Stupid Perfect World

Six

AFTER HE FELL ASLEEP, I listened to him breathe for a long time.

My own skin felt wrong, hypersensitive to my clinging clothes, to every shift of air. While we’d been talking, I’d dimmed the lights to match my mental image of Kieran’s room, and now the darkness seemed tangible around me, a physical thing, pressing against my hungry skin.

The white pages of my notebook glowed in my hands, still demanding attention. It was as if the paper had grown thirstier for words as I read from it.

Especially when I read aloud to a naked, almost sleeping boy.

I could picture him there in his pile of puffy coats, vulnerable and perfectly still. It maddened me that he was so far away, out of reach of my aching skin. But there was also something intense in disembodiment, as if distance amplified our connection.

My hormones were definitely roiling now, flexing their muscles. But being out of balance wasn’t what I’d expected; there were no sudden fits of madness, no breathtaking epiphanies. It was almost subtle—like the flickers of desire that rose and fell with the sound of Kieran’s breathing.

I started scribbling again, trying to spill the slow pressure inside me on to paper. As words poured out, a rumble gradually built up around me. It took ages to realize that the sound wasn’t in my head—it was coming from the window. Rain drummed against it, blurring the lights of the other high-rises.

I jumped up and put my hand against the glass, felt the cold and condensation, and suddenly I wanted to be outside—in the rain. That was what lovelorn heroines always did in the old stories: they ran outside and screamed their frustrations away! (And then they got sick and almost died, but I could skip that part.)

I stared out at the downpour, letting out a groan…

Mom’s apartment wasn’t like the old-fashioned house we’d lived in when Dad was alive. The high-rises didn’t have doors to the outside; you came and went through the teleporter. The gardens and lawns around us were just for looking at, the mountains in the distance all national parkland, forbidden and protected.

Stupid perfect world.

My fingernails skated the edges of the window, but there were no buttons to press, no latch or lock. All I wanted was to feel the rain on my hands! But windows that opened were too dangerous.

The boiling under my skin was much worse now; my hormones had sniffed freedom. My blood felt trapped inside me. And on top of it all, I heard Kieran Black breathing again—the voice call still connected.

It was like he was inside me, his slow rhythm stuck in my head, something invisible and ancient connecting us.

I sat down on the floor with my notebook, grabbed for the pen, and cut into the paper with quick strokes.

“Oh, crap,” I cried, staring at the staggered lines of handwriting. I hadn’t been keeping a journal…I’d been writing poetry.

I had to get out of here, out into the rain and oxygen. I grabbed my jacket again and ran toward the teleporter, checking in headspace for somewhere—anywhere—that it was raining. Climate Watch informed me that it was pouring in Paris, drizzling in Delhi, and that a monsoon was skirting Madras—all five seconds away.

But I hesitated inside the teleporter; it seemed wrong to go ten thousand kilometers. I wanted that rain right there, on the other side of my window.

Then I saw the fire evacuation stickers on the wall—maps and procedures for when teleportation failed—and smiled.

“Sky deck,” I told the teleporter, not wanting to climb thirty flights of emergency stairs.

The huge room twinkled into view. It was empty, of course. Nothing to see tonight through the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaks of rain concealing the dark mountains in the distance. The stars in the sky were washed away, even the moon a blur…

The moon a blur? Argh. I was thinking in poetry now!

I looked around for the soft red pulse of the fire exit, pulling the jacket across my shoulders as I ran. The storm was deafening up here, the rain driven by high-altitude winds.

EVACUATION ONLY, the door warned, less than poetic.

I placed my palm flat against its cold metal surface, bit my bottom lip, having a last moment of hesitation—afraid to break the rules.

“Meeker,” I hissed at myself. That’s what Kieran Black thought of me, with my Scarcity-era notebook and pen, scribbling to impress Mr. Solomon.

Well, this was the door out of my stupid perfect world, a door for calamities and conflagrations, and for when things were on fire…

I shoved it hard, and a shrieking filled my ears. A dingy flight of stairs led upward, harsh lights flickering to life overhead. A canned voice broke into the alarm, asking the nature of the emergency, but I ignored it and dashed toward the roof. Two flights up was another door, plastered with stickers warning of high winds and low temperatures, of edges without safety rails, of unfiltered, cancer-causing sunlight—all the uncontrollable dangers of outside.

I pushed the door cautiously, but the wind reached in and yanked it open with the crash of metal. The rain tore inside, streaming across me. I was frozen for a terrified moment; the rushing blackness seemed too vast and powerful. But that calm, infuriating voice kept asking where the fire was, driving me outside.

The wind grew stronger with every step I took. A few meters from the door, my jacket was stripped from my shoulders, disappearing into the darkness. Half-frozen drops streaked out of the dark sky, battering my face and bare arms, feeding my hungry skin.

I opened up my hands to feel the rain drum against my palms, and opened my mouth to drink the cold water, laughing and wishing that Kieran Black was there beside me.

Two minutes later, security arrived and took me home.