Twenty-three – Calvin

I wake up in the dark and roll over. My mind feels foggy, like I haven't slept at all, or like I'm waking up from a shitty hangover. I guess that's just the anxiety getting to me. Not only is the question of what happened to Oliver burning all my energy, but I'm also paranoid about everything. My class doesn't take violations of Class law and regulations lightly, and my parents definitely won't. I don't need a court case before I manage to solve my current problem.

A breeze of cold air blows through the small window. My mind begins to register slight city noises like air-conditioning units humming and the faint sound of cars driving in the distance. It takes a while before I can convince my body to move. Waking up repeatedly thinking that the police are going to storm through the building doesn't help for a quality night's sleep. I sit up and wait for my eyes to adjust, the grey light slowly making objects in the room more apparent. It must still be pretty early. The clock ticks over. 5 AM.

The majority of my body is sluggish and drained but sadly my mind is already calculating the long list of distinguishably horrible events that might happen today. Every part of my being is telling me I have four hours before the library opens and that I need more sleep despite going to bed early. But there's also this splitting buzz beneath my skin, and it's not the fun, bubbly electricity that I'm used to. I'm not the sort of guy to have a doctorate in psychology, but I would say that this feeling is exactly what the double-ended sword of anxiety and depression feels like, especially once it separates your heart from the rest of your body.

After fighting my eyelids and the threat of falling into restless sleep, I finally get the courage to slip out of bed. Mornings are never my thing, so I immediately go out into the staff kitchen, praying that Baylee hasn't come to check on me so I don't have to put pants on. There is instant coffee and a small jar of sugar tucked along the back of the countertop along with two mugs. I notice there is no kettle or sink but there's water in the fridge. It takes a good five minutes for me to figure out how to get the water warm enough to dissolve my two teaspoons of sugar, but eventually I shove a cup of water in the microwave and leave it in until it's warm to the touch.

Once my coffee is made, it's immediately down the hatch. I'm too used to not being allowed coffee in class to drink anything caffeinated slowly. It's not coffee that I'm used to. My house has a fancy coffee machine that the house-aids mainly use to make my parents coffee every three to four hours. Kayleigh used to leave a double-shot latte on the table for me in the morning, but I insisted that I would rather her spend her time on something else. She was persistent but soon enough she left the job to me. That machine is the reason I still go to school every day. And I'm the one who thinks Oliver has an addiction.

Despite it not being my usual, even the warm, bitter and probably very stale instant coffee hits the spot. But the feeling doesn't stick around and is quickly overcome by a queasiness.

What am I doing?

What am I doing that's even helpful? I mean, what did going to the park even do for Oliver? I should just go to the police, but I know it's not that easy. If Oliver really is in trouble, then there's no way he would've had time to set up a game of Cluedo. He probably hasn't even left Lower-class since last week. And I don't know how to help, or if he even needs help.

I vacate to the room, put some pants on, then try to zone out to the tiny sounds of the city.

Without having any mental capacity to think, my brain still manages to destroy my current situation. Why did I really run away? I have nothing. Was I really that worried about Oliver or did I just want to stick it to my parents? I know I'm concerned about him but how did I think this would help him? It was selfish, I was selfish. Again!

Ultimately, without the police, there's nothing I can do.

It's a while before Baylee shows up and she immediately can see my distress. She ushered me away to the room off to the side.

"Have you heard anything?" she asks carefully, probably assuming my distress is from bad news.

I answer simply, "No."

She thinks for a moment. "Do you know what you're doing?"

The question stings. I don't know the answer and that's the worst part. I can't go back... I'll never see Oliver again if I do. My parents would have too many questions. Everything I know would be taken from me. I'm stuck now, in a hole I didn't even think twice about digging.

"Baylee," I let out a deep sigh, "I have no idea." There's an emotion to my voice that I can't hide.

She slips me a phone but doesn't say a thing. It's the Missing Persons Reports for Highland. I scroll through the cases, combing through each description, carefully looking for anything that roughly relates to Oliver. There are roughly 15 missing persons cases. Some are from decades ago; others were only days ago. One case is a missing seventy-three-year-old woman, missing from her home. Another was a fifteen-year-old boy.

After covering most of the cases, not a single one fits Oliver. I skim the last few and catch a very recent one. Teenage boy, name redacted, class redacted, missing marked Thursday. I click on it hoping it's Oliver. Without much information I scroll down to the description. Baylee leans over at the case and I almost drop the phone. Age: 19. Hair: dark brown. Skin tone: tan. Most plausible location or last seen: Middle class.

