The Revealed Page 2

  During the war, no place was safe. My parents had considered sending me to Barcelona or Stockholm, since they had trusted friends in both places. Good thing they didn’t. There wasn’t a country on this planet that was left unscathed. The District of Columbia was considered a prime target for violence, but my father refused to leave. He said he had a duty to protect his country. He wouldn’t abandon it in its time of need. And he didn’t. Put that on the posters.

  When the war ended, Americans were scattered. People became nomads. There were always hopeful rumors that certain areas were free from the bombings. People would evacuate on foot with dreams of finding a safe paradise. That wandering existence went on for years. But slowly, as it became clear the destruction was over, people began to set down roots again. Cities attracted people, and DC is now the most-populated of them all. So much so that the previous infrastructure couldn’t support the masses. Apartments were raised, stacked like LEGOs on top of one another until they towered in the sky. At least most everyone has a bed.

  No one—least of all my father—knows what to expect with this election. All he has is hope and a handful of dreams on his side. His opponent, a man named Roderick Westerfield, has radical beliefs—he’s an isolationist and pro-military, spouting radical ideals about the importance of protecting our state at any cost via law and order. Only votes will tell which one the public prefers.

  I walk onto the veranda and breathe fresh air, ignoring the men draped across the overhang installing chandelier lights. Immediately two security guards close in, their eyes trained on every move I make.

  “Don’t worry guys,” I say, “I’m not going to leave the house. I just need some air.”

  I’m under house arrest until my birthday next year, unless The Revealed take me first. I’m betting on The Revealed. With all the inky black notes I’ve been receiving, my odds of making it to nineteen don’t look good. But I’ve accepted it—come to terms with the prospect, unlike most of my peers. It isn’t like I’m really doing much living here anyway.

  I lean over the railing and take a deep breath.

  “Lilith?” my mother calls.

  I hate when anyone calls me that, but especially my mother. It’s Lily to everyone else. Always Lily. I clench my teeth, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Shieh is here for your history lesson,” she says, her voice rising to my room from downstairs.

  By history, she means politics. By lesson, she means brainwashing session. Mr. Shieh doubles as an advisor to my father’s campaign. His instruction leans heavily to one side. It’s the side my parents want me to adhere to. Little gems of information like states should make their own decisions. Our Founding Fathers wanted the central government to have less control, and the people to have more say. The government should provide healthcare and education to all and use taxes to further these causes.

  The lesson today is lost on me, though. It isn’t exactly a typical day, not that I usually have trouble drowning out Mr. Shieh’s declarations of democracy. But the house is buzzing with life. There are people everywhere. It’s why I chose today to try and leave. I thought maybe the cameras would miss me slipping out in the midst of the commotion.

  Only two days from now, my family is hosting a celebration at our estate to honor the anniversary of the war’s end and recognize and appreciate our progress as a nation since that moment. At least, that’s how the invitation reads. While August 6 is the sixth anniversary of the war’s ending, it also means there are only about three months before the election. It’s a win-win situation. My father hosts the party, and gains support and positive press all in one night.

  Electrical crews hustle in and out, hanging lights. Delivery personnel bring in flower arrangements. Chairs and tables are ushered in.

  My father is out of the city on the campaign trail until the night of the celebration. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. The election keeps him busy, and the only reason to be excited for this event is because it means he’s coming home. This house always feels better when my dad’s here. He asks my opinion about his campaign. He wants me to edit his speeches. He cares about what I think. He’s the only one who seems to care about my opinions. My mother just wants me to keep my mouth shut and look like a lady. She’s always worried I’ll embarrass her.

  After my lessons, I glance down over the railing to see my mother marshaling the press around her, arms gesturing in graceful, fluid motions, like a conductor. She’s allowing them to cover all the setup activity to give audiences just a taste of what attendees at this spectacular event can expect.

  “Press will be stationed here in the foyer, so you can get interviews with the guests as they arrive.”

  She leads them into the ballroom, which is on the west side of the house. It’s a breathtaking room with gold fixtures and rustic Italian tiles. It’s two stories tall. The second floor is open so guests can look down on the dance floor and orchestra. Large Grecian-style pillars support the second-floor balcony and decorate the room, providing a gazebo-like setting indoors.

  “And over here is where the orchestra will play.” She sweeps a hand toward the corner. “It’s the local symphony and they are absolutely marvelous. An open bar will be located near the kitchen, over here. We all know how politicians get when champagne is offered,” my mother says, laughing lightly and bringing her hand daintily to her chest. “I’m kidding of course.”

  The reporters chuckle along with her, passing each other looks like, Isn’t she just the greatest?

  One reporter extends her phone, which she’s using as a recorder. “Can you tell us what the campaign’s been like for your family? Has it been trying?”

  My mother’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s annoyed at the reporter’s too-eager stance. Must be someone new.

  “Of course it has its moments,” she says and smiles, “but what job doesn’t? My husband and I have devoted our lives to serving our country. It’s all we know how to do, and we wouldn’t want anything else.” She goes in for the kill. “We know the nation feels the same.”

