The Body Electric

Chapter 5

A long, long time ago, people used to bury the dead. But New Venice is a modern city, and there’s no room for carved stones and wasted earth. Instead, people are cremated, and their remains are used to fertilize the roots of trees and other plants in Central Gardens. On the far side of the park, near the perimeter walk, the trees are larger, some of them planted from the remains of people who died before the city was finished being built. Not everyone who dies has a tree planted—only the people very important to the city.

Like my father.

The groveyard is my favorite place in the entire city. It’s the only place in New Venice where real trees grow. I know that if we dig down far enough, the base of my city is steel rafters and concrete, not solid earth. But it feels real, here, where the trees are growing up from the gently rolling slopes of the cemetery that’s really a forest.

My steps slow as I reach the groveyard. The trees waft gently in the breeze, but my attention zeroes in on one in particular—a small holly with a plaque encircling its base.

Philip D. Shepherd

2299-2341

Truth lies in the heart of fortune.

I stand there, blinking away tears as I stare at the hard, prickly leaves. The world grows cold and still. There’s a sort of bitter finality to seeing his death date right there in front of me.

And there’s something worse inside of me, a weight tugging my heart out of my chest at the way I notice, for the first time, the way there’s space under Dad’s epigraph. Space for Mom’s name to be inscribed. She’ll be planted here, too, her ashes mingling with Dad’s, growing from an ivy that will wrap around the holly tree. I was the one who set up Dad’s funeral arrangements; I saw the ones she’d already prepared after she was diagnosed.

I grit my teeth together.

I can’t lose Mom. Not her, too.

“Um?”

I turn around, surprised that anyone else is here. The groveyard isn’t exactly popular, not when you could pretty much do anything else in the city. The guy who spoke is about my age, a little taller than me (which isn’t saying much), and he barely fits in the worn black jacket covering his cut biceps despite the warm day. I wouldn’t say he’s handsome, or even particularly good-looking, but there’s something about him that makes my heart clang like a bell. He has dark, cropped hair, but the most striking thing about him his is pale blue eyes.

Or maybe I just notice his eyes because he’s gaping at me. “Yeah?” I ask, impatient when he doesn’t say anything else. The guy reaches for my arm, pulling me closer to him. I wrest free—I don’t like strangers touching me—and he reaches for me again, his wrist encircling my arm and yanking me painfully several steps forward. I act on instinct, twisting my wrist out of his grasp and slamming the end of my palm against his face, connecting with an audible crunch against his nose and splitting his lip open. “Don’t touch me!” I shout at him. My muscles are tense, ready to spring into action. I’m suddenly aware of how very alone we are.

“Look—” the guy starts, but I jerk around my elbow blocking him from coming closer.

It’s like the guy’s face snaps into a mask, one made of hard edges. All the color drains from his face—except for the bright pink of the blossoming bruise on his cheek and nose. His heavy eyebrows pull down into a scowl, and he glares at me so much that I take an instinctive step backward. My movement makes some sort of emotion flicker across his face—regret?—but it’s quickly masked again.

“Look, I’m only here to warn you.” There’s something of desperation and danger in his expression; he looks like a caged animal, despite the fact that we’re in an open area.

My eyes grow wide, and I look around me, half expecting to see attackers jump out from behind the trees.

He rubs his hand over his short hair. “It’s not—it’s—”

“What?” I ask. I wrap my right hand over my left wrist, over my cuff, where there’s a panic button that will bring police to my aid if this guy turns dangerous.

The guy’s eyes narrow when he sees. He curses. “I just wanted to warn you about Akilah,” he said. “There, I said it, I’m gone now.”

“What?” I ask again as he turns away. “What about Akilah?” He hesitates. “How do you even know Akilah?” He stops entirely.

“Don’t be like that,” he says without turning. His shoulders slump, defeated, and I almost don’t catch what he says next. “I know it sounds crazy, but... listen, you can’t trust her.”

“Of course I can; she’s my best friend!” My only friend. He still doesn’t turn around. “Not any more,” he says. I start to object, but he turns, throwing up his hands. “I only came here to say that. Out of... respect for you father. That’s all. I’m going.” He starts to walk off—and I let him, there’s no point talking to crazy—but he pauses at Dad’s grave. He stands there respectfully, his eyes lingering on the little stone marker that encircles Dad’s tree. His face is hidden as he leans down, his mouth muttering words I cannot hear.

I glance away, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. He’s talking to Dad the same way I do. His face is full of sadness, his tone, regret. He looks kind.

He looks as if he misses Dad as much as I do.