On the Edge of Gone Read online

  “I meant that it’s strange eating like this, when outside . . . looks the way it does.”

  “And people are starving?” Sanne says from behind us.

  “Yeah.”

  Sanne slides in at our table. “People have always been starving.”

  “It’s different when it’s this personal.”

  “True. Screws with your head. You’re Iris?”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “I think I knew you were on board before you did.”

  Iris finally brings the strawberry to her mouth. “You raided the airport with Denise, right?”

  “Hey, I’ll let you kids talk,” Els says. “Unless you want to walk with me, Iris? I’ll introduce you to your supervisor.”

  “Yeah, yeah!” She grabs her empty plate.

  “Denise, see you in fifteen minutes?” Els says.

  “Nine o’clock,” I confirm.

  “To the minute, I bet.” Els laughs and heads out.

  “See you at lunch?” Iris says.

  “Right here, Hall B,” I remind her. I watch her follow Els, feeling the same jolt I’ve felt a hundred times since seeing Iris’s silhouette on that playground slide. I blurt out, “I’m glad you’re here. And can eat.”

  “Me, too.”

  I wonder why it takes her two full seconds to say that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  SANNE AND I SIT ALONE AT THE TABLE. I sip my tea to disguise my awkwardness. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? Max said.”

  “I started at five, actually. I’m on break. I’m assisting in engineering.”

  “Fancy.”

  “Assisting. That means, ‘Pass this. Hold that. Don’t say anything.’” She shrugs. “At least I’m useful.”

  I remember Sanne’s devotion to usefulness. For all her sort-of-kind-of-friendliness lately, her rant at the airport remains vivid. “I hear you’re extra useful,” I say.

  “The Productivity Wars. Engineering in the morning and afternoon, childcare in the evening. If I have spare time, Fatima and I stop by the kitchens.”

  “The two of you do make a good team,” I say, remembering the whirlwind way they approached the airport last Wednesday. “What are you trying to win this time? Do you have family in the shelters? Max is trying to get his cousin on board.”

  “Mmm.” Sanne purses her lips. “You should know that . . .”

  Know what? When she doesn’t continue, I fling out, “You and Max?”

  She makes an undignified sound. “That dork? I like him and all, but no thanks on the kissing. What I want to say—the thing is . . .” It’s the first time I’ve seen her hesitate. “Last month, I was living here, at Schiphol.” She tugs her head in the direction of the main buildings. “It was already abandoned. Seemed like a safe place.”

  Her words take a second to click. “You were homeless?”

  “Yeah.” Sanne seems relieved she’s not the one to say it. “I was only there for two weeks, but I kept hearing noises and seeing people around. When I talked to them, they were cagey. I followed them, saw them disappear into the Nassau’s cloak, and sneaked on board. They found me in, like, twenty minutes, but when the captain realized I was alone and had nowhere to go, he made an exception and took me in.”

  I blink in surprise. She’s an exception, too? I’m unsure what to say, until—“Oh. You’re not trying to get anyone on board. You’re trying to prove yourself.”

  Sanne runs a hand through her hair, all short, wild locks. “I keep worrying they’ll change their minds. If they run the numbers again and realize they need to kick someone out, some homeless girl with no connections will be the first to go, won’t I?” She’s talking fast, then her jaw shuts audibly. “I don’t wanna worry you or anything.”

  “I’m OK,” I say automatically. I’m not sure I am, though. If they do run short on supplies, I can’t blame Captain Van Zand for changing his mind about me. Or even Iris and Sanne. None of us are as essential as Els or Leyla or Max. We’re lucky to have been housed and fed for this long.

  Logically speaking, I know that, but it still feels shitty.

  Sanne shakes her head. “This isn’t how I meant for this to go. I’m just paranoid. It’s a good ship. They took in this messed-up homeless teenager, you know? They took in orphans and refugees. This guy in a wheelchair I talked to says the Nassau is the only ship that would take him and his sister, even though they’re both, like, engineering geniuses. The Nassau doesn’t give a damn as long as you contribute.”

