39
A Poem
By Max
White is the color of little bunnies with pink noses.
White is the color of fluffy clouds fluffing their way across the sky.
White is the color of soft-serve ice cream in a cone.
White is the color of angels’ wings and Angel’s wings.
White is the color of brand-new ankle socks fresh out of the bag.
White is the color of crisp sheets in schmancy hotels.
White is the color of every last freaking, gol-danged thing you see for endless miles and miles if you happen to be in Antarctica trying to save the world, which now you aren’t so sure you can do because you feel like if you see any more whiteness — Wonder Bread, someone’s underwear, teeth — you will completely and totally lose your ever-lovin’ mind and wind up pushing a grocery cart full of empty cans around New York City, muttering to yourself.
That was my first poem ever.
Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but I liked it.
We tied up at the Lucir station’s dock, next to a couple other boats. Awaiting us were a bunch of bright red metal buildings built up on stilts.
“They’re expecting us,” said Sue-Ann, motioning to the first building. “We can go in, meet some people, and they’ll show us to the guest quarters.”
“Okay,” I said, teeth prepared to clench, prebattle adrenaline starting to trickle into my veins.
There was no green: no trees, no shrubs, no grass, no weeds. There were also no sidewalks, no trash, no skyscrapers, no cars. It was completely different from anything we’d ever seen before, and suddenly the phrase “polar opposites” made a lot more sense.
“This is like being on the moon,” Nudge said in an awed voice. “It’s so clean.”
“We’re explorers,” said Gazzy happily. “We might see stuff no one else has ever seen.”
I looked at my flock. Each of them seemed a little nervous and a lot excited. They had a real purpose, beyond just cleaning their rooms or keeping watch or finding food. Even if that real purpose was concocted by scientists to create needless panic in the populace, still. The kids felt as though they could help. Clearly they just wanted to forget that this time three weeks ago we’d been fighting for our lives again. And, I mean, why would any kid want to forget that?
If they really liked being here, really really liked it, would they still come with me when it was time to leave? Because no matter what happened here or how much they felt they were helping, we would still eventually have to leave. We always leave.
This reality check brought to you by Max. You’re welcome.
Fang and Iggy were facing away from the station buildings, in the direction of the endless whitescape. Fang stood out against the ice as if carved out of black marble. He turned and motioned me over with a nod.
“Gosh, lots of . . . white, huh?” I said, bouncing on my heels, already feeling the cold.
“Yeah .
. . ,” Iggy said in a weird voice.
“You’re actually not missing that much, Ig,” I told him. “It’s not like other places, where there’s tons of different stuff to see. Everything here is pretty much white. Lots of sharp white edges.”
Fang touched my hand, and I turned to him. He nodded at Iggy.
“I know,” said Iggy. “I can see it.”
40
OKAY, I’M GOING to float out a theory here, and maybe it’s crap, but I’m thinking that the complete absence of color had something to do with the blind kid suddenly being able to see stuff.