CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chaz:
She stood in front of a full-length VR mirror, adjusted the projection as she tried on one outfit after another. A rapid procession of glittering, shimmering pink and white concoctions melted into one another as she pushed the remote control faster and faster. Her entire wardrobe zipped by in a blur of silk and satin and sequins. When it finally came to a halt, she was wearing a Mardi Gras hat with gold beads and lavender feathers, a black body stocking and a pink tutu.
She stamped one foot, pouted, then said the line that every woman learns at birth.
a€?I dona€?t have anything to wear.a€?
My five-year-old, almost-six-year-old, niece glanced up at me.
a€?What you have on is perfect,a€? I said, pretending to be serious.
Isabelle giggled then climbed up on her bed and started jumping like she was on a trampoline. a€?I know,a€? she said breathlessly between bounces. a€?Ita€?s my favorite. I think I should wear this.a€?
a€?I agree completely,a€? I answered. I had been sent upstairs by Isabellea€?s parents, a delegate with the untoward duty of persuading Her Royal Highness into coming downstairs to her own party. I fell into that strange and temporary category of grown-up uncle/best-friend confidante. Isabelle wasna€?t old enough to know that one day soon she would only share her secrets with other little girls, women in training who would walk hand in hand through the forests of adolescence together. Right now I was the one she told everything to.
I wasna€?t looking forward to the future.
Angelique sat nervously in the corner, a silent observer. She hadna€?t said much since we got back from Fresh Start. Her tests, the ones she took while I argued with Russ, hadna€?t turned out very well. Just like I thought last night, there seemed to be something missing, like a connection between her lives wasna€?t firing properly, some sort of brain synapses thing. I couldna€?t quite figure it out. And I definitely didna€?t want to think about it now. I needed to get Isabelle downstairs before VR Grandma and Holo Grandpa arrived.
The house was already surrounded with a security team that rivaled the White House. All the children in Isabellea€?s cell had been invited, as well as the children of every Fresh Start employee in the country. Apparently Russell had debated whether to make the invitation to all our employees worldwide, but decided it wasna€?t right to put that kind of pressure on people who worked for him. They would have felt obligated to come, no matter the expense or danger involved in traveling with a child.
Funny. I didna€?t get my invitation until this morning. I had the feeling that the rest of the country had known about it for a month. Something was bothering Russ, something he obviously didna€?t want to talk about.
a€?Is it safe? Are you sure ita€?s safe?a€? Angelique asked quietly when my niece ran into the bathroom to comb her hair.
a€?What?a€?
a€?This party. All the children. I think I saw at least seventeen children downstairs.a€? She ran a finger along the hem of her skirt, her gaze lowered. a€?I honestly cana€?t remember the last time I was around that many kids all at once. I justa€”it doesna€?t seem safe.a€?
I had my doubts too. But this had been a family tradition for the past one hundred years. There was no way Russ would disappoint Mom, not now, not when she probably wouldna€?t live to see Isabellea€?s next birthday.
My niece danced back into the room just then, her hat on backward, her hair in messy pigtails. She smelled like apple blossoms, and when she smiled, she revealed two rows of tiny perfect teeth. Her skin was a dusky cappuccino-colored Creole blend, like mine. In fact, she looked like she could have been my daughter. But of course that was impossible.
Russ got Dada€?s death certificate, not me. And when the time was right, he had a TRS, the federally approved operation that temporarily reverses sterilization. And then, about a year later, voil? . Isabelle Eloise St. Marie Domingue. The most beautiful baby in the world. Ever. The fact that there were only 65 babies born that year didna€?t matter. Or the fact that 250 babies were born every minute back at the turn of the twenty-first century.
To most people, Isabelle was exquisite.
But to me, she was perfect.