  I nod, trying to take comfort from that—but maybe not succeeding—when my tab alarm beeps. It’s time for work.

  “We just have to last four more days,” Sanne says. “We’ll make it.”

  “Hey, Denise Lichtveld, right?” A college-aged girl pops up as I exit the dining hall. “That’s you? With the scooter? I was wondering—”

  “If this is about the shelters, I don’t know anything.”

  “The one by Gouda?” she says hopefully.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Could you visit and see if—I mean, I’ve been getting up at four in the morning to help with breakfast so that my friend—”

  “Why tell me? I’m not in charge of the waiting list,” I protest. I walk faster. “Gouda is much too far, anyway. I need to work.”

  “Hey, wait,” another woman pipes up. “What’s your name again?”

  I halt. She’s in my path: I don’t have a choice. “Denise. If this is about the shelters—”

  “You have that scooter, right? Where’d you get it?”

  “In town.”

  The woman is narrow, with a head of frizzy dishwater-blond hair. She talks with a harsh Amsterdam twang that reminds me of Anke. “Right. Where in town?”

  “People traded it. But they don’t have any scooters left.”

  The woman makes a face. “Can I borrow yours? You’re not using it now, right?”

  “Obviously.” In the corner of my eye, I see the college girl drooping off. “What for?”

  “To go into town. Obviously.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No,” I repeat. I let the engineers use the scooter, but they’re engineers—if it breaks, they’ll fix it. They’re close to the ship, so the scooter can’t get lost. They recharge it for me when they’re done using it. If someone else takes it into town, I don’t have any of those guarantees. “The engineers need it for repairs. Why do you need it?”

  “If the answer is no anyway, why should I tell you?”

  I step back so I can go around her. Behind her is a small group. Is that Anke? And those parents who collected breakfast for her the other day? There’s also a man I don’t recognize, who calls, “She needs it to check on her parents. Good enough reason?”

  “The engineers need it,” I repeat, and dash past. Only when I’m near Els’s office does it occur to me that I should’ve offered my sympathies for her parents and the college girl’s friend in the shelters, like Iris did with Anke last night.

  Too late now. I put my hand on the door, which slides open with that familiar squeak that makes my toes curl for a long second.

  Els looks up. “You’re late.”

  I check my tab. One minute past nine. “I’m sorry. I was held up.”

  “It’s a joke. You’re just never here past nine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, frowning. She’s right. I’m never late. It itches at me as I take my seat.

  “I don’t mind when you show up, as long as you do. I know you’ll get everything done. Why were you held up?”

  “People asking about the shelters. Someone wanted to borrow my scooter. I said no.”

  Els moves her projection out from between us. “Good. More people will ask, I’m sure. They’re getting restless without news from the shelters.”

  “People from the east of the country were sending help, weren’t they?”

  “We haven’t heard anything since. The passengers shouldn’t
leave the ship, either way.” She rubs her face. “They can’t tell anyone about the Nassau, so what’s left? ‘Help is on the way, bye now.’ ‘Here’s a piece of bread, but for my aunt and no one else.’”

  “They could give their relatives a ride to dry land,” I say, thinking of the family Samira, Nordin, and I dropped off on the A1.

  “It’ll cost a ton of energy going back and forth that far. And then what—‘See you later,’ and they leave their loved ones in the dark? And ignore everyone else in the shelter? Worst-case scenario, they’ll sneak people on board or somehow convince the captain to make yet more exceptions. I’ve been running the numbers. Even taking into account the people we lost in the flood, it looks bad. Our first crops might fail or take longer to get ready for harvest than we expect. We can’t know for certain how long it’ll take until we can grow our own food instead of relying on supplies—whether as our main diets or merely supplements. We need a safety net. If we were smart, we wouldn’t bring anyone else aboard. If any survivors discover we’re here, we’ll have hundreds—thousands!—of people clamoring for just that.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she hurries to add, “I’m glad you and Iris made it on, and I know your mother is on the waiting list. I just mean . . .”