Neither of us can say a word.

Now I really can't go back, there is already a case to my name. I know for a fact that whether my name is on the case or not, that I can't escape interrogation. Every runaway has a reason, and my reason has serious consequences. Nothing I can say could protect me or Oliver.

Baylee tries to digest the situation out loud. "I don't think this is a good idea, but I know he isn't here." I know what she's suggesting but it's not something she wants to be caught saying to a missing case. "I don't know half as much as you would, but I don't think there's anything good about this situation."

"I don't think so either."

- - -

Baylee talked to me for a short while, but soon enough she was beckoned to help with the library. After I made sure she was busy enough, I scavenged through some drawers and collected paper and pen.

I hesitated for a long time, packing my bag and cleaning the room. I even went and got a coffee from the barista to kickstart my brain... again. But soon enough I was sitting in front of the paper.

I need to leave, and I only have one choice. Get caught. Either way I can't get out of this unscathed. Upper-class police would already have it out for me, especially considering they've been told I ran away to the Middle. No one knows why and that's what they need to find me for.

What I write on the paper is directions for Baylee. She's Lower-class, so she can report that Oliver is missing. But considering she has no evidence to support the claim, it won't make sense to report a missing customer. So I directed her to wait three days, and if my missing persons file stays up, it means I couldn't help him and she needs to go to the police. I even left her some details to make it seem less like they are barely acquainted like Oliver's age and birthday, usual schedule of school, library home, sleep, repeat and minor details about his family and home life. I repeated at the end of the paragraph to not jump the gun and call straight away. All I need is to clarify that our suspicions are right, that he is actually in trouble otherwise that could make Baylee seem extremely suspicious.

At the end of the paragraph, I told her I wasn't going to stay any longer and that I appreciated that she set me up here. The last thing I want to do is get them in trouble for harbouring an Upper-class missing person. That won't look good to either side of the concrete walls.

I need to get into Lower-class. I can try to look for Oliver. There would be obvious places he might go if he wasn't in serious trouble. And if I can't find anything I'll surrender and plead his case, not my own.

Once the note is folded and Baylee's name is clearly visible, I tuck fifty dollars under it for her trouble and sling my bag over my shoulder. I dump my bag at the backdoor, so no one sees, then say goodbye to Baylee. I think she knows what I'm up to already, but I give her no reason to react. She wishes me luck.

After some train jumping, I've reached the station closest to Lower-class. The final station. It's around lunchtime, so everyone is on and off trains. The early morning shift workers sluggishly head home, while others look like they are just getting started. I walk through the station, occasionally having to dodge obnoxious power-walkers and keeping an eye out for any guards or obstacles. The previous stations, even if they have direct trains to either class, were surprisingly empty of guards. If these were Upper-class dominant stations, I would've already seen at least ten guards.

I keep my head up, occasionally glancing at the ticket board to see what trains are headed where. It's not easy avoiding suspicions when it's a Friday morning and you aren't dressed for any form of work and are accompanied by an overnight bag. Anyone could guess I'm not in the right place. As if the universe could read my thoughts, I pass by a panel of glass, catching my dishevelled appearance. Almost nothing about me isn't suspicious. I know for a fact I would've already been detained for questioning if this station had Upper-class's level of security. So, I decide if I don't want to kiss my plans goodbye, I might need to clean up. I spy a bathroom nearby and make my way there.

I'm not surprised when the bathroom is about as clean as the parking lot gutter. It's littered with papers and packets that have overflown from the open bins. And there's a disgusting amount of liquid on the floor that I don't exactly want to guess what it could be. I carefully make my way to the mirror and admire the complete mess that I am. My face feels like it still has crinkled sheets pressed against it and my eyes are drawn out and tired. My hair is all over the place as well, but I didn't wash my typical product out, so it makes sense. I bend over the basin and wash my face, but just as I do I hear the door swing open. Adrenaline shoots through my body as I calculate the chance that it's a guard who's following me, or maybe someone else who's been watching my suspicious behaviour. I yank a paper towel from the dispenser and dab my face quickly, swinging to catch a glance of the man staring at me. He looks rougher than I do.

"Rough night?," He reckons. I'm not sure he can really speak. Top to toe he looks like he could've slept in the nearest bin. A long khaki trench coat covers most of the mess but even that has a few stains. His scraggly beard and grey-white hair is also incredibly out of order and I'm almost sure that there's specks of blood around the edges of his nose.

