The Water Wars Read Online Free

desalinated water. This meant it came from the ocean and was processed in a giant factory where all the minerals were removed and chemicals added so it was fit for drinking. The bottles didn’t disclose their origin, but you could tell the water was desalinated because it felt slippery on the tongue and had a tangy aftertaste—like licking a burnt match. After a long, dry summer, the Water Authority imported extra bottles of seawater in trade with the Great Coast for building materials like limestone and granite.
    We waited in line behind a family of seven whose cart was stacked high with bottles. Our father had only four coupons, so we purchased only two bottles. I was already thirsty and planning how I could fill my canteen from the fountain at school when the monitors weren’t watching. In a pinch I could drink tap water, but that could really make a person sick. The hospitals wouldn’t even treat a patient who drank tap water; they claimed it was a “self-inflicted” injury. It had happened to one of our neighbors, and he lost forty pounds and never fully recovered. If our mother was being poisoned, we were all being poisoned. We had to drink something . A person could go without food for a month, but dehydration could kill within days. This was why we bought water at the distribution center rather than on the black market or even from the drillers. It was the least likely to kill us.
    After buying water our father took us to buy some new clothes. He complained we grew so fast that nothing fit for longer than six months. Will went through shoes like rags. I tore holes in the knees of my pants. Although our father exaggerated, it wasn’t far from the truth. It took two chemo washes to remove the dirt from my jeans, and even Will’s best shoes had holes in the soles.
    I loved shopping. When my mother was well, we would spend hours going through the racks, fingering the dresses and blouses she loved to wear. Her favorite color was green, which she said redheads weren’t supposed to wear, but I always thought the clothes she picked looked beautiful on her. She would throw together an old top with a forgotten skirt, and suddenly she looked as if she had spent the whole day getting ready. It was a skill I couldn’t copy, hard as I tried. The same clothes that looked glamorous with her red hair looked drab with my dark brown bangs, and my small nose made everything I wore seem too childlike.
    I needed new jeans, but I also needed tops and a new pair of shoes. My shirts were too short, and my toes were scrunched. But I didn’t say anything to my father, because I saw the way he looked when he fingered the price tags on the outfits I handed him. “Do you really need three?” he asked. I shook my head and pulled my favorite from the bunch—a floral print top with green swirling patterns that reminded me of clouds. It was made from a synthetic fiber called cattan that felt slightly oily to the touch. “This one,” I said. I told myself that one outfit was better than none. As for the shoes, I would just have to keep squeezing my feet into the ones I had.
    Will picked a new pair of jeans. Our father took Will’s pants and my top to the cash register where he paid with his credit chip.
    Then it was back to the car for our last stop of the day: the grocery store.
    Our father could cook almost anything with nothing. Even when our mother was well, our father did most of the cooking. Now as we roamed the aisles, he fingered the synth-fruit and quasi-vocados, checking for ripeness and disease. “How do you feel about guacamole?” he asked.
    We felt great about guacamole—which gave me an idea.
    “Kai loves Mexican food,” I said, though I had no clue if this were true.
    “Kai? The boy in the limousine?” our father asked.
    “He’s lonely.”
    “His parents would never let him visit for dinner.”
    “We could text them our certificates.”
    “Even so, he doesn’t need fake food.”
    “He might want a