“You can’t just...” Kel half scolded me once when we were safely in a Squelch. “There were too many people around. I know it was awful to see, but there was nothing you could do.”
That wasn’t true. If I had been faster, I might have been able to save him. I’d seen it done before. The horrible truth is that the flailing is what most often kills people. The urge to get away from the pain is too much.
“Why did you let us go, then?” Henri asked, his voice breaking.
I watched Kel, eager for some sign she shared my feelings. She dropped her eyes, let out a heavy breath and shook her head. She had no words to admonish me, and I assumed she understood.
Margot shrugged. “Maybe he was a Lawyer,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. It did not work. Kel was not pleased at all.
OIO?: $22.99
Saretha was twelve when our parents were taken. She remained calm about it, just like my mother asked. Saretha took over our home, getting Sam and me ready for school, ordering inks for the printer and managing our expenses. We made fun of her for being bossy, but took comfort in how normal she made our lives feel. Did she really believe our lives were normal, or had she been pretending for us? I’d never thought of this before. She was loyal to her Brands. She always said things would get better. She talked about options.
That was all gone now.
My constant coming and going contrasted starkly with her own circumstances. If I could have traded places with her, I would have. I loved being free to race across rooftops and zip through the city, unseen, and I enjoyed the company of my team, but a nagging guilt ate away at me. My new career provided a mask and anonymity—exactly what Saretha needed to be free.
I tried to think of some way to get Kel to take Saretha on, but I couldn’t even work out the first step of explaining the problem without words. Even if I could have managed to make Kel see and consider Saretha, there was the problem of Saretha’s physical condition.
Saretha was in no shape to be climbing buildings. It wasn’t her fault; she was never as active as me. She wasn’t interested in gymnastics, or sports, and now she had nothing to do and nowhere to exercise. She had put on weight from mindlessly eating sheets of Wheatlock?. To counter the effects, she ordered an OiO? Holding Corset, which is supposed to keep your waist tiny, regardless of the size of the rest of you. It was a ghastly, disturbing thing. After a few days of wearing it, Saretha passed out on the couch. Sam and I panicked. He slapped her face to wake her, while I fumbled to unclasp the corset that was crushing her lungs. When she woke, groggy and annoyed, she pushed me away. Sam hugged her and demanded she never wear it again.
She didn’t argue. She peeled the loosened corset off, revealing her midsection beneath, squeezed out of proportion, the flesh pink and pale and dented. A faint smell of medicine and moisturizer drifted through the air, and underneath, a bad skin smell, like stinking feet. It made me queasy. Her expression was more lifeless than melancholy. She held her middle and rubbed, as if both sickened and proud.
“It hurts,” she said weakly. $4.98. Her eyes looked dim and pitiful.
I put my hands around my shoulders and stifled a cry. What was happening to her? Something had been taken—not just her freedom, but some piece of her soul. I longed to say something or do something to bring her back. I felt caged. I think we all did.
Sam sprung up, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out into the hall.
“It isn’t right,” Sam complained. “Why can’t we sue Carol Amanda Harving for having Saretha’s face?”
The technical answer was that Carol Amanda Harving was older by a year. She had the face first, and, more important, she had Butchers & Rog on her side.
“We have to do something,” Sam said. I agreed, but I didn’t know what that could be. The spare, dim walls of our hallway seemed to press at me. I couldn’t wait to get out onto the rooftops again. I knew it wasn’t fair, but the situation was so hopeless. I wondered if Saretha might be better off having surgery—mutilated, so Carol Amanda Harving could own that face all by herself.
That I could let myself think such a thing made me sick.
“Chuneed, Jimenez?” A voice called from across the hall. Norflo had his head popped out his door, looking at me with long-lashed, sympathetic eyes. I wished I’d asked before my fifteenth why his family insisted on keeping Juarze for a last name when it cost them so much, but named him Norflo after a cost-saving brand of nasal-clearing mist.
“Nothing,” Sam answered him. “I can’t...” He was too frustrated to explain.
Norflo waited for more and saw it wouldn’t come. We couldn’t explain about Saretha without risking her being seen.
“Year,” he said kindly, rocking his door. If you didn’t know Norflo, you wouldn’t know what he meant, but he always had clever ways to say things cheaply. He spent an hour each day scrutinizing the Word$ Market? screen. It was designed like a video game, with thousands of words traveling back and forth, up and down, across an acid green background next to their prices. He scanned for cheap slang like “chuneed,” or a sale on the word “year” so he could say “I’m here” without spending too much.
When he saw I understood, he ducked back inside and shut the door.
“What are we going to do?” Sam implored me with a whisper.
I couldn’t speak, but I thought if I walked, he would follow me. I could take him to Mrs. Stokes. I didn’t know if or how she could help, but at least Sam could talk to someone who could answer him.
I looked at him with imploring eyes and made for the elevator. He did not follow. He stood in front of our door, looking flabbergasted that I would walk away. I should have been more understanding, but how did he not get it? I was trying to help.
“Great,” he said. “Leave.”
He pushed back inside our apartment, scowling. I punched the elevator door closed and worked hard not to scream.
It isn’t his fault, I told myself. There was a pause in my breath, then my voice came back inside my head with, But it is your fault. That made me feel crazy. I put my hand over my forehead and squeezed. The elevator shuddered its way down and pinged to a stop on the bottom floor.
It had grown dark outside. With no place else to go, I crossed the bridge toward Falxo Park. The bunnies clicked on, then turned off without their special message. I guess the billboard’s advertising systems calculated that it was okay if I jumped. A light rush of traffic roared below me.
I went past the park and up through the quaint shops, most of which were either already closed or in the process of closing for the night. I sneered at them, assuming they were all like Mrs. Nince. I slowed as I passed her boutique. The lights were out. She had no idea how easy it would be for me to sneak inside. I had a Placer’s skills now.
I wouldn’t steal anything. Her clothes were cruel and ugly and useless. I could ruin her business. I could tear the place apart.