No. I’m never, ever trying a freefall again. One terminated attempt months ago was enough terror for a lifetime.
As we wait for everyone to finish, the twins and I finalize plans for when I join them later this morning. The idea is mostly to feast, play endless games in the Holozone, and watch the live draw for the London Submersible Marathon—the annual obstacle race through the capital.
The arduous course is a big deal—huge. But there are only a hundred places, so nobody really expects to land one. Imagine having the chance to race an obstacle course as big and dramatic as the London Marathon! To ensure the actual route itself remains a secret, additional race boundaries are randomly installed throughout the city, and every year the exact obstacles and challenges are always concealed, too. It’s an incredibly tough undertaking. Thrilling, but seriously demanding. And always perilous.
“Enjoy this morning with your family, won’t you, Leyla?” Theo says.
My insides do this wild flip thing as I remember I’m this close now to the best present ever—some real McQueen family time—and I can’t stop grinning as I head home.
I speed up once more, belting out the lyrics to the ’20s pop-rock playing. At last I steer onto Bankside, slowing down as I pass my long block of flats. The one-story basic construction isn’t much to look at but remains watertight—I’m lucky. I do a quick scan of the immediate area to ensure there are no vessels lurking in the shadows today.
The sub grinds to a halt by my own bay on the parking wall, and I dip its nose into position, maneuvering until I hear it lock into place. The vehicle’s seal emerges from around the edges of its body, a large oval shape of robust, watertight material extending to meet the seal surrounding the dock. I shift around in the seat, my smile wide. I’m this close now. With the seals joined and the vessel safely locked and watertight, any trapped water is sucked out. The craft’s dome then slides back just as the hatch to the building releases, granting me access. I unbuckle and jump down into the compact space. Once the exterior door is secure again behind me, the interior hatch is released and I rush through into the long and gloomy corridor.
Covering my nose to block out the wretched damp, I sprint along the resin floor, passing rows of gray metal doors on either side. The pale-blue walls are full of cracks, the paint chipped, and blotchy mold spreads in all directions.
Soon as I gain entry to the flat, Jojo leaps around, wagging her tail. “It’s almost time, baby.” I shed my jacket and pet the Maltese pup.
I bounce on my toes in the narrow hallway outside the lounge, catching my breath. Any second now. Jojo’s too intrigued to remain still. The fluffy white puppy circles my legs, only taking a break to watch the thin lounge door with her ears cocked.
Heavenly notes rise from behind the door, melodies of Christmases past. Jojo takes a step back, her brown eyes fixed on the entry. I scoop her up and take a deep breath.
It’s time.
The door slides open. I step into the compact room and my hand flies to my mouth, fathoms of warmth spreading inside me. Jojo leaps down, wagging her tail and jumping around, but I can only focus on one thrilling sight.
Papa stands by the expansive window.
“Salaam, Pickle! So what do you think?” He smiles his usual lopsided smile, his bright hazel eyes twinkling. He points at the faded-red festive jumper he’s wearing.
My pulse races; I stare, unblinking. “Salaam, Papa. I . . . I think it looks pretty fab.” Warmth flushes my cheeks.
The “festive” design he’s wearing is actually a map of some far-flung solar system that fascinates my papa with its remoteness and possibilities. All the colorful planetary spheres look like baubles, though, and over time it’s become his “Christmas” jumper. It was a gift from Mama, before I was even born.
I should say something, but I watch, speechless, the corners of my mouth stretched.
“There’s my little queen.”
I turn toward the soft voice. My petite mama stands by the far wall, beside the towering turquoise vase she painted for Papa, smiling with arms outstretched.
“Come on, my beautiful gul—come give Mama your strongest hug. My little Leyla.”
“Salaam, Mama.” I move closer. I feel both light-headed and super awake at the same time. A comforting heat radiates from my chest and ripples throughout my body. Her green eyes, sand-colored skin, and lengthy ebony hair are seriously uncanny; we’re identical. My Kabuli peree, Papa always calls us—his fairies from Kabul.
Like always on special occasions, Mama’s wearing a traditional Afghan kameez. The vivid hues of the long, flowing dress seem to seep into the air around the room, instantly brightening the dreary space. An Old World rainbow after the rain. She tilts her face and smiles. Tiny beads dangling from the silver tika that sits on her forehead dance with the movement.
“You want to do the honors, Pickle?” Papa winks.
I might cry as I dart to the cabinet, careful as I pull out the most brilliant snow globe ever. It’s a McQueen family tradition to bring it out on special occasions. I hold it high for them both to see, and Papa’s face especially lights up. I cup the globe’s smooth surface.
These small-scale spectacles, mostly of the Old World, are avidly collected. The more ancient the scene inside, the dearer the cost. Sometimes it’s a row of houses on a bustling street, a hillside with trees and flowers, or a busy children’s playground.
I prefer the less desired watery scenes.
I shake the globe and catch my breath. Tiny rainbow fish and sparkly jellyfish bob in the turquoise ocean around an inviting submarine, a warm glow emanating from its windows. It’s so utterly perfect. A whole world right here in my hands.
The Christmas carol ends, and a favorite festive song replaces it, loud and merry. I laugh, setting the globe down as I nod along to the music. Everything is heavenly. I might burst any second now. It’s too much. Could joy actually bubble over and spill out? God, I hope not, because I want this sensation to last forever. I break into dance moves, shaking my body on the spot beside an excited Jojo. Papa chuckles. Mama smiles.
I beam. They both look so happy. My skin tingles. It’s all sheer magic. I’d never expected to feel this good.
The melody resounds in the small space. “Are you waiting for the family to arrive-rive-rive-rive—”
I stop mid-twirl as the song falters.
“Are you sure youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu . . .”
Jojo growls at the harsh electronic notes. I clutch my stomach. My eyes widen; I spin around to Papa. He’s talking, but the words are indistinguishable.
He flickers into vivid colored lines.
Then he’s gone.
“No! No, no, no . . .” A sudden coldness spreads inside. I turn to Mama.
There’s no one there.
“No, not yet, it’s too soon. Please.”
Jojo stops barking and stands still. It’s dark and quiet. I blink rapidly to cut short the prickly sensation at the back of my eyes and try to swallow past the ache in my throat. The weight of my chest will crush me. The water outside causes rippled, ghostly shadows on the moldy walls. The auxiliary lighting comes on and casts a thick gloom over the still lounge.
I’m alone.
I press my face against the window in the dimmed lounge and stare out into the patchy darkness. Jojo, cradled in my arms, whines.