The Swailing

ECCO: Eighteen

"You know," Finn says when we're walking back to Jordan's. "You're technically an adult now. At least in ECCO."

"What do you mean?"

"Eighteen is the legal age here. You can drive, vote, drink ... get tattoos. You're legit across the board."

"Huh," I say. "I don't feel like an adult. Maybe I need a drink."

Finn laughs. "You want one?" He gestures to a shop just ahead. It's got a bright, glowing sign – neon, I believe – of a fancy drink glass by the door. "I mean, we do have things to celebrate."

"What is that? A bar?"

"Uh huh."

"I've heard about those! Where people go and drink alcohol and," I put on my best, most stern Optima voice, "make unwise, unhealthy decisions."

Finn laughs. "Pretty much. Funny that THAT'S the accurate history they teach you."

"Typical," I say.

I suddenly feel the need to let off some steam. At home when I felt like this I would go for a run or dance around my room to loud (but not too loud) music. But here ... maybe a drink will do the trick. Plus, it's my birthday and I'm feeling particularly angry at my ancestors who have created such an unbalanced and bizarre world. And also particularly happy that we are finally making progress in the search for my mom and brother. Maybe a drink fits the bill for mixed-up situations like this. I'm with someone safe, and it's legal here, so I'm not even breaking any laws. Surprisingly that doesn't suck all the fun out of it, like it would back at home. Maybe it's just trying new things that's exciting to me, not necessarily breaking rules for breaking rules' sake.

Huh. Maybe I'm not such a rebel after all.

"C'mon. Let's go." I open the door and Finn willingly follows me into the bar. I notice I don't need to make threats to kiss him to get him to drink, like I did with Logan.

Inside the bar is dimly lit, stuffy, and smells faintly of cleaning fluid and popcorn. Finn asks where I want to sit and I gesture to a long wooden counter with stools lined up next to it.

"That's 'the bar', right? Let's sit there."

When the bartender comes to take our order, Finn tells him that it's my birthday. He insists on making me a special drink in a fancy glass like the one on the sign out front. He calls it a French Martini. I don't know what makes it French, but it is a pretty shade of pink.

Finn gets something gold and foamy in a simple glass mug. Beer, he tells me.

"Happy birthday," he says, and he clinks his glass against mine.

"Thanks." I take a sip. It tastes like pineapple and berries, with just a hint of something that burns a bit on the way down.

I ask Finn more about his family's farm and he starts to talk reluctantly, like it almost physically hurts him. He tells me about the land – acres of fertile hills that his ancestors farmed since the early 20th century. He talks about his brother, Tristan, and the games they used to play – hide and seek and something involving some type of all-terrain vehicles that I don't understand. We obviously don't have those in Optima. He doesn't talk about his parents, I sense purposefully, but it's clear he had a happy childhood. I can see how much it's breaking his heart that he's going to lose the place where he made those memories.

"How much more time do you have? Before they take it."

Finn looks down into his beer, as if it has the answer. "The end of the year."