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Callie told me there was no point in pretending our families love each other, that he’d see right through that. But I have to hide the true depth of our hatred. It’s like walking a tightrope with no net, every step a huge risk. “At first, yes,” I say finally. “But that was only a temporary plan, a way to calm things down between the two sides. He never wanted it to continue for this long. ”
Every year my father approaches President Lattimer and suggests it’s time to end the arranged marriages and co-mingle the two sides of town. He keeps his ideas reasonable, doesn’t ask for a democratic government, which will never be granted. And every year President Lattimer smiles and nods and does exactly nothing.
“What’s the difference?” Bishop asks. “It’s all one town, it’s not like you were living in a prison. ”
Easy for him to say, this boy who’s grown up knowing the best of everything, who from birth has been the chosen one. Even this marriage is something he orchestrated, swapping my sister for me as easily as he changes clothes.
“It doesn’t always feel like one town,” I tell him, because that seems like the only safe thing I can say. He’s right in that there is nothing glaringly different between his side of town and the side I grew up in. The physical differences are subtle—a little more shade, the houses slightly bigger and set back a little farther from the sidewalks, the streets a few feet wider. They are the kind of differences that aren’t obvious enough to breed outright resentment, but the mere fact of their existence is a way to remind us of our rightful place.
Once on the sidewalk, we turn right, venturing farther into his side of town, illustrating my point, even if Bishop doesn’t get it. I’ve been past City Hall before, the informal line that separates Westside from Eastglen, but not often. And I’ve never been inside Bishop’s parents’ large home, but I know my father has.
Before the war, Westfall had another life as a small town in southern Missouri, the Ozarks, as this part of the state was called back then. This town was the county seat, and the town square still remains, anchored at the south end by City Hall and the courthouse to the north. That’s part of the reason my grandfather picked this place to settle. He lived in Chicago when the war started, survived the first wave of nuclear and EMP bombing, and headed inland. Along the way, he met fellow survivors, and three years after the war, in 2025, he founded Westfall with an initial population only slightly less than what it is now, around eight thousand people. This part of the country was hit hard by disease and famine, but only a few bombs fell here, leaving enough remaining infrastructure that they weren’t forced to start over from scratch.
The sun casts dappled shadows on our faces as we walk, sidestepping cracks in the sidewalk where the roots of giant oaks poke through the pavement. It would be nice to have some kind of transportation, especially today in high heels, but there are no cars anymore. The EMPs rendered them all useless, and we have no access to gasoline, anyway. And now, fifty years on, the streets are too cracked, weeds pushing their way through the uneven asphalt, for cars to be of any use to us regardless. Now, everyone walks or rides bikes or sometimes horses, although there aren’t enough of them to make it a practical mode of transportation.
The strap of my high heel is rubbing against my foot and I wince as I walk, trying to shift my weight off the sore spot. Bishop looks at me, switching the suitcase from his left hand to his right. “Why don’t you take those off?” he asks. “They look painful. ”
“They are. ” I take his advice and slip off my shoes, hanging them over my index finger. The sidewalk is rough and warm under my bare feet. I breathe out a tiny sigh of pleasure before I can stop myself.
“Better?” he asks, the edge of his mouth lifting.
“Much,” I say.
When we reach the corner of Main and Elm, I turn left. The president’s house looms in the distance, its brick facade partially obscured behind a black wrought-iron fence.
“Where are you going?” Bishop asks from behind me. I glance over my shoulder. He is halfway up the path to a tiny bungalow.
I stop, confused. “Your parents’ house. ”
He shakes his head. “We aren’t living with them. ” He hooks his thumb toward the bungalow. “This is ours. ”
“But I thought—” I cut myself off. Callie and my father told me we would be living in a wing of the president’s house. They never even considered another option. Last week a contact of Callie’s on this side of town told her they were moving in new furniture, changing curtains, and painting walls.
Panic floods through me, thick and vicious. If my father was wrong about this part of the plan, what else doesn’t he know? Where else will he lead me astray? I have the urge to flee, back to City Hall, back home, anywhere but here. I can only do this if I am not required to improvise. I am not Bishop. I am not Callie. I am not that skilled an actor.
Bishop’s eyebrows pull together as he stares at me where I am rooted in place. “Are you coming?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say, my voice too quiet. “Yes,” I repeat, louder this time.
He holds the front door open and follows me inside. The door closing is very loud in the empty silence of the house. He is standing right behind me, and I move forward so he can pass. The entryway opens up directly into a small living room, and he sets my suitcase down next to a beige sofa. Straight back is the kitchen, complete with a round table under a row of windows. To the right of the living room is another doorway, leading to the bedrooms, I assume. I cut my eyes away quickly.
I have no idea what to do with myself. In giving me guidance, Callie concentrated mainly on the big moments, not the day-to-day interactions I will be forced to have with this boy. I drop my high heels to the floor, where they land with a clatter. “So,” I say, crossing my arms. “What now?” My voice comes out louder than I intended, and I can picture Callie wincing at my words.
Bishop raises his eyebrows at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “You didn’t eat any cake. ” He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and rolls the sleeve up, exposing a tan forearm. He has the kind of muscles you only get by using them, lean and strong. He goes to work on his other sleeve, waiting for me to answer.
I can’t imagine eating. Chewing and swallowing are beyond me. But fixing something to eat means a reprieve, at least, a few minutes where I don’t have to worry about what’s coming next.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “What is there?”
Bishop shrugs. “I have no idea. But I’m sure my mother had them stock the icebox. ” I trail behind him into the kitchen. It’s warmer and brighter in here, and he crosses to the windows, pushing one up so that a breeze ruffles the lace curtains. The icebox is fancier than the basic wooden box we had at home. This one looks like a piece of furniture, scrollwork carved into the wood. Refrigerators are just one more thing that didn’t survive the war. Even if we had enough electricity to power them continually, we ran out of Freon long ago. So we use handmade wooden iceboxes and ice blocks are delivered every few days, harvested in winter and kept in an ice house year round.
I pull open the icebox, just to have something to do with my hands. There is a block of cheese, meat of some kind wrapped in paper, a glass jug of milk and one of water on the top shelf. Below that are a dozen eggs, lettuce, and carrots in a bin at the bottom. A bowl of fresh berries. We never went hungry in my house, but there was never this much food, either. Always just enough and no more.