Holt cleared his throat and stood up a little taller, bolstered by Saretha’s apparent confidence in him.
“If you would like to be rid of the media, I can place an injunction against reproduction of your likeness,” he said. “It won’t prevent them broadcasting anything newsworthy such as this morning’s unfortunate events, but it will prohibit them from following you around and hoping for more.”
“Yeah? And how does this help you?” Sam asked Arkansas Holt.
Holt paused. “Pursuant to legal action, I would require a vested interest—control over commercial rights to your sister’s likeness.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “For what?”
Holt began itching at his nose. “I would profit from anything like posters or dolls or such if it were to ever come to that.”
Our buzzer rang. A small inset window on the wall-screen showed the feed from our door. Mrs. Harris was standing outside, fishing through her purse.
I didn’t need this. I needed time to think. There was too much noise and chatter. Too much was happening at once.
“Dolls?” Sam squinted at Holt, disbelieving.
Holt shrugged. “Theoretically, I would be able to sell virtual approximations. She isn’t old enough for anything more revealing than a bikini.”
We knew, from time to time, that Advertisers sold scan data so boys like Phlip and Vitgo could buy a peek at the system’s best approximation of what some girl looked like naked. It had happened to Saretha half a dozen times. I thought it was gross, but Mrs. Harris said she should be flattered. Saretha forced herself not to mind, because she was legally entitled to 10 percent of the profits.
Arkansas went on, “You can’t possibly have a reasonable expectation of privacy at your income level. Anyway, this isn’t likely to be a lucrative trade.” Holt gestured a hand to my apparently uninteresting body. My face went warm and pink.
Outside, Mrs. Harris found what she was looking for and ran her keycard across the door lock. The door opened, and she swept in.
“What in the world were you thinking?” she screeched. Then she caught sight of Holt, drew herself up to impress him, saw his lonely medal and drew herself right down again.
“Speth,” she said, making my name sound like she’d spit it up.
I drew my knees to my mouth. I wanted to put my hands to my ears, but that gesture cost $7.99 per minute.
“Tell them what you told me,” Saretha begged Holt. Mrs. Harris folded her arms. Holt stood tall again and fixed his eyes on me.
“Whereas the terms of your contract with Keene Inc. stipulate you will read what was agreed upon before any other paid speech, and whereas that agreement does not specify a time, date or location, you have not yet broken the terms of said agreement, as you have not yet spoken, and are therefore presently indemnified against suit for breach of said contract, including, but not limited to, trailing and ancillary suits derived thereof.”
Even when it was spoken in my defense, Legalese seemed to cut at me. I tried to focus on what he was saying and not the sound, but it was right up there with face-slapping as a means of communication.
“She’s not in trouble?” Sam asked, stretching his arms high to cover the full window.
“She is in a great deal of trouble,” Mrs. Harris assured him.
“Perhaps,” Holt said, “but that depends on her intention. If her silence were a demonstrable act of protest or antagonism, that could be problematic. But since she has not spoken, how can we know?”
I looked up from my knees.
Mrs. Harris bit her lip.
“All you have to do is read the speech,” Saretha said. She quickly thumbed through her Cuff until she was able to pull up a copy. She flicked it so it would show up on my Cuff. “You can read it and then explain you were traumatized by what happened to Beecher.”
By what happened to him? Beecher killed himself; it didn’t happen to him. I couldn’t let myself think about it. I was confused. I was sad. I was angry. Did that mean I was traumatized?
“She made the sign of the zippered lips,” Mrs. Harris said. “Twice. That is not something a traumatized person does.”
Holt narrowed his eyes at her. “You must beg my forgiveness. I was unaware you are a psychologist qualified to diagnose trauma.”
Mrs. Harris backed away a little.
“Mrs. Hairball falls silent,” Sam said, like he was narrating a Baseball? game.
Mrs. Harris calmly began tapping out a Lawsuit for being called a hairball. Sam threw down the blanket and grabbed her wrist. “You want to sue us? How about we sue you? Weren’t you in charge of her transition?” He turned to Holt. “Can we sue her?”
Holt made a face that said, maybe?
“Sam,” Saretha said, as if suing Mrs. Harris was a ridiculous thing to suggest. I didn’t think it was ridiculous. I was tired of her. I would have loved to see her sued by us instead of the other way around.
Sam let her go. Mrs. Harris backed up, scowling.
Outside, seven or eight dropters drew in close to the window. Holt moved to that side of the room and turned his back to them.
“Whatever happens,” Holt said, “and I cannot stress this enough.” He waved a hand at me to make sure I was listening and dropped his voice low. “If you choose to speak, or when you are able to speak, now, later or ten years from today, the first words out of your mouth must be these.” He pointed to my Cuff and the speech that sat there, glowing.
I don’t know why this made me cry again. I couldn’t even see the speech. I pushed his hand away. I could do that. I could push people out of my space without charge. I just couldn’t hold them.
Holt moved back, and out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered to Saretha.
“Now, how about my fee?”
ZEBRAS: $5.99
I can still hear my father’s voice. Even though we were poor, he was a talker. When the WiFi would fail, his face would light up. This was his chance. He could say anything, untethered from the system.
I remember one time, he said to us, “I can make you think of zebras.” Sam laughed his playful, cherubic laugh. I listened, delighted.
“All I have to do is say the word: Zebras. The idea goes from me to you. Zebras. See? It’s unavoidable! You’re picturing one now!”
He smiled, knowing he was right. I saw the zebra, with stripes and a bristly mane—a wide-open plain behind it. Words were like magic.
I don’t remember all of it, in part because I was so young, and also because it was hard to concentrate. My mother would go wild during the outages, hugging us without the $2.99 fee, kissing our heads and saying, “I love you,” a hundred times. It was like an animal attack, but a loving one.
I remember my father claimed there used to be places called “liberties” that would let you read any book, and all you’d have to do is show them a card.
“How much did the card cost?” I asked. He smirked. He said it was free. You just had to promise to return the book when you were done.