Transcendent (4 page)

“Americans,” my mom said, the word slicing right through me, cold and clean. “It was a group of very angry, very radical Americans. They apparently have at least the leader in custody now.”

“I don't get it,” my dad said, his face bright red and twisted as if he'd been physically slapped. “Why—how—could people do this to their own? How could anyone be
that
ruthless?”

My dad had, like all of us—whether we would say it out loud or not—expected the culprit to be discovered in hiding somewhere across the ocean, on the other side of the world. Someone who had been raised from the bottle to believe that America was immoral and that scourging our specific breed of evil was worth dying for. That kind of
hatred somehow made
sense
to us, in its own warped, terrible way. That hatred was founded on centuries of violence and conflict. But this—Americans having such extreme hatred for other Americans?

This turned the whole world upside down.

“They're reporting,” my mom said, her voice flat and lifeless, “that the group is a community of disenfranchised, disillusioned citizens. People with no money, no say, and no power to change their circumstances for the better. A community founded on their shared outrage over the divide between the ‘haves' and the ‘have-nots' in this country.” She sighed, wiping at the glistening edges of her eyes. “Disney, to them, I think, was the quintessential symbol of privilege and money. A symbol of a fairy tale that wasn't meant for them, a dream, a kind of life that they could never have. That their
children
could never have. It was, in their minds, a corrupt kingdom that needed to be destroyed.”

I blinked, trying to absorb the weight of everything I was hearing. My mom sounded so composed, so eloquent and controlled, especially given that the news had only just barely begun to sink in. But she was a writer—processing the world in words came naturally to her.

“‘Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry.'” The quote spilled from my lips, the pieces clicking into place as I heard them out loud.

“‘Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn
and weep,'” my mom whispered back, squeezing Dad even closer against her side.

The Bible verse that had rained down over the destruction—these terrorists had punished the selfish and the proud, all of us who had shut our eyes to their suffering.

But they weren't silent anymore.

And they had proven to all of us that they were now far from powerless.

GREED IS THE
ROOT OF ALL EVIL
flashed below the reporters on the TV screen. It was one of their slogans, the reporter was saying, a line from the terrorist group who referred to themselves as “the Judges.” I shivered, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The name was so fitting. They
had
taken it upon themselves to be judges—they had pointed their fingers and slaughtered those whom they had deemed evil. They had acted as if they were God's messengers here on earth, silencing the sinners.

The caption
SECOND COMING?
appeared on the screen, bright white letters juxtaposed over a picture of Disney taken soon after the bombs had gone off. Mass destruction, bloodbath, toppled kingdom. I didn't know that much about the Second Coming—we hadn't been raised with Sunday school or Bible studies—but I knew the basics from a World Religions unit I'd had in school the year before. Christians believed that Jesus would come down again to earth, based on old biblical prophecies, and that
he would judge the living and the dead
.
Salvation for the righteous, punishment for the sinners.

Just as the Judges had done now, creating their own version of the Bible's predictions.

Caleb stepped closer to the TV, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I wanted to erase all of these words and images from his mind. He was too young for this, too pure. He deserved to still have hope.

“If this is really a Second Coming, does that mean that Jesus was real? And now he's coming back?” he asked. I wondered how he knew so much about the Second Coming.

My dad gasped and my mom—my mom jumped up from the sofa and grabbed Caleb and me both by the hand.

“Of course not,” she said, her eyes round, unblinking. “Don't say such a thing. Don't even
think
such a thing.”

And then, without another word, she dropped our hands and ran toward the foyer, up the stairs. The door to the office closed with a loud bang.

I looked at Caleb, his eyes meeting mine, both of us equally bewildered.

“Well, that was weird,” he said.

I turned to look at Dad, about to ask him what in the world had just happened.

There was a tear, though, just one. Rolling slowly, so slowly, down his cheek.

I
T WAS THE START
of first period that next Thursday, four days after the news of the Judges had come out, and it was still all everyone could talk about, louder and angrier each day. My eyes were glued to my geometry notes for a quiz I'd have that afternoon, but my brain couldn't seem to make sense of line segments, coordinates, and theorems. I leaned my forehead down against the cool wood of the desktop and closed my eyes, trying and failing to tune out the voices around me.

I hope each and every one of them burns for what they did. Here first, and then in hell forever.

Can't we line them all up and blow their heads open execution-style? Or bomb them like they bombed all those kids? See how they like feeling their bodies ripped to shreds.

Maybe someone should kill
their
kids, make those guilty bastards watch while it happens. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, however that shit goes.

Listening to it all made me feel nauseated—scared by how easily hate could fuel more hate. I was furious, devastated, sick over what the
American
terrorists had done. But did I want them to be tortured? Mutilated? Sentenced to grisly, exacting deaths? No, I didn't want any of those things. I wanted them to be punished, certainly. I wanted them to pay for their heinous crimes for the remainder of their awful, twisted lives. But I didn't want the rest of our country to stoop to their level. I didn't want us to pay back evil with more evil.

