Chapter 3: Somber Sixteen

As a kid, I used to rummage through the cardboard boxes in my grandmother's attic. She would sit across from me, in her old rocking chair with floral decals painted on the armrests. I still remembered the cream colored shawl she wore draped over her shoulders with a small phoenix pin attached above her heart and the golden chopsticks she kept threaded through her silver bun. My grandmother was a lot like my father, they both shared the same apple cheeks and sparkling blue eyes but more so, they both had a tendency to never say more than needed. It was for that particular reason, I found myself amused at my grandmother's stories as I uncovered her most precious memories of the past.

The first item I uncovered was a wedding photo. It was rather shocking to not only see my grandmother at the golden age of 25 but to see her smiling while being in the same room as my grandfather. She had waved her hand dismissively at the photo and claimed it was the biggest mistake of her life. She vowed to never smile so brightly while standing so close to him again. I believed that to be true until I was twelve years old and my grandfather had passed away. The day of his funeral she stood over his casket, cursed him to hell and smiled.

The second item, a golden trophy, earned a more positive response. Upon seeing it, she plucked it from my hands and cradled it close to her chest as if it were a baby. A gold painted girl stood on top of a black platform, with her one leg bent like a flamingo and arms positioned above her head as she carried two shiny pom poms. At the age of seven I had no interest school spirit or cheerleaders, so I just shrugged my shoulders and continued to dig through the box.

A beaded rosary and small leather bound bible was quickly assessed before I threw both to the side. I knew what those were. My attention was then captivated by a bedazzled bodice and a shimmering tulle skirt. The dress was folded neatly in the bottom of the box, acting as a cushion for all other items. With shaking hands, I reached out and traced the sparkling stones with the tips of my fingers. Behind me, the rocking chair groaned in protest as my Grandmother leaned forward.

"Ah yes," she leaned back and the chair cried once more. "My Sweet Sixteen."

Never before had I heard that phrase. Sweet Sixteen. It sounded foreign and a little confusing, like hanukkah. I had enough sense at the age of seven to realize she was referring to her sixteenth birthday but nobody, not in the United States, at least, would call it sweet. My sister Christine existed as my source for the older and more complex world, like a walking, talking and bitching encyclopedia. And when she talked about turning sixteen, she used words like awful, nightmare and 'quite possibly the worst day of her existence'. Not sweet. Not even close.

"Before all of this happened," Grams looked out of the small, ovular window on the far attic wall. It was just large enough to catch a glimpse of the fading sun. The sherbert and bubblegum striped sky looked like a carnival treat, like cotton candy or maybe ice cream.

"The world was a different place. Less afraid, and good. Phe, you must understand that we have given a lot dangerous people too much control because of our fear. And now, things that were once so innocent, like sweet sixteens, are filled with hatred and despair."

I nodded but at the time, I couldn't really say that I understood. In the matter of seconds my attention was otherwise captivated by another dusty relic and the dress was forgotten.

——————————————-

I understood now.

Lying on top of the quilt Grams made me for my nineth birthday, I stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the boy who stood in my doorway. Technically, he wasn't a boy. Not in the true sense of the word. Boys were scrawny with pitched voices and acne that melted together like pepperoni on pizza. He had grown out of the scrawny body, towering several inches over me, sinewy muscles now covered his arms and legs and elevated his chest. There was a smattering of blond facial hair on his jaw and chin, where the pimples had previously resided.

"You need to get dressed." His voice was deep now, with warm timber. Not a boy.

Reluctantly, I looked away from the ceiling fan and appraised my brother. He wore a freshly-ironed, button down shirt and pressed slacks, his golden curls were slicked back with gel. His shirt matched his eyes, powder blue, the color of baby bonnets and summer skies. There was something so young and fresh about that color, maybe that was why I could not call him a man despite him being twenty-one.

"The congregation begins in less than an hour."

Grams was right. Really, my sixteenth birthday should have been a fun and even a joyous occasion.We should have rented dance hall and decorated it in pink and violet balloons with streamers hanging from the ceiling and buffet tables covered in sugary treats. But things had changed since the 2030s. Instead of partying with my friends in a sparkling ball gown, I had to go to church. It was a practice that only existed in the rural towns of America. In the hours before a youth's sixteen birthday the town's pastor would call upon a special congregation. It was a last ditch effort to protect the teenager from becoming a monster. No one actually thought it worked, it certainly didn't work for Asher but that didn't stop tradition. If anything the ceremony acted as a funeral, in case the results returned with an unexpected verdict.

"I brought this for you, only God knows what mental state you're in after last night," he held out a steaming cup of coffee.

Sitting up, I swung my legs off the side of the bed and graciously accepted the cup. I wasn't hungover, if that's what he thought but I was in desperate need of caffeine. The warm steam fanned my face, as I sipped the bitter liquid. Adam lingered in the doorway as he eyed me carefully.

"Christine and I did the same thing, you know." I curved a brow. "We partied the day before our birthday. We got wasted, thinking this may be our last night to truly live..."

His brows furrowed, he looked at the wooden floorboards. "And then the next day came and we went to our congregation, shaking as if at any second someone was going to slap the handcuffs on our wrists and take us away."

"But no one did," He blinked and looked back at me. "The results said that we were just as human as we were yesterday and the day before. Nothing changed. When this is all over, you'll look back on today and realize it wasn't nearly as bad as you thought."

