Carnival Day

Three

RQC: What's your favorite breakfast food? Mine is probably Toaster Strudel.

...Three...

-May-

6:50 a.m.

I yawn and stretch my arms as Cole nudges me awake.

"Hey, I need to talk to you." He says.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" I ask as I sit up on the couch, yawning again.

"So I just got news, and I'm not sure whether it's legit or not."

"News? From who?" Our television hasn't worked since last year, when there was still cable, due to the Government cutting it off from citizens. And there are no newspapers anymore, the Government cares too little about us citizens to tell us anything.

"Some kid who said he worked for the Government. Here, read this." He says as he hands me a piece of paper.

As my eyes scan over the paper, I can't help but feel both relieved and worried. "This is good, right? Now we have somewhere to go, at least for six hours."

"I don't know. It just doesn't make sense that Oleson would just now claim to actually 'care' about us. He's the one that started this mess."

"So you're saying we shouldn't go?"

"Yeah. It could be a trap. I don't want to take any chances."

"That's fine. We'll just do what we normally do, then."

"Actually, a friend of mine has been getting these strange messages coming through his radio lately. He let me listen in, and it sounds like there's some kind of secret rebellion going on out west. We're not completely sure if that's the case, but he's going to go check it out. I was thinking that we could, too. What do you think?"

"I say let's do it."

"Okay. We'll be leaving with him tomorrow morning. I figured it would be best to go with as many people as we can. We need as much help as we can get on Carnival Day."

"Which friend of yours is it?"

"You remember Grayson, right?"

I gulp. Part of me hopes it's not the Grayson I think it is, but another part of me really hopes it does.

"Grayson Hart?"

"Yeah."

Oh, boy.

I've had a crush on Grayson Hart since the day we were assigned to be partners on a school project together back in third grade. Back when school was accessible to everybody, not just the Privileged.  I don't really get to see him all that often nowadays, though. Citizens don't get much time to socialize with other citizens anymore. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him working on the railroads while I'm walking to the factory. Maybe I'll see him today.

"Well," Cody says, "I'll fix you breakfast, then you should head down to the Factory. Don't want to be late."

I nod my head as I head to my old room that used to have a bed, but doesn't anymore due to a new ridiculous law. I open my dresser and pick out dark blue jeans and a red shirt with faded letters. I can't even tell what the letters used to spell out anymore. I sigh as I change into the outfit and then make my way into the bathroom. I look into the cracked, chipped mirror at my reflection. Light brown hair, freckles splashed across my face, boring, brown eyes. My features practically screamed "plain Jane". I tie my shoulder length, straight hair into a ponytail and make my way into the kitchen.

I walk in to see Cody scooping a couple fried eggs onto a plate. I sit down at the table as he hands me the plate. Then he turns right back around and starts up a new batch for him.

"Thanks, Cody." I say as I bite into the egg. It was actually pretty good, which doesn't come as a surprise to me because Cody can make practically anything taste good. Before an evil man by the name of Charlie Oleson came to be president, Cody was in culinary school. His dream was to open up his own restaurant one day.

"No problem."

I finish up my eggs and make my way to the front door.

"See ya later." I say to him as I open the door and step outside.

"See ya." He calls back from the kitchen.

I close and lock the door then make my way to the factory. It's not a long walk from here, only takes a couple minutes. It's so close you can smell the pollution from my house. So close you can almost hear the cries of the children being overworked. You see, child labor came back once Oleson became president. He believes that if everyone works, he'll make more money faster. Everyone over the age of four and under the age of sixty-five has to work their whole lives. No retirement, no nothing. Just work. For me, working at the Factory starts at 7:30 a.m. and ends at 6:40 p.m. Curfew is at 7:30 p.m. Anyone caught outside after curfew will be immediately either taken into custody or drafted to work for the Government. It depends on how old you are. If you're past the age of sixty-five, chances are you'll be taken into custody. Or killed. Or both. 

I'm almost to the front gate of the Factory when I see him.

Grayson Hart.

He's already working. He has a big mallet thing in his hand and he's nailing nails into the train tracks. He looks up as he wipes sweat from his forehead, catching me staring at him.

He smiles and waves with the hand that is free of the mallet.

I don't exactly know what to do, so I freeze.

Smile and wave back, dummy,  I think to myself.

Instead I smile and salute.

Why the heck did I salute?

He chuckles and continues working. Embarrassed, I make my way into the Factory, dreading every step into that awful place.