"Early morning," I decide it's best not to get along with this guy, I already seem to draw undue attention and I don't need this guy to make my situation worse.

"Well, you look rough, kid. You a cleaner?"

"Errand runner." It's pretty common for cleaners of any class to never admit they do such a low-considered job, so I play into that. Lower-class don't want to admit they go to the big city to scrub toilets, and Upper-class don't want to admit they do a 'Lower-class' job in the closest thing they have to a middle-class section. It's also the perfect cover for why I have a bag with me. Cleaners never stay in uniform, because it's usually very telling of their job position.

The guy pats me on the shoulder roughly and lets out an annoying laugh. "I know you," he interrupts his sentence with another laugh, "You don't have to hide that around me of all people. Things will get better kid. And if they don't, just earn enough to drink it away every night." His stench, a mix of unbearable body odour and whiskey, lingers even after he disappears into a toilet stall. I'm going to get out before that bomb drops.

Before he can re-emerge, I run my hands under the tap, toss my hair and straighten my shirt. I can't say it does much for my appearance, but at least I look more presentable. Then I'm out of there and do everything in my power to avoid running into that man again.

Once I'm across the station, I start watching the crowds as more people start using the station. I barely see a single guard, not even in the high traffic areas, not a single uniform sticks out from the crowd. Now that it's a bit busier, people pass by as if they couldn't care less about anything that's going on around them. Some exchange quick greetings and others jog through crowds as if they are late to their meeting, which is pretty entertaining. People watching is so much better than getting caught up in the anxiety-tornado of trying to figure out how I'm going to live my life, even if I'm a little distracted from the task at hand.

A train rolls into the station. The speaker dings but no announcement is made so I glance over at the arrivals and departure board to see where it's headed. One flashes orange, 'stationed' and I quickly skim over where it's going. Gate 7, the closest you can get to the Lower-class gate. I scurry over and step into one of the cars. I know I haven't planned this far ahead, but I need to make progress, so I push myself into the mess I've made. I sit down in a small two-seat row and watch as others file in through the open doors. They wander in and scour the car for seats. Most people tend to sit in vacant rows by themselves and luckily, I don't have to share a seat with anyone or have to make unreliable small talk.

The train pushes its way across the tracks and I lean back into the seat. Quiet conversation and gravely music attempts to block out the obstructive noise of the train but fails perfectly. I stare out the window, watching the small city buildings pass and eventually change into fields of grassy land. Random trees and small scrubs speckle the land in varying patterns. The afternoon sun spills light onto the yellowed and dead grass fields.

I get bored after a while of counting trees and eavesdropping on close conversations and start to notice the wall creeping across the landscape. I've lived with the walls my entire life so it's easy to forget they're there at times, but god they're real eyesores. There's nothing special about them. It's a forty-metre high, plain concrete wall that's almost a metre thick and does nothing for defence and only serves the purpose of separating society and restricting their lifestyles. There's nothing intricate about them either, just flat concrete that is drilled deep into the ground, so it doesn't come down on some poor soul in a light wind. Of course, it doesn't provide any purpose other than segregation, I mean if you walk for a few kilometres along the wall, you'll eventually find where it stops. The wall would only to cut across the front of Lower-class, just like it does with Upper-class, but from where I am, it looks like an endless prison.

The wall gets larger and larger and the train rolls to a stop. I watch the crowd outside from the train, scanning for guards, but I don't see any. Still shocking, but not surprising after seeing the last station. I cautiously walk off the train. This is the closest I've ever been to Lower-class. Being a financial asset to my rich Upper-class parents, I've never been remotely near Lower-class due to 'maintaining social standard'. I hate how pretentious that sounds, but Upper-class is a cluster-fuck of pompous asses so to me, I've heard it so much that it's normal.

The more I look around, the more my anxiety wears off. Despite the lack of trains, there's still a significant amount of people, which means I have more opportunity to blend in. And also at this station, there is barely any question of where I've been or what I'm doing because a lot of other people look fairly similar to me. Of course, there's still a suit here and there, but the working crowd is thinning out, being replaced with regular commuters.