Squaring my shoulders, I attempted a smile and placed the coffee mug on my bedside table. My smile must not have been convincing enough because he stepped forward, his arms extended as if to embrace me. I stared at his arms for a breathless second as I  tried to remember the last time he actually hugged me. I couldn't.

"You should go," I stepped around him and gestured to the door. "I need to get dressed."

No need to break tradition now.

He cleared his throat as his arms fell by his waist. Offering me one last look of condolence, he turned on his heel- his shiny loafer screeching against the wooden floors- and slammed the door shut. There was a deafening silence that enveloped the room in his wake. I found my own arms, wrapping around my waist as, I consoled myself. My dress was draped over the headboard of my bed. It was black and made from an heavy fabric- something with structure and modesty.

Just like a funeral.

——————————-

Through the thin black webbing of my veil, I watched the golden fields of rye pass as my mother's humble station wagon hobbled down the dirt path. A red monster of a machine sat in the middle of the field, picking apart the plants. There was nothing particularly interesting about the field or the red tractor but still I found myself staring, trying memorize each detail. Just in case.

It was also a more interesting alternative than listening to my mother's commentary.

"Turn that garbage off," My mother sat in the passenger seat and glared at my father.

"No! I like that song," Christine swatted my father's hand away from the knob as he tried to change it.

"Of course you would," My mother sniffed and changed the song herself.

Christine slumped back in the leather seat and rolled her eyes. As if she had seen Christine's actions through the back of her skull, my mother turned in her chair and casted my sister a withered glare. Neither said a word, nor did they need to for the message to be heard. I don't remember exactly when this began, this competition between the two. Maybe things changed when Christine turned thirteen and gained two generously sized boobs and a sudden interest in boys. My mother's enthusiasm for alcohol began around that time and her comments were less than kind.

My mother huffed and looked away first. A small smile curved at the edge of Christine's lips. Victory.

"R-Really, Cheryl, Hip-Hop is not nearly as expletive as it was when our parents were kids," My father's knuckles whitened as he clutched the steering wheel tighter.

"Sure, the Decency Act of 2063 keeps the songs from being vulgar but it doesn't make it anymore poetic. I swear this country will go back to hell if we don't remember the chaos that happened before we got rid of separation of church and state," She pulled out a silver flask from her coat pocket, "Women were practically naked all the time, movies and music were possessed by demons and remember they even let the gays believe they were normal people! Hah!"

She tipped her head back and took a sip from her flask. Her thin, lips twisted as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. I wondered what it was this time. Vodka? Tequila? No, must have been something stronger to get such a response.

"I can't imagine how people could live in such an unholy way."

My father shrunk in his seat, his lips mashed into a tight line. Christine and Adam also seemed content to let her continue with her righteous speech but not me. Any other day I would have let her prattle on but in the hours so close to my final judgement, I found myself feeling rather apathetic. Consequences be damned.

"You seem to do just fine," I said, garnering the attention of my family for the first time since we entered the vehicle.

There was a heavy silence that hung in the air in the following seconds. It was like someone had paused a movie. Christine and Adam looked back at me, their mouths wide open, my father refused to take his eyes off of the road and my mother froze, the flask in mid air. And then, as if someone had suddenly pushed the play, I ducked as a silver flask was launched at my head. My mother was screaming, the tendons in her neck bulged as her faces turned a deep shade of red.

I opened my mouth but she held up one perfectly manicured finger and cut me off. "Say one more word and I'll send you to a place much worse than the OSCF."

I chose to keep my mouth shut as we pulled into the crowded parking lot. Saint Mary's Church was an oblong brick building with tall painted windows and a peaked roof with a cross that sat on top of a spire. A group of spectators had gathered by the doors, eagerly waiting for our arrival. Today, was Darwin's first glimpse of excitement since Ella Mason's birthday two weeks ago. The men dressed in their finest dress shirts and slacks, while the women wore their ridiculously large hats and pearls. They whispered behind colorful fans and cupped hands as the car doors opened.

My mom and dad stepped out first, forced smiles on their faces as they greeted their friends. They were then followed by Christine and Adam who acted in a similar suit. Christine obnoxiously called out to her former high school besties while Adam offered a reserved nod to the people he used to know. But for once the attention was not centered on my two older siblings. No, everyone wanted to see me.

I knew this congregation was just for show. It was a piece of entertainment for the older folks who never knew the true fear of being judged. They were never forced to stand in the House of God and pray that they could be granted a nice, normal life. They didn't know what it was like to look in the mirror each day and try to see past the physical shell, to see if there was something darker lingering beneath. My hands shook as I climbed out of the car. I folded them behind my back so no one could see how scared I really was. My father stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders as he guided me to the church. Adam and Christine walked in front of us, their faces suddenly grim as we approached the doors.

Adam looked back at me as he stepped over the threshold, as if to tell me that everything would be okay. My breath stilled in my chest as I saw Preacher Bryan standing at the end of the altar, beneath a golden statue of Jesus and the cross. My throat closed and the acid in my stomach began to churn. There was nothing I wanted more than to be back in Grams attic, completely innocent and unaware but Grams was dead now and that attic along with the rest of the house, belonged to a new family. There was no place to hide from the inevitable.

So, I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

**Hi Guys! I just wanted to check in and see how you guys are liking this book and the story so far! Your feedback means a lot to me and one of my favorite things about Wattpad is the way in which writers and readers are able to interact.

Question for y'all: Knowing yourself, do you think you would pass or fail the blood test? Is there an interesting story attached to that reason...?

XOXO,

Ro.**