Free Dark Parties by Sara Grant

introduce me to everyone we passed as his “little girl, Neva.” I would
     curl up on the leather couch in his office, the one with all the buttons that created diamond shapes, which I would trace
     with my finger. He’d tell me stories and end each day with a cliffhanger so that I would come back to work with him. He told
     of heroes and inventors and geniuses. “Dr. Ben polished each panel. Would it be ready in time? He had discovered a way to
     make see-through panels that could act as a barrier and a filter. He had to create a puzzle to cover the sky. The sky was
     so huge. Dr. Ben worked day and night. He knew that the future of Homeland rested on his shoulders.”
    “What happened, Dad?” I’d asked.
    “Tomorrow, Neva.”
    “How can he create a puzzle in the sky? Does he save everyone?”
    “Patience, my darling girl.” He’d pat me on the head and make me wait for the happy ending.
    I found out later that he had tricked me. Those talesweren’t concocted from his imagination. These stories weren’t fiction at all; they were history lessons. He wouldn’t merely
     recount dates and facts; he’d bring the stories to life. I’d fall asleep and he’d pat my hair every time he passed. Sometimes
     I’d only pretend to be asleep, so I could feel the warmth of his hand on my head and hear him murmur how much he loved me.
    “Neva.” He clears his throat. “You are working for the government now. You are working in my department.” He says the latter
     as if it’s more important. “You need to behave yourself and live above reproach.”
    My blood feels like it is clotting and bumping through my veins faster and faster.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He slows down the car and breaks for a cluster of men in gray business suits. He studies me. He knows about my party and the
     graffiti. I don’t know how he knows, but he does. He’s even robbed me of my secrets.
    I have to watch a video about patriotism and my role as a member of the Central Government. A young woman about my age—Jessica,
     according to her name badge—hands me a five-page, single-spaced contract and tells me to sign on the dotted line. “I’d like
     to read it first,” I say. She huffs. The contract states that I am first and foremost a government employee and everything
     else comes second. Jessica keeps glaring at me from her desk.
    “Can you hurry it up…?” She glances at my paperwork. “Neva. I have a schedule to keep.”
    I nod. She rolls her eyes and then begins typing on her computer keyboard. I read the contract again. The type is so small
     that I have to hold it an inch away from my nose to read it. I feel as if I’m making a deal with the devil. I ask her about
     the confidentiality clause, and she doesn’t even look up from her computer screen when she says, “That means keep your mouth
     shut, sweetie.”
    I must sign my name on the contract. It’s odd that I feel a twinge of guilt for signing my name, signifying that I understand
     and accept all the terms and conditions outlined above. I understand all too well, and I one-hundred percent do not accept
     them. Why do I care if I lie to a government that has lied to me my whole life?
    “You going to sign or what, honey?” she asks, hovering above me now.
    “Yeah, sure,” I say, and let the pen’s point touch the paper. I move the pen before the ink can pool on the page. I don’t
     think of what I’m writing as my name. I think of it as linking lines and loops in a predetermined pattern. That way it doesn’t
     mean anything.
    Now I have a name badge and an employee number. Jessica takes me on a tour of the building. She points at each department
     and recites facts from some government propaganda handbook. “Resource Management takes up the top two floors of the building.
     They are responsible for salvage and reallocation as well as natural resource management,” she says with a swing of her ponytail.
     “Hi, Bill,” she calls to a short, fat bald man. “He’s