Steven Bereznai - Generation Manifestation

I look ridiculous, I say, holding up the edges of my flouncy dress in an attempt to keep the hem from catching on our apartments rough wooden floorboards. My mom kneels beside me in the dimly lit, one-room flat.

Yes, she agrees. You do.

Other moms would coo or reassure. Mines a sledgehammer with hearts etched into the handle.

Our drop-down bunks are latched against the wall to give us a bit of space. The chipped and faded countertops in the kitchenette are scrubbed, and our breakfast bowls dry in a small sink with a rust stain down its center. According to the label on our rations, we ate oats, though they were so pulverized, its hard to say for sure. Rumor is, they mix in sawdust.

There will always be rumors, my mom often says.

Were both clothed in head-to-toe redme in the dress, she in her work coveralls. Above her left breast is a round patch with the image of a cog on it, marking her as a factory workernot the best of positions but not the lowest either. Still, its a far cry from when my father was alive.

She stands, turning me this way and that. At sixteen, Im taller than she is, which is weird. Im used to looking up to her, not down. Im big boned and meaty where shes porridge thin. I take after my dad that way.

Stop fidgeting, she says, sliding a pin into place.

Her tone puts me on amber alert. I try something newI keep my mouth shut and wait to see if her impatience will balloon into something more.

Here it comes, part of me warns.

But todays a good day, and the tirade doesnt erupt. Sometimes its like that. Shes unpredictable. My mother keeps working, and I let myself breathe. The only thing having a blow-up at the moment is the booming thunder outside. We barely notice. It emanates from the roiling black clouds that hover beside our borough, clouds that sit there, day after day. I see them through a small window, patched with duct tape and grimy from the billowing smokestacks of the factory where my mom works. The mass of condensed vapors never expands nor contracts, never intensifies nor dissipates. Theyve been floating there, stuck, since before I was born.

Theyre left over from the war, my dad told me when I was little. Boy, did they make you wail when you were a baby!

Oh, Papa, I think.

Today, his absence is like a slowly leaking fauceta bead of sadness gently gathers until it has enough mass to drip, and then plop. Other times, Im flat out angry. But, its been so long, the feelings are usually like the storm out there. Never gone, but after years and years of enduring it, mostly relegated to the background.

Look at me coming up with a metaphoror is it an analogy? I wonder. The question is eclipsed by the storm itself.

Our borough was established precisely on the border where the clouds end. On that razor line rises an electrified chainlink fence, separating us not only from the billowing storm but also the remains of a broken and crumbling city, doomed long ago by the phenomenon above.

In our old neighborhood, local kids and I dared each other to step over the clouds shadow when it crept onto our side of the fence; when one of us did, wed all run away squealing.

That should do it, my mom says. Her voice draws me back into the present as she steps arms length to admire her handiwork.

Give us a twirl! my brother says enthusiastically. His names Nate; Nathorniel Jarod Feral when hes in trouble.

Hes 12, with big brown eyes that give him a spooked owl look; they make him appear younger (and more innocent) than he is. His frame is such a perfect combination of our parents, a mad scientist mustve spliced Nates DNA together in a test tube rather than, you know, that other way. He gets all the luck. Currently, hes showing off his walking handstand, feet in the air, wearing a pair of pink underwear and nothing else. They were white until they accidentally got washed with Moms coveralls. Theyve been his favorite ever since.

He maneuvers around the small wooden kitchen table on his hands with the same dexterity as if he were on his feet, making good use of his ridiculously broad shoulders. Those he got from our dad. Combine that with our moms narrow waist, and his set of etched abs (honestly, what 12-year-old needs that kind of muscle tone?), and the kid looks like he jumped off the cover of a comic book.

Some people were born with the proportions to be awesome, I sigh internally. Petty jealousy aside, I love the brat and give him what he wants, spinning until the hem of my dress flutters around my ankles. He lands nimbly on his feet and claps.

Caitlin! Caitlin! he chants.

Please, I say, making shushing motions with one hand while the other eggs him on. He presses his cheek against the fabric covering my belly and wraps his stupidly muscled arms around my back.

Its so soft! he gasps with wonder, as he still does at so many things, practically a teen, but still a big kid. And slippery!

My mother grabs his wrist and yanks him away, making me trip into the side of the table.

Ow! I say.

The move is so sudden and harsh, it takes me a moment to switch gears. For the hour it took to help me prepare, she was a mom born of some dream. She fussed, but she didnt call me chunky as she struggled to zip up the back. When we found a rip in the side, she didnt break into hysterics, demanding to know, How the eff am I supposed to raise two children alone? Instead, she smiled and reassured me shed get it fixed in plenty of time for Testing Day.

She tricked me into lowering my guard.

Are the headaches back? I ask cautiously. Maybe its a safe question; maybe its not.