reproaches for smoking indoors. Next to her sits another young man, seemingly younger and also good looking, by my standards, at least. Not that it matters, I remind myself.
At the end of the bar and slightly distanced from the others, sits the fourth member of their party. This is the one that analyzed me earlier. She has light golden curls spilling over her shoulder and holds herself very straight. They all sport black leather jackets and wear their helmets around their necks. They look as if they don’t belong here, although I can’t place what it is exactly about them that suggests that.
The bartender brings them four glasses of white wine, and they clink their glasses together.
“To victory,” the young man who appears to be their leader says.
“To victory,” everyone else echoes and then drinks. I wonder if they know what victory means in this town. If they know how taboo it is and how afraid everybody is of rebellion and change. I wonder if they know that everybody here has long stopped believing in anything other than survival. Or maybe they haven’t been in a bar in so long, they’ve forgotten that the walls have eyes and the floor has ears.
The young man says something indistinct and everyone laughs.
“Shut up Mike, you can’t hold your liquor,” the tall blond one tells him. The other man snorts.
“The only thing he
can
hold is liquor.” They all laugh, except for the curly haired one. She just produces a reserved but sincere smile. They continue their chatter and I understand that the two young men are brothers. The curly girl leans over to the one apparently named Mike and whispers something. I can’t help thinking that she’s whispering about me. Has fifteen minutes in the limelight really made me that conceited? She hasn’t even looked in my direction or done anything to suggest any reason to show interest in me. Mike nods slowly and says,
“You’re probably right. We shall see.”
See what? I wonder. Their voices become hushed for a moment as they continue discussing.
“Mike, listen, are you sure about this? It’s a pretty big leap of faith,” the blonde one says. Mike shrugs.
“Anna says it should be fine. I think we could benefit a lot from something new. Why? Are you afraid?”
“Well, I can’t help but be nervous. You
are
planning to put your trust in a stranger. You never know how that will end up.”
“You’re right. But I think we should take the chance. You guys want whiskey this time?” Mike asks. They all nod. “Hey, sir,” Mike says addressing the bartender. “A round of whiskey, please.”
The bartender, an old, bent-over man with one clouded eye, responds with a nod. He too has been watching them the entire time, absentmindedly washing the same glass the whole while. His rag moves around the inside of the glass creating a strange swishing sound that seems oddly appropriate to the situation.
Swish, swish, swish.
While pouring the Rebellion their whiskey, I can hear him muttering to himself.
“Sir? To hell with being a sir.” He hands them all the drinks.
“To new chances,” they toast.
“To new chances.” They continue ordering alcohol and making toasts until the curly haired one speaks for the first time. Her voice is quiet and musical.
“You’re all drunk. Let’s go.” They
are
all drunk, except for her, although she drank as much. Surprisingly, this delicate-looking young woman can hold her liquor better than the rest of them.
“But, Anna, this is so much fun.” I recognize the familiar slur of drunk syllables. Who knew that the Rebellion could have something in common with the people of Hopetown? Although I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that much. We are all human, after all.
Anna smiles at her drunk companions.