1
You turn eighteen, and they find you. There is no other recruitment.
Eighteen—old enough to have had your heart hardened, young enough that blood still passes through it.
Not everyone is recruited, of course, but the gangs are smart. They pick people with nothing to lose. The ones who are angry. Those who join San Francisco’s infamous Red Bridge Wars do so willingly.
“The bridge isn’t red,” Leo said once. “It’s International Orange. We learned that in school.”
He was wrong, I think. I saw the red.
But that was a long time ago, in practically another lifetime, and tonight everything will change.
Mom and I sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table. Its surface is marked with old smears of glitter paint and crayon: a record of my childhood. I use my nail to scratch off a bit of crayon.
Outside, streetlamps illuminate the fog like dandelions of orange light in a sea of dark gray. I drum my fingers against my mug of Blue Bottle coffee. Dad gave me two bags of the stuff yesterday before he left on his business trip.
“I know they won’t,” he had said, “but if they pick you, say no. I don’t think they’ll come for you, but…”
“You have to say it. I know.” My heart splintered at his look of relief. Dad’s never been a man of many words. Even for me, his shining child. Now his only child.
Back in the present, Mom’s mug rests in front of her, untouched. Her usually styled hair is back in a low bun, and instead of a blazer-and-pants combination, she’s in a faded lavender robe and yoga pants.
I poke my fork into the frosting of the cake sitting between us. Lyla says it’s bad luck to bake your own birthday cake, but I’ve never minded it. Baking is my one and only solace. I love the rhythm of it: the sharp crack of eggshells, the scrape of the knife across measuring cups to make them level, the whir of the mixer as I watch the twin swirls of the beaters disappear into each other.
Baking fills my hands and, more importantly, clears my mind. Kneading dough is like an exhale for my brain. I’ll mix the same ingredients for twice as long as I should, never wanting to stop. Sometimes it ruins the bake, but for the most part things turn out okay. If not, I dump it and start over.
Around us, the kitchen is an explosion of pastries—a tray of blueberry muffins I baked Tuesday morning at 3 A.M. when I couldn’t sleep, a plate of meticulously decorated cupcakes leftover from Mom’s fundraiser meeting last night, and the dark chocolate and sea salt cookies I sent to work with Dad before his trip. Everyone in his office loves me: the daughter who bakes. They’d think differently if they knew why.
But the Wars are my out. I know it’s risky, but it’s all I’ve got. All my research, all my prodding Matthew with questions—it’ll be worth it when the Herons choose me. I check the clock: it’s already 10:26 P.M. The gangs always choose their new recruits on their actual birthdays. Come on, I beg. I’m ready. Let’s go. I just need to know—am I in or not? Can I make up for what happened, or not?
In Mom’s hand is a crumpled note that I knew, even as I was writing it, I’d probably regret. And I do, now. The closet in my room has long been the family storage space for the once-a-year stuff, and Mom just had to go into my closet to put away the Halloween decorations.
She found my suitcases, all packed. Mom’s smart—she knew what they were for. All it took was the terror in her voice as she called my name from upstairs for me to know what happened. In retrospect, it was stupid of me to leave them there, but there’s no changing it now.
“Baby, don’t do this,” she says. “Finish school. Then you can take a year off. You know your dad and I would be okay with that. Just not this.” She shakes her head. “Val, you could die.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Then why?”
I turn away from her. She knows why.
“I won’t let you,” she says.
“I’m eighteen. Legally you can’t stop me if I choose to go.”
Mom starts to cry. Even with all my resolve, I nearly break at the sight of her wiping her cheeks—if I keep sitting here, I’ll cave. Instead I get up and set the dirty plates in the sink, keeping my back to her. I switch on the faucet. The water is just getting warm when Mom says, “Baby, is this about Matthew?”
“No, Mom. Jeez.”
“I know you broke up, but you know the Westons—”
“I want to join, Mom. It’s not about Matthew. It’s about me.”
Copyright © 2019 by Shannon Price
