Rose frowns. “I thought you said he’d be back yesterday.”
The worry I’ve been trying to hold at bay storms through me.
“He just . . . got delayed,” I say, hoping that it’s the truth.
Atlas broke the rules to invite me into the Stewards. He introduced me to “verify,” and the other words the government removed from the electronic versions of our books. Words no one remembered. Words that made it easy for everyone to forget.
Atlas knew my mother. He hoped that I might know something that could help him find his father, and the other people who were suddenly killed or disappeared because they understood what those missing words meant for our country. He gave me paper books to read. He helped me question everything I had been told, including what the police said about my mother’s death.
He was there for me as I came to terms with her murder. It wasn’t pretty, but he supported me. And in doing so, he claimed a piece of my heart.
For the last week, while I’ve been working to get ready for today, Atlas has been zigzagging around the city trying to uncover Unity Centers where the government holds those that disappeared. He’s also been looking for Stewards who stayed aboveground and might be interested in continuing to fight for the truth. His success is important, but so is his return.
“Have you heard from him at all?”
I shake my head. He was supposed to leave a coded message if he needed more time so we wouldn’t worry that he had been captured by the Marshals.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, irrationally hoping that saying the words aloud will make them true.
“He’ll be more than fine when he sees the logo appear on public screens,” Rose insists.
“I hope so,” I say, but what I really mean is that I hope Rose and her mother will be fine. Even if I wanted to put a stop to our plan, now that everyone inside Gloss has seen the logo, Rose and her mother are in danger. Eventually the Marshals will hear about the design that has too many similarities to the Stewards’ tattoo to be ignored. The only way Gloss will be allowed to continue—the only way Rose and her mother will be safe from disappearing like Isaac—is for us to follow the plan and display the logo in full sight of the general public as soon as possible. Once everyone has seen it, it will be harder for the government to shut Gloss down over it. Not without lots of unwanted questions. About why the symbol is so terrible. About what the symbol means.
Questions the government will not want to answer.
“Is everything else ready?” I ask.
Rose nods. “Everyone involved in the rollout has been told our former designer Chris Tapper created the logo and Mom has the paper trail to prove it. We’ve got this.”
With Rose’s help, Mrs. Webster spent the past weeks creating a false electronic trail that would lead anyone questioning the origins of the logo to Chris Tapper, a real Gloss designer who abruptly resigned via email a few weeks ago. According to his resignation message, he was moving across the country to take a job at a friend’s company, but not one person has been able to reach him since that day.
Our guess is that the designer had been made to disappear by the Marshals. If we’re right, the government won’t be surprised when they discover he is credited with the new logo design. If he, like Isaac, is in their custody, we are counting on the Marshals not believing his denials. If not—it’s all so much easier.
Mrs. Webster and Rose are counting on me to continue the fight. I hate that for their sake I am hoping Chris Tapper is dead.
Loud conversation causes us both to glance down the hall as a few Gloss staff members head to their work spaces. Soon the entire floor will be buzzing with people. Before I lose the chance, I ask, “Did you see your father last night? Did he say anything new about Isaac?”
Her eyes harden. “Nothing new. According to him, the mayor is negotiating Isaac’s return from the gang. It doesn’t look like he’s getting much sleep. I’d feel sorry for him—if I didn’t know he’s lying. If he just told us the truth and was willing to help us . . .”
“The only thing that matters right now is that Isaac’s still alive,” I say. Part of me wonders if I believe that. The other part is certain Mr. Webster wouldn’t be losing sleep, worrying, or spending so much time perpetuating the lie if he knew Isaac were dead.
“I keep telling myself that whatever else my father has done, he loves Isaac—so he’s not going to let anything happen to him. Right?”
“Right,” I agree, because I tell myself that, too.
Rose takes a deep breath and nods as two more employees come down the hall. “Let’s get you settled and working. Things are quiet now, but they are going to be busy around here today. A new intern will want to be a part of it all.”
I hand Rose the Gloss design tablet Mrs. Webster gave me to work on the logo. She leads me through the blue-gray cubicles and glassed-in offices used for tech support, sales, and customer service until we finally step into a large space filled with drafting tables, silver and blue stools, and dozens of wall screens displaying e-zine pages. Standing at one of the drafting tables is a woman with lots of dark brown hair piled on her head. She is wrapped in an oversize off-white man’s dress shirt, baggy denim pants, and beat-up blue sneakers that look seriously comfortable—nothing like the fashions advertised in Gloss. The woman stabs at the screen several times and appears ready to jab the design tool at Rose when my friend says, “Mrs. Meacham, this is the new design intern. I was told to bring her to you.”
“Well, she’s here. I’m sure you have something else you can do now.”
Rose gives me an encouraging smile and then bolts, leaving me alone with my boss. Mrs. Meacham moves around the design table and crosses the room with long, comfortable strides that make me yearn for my normal sneakers.
“What’s your name again?” she asks.
“Merriam Adams.”
She gives me a tense smile. “Nice name. Don’t expect me to remember it. Mine’s Nicolle, but I probably won’t answer to it and if I’m working to meet a deadline I won’t answer no matter what you call me.”
I blink as the telltale sounds of people arriving for work float into the space.
Nicolle shakes her head at my silence and heads back to her worktable. “So what’s your story? Can you actually draw or are you hoping to become a model and took an intern position in my department as a way of getting discovered?”
“I can draw,” I say.
She glances down at my uncomfortable shoes as two twentysomething women in bright button-down tops, jeans, and heels come into the space. They are followed by a slightly older guy holding an almost impossibly large, steaming orange mug.
“For both of our sakes, I seriously hope so. We’re doing a public rollout of the new logo today. If you can make yourself useful, good for you. If not—pick a table in the corner, stay out of our way, and keep your mouth shut. Everyone!” she shouts as several more designers come through the door. “Let’s get to work.”
Every time I had visited Gloss in the past, there had been an upbeat energy and a low hum of conversation as people calmly went about their business. Today, it was as if everyone had plugged their fingers into a light socket.
The designers shout at others across the room, drink cup after cup of coffee, and pace while they wait for word to come from Mrs. Webster and her team about the rollout of the new Gloss logo and design. More than anything, I want to do what they’re doing— debating accent colors and shadows and shifting lines so that the viewer’s eye will be drawn to exactly the right place. Instead, I fetch coffee, crawl under tables when a stylus goes missing, and watch as the sharp angles and sweeping curves that for the last several weeks I’ve changed and changed and changed again fill the wall screens.