“Whoa,” said Sahara, glancing almost involuntarily at the cam nulis to make sure they were catching this. Marisa could tell she was concerned—there was a good friend buried under all that media savvy—but sometimes Sahara’s vidcasting obsession made Marisa want to grind her teeth in frustration. Sahara looked back at her intently. “You never told me this.”
Marisa shrugged, bothered more by Sahara’s attitude than by the story itself. She wiggled her fingers and watched the metal and ceramic joints as they moved up and down in sequence. “It’s not a secret, it’s just . . . not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.”
“Why were you in a car with Omar’s mom?” asked Sahara.
“We don’t know,” said Marisa.
“Why did she shut off the autodrive?”
“We don’t know,” said Omar.
“Why was . . . ?” Sahara trailed off. “Well. I guess we don’t know. But that certainly sheds some light on the family feud.”
Marisa laughed dryly. “Does it?”
“I was in the car, too,” said Omar impassively. “And my brother Jacinto; he got the worst of it, after my mother. He’s more bionic at this point than human.”
“I had no idea,” said Sahara.
Omar shrugged. “That’s because he hasn’t left our house in seven years.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Sahara.
“Don’t be,” said Omar, and shook his head dismissively. “There’s nothing keeping him in there but his own insecurities. Or laziness, I suppose. And I was fine—completely unscathed.” He looked up suddenly, the old charm back in his face, and flashed Marisa a wide, devilish grin. It was like he’d turned the pain off with a switch. “Just like always, right?”
Sahara and Bao were too shocked, or too polite, to press any further, and Omar’s abrupt change of attitude signaled the end of the discussion. He poured them each a glass of Lift, calling for an official beginning to the night’s festivities, and asked what they wanted to eat. Marisa suggested her favorite noodle place downtown, and Omar laughed but ordered some anyway, buying way too much because it was so “cheap.” Marisa couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger—she had saved all week just to be able to afford a dinner out, but to him the money was meaningless. She looked out the window, watching the city roll past: slums and shantytowns and decadent resorts. A few minutes later the delivery nuli arrived, bringing the hot white noodle boxes directly to the car as they drove. Omar insisted on paying, linking to the nuli’s credit reader with barely a glance.
Anja lived in Brentwood with her father—not just the rich part of town, but the rich part of the rich part of town. Her father was a chief executive with Abendroth, a German nuli company that was still competing evenly with the Chinese. The nuli that brought their noodles was probably an Abendroth, Marisa realized, and the thought made her laugh. The Futura Noble carried them up the winding streets to the higher hillsides, and they watched out the windows as the trees opened up and the city stretched out before them—an endless field of buildings and lights and nulis, as far as the eye could see.
The autocar pulled to a stop in front of Anja’s house, about twenty yards from a similar vehicle—not a Noble, Marisa thought, as it was far too small, but still some kind of Futura. Omar would know, but she didn’t want to ask him. She snapped an image with her djinni and ran it through an image search: the car was a Daimyo, a two-seater Futura built for speed. Very expensive.
Omar frowned. “Did Anja invite someone I didn’t know about?”
“Do you have to know about everyone she invites?” asked Marisa. She stepped out of the car just in time to see a young man walking away from Anja’s door; he wore a simple pair of gray slacks and a red silk shirt, with the cuffs folded back to reveal a turbulent pattern on the underside of the fabric. Marisa guessed he was about twenty years old, probably Indian, and shockingly good looking. Sahara stepped out behind her and nudged Marisa slyly.
“Weren’t you looking to pick somebody up tonight?”
Marisa was thinking the same thing, but the opportunity had appeared so suddenly, and in such an unexpected place, that she couldn’t think of anything to say. The boy looked her way and smiled in a way that made her toes curl, but walked straight to his car, not even pausing as he said, “Have fun tonight.” His accent was close enough to Jaya’s that Marisa confirmed her earlier guess about his Indian heritage. In town for business, maybe? Or another child of an executive, like Anja. She couldn’t seem to form any words, and managed only to blink a quick photo before he dropped into his car and drove away.
“Thank heaven I got that on camera,” said Sahara, barely stifling her laughter. “Marisa Carneseca, Queen High Flirt of Flirtania, completely tongue-tied by the hottie in the silk shirt. Let’s play that clip again.” She paused, her eyes making tiny movements across her djinni interface. “Oh yeah.” She laughed again, and Marisa rolled her eyes, grabbing her purse and walking toward Anja’s door.
“He looked like a blowhole,” said Marisa. “Another rich kid spending daddy’s money while the rest of LA starves to death.”
“Kind of like Anja?” whispered Sahara.
Marisa grimaced. “Anja’s different.”