  I tap a rhythm on my thigh under the table where Els can’t see. Sanne’s concerns may be more on point than she knew. I’m both glad I got Iris in on time, and cussing silently because Els’s words mean the odds of getting Mom on board legitimately look even worse. “I understand. You’re being objective. But if you don’t want new passengers, you should tell people. They’re taking on extra jobs to move their families higher on the waiting list.”

  “The Productivity Wars.”

  “Does everybody know about this but me?”

  Els laughs. “At least it keeps people busy. Those decisions aren’t up to me, anyway. I wish.”

  I’m silent for a moment.

  “We all came on board knowing we’d leave people behind.”

  I nod, but it doesn’t sit right. Keeping people busy. Ignoring them. Dumping them like animals at the Way Station. The shelters make me think of narrow underground caverns, people packed together like toothpicks, their faces more gaunt by the day.

  Els levels a serious look at me. “We don’t just have a ship full of people to think about. We have all the generations that come after us. Hundreds of years’ worth of people. They need a chance, too.”

  “Futures,” I say reluctantly.

  “Exactly. The big picture.”

  I’m starting to hate those words.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “PASSENGERS ARE GETTING IMPATIENT FOR news about the available spots, though,” I say. “Should we tell them we’re still calculating?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but I’ll talk to the captain. Can you draft an announcement to run by him?” Els asks.

  “I think so.” I’ve copied enough announcements to know the style.

  “Then I know so.” She leans back. “I trust you.”

  Three words. It’s so simple.

  I write the draft. She doesn’t change a single comma.

  “Why do you trust me? Why did you offer me this job?” I ask. I’ve wondered for days. She went from wanting me to stay put, sit quietly, and leave when asked to taking me under her wing.

  Els fingers her teacup. She sighs. “Guilt?”

  “About?”

  She minimizes her projection. It’s a conversation now. I don’t mind: I want to know. “In 2030, I lost my position at the University of Amsterdam because of cutbacks. I went from studying the future of the agricultural industry to teaching uninterested teenagers about moss. I resented the job, to be honest. As much as I hate that godforsaken comet, it got me away from that and let me work on what I love. It made me matter again.”

  I’d feel guilty, too. I suppose I’m like the rest of the world in that one aspect: the comet only ever took from me.

  “So when you came on board asking questions . . . part of me felt that same resentment. Like part of that life had come back to muck things up. But you were only trying to survive. I wasn’t fair to you.”

  She unwinds her scarf, taking so long about it that I wonder if she expects me to respond. “You were following the rules,” I offer after a minute. It makes her words no more pleasant. Resentment. Was that how she’d looked at me? Then how am I supposed to trust how she looks at me now?

  My words elicit a thankful smile. “Mostly, though, I knew you could do the job. Did you ever know other autistic people?”

  I shake my head. I’d heard rumors about one teacher, but never asked him. Mom had encouraged me to find a local support group, but I’d never seen the appeal—or the need. It wouldn’t change anything. I had friends, anyway. People online, my fellow volunteers at the Way Station. I even got along with Iris’s friends.

  “Well, I did, and I feel like a fool for never recognizing your autism. I had autistic colleagues at the university. They were accommodated, and they thrived. One researcher came in earlier than everyone else and would stay the longest. I saw the same strengths in you once I knew to look for them. You’re punctual, you’re precise, you’re trustworthy. When you don’t know something, you either figure it out or you ask, and either way, you get it right. I wanted to give you the same chance my colleagues had, and that other Nassau passengers got. One of the doctors is autistic—did you know?” Els silences an incoming call. “Does that answer your question?”

  “You’re very thorough.” Under other circumstances, I’d be embarrassed, awkward, even skeptical, but what I feel most is relief. I’d worried she was working with me out of pity. I wrestle down a smile. “A doctor on board is . . . ?”

  “Dr. Meijer. Brown hair, eyebrow piercing, and she’s kind of . . . large?”

