The Loudness Read online

  He starts up again and I linger, wanting to hear what exactly the “feder-rallys” are up to, but Mary and Alice tug me through the crowd. I try to pick up what people are saying, but it’s white noise, individual conversations indistinguishable from each other in the roiling chatter of the hall. Even so, bits and pieces surface, filtering their way through the tumult. It’s all shock and worry and indignation, a few rough curses and long sighs.

  Mary and Alice finally stop at the far corner of the hallway, leaning against the curved banister of the Library’s great spiral staircase. Behind us is an ancient corkboard that I’d never really looked at in any detail. Now, turning my back to the crush of humanity we just worked our way through, I take a look. Tacked to the board are disintegrating flyers from Before, advertisements for “Free First Yoga Lessons” and “Read the Classics! Book Club”—the kind of stuff people concerned themselves with twenty years ago.

  I stare at the board for a moment longer, letting the shouts of the room settle into a rumbling hum, a vibration I can feel resonating through my core. It won’t be long before I have another attack—I can feel that, too: a building thickness, like static gauze. I think back to the dragonfly, to Mouse. To my parents. To the cattle egrets guarding the dam. To Rachel and Tom and Food Eats. To old Mr. Moonie in his study, trying his very best to pretend that everything that’s happening is already all ancient history. I think back to all of them and try to modulate my breathing, to dissipate the gathering electrical haze through sheer force of will.

  Fully engrossed, I jump when someone squeezes my shoulder from behind, flailing spastically against Mary and Alice beside me. It’s the last straw for my aluminum wrap, which wafts anticlimactically to the floor. I bend down to pick it up, but the hand is back on my shoulder.

  “Henry?”

  It takes a moment to focus, and when I do it’s to a tear-streaked face set on top of the fluffiest dress I’ve ever seen, in the Zone or anywhere.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wallace,” I say, scrunching my nose as a nervous-looking couple, their arms comfortingly around each other’s waists, and an angry-looking man with a furrowed brow join her.

  “Henry, Henry, Henry,” Mrs. Wallace keens, cupping my face in her hands. “It’s so good to see you, honey.”

  “Okay,” I say, distracted by the anxiously staring couple and the angry man, who’s starting to pace behind them. Mrs. Wallace’s outfit isn’t helping either—the more I look at it, the more I’m sure it has to be a wedding dress. “It’s, um . . . it’s good to see you, too, Mrs. Wallace.”

  She turns her head, smiling wetly at her friends, who nod encouragingly—or, in the case of the angry man, exasperatedly. “The thing is, Henry,” she says, clasping my hands meaningfully. “We were wondering if you’d seen my Conor. Or Scott. The Staltons can’t find Julia, either.”

  She gestures back to the apprehensively quivering couple behind her.

  Mouse’s parents.

  They have to be. They even look like her; small and sharp. Rodential. I’m suddenly paralyzed with the impossibility of telling them about Mouse’s abduction: I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Stalton? They have her . . . Mrs. Wallace, seeing the dread in my eyes, gives my hands another squeeze and holds it reassuringly. “I hope you don’t mind that I told them . . .” I exhale with queasy relief and give Mrs. Wallace a grateful smile. She returns it, showing lipstick marks on her otherwise white teeth.

  “I know it’s a secret, but . . .” Mrs. Wallace trails off, her smile retreating into the worry lines creasing her otherwise very pretty face. And then, whispering: “I thought that since you’re her boyfriend, she’d be with you.”

  I grimace, shaking my head and silently cursing Conor. I can feel Mary and Alice arching their eyebrows on either side of me, and start going red right as Mr. and Mrs. Stalton break out into sobs. Mrs. Wallace turns to embrace them both.

  “We’ll find her, don’t worry,” she coos.

  “And what about Scott?” asks the angry man, seemingly unconcerned with the tearful scene taking place two feet from him.

  In all my years of being friends with Scott, I’d never met his family or slept over at his house. Scott was either with us, goofing off, or he wasn’t—I never thought to dig any deeper than that. And if I was Scott, I wouldn’t encourage any digging. His dad—Mr. Malgré—is a lumbering, red-faced man with breath like rotten spinach, and I feel my face collecting into a defensive sneer despite my best efforts.

