DIONA “DIO” MAGAZ:
I pushed away my platter. “I’m not hungry for steak.” I crossed my arms and pretended this would ruin the rest of my night.
“Is it the cut?” Mother set her nails on the tablecloth. French tips. “They can bring out something else.”
I sighed. I was only hungry for one thing. “Jamón?” I raised my eyebrows.
Father eyed his Bordeaux. “It’s dinner, Diona, not a picnic.”
“Then I’m not hungry.”
My sister, Kiki, laughed. She hovered her phone over my untouched steak. Click. Click. “I’ll call this one The Picky Eater.”
I rolled my eyes.
Eight fifteen, per the grandfather clock. Kiki’s dumb comments could wait.
I stood up. “My stomach’s bothering me. Goodnight.”
I climbed the stairs, tried to hunch over a little, squint my eyes as if my stomach really did hurt. Whatever. Mother wasn’t even watching anyway.
In my back pocket, my phone buzzed. Kiki: Traffic. WorkForce Construction. We better leave early. A picture of my steak.
I sent an annoyed face, and sat on my bed, staring out the window. Skyscraper after skyscraper. The sun made it all look gold. And the sky, a dark blue. Or was it indigo? Cobalt?
I put my hand against the window. The color of the sky would look pretty on my nails, wouldn’t it?
Noises downstairs: Silverware against China. My father muttering about the tax rate. One hundred ticks of the grandfather clock. One hundred and one. Then the noise I was waiting for: Three tiny taps on my door.
Heels, parfum, my little black purse. I reapplied my lipstick, admired my face in the mirror. Green eyes and brown hair—such a rare combination. Then I couldn’t help myself, I dipped my finger in the lipstick and drew a small heart in the center of the clear mirror.
Quite satisfying.
I pulled open the doors to my balcony. Kiki was already outside.
“Dio!” Her voice echoed. “Come on! We’re gonna be late!”
I swung my legs over the balustrade. My dress caught on the cement, and I plucked it away, fussed over the tulle.
Kiki crossed her arms. She wore so much mascara, her eyes looked like spiders. “You better hurry. Sparky’s going to be there tonight.”
“Sparky?” I squealed. “Roland Sparks?!”
No hesitating. Weight to my toes. I grabbed the edge and extended my arms slowly. I’m sure my silhouette looked ridiculous. Below me, the grass seemed like a dark sea.
Click, click. Stifled laughter. What a brat.
I released my grip, and hardly had time to steady my stance before Kiki grabbed my arms and pulled me into the passenger seat of her car.
She ran her hands through her hair. “Tell me. Do I look like a Run-down or what?”
I told her, “You look gorgeous.”
The traffic wasn’t too bad. A few minutes of bumper to bumper, red tail lights, and we passed it: WorkForce Construction.
Barbwire fences. An asphalt paving truck. Men in bright orange (tangelo?) vests. Property of the Mandatory WorkForce. We picked up speed.Orange vest, orange vest, orange vest.
“It’s such an eyesore.” Kiki drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “They should put up a privacy fence. Spare me from looking at all those sweaty men.”
She pulled down the vanity mirror. Our faces glowed red from the taillights in front of us.
I stared out the window, watching a giant boat glide across the river. Behind it, the bridge’s gate, three interlocking circles carved into the metal. And behind that? Dark shadows—Zone D and the Run-downs. Mother called them “the poor souls.”
For a second, half a second, I tried to picture Zone D’s empty streets.
D for development. D for debt.
And the Run-downs. Were they really so crowded and violent? Like everyone joked about?
One hundred—no—ten thousand dirt covered faces walking past. To where? Nowhere.
Kiki clicked on the radio. My favorite song!
So, we sang at the top of our lungs, and I completely forgot what I was thinking about before.
ns216.73.217.114da2
and then Add to home screen.