I didn't know the solution—but I was only seventeen. This problem, it was far too big for me, for any of us, really.

Friday, tomorrow's Friday,
I reminded myself. I was so ready for a weekend, time away from school and from so many angry people. I needed my favorite Saturday morning hot yoga class, violin, the park. I wanted to find Mikki again, follow through on my promise to come back.

I was worried about my mom, too, who had been even more reclusive than usual after her strange outburst on Sunday. I still didn't get it, what had set her off so suddenly.

“Ethan, seriously? You're still freaking out about that calc test today?” Ari's voice cut through the room as she entered, but I kept my head down. “You could ace that stupid test in your sleep. I don't know why you actually insist on studying and stressing about these things. It's a waste of your time. And it's a waste of my time because I have
to listen to you stress, when there are thousands of more interesting things we could be discussing. Like, for example, how ridiculously awesome my new cymbal is going to sound in rehearsal today. Much better topic.” To an outsider, maybe this sounded harsh, but this was how Ari played. This was how she loved. Usually I was amused by her and Ethan's scathing back-and-forth, but not today.

“I'm so sorry that I care about my grades and getting into an awesome college,” Ethan snapped back, though I could hear the smirk on his face without looking up. “I wish that you could bring yourself to care, too, friend, because I'm not going to support your broke ass when you can't find a job someday. Protesting doesn't pay the bills, you know.”

“Ha. Protesting's just my hobby. And besides, I thought the four of us were going to become a famous indie rock quartet, so who needs a degree? Ari and the Misfits, that has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

A hand latched on to my shoulder, shaking me.

“You okay?”

I tilted my head, catching a glimpse of Ari's long braid hanging over my desk. “What's up with you, Iris? Who stole my radiant beam of sunshine?”

Ethan and Delia stood behind her, Ethan squinting at me from behind his thick plastic frames—one lens smudged, I noticed, with what looked like a fingerprint of
doughnut frosting—and Delia standing on tiptoes, peering at me from behind him. Delia carried herself like a ballerina, smooth and subtle, but strong. She looked like one, too, with her braids typically twisted up tight in a high bun, her clothes plain and solid colored, unremarkable. Her face, her eyes were all the expression she needed.

“I'm fine,” I said, looking up to meet Ari's intense amethyst gaze. “I just need the weekend. Some time outside these walls.”

“You're so not fine,” Ari said, tapping a chipped sparkly blue nail against my desk.

“I concur with Ari's assessment,” Ethan chimed in. “You haven't seemed
fine
all week, Iris. I know everyone's been off with the news about the Judges and everything. But . . . you seem particularly low. Is there more to it?” He flopped down heavily in the seat next to mine, his overstuffed bag of comics and binders and textbooks ramming hard against our classmate Noah Kennedy's back. Ethan was too preoccupied with me to notice. But Noah, a big burly guy in a Giants football jersey who generally just ignored our existence—as most of the senior class did—jerked his head around to shoot a death glare. I caught his eye first, though, before he could say anything to Ethan, and smiled at him. He looked momentarily confused, but then he smiled back, just for an instant, before turning back toward the front, as if he'd entirely
forgotten what had made him annoyed in the first place.

It's amazing what a smile can do.

“Of course it's the news about the bombing . . .” I started, looking over at Ethan. “It's what the Judges did, and it's what everyone,” I said, waving my arms around the room, “has to say about it now. I think it's a normal reaction to be feeling a little troubled.”

“They're total fucking lunatics, the Judges,” Ari said, sliding into the desk in front of me, her legs straddling the chair back so she could still stare me down. “But you have to agree, they had a point, didn't they? Even if they went about proving it in a totally unacceptable and horrific kind of way. Disney is the symbol of so many things that are wrong with this country. I'm personally glad that they're not sure yet if they're rebuilding the park.”

“There's still Disneyland, though,” Ethan said. “And Disney in Paris, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Shanghai . . . It's not going anywhere, Disney. If they don't rebuild this one park, it's because it seems too insensitive—most people have enough of a conscience to not properly enjoy a theme park directly on the spot where so many people died. But people hate the Judges; they don't hate Disney. If anything, Disney sales are through the roof right now. People see the mouse ears as solidarity. As if wearing a Mickey shirt somehow supports the victims.”

“Ugh, that is so shitty and twisted,” Ari said, “and
so exactly against the point of all this. I hope to God that people at least start thinking about what motivated the Judges. Maybe start doing a bit more to deal with all the blatant economic disparity going on. Because it's not right—it's not
fair—
that some kids get everything, and some kids are lucky to have one decent meal each day. I mean, come on. All four of us live in gorgeous brownstones, but we're right up against people who can barely afford the rent of their tiny, roach-infested shitholes each month. And we didn't do a thing to deserve that.”

It was true, to some extent, but I still didn't feel comfortable with this idea that the Judges had a point, no matter how warped and terrible it had become along the way.

“How else,” Ari continued, “do you suggest these people should have gotten attention? You think protests would change anything? A crowd of
peasants
with posters screaming outside the castle gates?”