  “He’s with my Gram,” I say in a small voice, wedging myself against the side of the staircase, between Mary and Alice, who’re also plastering themselves to the wall. “He and Conor and Freckles should be here any minute . . . when it gets dark.”

  Mr. Malgré takes a step forward and puts his face directly in front of mine, scrutinizing, while I try to disappear into the wall. “Conor and who?”

  “Conor and our friend Evelyn,” Mary answers forcefully, stepping forward to my rescue. “Mr. Malgré, we’ve all had a rough day. If you could just give us a little . . . space, Scott should be here shortly.”

  Mr. Malgré squints appraisingly at Mary for a long moment, and then at me and Alice. Finally, raising his bushy red brows, he turns around to the emotional puddle that is Mrs. Wallace and Mouse’s parents. “Conor’s gonna be here soon, with Scott and ’em,” he says, gruffly, and starts to make his way toward a group of construction workers at the far side of the hallway.

  Mrs. Wallace clasps her hands together and yelps, gathering Mr. Malgré into a weepy, thankful hug—which he tries unsuccessfully to shake—and then, almost as an afterthought, she looks around the room, searching.

  “And where are you parents, sweetheart? Everyone keeps asking where Mayor Long is!”

  I slump against the wall, suddenly sick to my stomach. Alice and Mary squeeze my hands almost simultaneously, and we all watch Mr. Malgré as he stalks over to his friends, shaking off Mrs. Wallace’s hug. No one here knows anything about the treason, about what’s really happening. Not Mr. Malgré, not anyone . . .

  Except for me.

  And Alice.

  It makes it seem almost unreal, like make-believe.

  Mrs. Wallace looks at me questioningly, then scans the room again, double-checking. By the time she looks back at me, I’m eclipsed by Mr. and Mrs. Stalton, who don’t seem to notice Alice and Mary at my side. A sideways glance at Alice and Mary confirms that they’re more than happy to be ignored.

  “It’s so good to meet you, Henry,” Mouse’s dad enthuses, gripping my hand in a frantic shake. I can feel myself shocking him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Mouse’s mom, a thin, furtive woman, like her daughter, embraces me. “What a kind boy,” she says, half-whispering. “What a kind boy.”

  And then it occurs to me that not only do they think I’m Mouse’s boyfriend, but stupid Mr. Malgré made it sound like Mouse was coming with Grammy, too. A soursplash works its way up the back of my throat and into my mouth, like I’m going to vomit. I swallow it with a cringe and take a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Stalton, but . . .” I say, the words coming out sounding strangled. I can’t bring myself to tell them that Mouse was taken, and I definitely can’t bring myself to tell them that I’m not Mouse’s boyfriend. I can’t even look at them—their earnest, thankful faces. “. . . but I have to go. Right now.”

  I guiltily break free of Mrs. Stalton’s hug, peeling her hand from my arm when she tries to hold me back, and leap blindly up the stairs, tugging Mary’s and Alice’s shirts as I go. Mrs. Wallace sees my exit from halfway across the room and calls out, jogging over to the Staltons to see what’s happened. I turn, surveying the hallway one last time—the entire Green in one room. A grim version of the entire Other Side packed, dancing, into The Corner.

  Out of the corner of my eyes, amid the tumult of the hallway, I catch the hope draining out of the Staltons’ faces, Mr. Stalton cradling his wife’s head in his arms, not looking worried or angry, just broken. He looks up at me blankly, making
eye contact, and I turn away, unable to bear his gaze.

  The second floor is crowded too, albeit a little less than the ground floor, but the third floor is empty, and I make a snap decision to slip out of my secret window, to hide in the attic one last time. It’s almost muscle memory, like I could do it with my eyes closed. It’s twilight now, out on the balcony, almost fully dark, and I spot at least ten jeeps driving slowly up and down the Avenue. Overhead, a helicopter cuts menacingly across the Green, chunky blades chopping purposefully toward—I imagine, darkly—the dam.