  The journalists all nod in agreement. They are an elite group of nationally syndicated reporters chosen for this tour. They’ll all repay the favor by talking graciously about my family. Not that they don’t normally anyway. My father led the efforts to make television media possible again. These reporters all owe him their jobs. Jobs like theirs are considered rare—a real luxury in our current world. They won’t soon forget his work on their behalf.

  My mother takes them outside and even leads them around the gardens. She shows them the rows of plush chairs being stationed where the fireworks show will close out the evening. She then shepherds them to the parking lot—that’s right, my house has a parking lot, and says goodbye.

  She walks back into the house and her mousy event planner, Charlotte, flits around her, checking the RSVP list. My mother holds out a hand. Charlotte purses her lips and scrambles, handing my mother a stack of formal, sealed envelopes. They look like fancy wedding invitations. My mother sighs and paces across the floor. Charlotte follows closely behind holding the invite list. The soft click of my mother’s heels echo through the foyer.

  “Rogers?”

  Charlotte scans the list. “He has confirmed.”

  “Hayes?”

  “She is also confirmed.”

  “Jacobson?”

  Pause.

  “He’s not on the list.” Charlotte waits behind my mother.

  My mother’s eyes narrow in thought for a moment before she concludes, “Don’t follow up.” She shrugs. “If he doesn’t attend, it won’t hurt the campaign. No one will miss him. But make sure Marg Lancing is on that list. She will bring a lot of support if she backs Mark. I want to ensure her endorsement.” The hint of a confident smile lifts the corners of my mother’s mouth.

  “Yes ma’am.” Charlotte makes a note on her list and then scurries from the room with her task at hand.

  My mother is still perturbed about the incident this morning, I can hear
it in her voice as she calls upstairs to me in a strained but ladylike whisper, “Lily, would you mind going to the kitchen to see if they are on track with the menu?”

  “Sure.” I don’t even try to hide the excitement in my voice at the assignment. I move down the stairs, walk through the foyer and down the hall, and turn left.

  The main kitchen isn’t your average kitchen. It’s restaurant-style, bigger than most people’s houses. It’s complete with a walk-in freezer, a cooking line, a head chef, and full staff on duty seven days a week. There’s not just one refrigerator, but a wall of them. Stoves, large enough to cook for thousands, and every other appliance known to man fill the cavernous room. It sits adjacent to the ballroom, with the backup facilities on the other side of the house in a smaller kitchen setup, typically used for staff meals or for big events.

  I spend a lot of time in the kitchens. It’s a good way to stay busy—learning professional cooking techniques while I’m forced to stay inside. The head chef’s name is Ilan Levy. He studied with the best in France for years before coming back to the states. Chefs of his caliber are hard to find after the war, and my mother quickly hired him to take advantage of his talent.

  I walk through the kitchen doors and almost collide with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Lily!” Rory’s face lights up. She’s an intern in the kitchen. She swings the tray down and turns to me. “Here to get your hands dirty?” She always keeps her long blonde hair fastened back in a ponytail. The lush curls fall across her shoulder. Rory is a tomboy to the core, so I’ve always found her perfect curls to be deceiving. Her sharp brown eyes confirm the fire she holds just under the surface.

  “My mother sent me to check on the status of the preparations for the party.”

  “Well, wash your hands. We have some plates you can help me decorate.”

  “Really? Okay.” I smile, moving to the sink.

  “Please,” Rory says, moving plates off the tray, “you’re a better decorator than I am, babe. Well, almost,” she smirks.

  Rory is my age. She turned eighteen about six months before I did, but she has to work and doesn’t have the means to even try to protect herself against The Revealed. She lost both her parents in the war. She’s one of the lucky ones, though. She found a way to pursue her cooking passion, avoiding factory work. It isn’t easy living, but my father is planning on making a lot of changes during his term. He wants to return the nation to what it once was—a land of promise.

  Rory and I have grown close in the few months she’s worked here. I count her as one of my best friends—actually, she’s one of my only friends. When you aren’t allowed out of your house, it’s hard to maintain friendships with others. My classmates have moved on. The rich ones are planning for college while stuck in their own homes during their eighteenth year, like me. The others are hunting for jobs. I’m the only one waiting to become a Taken Eighteen. No one else I know has received black letters.

  My parents made sure I kept up with my schooling even during the war. They said it was vital I get an education. In fact, rebuilding the nation’s educational system is one of my father’s key campaign messages. After the war, when schools started forming again, I was sent to an elite preparatory school with rich kids and other politicians’ children.

  I miss school. My parents let me finish out my semester in December with the rest of my classmates. But because my birthday was that April, they began homeschooling me in January. I’ve been at home ever since.

  Rory hands me a decorating bag filled with a lemon-pepper mousse, which I begin swirling over the salmon and dill bruschetta. Rory has a bag of her own and works on the other side of the table on a duck rillettet.

  “So anything exciting happen lately?” she asks.

  “Well, I stole my father’s car this morning and tried to make it to the highway.”

