THE COLD AIR IN THE LOADING BAY where we entered the Nassau dizzies me. I breathe in deeply, as if that'll help my throat and lungs adjust. All it does is hurt.
The loading bay was empty when we arrived yesterday. Now, people in slick overalls mill about; some ride carts with unrecognizable equipment in the back. Two women push a floating transport down the ramp. Cold wind blows in, making the hair on my arms stand on end. I should've brought my coat.
Mom's car stands at the side of the bay. Head down, arms tight by my side, I avoid looking at the massive nothing of outside. My hand beats a tattoo against my thigh, the keys I hold supplying a pleasantly delayed beat. Hand—keys. Hand—keys. I slip through the crowd, hoping people either don't notice me or don't care, right up until I sidestep around a cart and Max comes up from behind it. He lights up. "Heyyy, Denise. What're you up to?"
I hide the keys and keep walking. This is a bad time to run into a new friend—if that's what he is. "Nothing."
"Cold place to be up to nothing." Max cocks his head. "Did Mirjam ever find you? She's supposed to be joining us soon. Oh—oh! You should come with us, too!"
Behind Max stand two girls and another boy, all dressed warmly. The boy holds a hammer and a pick in mittened hands, while one of the girls grips a crowbar like she's threatening to smash someone's face in. "We're raiding Schiphol," she says.
The bizarreness of those words makes me stop walking. Max seizes on to my hesitation. "Grab a coat," he says, gesturing at a pile draped over a nearby crate. Then he indicates something on his face. "You'll need a filter and eye drops against the dust." He has a mouth cap on, a half-bubble going from midway up his nose to midway down his chin, so transparent I hadn't even noticed it. Each of the others has one, too.
"Raiding the airport? Is that even allowed?"
"Have you seen the state it's in? No one cares." Crowbar Girl is white, with dark tousled hair that barely reaches her chin. She's short and young—fourteen, maybe?—but the way she wields that crowbar makes me think twice about arguing with her.
"We've been cooped up for too long." Max hops from foot to foot to illustrate. It's more physical activity than everything I've seen him do put together. "And the airport is too big to have been emptied out completely."
"People seem careful about keeping the ship secret. They just … let you leave?" I say.
"As long as we don't draw attention. Besides, we'd only be sabotaging ourselves if other survivors found out."
"Can we go?" Crowbar Girl says.
"You wanted to help, right?" Max steps toward the coat pile, looking hopeful.
I'm playing catch-up with everything he said. After today—after what just happened with Mom—my head feels crowded. "I can't. Now. I mean, not now. Thank you."
I walk on. Their voices grow fainter. I don't turn to look. Instead, I go straight for Mom's car, pressing a hand against the cool glass of the passenger door. With my other hand, I squeeze the keychain. Lights inside the car flicker on. The locks pop open. I slip inside, yank the door shut.
Immediately, the noise of the loading bay is muted. I sigh in relief and let my head rest back, not caring it'll smush my hair flat.
Two minutes I sit in the passenger seat. Just breathing.
When my heart finally calms, I turn the keys over in my hand. At sixteen, I'm old enough to take driving classes. Dad even offered to pay for lessons. There was just no need. I can—could—get everywhere I needed to using my bike and public transport. And after the announcement, we had other priorities.
The roads are empty now, though. From here to the shelter would practically be a straight line. No traffic rules to take into account, no enraged drivers, no sloppy cyclists.
Maybe no road, either, I tell myself, but I still climb into the driver's seat. The keys lie in my palm. I go over the steps in my head. The autodrive isn't an option; I'm lucky there's enough power left to even react to the unlock signal. I'll need to start the engine manually. Enter the key, and … and what? I squish back to study the pedals. They're not marked. The buttons on the steering wheel and handles are, but I only recognize half the symbols.
I drop the keys in my lap and grip the wheel with clammy hands. I stare out the windshield. I imagine dark, open skies, the car spinning out of control on a broken road.
I'm pretty sure I've had nightmares about this.
