“While his hearing’s still out,” said Marisa, “I have to ask you: how serious is this thing with Omar?”
“I told you,” said Anja, her eyes twitching, “I can just tweak the settings and he’s as good as new.”
“No,” said Marisa, “I mean this relationship. Is this long term?”
Anja laughed. “I hope not.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Of course I like him, I just don’t want to make this into something it isn’t. Just because I’m eating lo mein tonight doesn’t mean I want to eat lo mein every night.”
“That’s different.”
Anja laughed again. “Come on, Marisa, you fall in love with half the boys you meet, and then the next day you’re over them and ready to fall in love with someone else. I do the same thing, just . . . without the illusions.” She refocused her eyes on her djinni interface. “All I’m saying is, you gotta keep your options open. There’s too many things on the menu to just order the same one every time, right? And you never know what your favorite is until you’ve tried them all.”
“That could be a very dangerous life philosophy,” said Marisa.
“Play crazy,” said Anja. She blinked, and Omar sat up suddenly, rubbing his ears.
“ándale, flaca, what did you do to me?”
“She was demonstrating why I don’t have a djinni,” said Bao, and pointed to Anja’s right hand. “Just stay away from that glove thingy and you’ll be fine.”
“Pobre Omarcito,” said Marisa.
“Why Omarcito?” asked Anja, unplugging the cord from his headjack. “Isn’t it just Omar? And for that matter, what’s flaca? I don’t speak Spanish, so I don’t know if I’m supposed to hit him or not when he calls me that.”
“Don’t even try it,” said Omar.
“Sorry,” said Marisa. “We’re Mexican; we have, like, seven nicknames for everything. You’re Anja, and you’re Anyita, which means ‘little Anja’ just like Omarcito means ‘little Omar.’ Flaca means ‘skinny girl,’ huera means ‘white girl,’ and loca means ‘crazy girl,’ so get used to that one because you’re probably going to hear it a lot.”
“I can handle skinny girl,” said Anja, giving Omar a kiss on the cheek. “Though obviously I’d prefer brilliant girl; let’s get our priorities straight.”
“Everyone in my family has at least three names,” said Marisa. “I’m Marisa, and Mari, and Marisita, and that’s not even counting all the little chulitas and morenas and things my mother calls me. My grandmother is abue, abuelita, and sometimes la Bruja when we know she can’t hear us. Patricia is Pati, Gabriela is Gabi, Sandro is Lechuga—don’t ask me where that came from—”
“What about Chuy?” asked Bao.
Marisa glared at him.
“Everybody knows that one,” said Anja. “It’s short for Chewbacca.”
“No,” said Bao, looking straight into Marisa’s glare without backing down. “She’s got a brother named Chuy; she mentioned him today at lunch. She told me she’d tell me later, and now is later.” He shrugged. “I’m curious.”
Marisa looked at Omar, who knew the whole story, but he said nothing. She sighed and looked back at Bao. “Chuy’s my older brother.”
“I thought you were the oldest.”
“We don’t talk about him much,” said Marisa.
“Because he’s a wookie,” said Anja.
“It’s not Chewie, it’s Chuy,” said Marisa. “It’s a nickname for Jesús.”
“Jesús as in Jesus?” Anja could barely contain her laughter. “So Jesus is a wookie?”
“Or Chewbacca was a cholo named Jesús,” said Omar, “and we just never knew it. Probably not, though, because they don’t make hairnets that big.”
Marisa shook her head, trying not to laugh. “My brother Chuy joined a gang called La Sesenta about six years ago, and my father disowned him. He won’t let him visit, he won’t let us talk to him; today at the restaurant was the first time I’ve heard him say Chuy’s name in . . . forever.”
“Your father carries a lot of grudges,” said Sahara. Marisa hadn’t noticed her come up, and wondered how much of the conversation Cameron and Camilla had recorded. She didn’t talk to Chuy often, but she knew he sometimes watched Sahara’s vidcast. She found Cameron, looked right at the lens, and blew a kiss. “I love you, Chuy.”
“You’re here!” said Anja, jumping to her feet to hug Sahara. “This is why I brought you all here tonight. Time for part two: check it out.” Anja pulled at the cheap metal chains around her neck, drawing a pair of small black headjack drives out of her shirt.
Marisa smirked, uncertain what the drives might hold. “Sensovids?”
“Better,” said Anja. “Sensovids trigger your neural pathways in little doses, making you smell things or feel things or whatever; it’s the same code I futzed with in Omar’s head a few minutes ago. But it’s only little bits to help tell a story—Bluescreen triggers them all at once, in one big rush.”