  “What?” Rory’s hand tightens, and the cherry-port compote she is plating smooshes across the plate, ruining the dish. She sets down the bag, “Lily, you did not.” She bites her bottom lip and squeals. “Why didn’t you tell me? You’ve failed so many times, you at least have to let me try to help you next time.”

  “Not with your job on the line,” I shake my head.

  “I could meet you somewhere. We can do all those things you want to do—go out to a club, go shopping at a real mall.” She pauses. “Well, I mean, you can shop, I’ll just tag along and pretend I have money to burn.”

  “Yeah right, like my parents give me money,” I say.

  “But you know where they hide it,” she replies, swirling a spoon in the compote, tasting it.

  That’s true. But I don’t know if I’d ever have the guts to take it. My parents gave me the safe code for emergencies only. Still, the idea is tempting.

  “Ooh,” Rory says suddenly, an idea lighting across her chestnut eyes, “We could go to the college. You would love it. So many boys, and all of them are rich and sexy.”

  “You wouldn’t go after a guy just because he’s rich,” I frown at her.

  Actually, I long for the colleges like in the movies, where campuses were filled with diversity and self-exploration. If my father could recreate the system like that, he’d get my vote. As it stands, I’m not sure I want to place a ballot at all.

  She shrugs. “Not all of us can have the future president for a father. We have to hope we marry the future president.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  “So where were you planning on running without me?” she asks, pouting.

  I shrug. “Maybe the fields? I’m just tired of it all,” I sigh. “I got another note. It was taped to my bedroom window. I saw it and just lost it. Staying inside isn’t keeping me safe. If anything, it’s like a red flag letting The Revealed know exactly where I am. It’s not like I wouldn’t have come back,” I shrug. “I just wanted to get out for a little bit. I think I at least deserve to see some of the world before The Revealed take me.”

  “Stop it,” she says, and reaches across the table to lightly smack my shoulder, “don’t say that.”

  But it’s true.

  I’m ready to change topics. “So how about you?” I ask. “How’s it going with Coltan?”

  “Ugh,” she scrunches her face. “Over it. We started talking about the election. He’s voting for Westerfield!” she says aghast. “Anyone who isn’t voting for your dad is crazy.”

  I laugh to lighten the fact that her statement is spoken like someone who believes all the propaganda. Sure, my father means well and really wants all the things he talks about for the country, it’s just not going to be that easy. Not by a long shot.

  “Anyway, I met this new guy last week at this restaurant I went to,” she says, “and he asked for my number, so maybe that’ll turn into something. He was cute. But there was also this other guy on Friday. I went to that new club Frost, which is great for meeting guys, I discovered.” She considers that for a moment. “Eh,” she continues, shrugging, “I’ve got options.”

  “I’m jealous,” I admit. A boy named Tristan Olivier once kissed me on a dare when I was thirteen. That’s the extent of my love life. Having a father running for president is deterrent enough. Being locked in my own home seals the deal.

  “You’ve only got eight more months of this staying-inside crap and then I’ll take you out!” Rory promises, a wild child at heart. “The second you turn nineteen!”

  “Done.” I say, though it feels like a lie when my mind floats back to the note on my window.

  “What are you two doing?” Ilan says, balancing a large tray on his belly and shuffling around to the refrigerator. “Rory, are you getting Lily into trouble again?”

  “Always!” she sings, adding another dollop of cherry compote to the top of the rillettetes.

  Ilan drops the tray and comes to inspect our work. He rolls up his sleeves, displaying arms covered in tattoos. He places his hands on his hips, red face peering at our plates. “Lily, I should hire you on as part of the s
taff.” Ilan admires my appetizer through keen brown eyes. The bright-yellow lemon-pepper sauce dots the tray in an intricate pattern. “At least while you’re stuck in here.”

  “Why, so my parents can pay me, chef?”

  “Well, someone should.” He grabs one of the metal pans off the rack. “Although with you two talking so much in here, your speed is lacking. We only have today to prep the amuse bouche. I’ve barely started on the entrées. Rory, as soon as you’re done with those rillettetes, make sure they’re back in the cooler.”

  “Of course, chef,” she says and nods.

  My mother walks through the door. “Lilith.” She looks at me expectantly and adds, “What’s going on? I thought you were going to come back and tell me how things were going.”

  “They’re great!” I hold up the decorating bag.

  “Yes, well, come on,” she says, motioning for me. “We don’t have time for that. You have your final dress fitting.”

  My lips curl into a frown.

  Rory laughs. “I’ll go if you want.”

  “Wish I could trade you,” I say, but follow my mother.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To me, being targeted by The Revealed seems like having terminal cancer. At first, you’re devastated. You want to fight, claw at every possible escape. There’s anger and frustration at not having any control. You try anything to get out. But at the end of the day, the cancer keeps growing. Just as the black notes keep coming. Eventually, you realize it’s a losing battle. You want to fight, but it isn’t a war you can win. Whether it’s terminal cancer or The Revealed, they’ve already won. There’s nothing left to do but enjoy the time you have. I’ve accepted it. My parents have not. They’re clinging to every scrap of hope they’ve got. Even though the outcome is so obvious.