Page 9 of Tower
“Can I come with you?” I ask, surprising even myself with the question.
He turns abruptly from his route to the door. “What?”
“To the river. Can I come too? I can be ready in just a minute.”
“No.”
No.That’s all he says. No explanation. Not softening with an apology. No room for debate. Just a curtnobefore he walks out the door.
Fine then.
I’ll go back to sleep.
As it happens, I don’t go back to sleep. I can’t. As soon as I’m alone in the room, my mind surges into action, propelled by anxiety and insecurity and a desperate attempt to not think too much about my dad or what my life will look like from today forward.
After stewing and spiraling for thirty minutes, I finally get up. There are only a couple of people in the women’s tent, so I can take my time cleaning myself and getting ready for the day.
Still conscious of the fact that Levi is supposed to have scored a win by claiming me, I put on a cute outfit—flatteringly cut shorts, my boots, and a top that looks crocheted and has a wide neckline that always slides to one side to reveal a shoulder. I’d really like to braid my hair, but I keep it long and loose like I did yesterday.
I can pull it back later if it gets annoying.
As I’m brushing my hair, a woman around my age comes in to go to the bathroom. I smile at her since I remember her from yesterday as being attached to a friendly, laid-back black man in the gang.
As she’s washing her hands afterward, I say, “Good morning. It’s Becca, isn’t it?”
She brightens. She’s cute with brown hair, brown eyes, and suntanned skin. She’s dressed in very tight jeans and a cropped shirt. “Good memory! And you’re Hailey, I know. Your hair is so gorgeous. How do you keep it so clean?”
“I’ve always only washed it every two or three days, even before Impact, and I think hair kind of gets used to whatever schedule you put it on. Now I wash it once or twice a week. It’s always been more dry than oily anyway.”
“I wish mine would get used to these conditions. I always needed to wash it every day, but it’s hard to do anymore. I at least dunk it every evening, but it’s not the same as a shower.” She’s eyeing every detail of my appearance from my boots to the little butterfly barrette I clip the front strands of my hair back with so they’re not always in my eyes. Her observation isn’t judgmental or jealous. It’s interested.
“I know,” I say with a smile, putting my brush in the canvas bag I used to carry my stuff down. “What’s happened to our lives that hot showers have become an impossible luxury? But how are your nails still so gorgeous?”
Preening, Becca flashes her beautifully shaped burgundy fingernails. “I still do them. I’m sorry, but there are a few essentials I refuse to give up, apocalypse or not. And John always manages to scavenge me polish and supplies.”
“They’re beautiful.” I admire them some more.
“I can do yours sometime,” Becca offers, almost hesitantly. “Unless you’d rather not.”
“I would love that! Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re Boss’s girl, and John is still kinda new. I mean, he’s doing good, I think. Moving ahead. But he’s not in the inner circle.”
“Oh.” I clearly have a lot to learn about the hierarchy of this group. “I don’t think that really matters with us. I’d love to have you do my nails. Thank you for offering.”
“Oh good.” She takes my arm companionably as we leave the tent, as if our best-friend status is now confirmed. “I know the reasons you came here must have really sucked, but I’m glad you’re here.”
Breakfast and dinner are served semicommunally. There is no strict order or timeline, but almost everyone stops by the old restaurant building at some point to eat their meal. Lunch is usually sandwiches wrapped to go since folks are separated in the middle of the day, involved in various jobs and errands.
Becca has kitchen duty this morning, so I join her, wanting to help out where I can until I get my own assigned responsibilities.
Jen is already in the kitchen when we arrive, dividing our breakfast ingredients. She greets me warmly and, when I request a task, tells me I can start cracking eggs for the scramble.
There’s a ridiculous number of eggs. I’ve never cracked so many in my life. But it’s an easy task, and I’m still feeling that rush of anxiety, barely held back by my will. Any distraction helps.
Becca chatters as she cubes up canned meat product. She asks all about my life in the old world and about every boyfriend I’ve ever had and about how much my boots cost when I bought them.
I answer her easily, and I can tell Jen is listening too, even though she’s busy slicing bread.