  I shuffle up the brackets as quickly as possible, not daring to check that Mary and Alice followed. I feel, them, though, shaking the drainpipe behind me, and in a few breathless seconds we’re on the roof, then back in the dark and dusty heart of the Library. I’ve never been here so late in the day, without the magic of the sun beating through stained glass windows, and it’s actually pretty creepy. Appropriately creepy. I pull one of the broken chairs away from a pile and collapse into it, resting my hot cheek against the cool, lacquered wood of its attached desk.

  “You’re really a mess,” says Mary, not unkindly. “You know that?”

  I do know that, I think, wishing I could be in bed listening to my parents goof off in the kitchen downstairs instead of flinching at the sound of approaching engines on the Avenue. There are no other possibilities in the attic, though, not anymore, and I wearily look into Mary’s expectant face; she’s staring through the shadows as if waiting for an explanation.

  “Well?” she says, hands on her hips.

  “I know,” I say with a grudging smile, trying to wipe the grime from my face with my grimy hands. “I know I’m a total mess.”

  “I didn’t know the woman in the wedding dress was Conor’s mom,” Alice says, wistfully, kicking her heels against the wall. “She’s so sad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard her telling Mrs. Stalton that she wore it because it’s the nicest thing she owns, and even if she loses everything again, she can’t bear to lose it.”

  I sit with that thought for a moment, trying to figure out whether or not I should feel sad for Mrs. Wallace. I don’t think I should, though, because Conor’s coming back, and Mrs. Wallace has everything. It’s the Staltons Alice should feel sad for, and for me. I look toward our muddy reflections in the stained glass windows, thinking about Mouse and hoping—for her parent’s sake—that she’s okay.

  Out of nowhere, a ridiculous coincidence occurs to me. “Isn’t Stalton a kind of cheese?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

  “Oh-my-God,” says Alice, sighing dramatically. “You are so obsessed.”

  “With your girlfriend,” laughs Mary, making sarcastic finger quotes. “Mouse.”

  As if on cue, rain starts pattering against the black windows and the roof above our heads. All three of us shiver instinctively, both because of and despite the looming threats outside.

  “And Evelyn?” I ask, cavalierly changing the topic. “Are her parents here, too?”

  Mary and Alice both laugh again, rubbing their hands over their skinny arms as if they were cold despite the heat of the attic. “She lives with her aunt,” Alice says teasingly. “And no one calls her that.”

  I could’ve sworn that Mary called Freckles that earlier, but now I’m second-guessing myself. I look down at my feet, avoiding the girls. “What do we call her then?” I ask, not looking up.

  “You tell me, loverboy!”

  Mary and Alice break out in a peal of good-natured laughter just as thunder strikes, a resonant boom that sustains for a few long seconds, rattling the windowpanes and stripping us of our feeling of temporary security. We stand quietly as the rain picks up, pounding against the attic with seeming purpose. A flash of lightning fills the room, throwing long, imposing shadows on the walls and ceilings, and is followed shortly by another rumbling clap of thunder. I wedge myself into a corner and clutch my chest apprehensively.

  Curiously, though, the attic air seems fresher, cleaner—and the asphyxiating thickness I’m expecting doesn’t come; just more rain. Alice walks over to the window overlooking the Avenue and traces angry rivulets with an idle finger, and Mary—still waiting for her parents to arrive—joins her. Even from the far corner of the room, I can tell it’s really coming down. The scratch of wind-slashed branches creaking against each other punctuates the rain, and beneath that, a car door slamming. I prick my ears and hold my breath, expecting more: a helicopter, military orders shouted over the weather.

  “I think,” says Mary, peering through colored glass. “I think I see Conor . . .”

  I exhale, relieved. “Anyone else?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and my heart catches, fearing the worst again. “But no people in black.”

  “It’s like a clown car,” Mary says, crowding Alice at the one clear triangle of stained glass. “They keep coming out.”

  Grammy is already holding court in the main hallway of the Library by the time we make it down from the attic, soaking wet from our slippery descent. It’s even more crowded than before, and oppressively musty, heavy with the agitated breathing of the crowd. I attempt, unsuccessfully, to rub my arms dry, noticing that a good third of the people assembled are similarly bedraggled—nervous latecomers who waited until nightfall to leave their houses. Grammy’s dripping, too, wet cardigan hanging limply on her frame as she calls everyone to attention.