  She’s the one who patched up my arm. She’d been briskly efficient, friendly but not chatty. I’d been too exhausted and in too much pain to worry about what she thought of me, but now I wonder whether she knew about my autism. All of a sudden, I’m hesitant about my next checkup. Someone as successful as Dr. Meijer must not be very impressed with me.

  “Did you tell her about me?”

  “No. That’s up to you.” Els cocks her head. “Why didn’t you tell the school?”

  She answered my question; I should answer hers. This time, I don’t mind so much. “In primary school, the teachers treated me differently. I had to stay after school and talk to a counselor about approaching classmates or making eye contact. She’d show me pictures of expressions even though I knew all that.” I shrug. “I just—I didn’t like it. Everything she told me, I could look up online myself. I wanted to try secondary school the normal way. I asked my mother not to say anything.”

  “But you were unhappy. The difference between you then and now . . . I wish you’d told someone.”

  Unhappy doesn’t cover it. I dreaded school so much, I didn’t want to sleep at night and couldn’t get up in the morning; I’d park my bike near the bike garage exit just so I could be the first to leave after classes.

  “It got harder to, after a while” is all I say.

  After everything Els has admitted to, I feel like I should tell her that, eventually, I’d wished Mom would tell the school, because I didn’t know how to. That I’d wished Mom would have noticed that she needed to tell them in the first place. And that I couldn’t simply ask her to, because truth is, I didn’t want to admit that it hadn’t worked out, and I didn’t think anything would change anyway. What could the school do? Give me less homework? That wouldn’t be fair. Tutor me? I shouldn’t need that. Force my classmates to be nicer, and clearer, and more patient? Even if they listened, they’d only laugh at slow, stupid Denise behind my back.

  And what if the school did all that, and I still failed?

  Maybe I am like Els. The comet took away my cats and my home, but it also took away my school.

  “It’s better now,” I tell her. Maybe I can be like
Dr. Meijer or those colleagues of Els’s. I can thrive.

  “All right.” Els stretches. “We should get back to work. Can you put up these other announcements?” She flicks the files from her tab to mine, and I correct the formatting and put them up. The announcements area looks good. Clean. Cleaner than the rest of the ship’s public information, actually.

  I glance up at Els. “I have a question . . .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  AT LUNCH, I’M BURSTING TO TELL IRIS what I’ve been doing, but contain myself long enough to ask about her day instead.

  “I mostly explored. This ship is a hell of a place.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good. Mostly.” She stands at the buffet, an empty plate in hand, and stares at the food.

  “Did you get a job yet?”

  “What?” It’s like it costs her physical effort to tear her attention away from the food. “Oh. I’m cleaning. One of the most essential jobs there is”—she says that part in a fake perky voice—“according to that dumb announcement. Did you read it?”

  “Yes. I edited it.” My grin falters when I realize—“You know that. I told you I put up the ship’s announcements.”

  Iris coughs into her arm. “Right. Of course.”

  “It’s . . . it’s OK. You were distracted.”

  “Sorry.” She picks two rolls, peanut butter, dried apple crisps. “It was well written. Nice job.”

  “Did you see the rest of the public information system?”

  “I took a look last night.”

  I try to recall that—we talked and went straight to sleep, I thought—which must show on my face, since Iris adds, “I didn’t sleep much.”

  “Look at it now?”

  “Can I look when we sit?”

  “I guess.” I sigh in an overly dramatic fashion so she’ll know I’m joking.

  I load up my own lunch, mimicking Iris’s selection. The peanut butter and apple crisps—yes. The rolls are trickier. Seeds dot the crusts, and while I’ve learned to eat the small ones, seeds on the crust are often a warning sign that there’s all sorts of weirdness in the interior of the bread, too, seeds or almonds or raisins. While I’m wondering whether to risk it or wait for Iris to cut hers open, a familiar head of dirty blond frizz enters the room. The woman who asked about my scooter this morning. I turn away. She’ll probably recognize me just as easily from behind, though—there aren’t many people with hair like mine on board.