Tell me what you think,
~Poem
“Who was that?” She calls up to me.
“Some kids from school.” I yell back. The wind gusts in my face, and I look back to see Annie’s smiling freckled face.
“Keep your eyes on the road!” She squeals. I laugh and whip my head back around to look at the few other bikers ahead of me. I glance around at all of the houses on the sides of the road. They are all bleak and grey.
I think back to when Mother would tell me stories of the past. "The golden days" is what she would call them. The stories were wonderful, full of color, and freedom. When there weren't any wardrobe laws, and boys and girls were actually able to go to the same schools. Yeah right, I snort.
"Noah," Annie asks, "Who were those boys that you were talking to earlier?"
I take a large breath, drawing it out slowly. "Just some kids from school." I eventually reply.
"I haven't seen them before." She states.
"Oh, really?" I lie, "They just moved here last month."
"All of them together?"Her tone is harsh and accusing as she interrogates me. I curse silently to myself, and start to pedal harder. We speed up, passing a biker in front of us.
"Hey Noah!" The biker calls, "Slow down, we wouldn't want an accident." I glance back to see Mr. Bolevart, my English teacher, on his bike smiling at us. I reply with a sheepish grin then turn right onto Daisy Street.
Again, all of the houses are identical, with their yards perfect. Grass cut to the right length, and trees in the right spot. All of the garbage cans are exactly three feet away from the street.
Except one.
I pull into our driveway, where leaves litter the ground, and cardboard is used to patch up a broken window. The bike slows to a stop, and Annie hops off to open the garage door.
She has to tug on the handle before it would spring open. I wheel the bike in to rest against the wall, where various tools and other illegal items used to be hidden in the paneling.
Annie can’t stop talking about her volleyball game. It was their fifth game and they haven’t lost one yet. Her anxious chatter follows me into the house where Mama stands quietly over the stove. Smoke starts to billow out of the pot in front of her.
“Hey!” I cry out, and rip her away from the stove. She doesn’t put up a fight as I move the empty pot to the unheated side. I turn off the old dial stove, and turn to yell at her, “What were you thinking?”
She cowers and a small tear starts to drip down her cheek. Cooling down, I start to realize what I have done. Closing the space between us, I wrap my arms around her frail body.
Annie, standing a few feet away, comes to join in the hug. “You know what?” I say, “How about I make dinner tonight?”
“Okay.” Mama mutters, and totters off into the other room.
Annie asks, “Where’s Grandma?” in a worried voice. I shrug as I look through today’s rations. A few cans of soup, and five servings of cold cereal for tomorrow morning. Sighing, I dig through the grey drawers to find a can opener.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn around to see Annie waving the opener under my nose. “Thanks,” I say as I spin to face the stove again.
She hums as she exits the kitchen. I add the correct amount of water to the condensed soup, and then I too walk into the small living room.
Old magazines litter the faded green couch, and I sweep them off to the side to clear a spot for me to sit. Picking up one of the yellow and black booklets, I realize how old they really are. The once shiny and sleek covers have resided to flimsy, rough sheets.
Glancing at the top of the page, I realize that this is one of the last issues that National Geographic ever printed. The date reads, November 2nd, 2021.
“You know,” Granny states as she sits down on the chair on the other side of the small coffee table. “That was the Magazine that made all the difference.” Her grey hair springs loose from her loose bun as she adjusts her button-up jacket.
I nod, having heard the story before. “Weren’t they shut down, because they were the only ones telling the truth?”
“Yes,” She sighs, “That just goes to show-” Vicious knocking at the door muffles the rest of her sentence. Annie comes rushing out of her room, with an ancient typewriter in her arms. Panic engulfs her as the door starts to open, and she flies back into her room, shutting the door behind her.
“Residence committee,” The man at the door calls. “We have received word that your property has not been in proper condition for…” He glances at his clipboard, “One and Twenty days. International regulation allows a forty day lapse in the perfection of property. This is a warning that you have Nineteen days left to meet standards. Any questions?” Granny stands, dumbfounded, and glares. The man raises his eyebrows, and exits the house.