End of the world, I remind myself. Do what's necessary. Don't back out now.
A shape on my left taps the glass. Mom. She leans in. "You're in my seat."
Her eyes look the same as before.
Still, I scoot back into the passenger seat. I reach for the keys—they slipped onto the driver's seat as I maneuvered away—but Mom's already opened the door and snatched them up.
She settles in and looks at the steering wheel for a moment. "So …" She trails off, then brightens. "The lockdown is over! Honey, if you want to look for Iris, we can."
"We should wait," I mumble. I'm rocking back and forth, I realize suddenly. I try not to do that in front of others. The handful of times I've done it at school, people side-eyed me and laughed, and whenever I've done it at home, Mom looked at me the way visitors look at clumsy newborn kittens in the shelter, all mollified and pitying.
"But we have to look for Iris." She touches my leg. "Honey? Something wrong?"
I don't know why she followed me. Normally, when it's just her and Iris and me at home—meaning just Mom and me, since Iris spent most of her time out the door—Mom will simply take ketamine and spend an hour or two staring ahead with glassy eyes, mumbling things I don't understand and don't want to.
She may have taken ketamine now, just a bit, but usually when she's like this it's because of Ecstasy or alcohol or both. She only does that when she's partying—which means there are other people around, which means she has better things to do than come after me when I flee into my room. The most she'll do is knock and tell me to let her know if I want something, and probably feel proud of what a thoughtful mother she is.
I don't like seeing her in either state, but at least there's always been a rhyme, a rhythm. Now even that is gone.
"We'll go tomorrow," I say.
"Honey, you're all wound up. Talk to me. Honey. Do you want to look for Iris?"
"Stop using that word."
"What?" Her jaw hangs open.
"Honey. You use the word too often."
"Are you angry? Look at me."
I snort and don't respond. I should leave the car.
"Why won't you tell me what's going on, honey?"
I want to scream at her. Is she that dumb? Is she pretending? Why won't she stop touching me? "I don't—I don't like when you're like this." The words come out like a squirm.
Mom smiles a broad, vague smile. "I'm fine."
I fumble for the car handle.
"Denise. Are you leaving? Why? We were going to look for Iris. You said you wanted to." The hand on my thigh grips tighter.
"Later," I plead. "Not when you're like this. It's not safe."
"I'm just … being social, honey." She smiles again. "I had such a great time at that table. These people are so smart. We were talking about—"
"This ship is like its own life?" I snap. "That doesn't even make sense. It's dumb and you're embarrassing yourself." That's not the issue, or close to it, but I keep going because it's something to say. "Everyone thought you were pathetic. Don't you see that?"
Mom gapes. I want to claw that look off her face.
"They didn't!" she says. "We were talking. Honey, people are … I know this is complicated for you … The way they were laughing, that wasn't bad laughing. It was good laughing."
"I wasn't even talking about laughing." I wipe my eyes to catch any tears. I won't cry in front of her. I need to be strong, and angry, and fierce. "You're high. People notice that. I notice that."
"Nobody … maybe Matthijs, but nobody notices. You're making a big deal out of nothing. Sometimes adults just want to relax. And I thought, you see, I thought that maybe if I talked to people, if they liked me, they'd let us stay. Don't you love being here? I love being here. Everyone is so smart. This ship is like … it's like its own life. Do you understand what I mean? Its own life."
She stares at me with glassy eyes.
I've run out of things to say.
"There." She pets my leg. "Everything's OK. We're going to find your brother."
"Sister," I say.
"Sister. Yeah. Sis-ter." Mom picks up the keys. I sit there, motionless, watching her mash the wrong key into the ignition.
The keys slip from her hand. She doesn't reach for them. Instead, her eyes are fixated on the windshield. A familiar face is headed toward us—Anke. She's staring right back at Mom.
I realize what she's looking at. What I should've noticed sooner.
Mom's hair is wet. It clings to her skull and gleams in the tinny car light. Like she got out of a shower, gave her hair a cursory rub, then left it to dry.
She showered.
I know what Anke's here to do.
