Seneca Rebel

I HAD TO find a way to get out of the S.E.R.C. residences and into Dom’s secret sushi lab. Usually I was good on minimal sleep but now it had been two whole days, going on two nights with only a few hours under my belt. My brain was fried. I was borderline delirious, operating on adrenaline fumes. There was no way I was getting past the men in blue so I buckled down, brainstormed and began to devise a plan.

An hour later Ellen Malone showed up at my door.

“Thank you so much for coming, Ellen. I’m sure this isn’t how you want to spend your Saturday night.”

“Of course, Doro, are you kidding? I can’t imagine how you must feel after witnessing something so awful. This is such a tragedy.”

“I know. It’s so surreal. One moment they were laughing. Right there, a few feet in front of me, the next...” I replayed the crash in my head, Brittany’s scream, the chaos on the porch, Reba standing there with the chewed-up cookie in his open mouth. The visuals were burned on my mind like a brand on cattle. I knew it would be with me forever. “I wish that whole night never happened.”

“There are a lot of people who feel the same.”

I hung my head. Ellen patted me on the back. “Don’t worry. Everyone is going to go through their own grieving process after what happened, and things are going to be tense around here for a while, but they will brighten up. Just know that, okay?”

“I hope so.”

“So, how about those chilaquiles?”

I smiled, but not fully. I was dying for some Mexican food, but hated that I was pulling one over on Ellen. There’d been no other way. I figured that, if she knew what was really going on with Dom being thrown under the bus, she’d have understood. Either way, I had to make the decisions that were in the best interest of Dom, myself, and as bold as it sounded, the entire Seneca Society.

“I am so ready. The meal hall is great and all, but I need a change of scenery.”

“You bet.”

Ellen Malone and I strolled right past the men in blue, who didn’t question us. Few people in Seneca could get away with questioning Ellen Malone. Congressman Wallingsford was out of the picture, I assumed, consumed with the well-being of G.W., who was in critical condition at an undisclosed location. I really hoped he’d be okay, and was sure he was receiving the best possible medical care, but I’d seen that crash and I knew it would take a miracle for him to walk away from it the same way he went in.

Ellen didn’t ask any questions and thankfully she didn’t try to make conversation for the sake of avoiding silence. She was comfortable just being. There were so many things about her I really respected. She was one of the people I looked up to most in Seneca, one of the ones who gave me hope that, although there were some shady things going on behind the curtains, there was also limitless possibility.

At Dia De Los Ninos, my favorite Senecan Mexican Restaurant, the hostess was happy to see me. It made me feel good. I was regarded as a regular in a spot that not so long ago had felt so strange. Seneca was starting to feel like home, or at least a home away from home. I still missed my Saturday night excursions to Highland Park for driveway pupusas with Julie and our moms and I always would, but this helped fill that hole inside me as best it could. The hostess walked us to our seats and looked back at Ellen, “Trajiste a otro amigo que chilaquiles.” “Sí, nunca los ha tenido tampoco,” I replied.

The hostess gave Ellen a playful ’shame, shame′ wave of the finger and then handed us our menus as we took our seats. Ellen didn’t know what we said, but she went right along with it. A waiter brought over some chips and salsa and I dove right in.

There was no holding me back from chips and salsa.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish. That’s something I definitely should have known, considering.”

“Everyone in LA knows Spanish.”

“Makes sense. Silly me.”

It was pretty funny that she knew about my quantum computing skills and offshore financial activities, but had no clue that I was fluent in Spanish.

The waiter came and took our order. I asked for two of the same dish– went for the verdes because I knew that would be easier on Ellen’s undoubtedly sensitive palate than my go-to chipotle.

I gathered my nerve because I was about to lie to Ellen’s face. Something I really wished I didn’t have to do. I felt the guilt building from my toes to my fingertips. She’d been awfully nice to bring me out, and I did appreciate it. I hoped she would never find out about this.

And here it came.

“I don’t feel so hot.”

“Oh no. What’s wrong?”

“My stomach. Ugh.”

“Nerves?”

“No, more like sick sick.”

“We can have them pack our food to go if you want–”

“No, no. I’ll be fine...” I hesitated. This was tougher than I’d thought. I hunched over a little and feigned stomach cramps. The guilt running through me was ridiculous. “I think I might vomit.”

“We’d better get you home.”

“You know what, I’ll be okay. I’ll just head back. You stay and enjoy your meal.”

“Doro, I can’t just leave you.”

“No, really, I’ll be fine.”

The way Ellen looked at me so caringly jabbed me with little needles all over. I felt like such a deceitful person. I secondguessed myself, wondering if I should have concocted another plan.

“Why don’t I just walk you back, and then I can take my food home with me?”

“Please, Ellen, I really want you to have the full experience here. I’ll be fine.” I stood up and hunched over, rubbing my belly.

“I don’t know–”

“I’ll flex you later to check in.”

I could tell Ellen just felt bad for me. I had to drive this home.

She was insisting, but I had to insist more.

“I’d hug you, but I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Okay, I want to hear from you before you go to sleep, understood?”

“Yes, I’ll flex you.”

Ellen watched me go. Emotions of every variety rushed through me as I walked out into the bustling restaurant district of Seneca City. People in blue streaming through the halls, coming and going on the acoustic carrier. But I didn’t have time for anything but the mission at hand. I was in a race against the clock.