The Final Six (The Final Six #1) - Alexandra Monir Page 0,11
say: no problem has ever been solved by panicking.”
I smile in spite of myself. My brother has once again read my thoughts.
“You’re going to have enough to think about in the coming days,” he continues. “You can’t be worrying about me, too.”
“I can’t help it. It’s what I do when it comes to you.” My smile fades as I look at Sam, his sweatshirt practically hanging off of him. Even though I’ve been forcing him to take my extra meal portions, he still looks somehow thinner than yesterday. “There is just no way I can go—”
Sam stops me from finishing my sentence, elbowing me in the ribs and nodding at the guard. Thompson is to our right, his head cocked in our direction even as he answers a question of Dad’s.
I know why my brother is being so careful. We’ve all been warned that resisting the draft is the surest way to land in prison. I can’t afford to let anyone involved with NASA think of me as anything other than obedient—even when it’s the last thing I feel.
The train comes rumbling across the tracks toward us, looking eerily empty without the after-school hordes. Sam and I climb in first, heading for our usual spot in the third car, but Thompson insists on us cramming into the front with the conductor, for “security purposes.” It’s a silent and stiff ride home, none of us able to say anything real with a guard listening in. I turn my face to the window, feeling a flash of longing for the days when we had the privacy of our own car. Most countries outlawed all motor vehicles after climate change was declared an international emergency, but by then it was too late. The gas emissions had already played their role, to devastating effect.
As the train rattles forward, I watch the sights go by, drinking in every dreary image—just in case today is the last chance I’ll get to see my city. Then again, it’s not really my city, not anymore. This place is just a sad imposter, only pretending to be Los Angeles.
From Burbank to Los Feliz, the number of families on the streets seems to swell. They huddle together on unpaved roads slick with mud, they cower under downed power lines, as they beg the passersby for something, anything. I want to close my eyes—but every day I force myself to look, to see them.
The train curves around a bend, and now we’re traveling over the Hollywood Hills, where there’s no longer any flashy Hollywood sign to serve as a beacon. Instead, there are houses and buildings covered with thick layers of ash, and deep crevices in the streets marking where the earthquakes hit.
“You’re lucky to be leaving.”
I turn sharply at the sound of Sam’s voice. He is staring out the window alongside me, his expression unreadable. He forces a smile when our eyes meet, and I shake my head, wishing I could reassure him that I don’t see it that way, that I’ll find a way back home. How could I ever abandon him, especially now? But Thompson is listening. Instead, I loop my arm through my brother’s and lean my head on his shoulder. We don’t speak, but we stay close as the train hurtles toward home.
That night, while Thompson holds back the growing crowd of spectators outside our duplex, the four of us pile onto the couch in our combined living room/kitchen, planning to drown out the noise with TV. Dad flicks on the remote, and my stomach lurches at the face filling the screen. It’s me.
“Ho-ly crap!” Sam exclaims.
“Our little girl,” Mom murmurs to Dad, her voice quivering.
It’s the footage from today’s press conference. My skin turns hot as I watch myself onstage beside Dr. Anderson, looking woefully unprepared for my primetime debut in a worn pair of jeans and turquoise hoodie, my dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. A close-up reveals the beads of perspiration on my forehead, the panicky expression in my eyes. I have the urge to crawl under the couch cushions and hide, but thankfully, the image on the screen quickly shifts from me to the Newsline desk as anchor Robin Richmond faces the camera.
“There she is, folks: one of our American finalists and a two-time World Science Fair champion, Naomi Ardalan.” Robin’s melodic voice dances across the syllables of my last name, and I shake my head in disbelief. “While she’ll be representing the US, Naomi is actually a second-generation American.