The Queer Rebels

Chapter 8: Awakening

When I wake up the next morning, the room is dark, but I can feel Marcy next to me. Hear her steady breathing. Something rouses inside me. Stirs.

Last night, Sequoia provided us with some food and a temporary place to sleep. The room is small and sparsely decorated, and I was so tired that I didn't even notice the lack of windows.

Although I did notice that there was only one bed.

We've shared a bed before, after a party, crashing in someone else's room. But this feels different. Maybe it's because I keep thinking of what Christopher said about cherishing our new freedom.

I also keep thinking about how Sequoia promised to tell us everything this morning. I'm eager to learn more about the Queer Rebels, but I could lay here, next to Marcy, forever.

There is a rap at the door: three quick taps.

Turning my head, I locate the only source of light in the room: a digital clock, which reads 8:34 AM.

Then, I look over at Marcy, her outline barely visible. She turns over on her side of the bed, deep asleep, despite not having her usual number of pillows.

I fold back my covers and place my bare feet on the cold linoleum floor. I'm wearing a pair of pajama pants that Marcy packed for me, and I sort of wish she'd remembered slippers, too.

By the time I make it to the door, no one is there. However, as my eyes adjust to the light, I spot a tray with coffee and muffins waiting. I pick it up and set it on a small table just inside the door.

When I turn around, Marcy is now sitting up.

"Is it morning?" she asks, yawning.

"Apparently." I close the door and flick on the lights, causing her to squint.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands. I tentatively look over. She's only wearing her t-shirt and underwear.

I've seen her like this hundreds of times, but it's hard not to stare at her bare legs, the hint of her nakedness. I avert my eyes.

"Muffins look good," I mumble as she crosses the room to stand next to me.

"Yes, they do." She picks one up and takes a bite. "Taste good, too," she says, a crumb flying from her mouth.

Her body heat radiates, and without meaning to, I lean against her. Drawn to her. Does she know the effect she has on me?

She shifts her weight, her shoulder pressing against mine.

"How's your ankle?" she asks, her face tilting towards me. We are so close that I can feel her breath on my neck.

"Fine," I say, flexing it.

"Last night, that was so..." she trails off, setting her muffin back down on the tray. I think she's going to say more, but then she frowns, tugging on something sticking out from under the plate.

"What's this?" she asks, revealing a slip of paper.

I take it from her and read it.

"It says to meet everyone in the atrium at nine." I glance over at the clock. "That's in about fifteen minutes."

"No time for a shower, I guess." Marcy crouches next to her bag, grabs a pair of jeans, and steps into them, covering herself up.

A few minutes later, we're both dressed. We find a bathroom down the hall, clean up a bit, and then navigate to the center of the sprawling building.

Light pours down from the glass ceiling and we pause, taking it all in. We're standing on a second-floor balcony that lines the perimeter of a huge, open space. It's so spacious that I wonder where they get the electricity to keep such a place running. Do they siphon it from the city, or do they have their own advanced technology to keep the temperature regulated and the lights on?