Whenever these dark thoughts came into her mind, Frida went back to the brochure August had given her. It made her feel better, boasting photographs of beautiful yet modest homes in a number of styles: California bungalow, Spanish Mediterranean, French countryside. They were so new, they seemed to glow off the page. Thanks to our cutting-edge workout facilities and well-maintained bike paths, our valued citizens live active and healthy lifestyles. Just wait until you try our Good for You! Diet Plans?, offered in each of our six shopping districts. The brochure said the population at Pines was capped at 10,500 for another five years or until the Community could build more neighborhoods and plazas to expand. We want to maintain a small-town feel. Come home to us!
Curled into the back of the school bus, her legs smashed into the green vinyl seat in front of her, Frida had laughed at that. But she had to admit, other things excited her: Enjoy a different cultural event every night of the week, from classical-music concerts to lectures on obscure typefaces.
Cal would like that.
Take advantage of our speedy, hand-delivered correspondence system, and our Quality Interaction Centers?, where friends can meet face-to-face for stimulating conversation and a variety of antioxidant teas. At Pines, there is no time but quality time!
Pines residents hadn’t eliminated technology from their Community; they just didn’t celebrate it. Once you’re done with work, why spend time in front of a screen? Maybe they lacked the resources, the satellites, the cell towers, but it didn’t matter: they had transformed a flaw into an asset. Pines was supposed to remind you of a bygone world that no one living had seen firsthand: cookouts and block parties, paperboys and school recitals. Daddies who took the trolley home, mommies who put up their own wallpaper.
August had started the bus as soon as he’d eaten a little and filled the tank. As he turned on the engine, he’d said, “To everyone in Pines, Micah is dead. You must proceed from that notion.”
Cal had looked at Frida then, as if she might not want to cooperate, and she’d nodded. Giving up her brother once more was a relief, actually.
They had seen no one else on the way. “God willing,” August said, “it’ll be just us until we reach the first checkpoint.”
As they approached Pines, August admitted to getting permits for Cal and Frida on his last trip. He hadn’t acquired entrance papers in years, he said, and Frida thought he must be thinking about the children he’d transported from the Land. “I got them from Toni,” he said.
“Toni?” Frida said.
“She’s on the inside here,” Cal said slowly. “I should have told you.”
“Too late for that.” Frida was supposed to be upset, and she was, but she’d learned so much in the last few hours, this couldn’t compare. Toni. Frida couldn’t suppress a smile. Her old friend.
Now Frida and Cal were a young couple, recruited to come to Pines because Frida—now Julie—was with child, and because Cal—now Gray—could be of assistance in their Education Department. To Cal, August had said, “You’ll be able to get to know those inside who are assisting us. And you’ll see who might be questioned by authorities, should trouble arise.”
Frida shut her ears.
The gates to get into Pines were tall and ornate. Like the gates of heaven, Frida thought stupidly. The man who pored over their paperwork was wearing a white button-down shirt so clean it made her eyes hurt.
“Antonia Marles preapproved them,” August said to the man.
Either Toni had pull, or there was a lot of gold in the small cashier’s box August handed the inspector, because they were let in after just a thirty-six-minute wait. Frida knew because she’d kept her eyes on the clock tower a few feet ahead. She’d been so nervous, she thought she might barf into the wastebasket. But they’d been waved through, and August parked in the nearest lot. Beyond that, he told them, were only the occasional delivery trucks and electric station wagons, which the richest families drove. Everyone else walked, took the trolley, or rode bicycles.
“It’s nice,” Frida had said as they turned onto their street. She meant it. Beyond the border, there were at least three miles before the world started to look wild and ruined and frightening. Here everything had a start-over feeling.
24
Frida was still in bed, hoping she would fall back asleep. She wanted to spend the morning here and wake only for lunch, well rested. That plan never worked—now that she was eight months along, her belly large and ungainly, she could never stay comfortable enough to sleep the day away. But maybe it’ll work, she thought, just this once.
The baby kicked twice, as if to say, Ha. Frida rolled onto her other side and pulled the duvet to her chin.