Drapetomania

One

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" My alarm screams at me, and I hit it in the face until it shuts up. "It's 7:10 AM," it tells me, softly this time, "Wake up." "Stupid freaking clock," I mutter.

The day starts just the same as every other day. I look out the window, and the sky is grey, cloudy, and cold. I can hear Madelien from across the hall, starting to get up and get ready for school. I'm seventeen, so I get ready for work instead of school.

I get up and get dressed. My outfit is simple, a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and plain black flat shoes. My hair is still pulled into braids from the night before. I'm a planter, so I don't dress in the puffy, extravagant dresses that everyone else my age seems to. Simple is much more comfortable, and better because of all of the mud that I work with.

I walk into the kitchen and flip on the news, which is filled with stories about silly Generous and celebrity gossip, facial enhancements, and the newest fashion trends. "Oh. My. Gods!" the woman on the telecaster exclaims, "This just goes to show how lucky we are to live on the West side instead of the East."

Madelien is eating soggy oatmeal, but I notice she's wearing a pair of slacks and a white school shirt that's too big for her and has a smudge of charcoal on the sleeve. "Maddie," I say, "You know you can't wear that to school. Where did you even get that shirt?"

Madelien grins through missing teeth. "I told them I was a size bigger than I am. My size shirts aren't comfortable."

"Go put on a school dress, Maddie."

She frowns and sighs dramatically. "But I hate dresses," she mutters. "Wear a suit, then," I say as she leaves. I know that she dresses in plain pants and oversized shirts because she wants to look like me, but I don't want her to graduate and become a planter.

The hover eventually comes to pick Maddie up for school, and I walk to work. I have a vehicle, but the plantation and my garage are only across the street.  I watch Maddie board the hover, and then glance over at my garage.  Its sirens are blaring, and a woman is cradeling her bloody fist while a man reaches through the broken window to unlock the door.

I curse under my breath as my blood runs cold and I pull my thin grey jacket closer around my shoulders.  The man notices me and startles as I come nearer, and he shrinks back in fear. 

Then I noticed that Bertha, the owner of the plantation I work at, is watching them.  "Continue," she tells him. 

She's selling my garage.  This is what she's been threatening to do for the last six years, and she's finally done it.

"No," I say, "Stop.  This is illegal." I'm breathing faster, now, and the taste of metal is in the back of my sore throat.

"No," she says, "Keeping a garage for a second job as a mechanic is illegal."

She's not wrong.  "This was my father's garage."

She blinks, her fat, heavy eyelids folding and unfolding.   "He died," she says nonchalantly, as if reminding me that we needed more clay jars for tomorrow, "And the garage should have gone back to the government when he did."

"I've already commed the police," I say.  It's a lie. The police are useless anyway.

Bertha smirks, and the two breaking into my garage don't stop.  I hand them the key that hangs around my neck so that they cause less damage, but I don't break my glare at Bertha.

I realize that the window to the door is broken and the alarm is going off. I curse under my breath and open the broken door effortlessly. The inside of the old garage is just as cold as it is outside, and the place is a mess. Parts of the black, second era Mars Hovercar I had been renovating is missing parts, and my toolbox has been broken into. The movies of my parents and of Madelien on the wall remain untouched.

"Daaamn it," I groan, louder than the first time, when I realize all that's missing. I shoot a text to the police, even though I already know that they will accomplish nothing. "Urg," I say as I slam my toolbox shut. I call Jerry, my coworker, to help.

"This is the third time this year," he says over the telecom, "What is it with your garage? Are you hiding any pure gold in there?"

"No, " I tell him, "Not that I know of. Just hurry up and fix it before the Richie gets here." I end the com.

Richie's parents had been Generous, but she had gambled most of their money away and now owned the small plantation that Jerry and I worked at. Though Richie isn't really a Generous anymore, she's just as despicable.

The Generous are the wealthy people of the West, but I don't think they're generous at all. They dress in extravagant, expensive, colorful clothing, spend money on body and facial enhancements, and only give their money away when they want to make themselves look better than they really are. They're lazy, stupid, and useless.

Besides being a planter, I also illegally work part-time as a mechanic, but Richie has been trying to shut down and sell my garage for the past year.

When Jerry shows up, he scratches his curly, blue beard. "They sure did a hell of a one on your lock."

It was one of the crappy locks that the government had given me for free. I spin around on the dirty swivel chair that sits next to my desk.

"How much for a new one?" I ask. "Eh. I'll order you one for a hundred doodle dollars."

"Fine," I say. I'm already in debt, anyway, so one-hundred doodle dollars won't make much of a difference.

Richie pounds on the door with her chubby fist and Jerry whips back around to face her. "Why aren't you two working?"

"Someone broke in, last night," Jerry says, and Richie opens the door and steps in. I feel my chest tighten at the intrusion. A little piece of lace from her collar gets caught on a broken edge of a glass, and she rips it away carelessly. That little piece of lace would be enough to pay for everything I had lost in the robbery, last night.

She glances around in disgust. She looks just like a Generous, but dirtier. She's plump, like a Generous, and dresses in puffy, extravagant clothes that are covered with a thin layer of dust and grime.

"Fix it once your shift is over," she says and stomps back outside. Jerry shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry, Kaidy," he says as he follows Richie out the broken door.

I give my swivel chair one last spin before grabbing by supply bag and following them outside.

The weather isn't bad today. My telecaster says that it's about 284 Kelvin, and the warm breeze hits me in the face. I can see the projected sun in the sky, and it's not hidden behind clouds like it usually is.

The morning mist left us with only about 19 liters of water, which is three liters less than the day before. Water has been growing scarce, and the mist has begun to give us less and less each day. I pick up a grey clay jar from the ground and begin to take it to the Pickerelweed patch, but Richie calls out to me from where she watches us from her high chair. "Go make more jars," she says. I sigh and my lungs burn, but I start to look for some dirt that would be good for making clay.

.  .  .