A few classmates in front of us turned in their chairs, their deep frowns and eyes like knives directed straight at Ari.

“
God
. Just stop talking, you crazy hippie freak. Do you even hear yourself?” The words came out in a snarl from a few rows over. I glanced up to see Carolina Matthews's perfect pink lips pursed in disgust as she rolled her eyes at Ari. A few classmates snickered.
Crazy hippie freak
. Carolina
flipped her golden curls and turned away from Ari with a dramatic sigh.

“Hey. Ignore her. Let it go for now,” Ethan said, batting at Ari with his calculus textbook before she had a chance to bite back at Carolina. But Ari's usual scowl had slipped, her blank face showing a rare trace of vulnerability. My heart ached for her, this real Ari. The Ari I knew was always there, just below the surface. “I know you wouldn't advocate killing thousands of innocent people for a cause, but you're sounding scarily zealous right now. Maybe just scale it down a bit. In public, at least.”

“Whatever, Ethan.” Ari sighed, staring off toward the whiteboard at the front of the room. Ethan opened his mouth to say more, but then flipped through his calculus book instead, his eyes squinted as he seemed to study the page he'd landed on.

Only Delia's attention was still focused on me. She reached out slowly and gripped my hand.
I know. I'm scared, too
, her eyes told me. I squeezed back. I'd seen the sketches and paintings she'd been working on in the past month; there was a new darkness there, a new gritty depth. Her art told me things she didn't always say out loud.

“Okay, guys,” Mrs. Valentine said, rising from the chair behind her desk. “Less chitchat, more
Handmaid's Tale
. I asked you to think about whether this is a
feminist
work of literature or more a critique of feminism. Any volunteers?
Hm? No? Okay, then, Ari, how about you? I know you had a lot to say about feminism and
The Scarlet Letter
 . . .”

I exhaled and slumped in my seat, letting Mrs. Valentine's and Ari's voices blur into a soft, calming hum in the background. I kept my head up, my eyes open and seemingly alert. But in my mind, I was doing what I always did to calm myself, to escape into my own beautiful bubble.

I played the violin. Brahms, Hungarian Dance No. 5. A loud, fast, unstoppable song. I could see the bow, feel the smooth wood even, so perfectly in my mind. The notes sang out, vibrating inside my skull, weaving a spell that made the rest of the class disappear.

•   •   •

Caleb and I sat at the kitchen table later that afternoon, piles of textbooks and folders sprawled out in front of us. I had to start brainstorming essay ideas for
The Handmaid's Tale,
and study for a physics quiz, too, but the thought of doing either was entirely unappealing. I considered giving up and taking my yoga mat outside to our tiny backyard, but I wanted to at least pretend to be studious, for Caleb's sake.

“What are you working on, kiddo?” I asked, tossing a balled-up Post-it Note across the table. It hit Caleb on the lips, then bounced off to the floor.

“Hey!” He squirmed, grabbing for the paper and
grinning as he threw it back at me. Perfect shot, squarely between my eyes. “I'm looking up words that could be in the big fifth grade spelling bee next month. They pick a lot of local stuff, so I'm doing weird Brooklyn words right now.”

I slid the paper he was studying across the table and read down the list.

Gowanus, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Ditmas, Canarsie, Livingston, Hoyt . . .

“Schermerhorn?”
I asked, my mouth gaping open. “Seriously? They expect a ten-year-old to spell that?”

“It's not
that
hard, Iris. S-c-h-e-r—”

The loud trill of the door buzzer cut him off.

“I'll get it,” I said to Caleb, though before the words were even out, the buzzer blared again. “
Jeez
, I heard you. I'm coming—stop jabbing that awful thing.” I stood up and moved toward the kitchen counter, pressing down the
SPEAK
button on the wall panel.

“Hello?” I called out, leaning in close to the speaker. “Who is this?”

“I'm looking for Mina.” A man's voice crackled into the kitchen. “Does she live here?”

“No, no Mina here. Wrong address,” I said, pulling my hand back.

“Mina Dietrich? Are you sure? Or Mina Spero now, is it?”

I looked over at Caleb, who had put down his pencil
and was staring back at me with a dramatically raised eyebrow. “Mina?” he mouthed, his forehead crinkling.

Strange
. My mom's last name
had
been Dietrich, before she'd married my dad and become a Spero. But her name was Noel, and I'd never heard of a Mina in our family. “We're the Speros, yes, but there's no Mina here. So I think maybe you got the names mixed up. Sorry.” I let go of the button and stepped back. But he buzzed again, one, two, three times, and without saying anything to each other, Caleb and I both ran up the first flight of stairs and knocked on Mom's office door.

There were very few causes that would have warranted interrupting her right now; she was deep inside the first chapters of her newest book, a literary thriller set in early seventeenth-century Manhattan. She was especially impossible to penetrate when she was in the process of first building a new world, constructing each detail—each name, each costume, each piece of furniture, and each bite of food—with painstaking historical research.