  Standing soggily behind her are Conor and Scott. I search the crowd for Freckles, but she’s nowhere to be seen, so I try to make eye contact with one of the guys, standing on my toes, even coughing . . . but Conor’s staring reverently at his shoes, avoiding his mom—Mrs. Wallace—who’s also trying desperately to get his attention. Scott glances at Mrs. Wallace a few times, eyes widening at her wedding dress, and nudges Conor, but Conor’s steadfast in his inattention.

  I finally give up and scan the rest of the room, scrunching my nose and holding my breath to keep from gagging on the growing smell of mildew. It’s funny, and a little troubling, how many people I don’t recognize in the room. It’s almost easier to count the people I do know: There’s Guv, from the dam, holding his hardhat deferentially at his side, and with him a few others dressed just the same who must’ve come with him. One of them looks particularly shaky, and I figure he’s the one who almost drowned the other day.

  “Friends,” Grammy begins in a loud, clear voice, “We’re all here for news.” The hallway erupts in assent, and she waits until the hubbub dies down before continuing. “I’m here to tell you that there’s some good news . . . but there’s definitely some bad news.”

  “Where’s Mayor Long?” shouts Mr. Malgré, and a few of his new construction worker friends echo the sentiment, egging him on even though Mom’s not really the mayor. “Shouldn’t she be here telling us the news, not hiding behind her mama!”

  The hall erupts again, angry shouting exacerbating the smell and the uncomfortably wet heat. I try to make a mental note of who’s on Mr. Malgré’s side, but have trouble keeping track since most of the hall is only vaguely familiar; almost everyone’s a stranger, and, whether or not they agree with Mr. Malgré, everyone’s upset. Even Scott, who I can’t remember ever seeing without a smile. For a split second, I catch him glaring at his father, fists clenched at his sides. It even looks like he might shout something, until, out of nowhere, a splitting crack silences the hallway.

  And then another, and another.

  Heads turn toward Moonie’s oak-paneled study. In the doorway, Moonie stands, cane raised aloft . . . ready to crack against the wood-paneled walls a fourth time. After a few quietly apprehensive moments, Moonie gestures to Grammy as if to say, “Go on, then, honey.”

  “The bad news,” Grammy shouts, her voice raggedly accusatory, “Is that we’re all traitors.”

  Silence.

  In control of the room once more, Grammy lowers her voice. “The Government thinks we’re all traitors, anyway. They told Mayor Long they were going to approve the Char
ter; they dangled that in front of her nose and they lured her out of the Zone she helped rebuild. Three times. And then they arrested her for treason, and they’re holding her prisoner. They arrested Mayor Long, my daughter, and at least two other citizens under that charge.”

  I look at Mr. Malgré and his friends, whose chins are all jutted at the same defiant angle, then look away, scanning for more reactions. I wish I was back on the Other Side—I barely feel like I know these Green Zoners anymore. Grammy continues, “They’ve taken control of the dam, and you’ve all seen that they’re patrolling the Zone. I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, but you should all know that they’ll use force to get it.”

  She pauses, inhaling dramatically.

  “You should also know that they have the worst plans for us,” she says, an incongruous sparkle in her eyes letting me know that she has some plans of her own. “Guv?”

  Guv shuffles toward the circulation desk where Grammy is standing. “Hey,” he says in his soft, gruffly sweet voice. “I, uh . . .” Someone yells for him to speak up. “I’m an engineer at the dam,” Guv continues, too loudly. “Ms. Long showed me some pictures the Government tried to use to scare her, pictures of the Zone . . . permanently flooded.”

  The crowd in the Library gasps, Mr. Malgré and his friends included. Anticipating disorder, Grammy quickly cuts in. “We tried to do right by everyone with the Charter. But we’re doing too good apart from them, and they don’t like it. They don’t want the Charter. They’d rather the Zone be uninhabitable than for us to be free of them and their taxes. They want everyone to have to move north, or west, or anywhere else where we’ll know better than to try to get fool ideas like self-sustainability in our heads. They’d rather this be a swamp than for us to be able to stand on our own two feet.” She nods at Guv encouragingly.

  “But they can’t do that,” Guv says, and the Library erupts in cheers. One of Mr. Malgré’s friends yells, “Right on!” and I decide to go a little easier on them.