A train rolled to a stop in front of me, and the doors automatically slid open. The passengers filter off in no particular order, giving me the perfect opportunity to watch where the crowd goes. They blend into the pre-existing crowd so easily, picking a route and going one of two ways: to the queue-like gate in the station or to the traffic gate in the wall. The Lower-class station gate appears to be the same as Upper-class' gate and has numerous queues of turnstiles. Tall booths sit either side, similar to the stations I'm used to, but they look a lot less active. The officers stationed in the booths aren't watching the crowds. They just sit there, some look like they are eating, others are on their phones or talking. One officer, out of like ten, is out in the gate itself, pacing back and forth. Even she seems pretty useless. Not alert at all.

I watch the crowds funnel through the turnstiles. Some of them make their friends tap their ID twice so they can get through as well. Others just push through together, stumbling over each other and laughing about it as if it wasn't incredibly risky to do in this society. Almost every second person to go through a turnstile doesn't tap their ID. Some people even seem to let strangers through. But the thing is, all of them get away with it. At one stage, I witnessed someone just jump over the turnstile and the guards didn't even lift their heads. Hell, they probably wouldn't have even blinked if they saw it happen right in front of them. They're almost like statues. Just lost in doing absolutely nothing.

After boggling my mind at the complete negligence of the officers, I can't help but get hungry. And I also need another coffee since the anxiety has seeped out of my system. A line of about 15 shops decorate the sides of the station and I scour each one for food, but every café would just about send me broke if I bought an actual meal. I get a hard bagel and the dirtiest, grittiest coffee I have ever tasted. I guess I overestimated how much five bucks could get me in a place like this.

It's already late into the afternoon but I still make no move towards Lower-class. I find a small garden area outside of the station and sit down against a shady tree to force myself through a plan. Oliver isn't a missing case, or at least he hasn't been reported yet. I am a missing case and have no idea whether Lower-class police or security know anything about that yet. The only places in Lower-class that I could even find Oliver would be his school that I don't even know the name of. I know it takes him 5 minutes to walk home from school, and 30 minutes to walk to the closest station. He lives on a shitty street, and his dad drives a car that was painted half blue half green with a grey-white bumper. Ultimately, I'm fucked if I go in there. And I'm just as fucked going home.

The only thing I can think of is finding his school and going from there but... it's a Friday and already late into the afternoon. That means there's two days before I can even attempt to find him. The thought of going back home to my bed and crying until I pass out flashes across my mind, and I hate it. I know I can't go home. I know I can't make any of this work. I tuck myself up against the tree and try to hold everything back behind closed eyelids.

I blink away sleepy fog and realise I fell asleep. The sky has begun to edge into a light purple as the sun dips over the wall, drowning the station in darkness. Lights flick on across the station, combating the sudden gloom with their artificial halos of radiant light. I don't want to go back, not home, and not to the library either. I need to make this work.

Immediately I am on my feet and heading to the Lower-class gate. As I pass through the stations, a train pulls up and business-dressed passengers make their escape across the concrete. The crowd merges with my path and I notice it starting to split. Half heads towards the turnstiles. I know I could probably get away with following them, either asking someone to swipe for me or just pushing through behind someone. Or, I could just walk through the traffic gate. The split advances towards me, and I quickly turn, joining the crowd on the left and following the majority through the traffic gate. It's just easier.

I try to ignore the suffocating feeling and look as normal and definitely not scared as possible, but I'm not sure how well that's working. There is definitely still security that I have to dodge at this gate, and I have no idea if they are as laid back as the station gate crew was. I spot a man in the crowd, dressed in a new-looking suit and veer off towards him. Maybe if I mingle with someone who looks much nicer than I do, I'll play the blend-in game a bit better.

I spot a suit in the crowd.

I casually step beside him, "Great day, isn't it?"

"Sure is," The man replies, "Just poppin' in from the shops are ya?"

"Yeah sure am. With a suit like that I can imagine you've just finished work for the day?"

He smiles confidently, soaking up my compliment like a sponge takes water, "That's right kid. Classic 9-5 but it gets me enough to walk around like this! No wonder Upper-class love this." His smile is so genuine, I couldn't even get mad if I wanted to.

We walk straight past the guards and into the Lower-class outer street. "Well I have to head home to my Mum, see you around!" I say following a crowd that are heading to what looks like a residential area.

"See ya 'round kid," the man says as he struts off down the path.

I stop in the middle of the path and look down at my feet. A wave of relief pours over me. I'm here, I'm in! I pick my head back up and stride down the path, my curiosity pulling me along while everything soaks in like the fact that I, an Upper-class, made it into Lower-class. I soak it up so much that I almost forget that I'm only here for Oliver.

Right, Oliver.

Great. How the hell am I going to find him?