Free Dark Parties by Sara Grant Page A

the head of Research and Development,” she says to me, giving Bill her
     best toothysmile. “And that woman over there”—she nods toward a woman in a yellow suit—“she runs the collection and redistribution centers.
     She’s a good person to know.” She waves at the woman in yellow. “Hi, Joann!” She leans in closer. “She found me a replacement
     part for my dad’s old television and brought me a leather handbag that only needed the lining replaced.”
    Each floor looks pretty much the same. Every available inch of space is occupied. It’s as if someone opened the top of the
     building and poured furniture in. One man has an old, hand-carved wooden desk with what looks like a plastic kitchen chair.
     Two people share a desk constructed of two filing cabinets with a slab of wood on top. A few desks have old computers. We
     weave our way though the building and end up in the Information Services wing—I know it well.
    She drops me off at Effie’s desk. The women exchange nods but neither speak. The last time I saw Effie was ten years ago,
     a few weeks before my grandma disappeared. Effie hasn’t changed. She still wears those stubbly wool suits. Her glasses have
     brown, almond-shape frames and her hair is slicked back in a bun so tightly that her eyes almost squint. Her lips are drawn
     into a thin red line.
    Effie has an old wooden desk that’s been worn smooth and a metal folding chair, which is positioned just outside my dad’s
     office. Mismatched desks and chairs are lined up as far as the eye can see up and down the hall. Men and women tap on keyboards
     and chat with one another without ever taking their eyes off their computer screens. Maybethe history department is called
ancient
because of the average age of its employees. I am the youngest person by at least thirty years.
    According to Dad, Effie has been sick, and I’m supposed to help her with a major reprint of our history book. The history
     book is the only document that gets printed and mass produced anymore. What a waste of resources. Effie stations me at the
     far end of her desk. I’ve got the history book’s master proof and, literally, a two-foot stack of edits from other Council
     members and Dad’s key department heads. People have gone thesaurus happy. Someone crossed out the word
demanded
and replaced it with
requested.
For example: The government
requested
that every citizen sign the Pledge of Allegiance before the Protectosphere was sealed. It seems like a slight change at first,
     but there’s a big difference between a request and a demand. The government changes everything in tiny shades of gray until
     what was white is now black.
    I reread the opening chapter about The Terror. Someone—probably my dad—has even altered the first chapter, going a bit adjective
     crazy with his red pen.
Massive
explosion.
Extreme
panic.
Necessary
measures. A
superior
race. But not one word about what was outside. It’s as if the slate was wiped clean that day. When we’d studied history at
     school, I’d asked Dad about what came before The Terror. He’d closed his eyes and taken a deep breath. “Everything has a beginning,
     Neva,” he’d said, and patted the top of my head.
    Someone has crossed out two paragraphs on someone called James Washington. I remove the text from the masterproof. A chill threads through me. I’m helping the government erase people from history. Future generations will never know
     that James Washington stabilized the rubble of the Capitol Complex and helped create a memorial to those who perished in The
     Terror. One tiny gesture and he vanishes from the pages of history.
    I’m not sure if I can do this. But I don’t have a choice, do I? I become a good, little government employee or disappear like
     James Washington. Is this why our country is spiraling slowly downward? People like me do what they’re told. No one questions.
     If I do this, then I’m no better than the police or my dad.
    “Why