Free My Own Revolution by Carolyn Marsden Page A

not?”
    Karel stands by the wall, grinning. Emil twists with his long-haired partner.
    At that moment, the music changes from fast Beach Boys to a slow Beatles song we hardly ever hear. Paul McCartney sings about birds on a hill. I hadn’t bargained on a slow song. The girl, woman really, steps toward me. I hold up one hand to take hers, ballroom-style.
    But instead of taking the hand I offer, she slips both arms around my shoulders. Though her head comes just to my chin, I’m taken into her world of silky warmth, perfume, and beer fumes. The black light comes on, making everyone’s eyeballs glow.
    I try not to think of Danika. I try not to think of her dancing like this with Bozek. I try not to think of her whispering secrets in his ear.
    I step on my partner’s foot.
    “Ouch!” she exclaims, drawing back slightly. “What’s wrong with you?”
    I release my grip on her waist. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a good time. . . .”
    She shoves me away, her teeth glinting. “Make up your mind, kid. Next time, don’t ask until you’re sure.”
    On the way home, I go into the Foto-Kino shop to buy a roll of film. Inside, the shelves are full of bottles of chemicals for developing. Two cameras sit displayed in a glass case.
    When I ask for film, the young woman shakes her head. “There’s no film. None at all.” She pinches her eyebrows together.
    “Not even one roll?”
    “There’s no film in the whole city.”
    I slap the counter. Stupid government. Always a shortage of something. Then I lower my voice. “Not even on the black market?”
    “Not even.”
    I must have film. How else will I get through the days? Slowly, I count out my allowance on the counter, enough for ten rolls at normal prices.
    At first, the woman looks puzzled. Then her pale fingers close around the bills, bundling them into her fist. With her head tilted down, she looks up at me, her mascara a little smeared.
    I meet those eyes without blinking. I need film.
    Without a word, the woman goes to the back room. I hear her dial the telephone. Hear her speak muffled words. She comes back out, saying, “Go to the corner. Someone will come.”
    “How will they know me?”
    “I told them you’re tall.”
    Out on the corner, I tap the light pole.
Tappa-tap-tap.
Standing here in the open, I feel naked. So many people driving and walking by. Any of them could say,
Aha! There’s that boy. That flag burner.
    My hands itch for the feel of the small orange box. Or maybe the film won’t be inside a box. Maybe just a black canister. Black and perfectly smooth, with a coil of treasure inside.
    Tappa-tap-tap.
    I’ve stepped out of line, like Adam Uherco. I’ve made myself a target. And here I am exposed and alone, with no friends standing nearby.
    But I can’t think about that. Instead I imagine opening my camera, unwinding the end of the film, tucking it in, snapping the camera tight. With film I could record the world, feeling that special power in my hands.
    A group of young girls passes, giggling. Businessmen with briefcases. A soldier from the disco. A Gypsy stands out in her long, flowered skirt, hoop earrings, and bright kerchief. If only I had my camera. I’d capture this woman, show her to Danika later on. . . .
    People come near, but no one swerves close. No one comes to me grasping a precious roll of film.
    Tappa-tap-tap.
    I walk back to the shop. A CLOSED sign hangs in the window. I peer in, but there’s no trace of the saleswoman.
    At the corner by my building, two new men stand guard. I see the bulges of walkie-talkies in their jacket pockets. They know. They know all about me.

“A letter arrived for you, Patrik,” says Mami when I come in from school. She holds out a slim white envelope.
    I never get mail. I drop my book satchel onto the floor and take the letter. Sure enough, here’s my name in black-and-white across the front:
Patrik Chrobak.
The return address is that of the Trencin police station. “Did you open this?” I ask