Free Dark Parties by Sara Grant Page B

are people editing ancient history?” I ask Effie as my pen is posed to erase Maria Hamilton.
    She stops typing. Her hands hover above the keyboard. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
    “What?”
    “Your job is not to ask questions, young lady.” She resumes typing.
    I may have to do this job for now, but I still have a voice and I can question. “What are you doing?” I scoot a little closer
     to her. My skirt twists, so I rise from my chair an inch and untangle myself.
    She turns her back to me, trying to block my view of her computer. It only makes me more curious. “If you must know, I’m managing
     the day’s news,” she says begrudgingly.
    “What?” I knew my dad was responsible for information management, but now I understand that it’s more about censorship than
     dissemination.
    She takes a breath that rattles in her chest before it is expelled. “Information Services reviews all the news and sends me
     any stories that need attention.”
    I peek over her shoulder. “What does that mean? ‘Need attention.’ ”
    Effie tuts and gives me a disapproving look over the upper rim of her glasses. “None of your business.”
    I concentrate on my editing for a while. I consider making a few additions and deletions of my own. If Sanna were here, she’d
     see how many times she could fit the word
wacky
into a sentence or something like that. I want to disregard their rewriting of history altogether. I intentionally leave
     out a few of the smaller edits—an adjective here, a sentence there. It’s a small rebellion, but it eases the growing outrage
     I feel for how the government, which I’m now a part of, manipulates information.
    Effie’s fingers fly over the keys rat-a-tat-tapping. Even her fingers seem agitated that I’m here. She only pauses to cough.
     I half stand and read over her shoulder. “Um, Effie,” I say, but it’s as if she’s in some sort of trance. I try again. “Effie,
     why does that—” I point to an article that she immediately clicks closed. “Why did you code that ‘action required’? Wasn’t
     that an obituary?”
    She clears her throat. “Newspapers are no longer to report on deaths by natural causes.”
    “But that guy was my dad’s age.”
    She continues working without answering my question. I settle back in my chair and try to resume my editing duties, but I
     can’t.
    I realize that Effie has stopped typing. Her face is pale. I shift in my seat so I can get a better look at the screen; my
     skirt is constricting me again. Effie tilts her head to block my view.
    “What is it, Effie? What’s wrong?” I ask, standing behind her. The article is from a small town up North. It’s one of those
     places that refuses to allow the government to relocate its residents to population hubs. They have fewer government resources,
     like power, water, and police, but more freedom. The headline notes: F IVE G IRLS M ISSING . I gasp. More Missing.
    Effie closes the article and highlights the entry in red. She picks up the phone and punches in numbers without even looking.
    “Yes, another code eleven; I’m sending you the article now,” she barks, and hangs up. She punches in more numbers and repeats
     her cryptic message. She pounds on the keyboard and the red entry disappears. She taps another icon. I think it’s titled GovNet.
     She types and clicks so fast I have no idea what she’s doing. She rises and smoothes her hair. She knocks on my dad’s office
     door.
    “Enter,” my dad bellows.
    Effie steps inside. “Dr. Adams. Sorry to disturb you. Another code eleven.” She pauses. “Yes, it will be handled. I’ll search
     the system and purge any necessary data.”
    What does that mean? She blathers on to my dad. I inch closer and closer to Effie’s computer. I study her computer screen.
     There are two search boxes: one titled ACTIVE , the other INACTIVE . I scan the headings on the screen. I check tomake sure Effie isn’t watching. I quickly select A BOUT G OV N