Free Amerika by Brauna E. Pouns, Donald Wrye

cooperation, don’t we?” she said bitterly.
    “That’s not fair.”
    “Jackie losing isn’t fair. I watched it. She was amazing.”
    “Maybe I can look into it.”
    “You’d better do a damned sight more than just look into it. She’s our daughter and she deserves to have a chance.”
    “Everybody feels that way.”
    “I don’t care. Everybody’s not as good as she is.”
    “Settle down,” he said quietly. “I know you’re upset...”
    “Look, Peter. I understand why I have to stand in line for tomatoes, and why Scott has to sneak extra meat from the training table when you could have practically anything you wanted delivered to the back door, but this is different. This is your daughter’s life and I don’t know whether it’ll be worth a damn—but she has a right. . . not to be penalized for being good.”
    “You don’t think I love her as much as you do?”
    Amanda looked out into the darkness at the emptiness of the barren fields and deserted highway. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think what you love most is some idea of what’s fair you carry around in your head.”
    “None of this is fair. We have to hang on to what we believe in.”
    Amanda realized that she had gone too far. She saw the hurt on Peter’s face and regretted having caused it. She took his hand, not wanting the evening to be lost. “I believe in my daughter. I believe in you—maybe sometimes I even believe in myself. That’s all I believe in.”
    Peter squeezed her hand. She took his arm and put it around her shoulders, sliding across the seat next to him like a teenager. She put her head on his shoulder.
    The car, with its motorcycle escort, disappeared into the night.
    Justin, with Jackie hanging on behind him, piloted the old Harley along a moonlit, tree-flanked country road. He kept his lights off. He knew the way, and at the proper moment he steered across a field to an abandoned barn that loomed dark and ominous against the moon-bright, snowy fields. He turned off the engine and a heavy blast of rock music, forbidden by the authorities, rang out in the sudden quiet.
    “You sure you still want to go?” he asked. “Omaha’s rough and gettin’ there is dangerous.”
    “Good,” she said.
    “Jackie, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
    “I won’t get hurt.”
    She wondered if he understood how her life had changed that day, when those judges had rejected her dance, had shattered her dream. She looked at Justin, touched by his concern, and somehow felt older than he, wiser, ready for whatever came.
    Justin shrugged and pulled his goggles off. “Okay, then let’s party.”
    They hurried into the bam and were greeted by about a dozen teenagers. Lanterns cast long, eerie shadows across a floor still strewn with hay. Couples danced amid the bales as bottles of homemade wine circulated along with homegrown joints. Jackie took a swig of the wine and, when a joint made its way to her, considered taking a hit.
    Justin pulled her close. “Hey, you don’t do that stuff, remember?” She looked at him defiantly, then laughed. “Just take it easy,” he said. “It’ll be a long night.”
    “Not long enough for me,” she said.
    Andrei arranged to receive Marion Andrews in Ms office while Kimberly was still dressing. The three of them would take the flight together, but he knew that Marion would expect time alone with him. He didn’t mind; he thought she was one of the most interesting American women he had met. She had become a powerful political figure in the PPP stronghold of Chicago, and she was also Petya Samanov’s mistress— an intoxicating combination.
    Marion swept in, elegant as always in a blur of French perfume, pale blue silk, and glowing pearls. “Marion, you look stunning,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Petya sends Ms love.”
    “I’m jealous. You saw Mm today, and I haven’t been with him in two weeks.”
    “He plans to rectify that situation very soon,” Andrei said. “Can I fix you a