“No, that’s fine,” said Saif. “I’ve . . . I’ve heard of that, but only rarely. It comes from the crash, I think: your brain gives up so much control that sometimes your body just does whatever. It’s not dangerous, though; I mean, it’s just sleepwalking, people do that all the time.” He looked at Anja. “You didn’t break anything, right?”
“I almost wish I had,” said Anja. “Then they could worry about something real.”
“We just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” said Marisa.
“Bluescreen is completely safe,” said Saif, settling into the explanation like it was old, familiar territory. “It’s no different than any other sensory program—like the Synestheme, for example, and you obviously have no problem with that.”
Marisa frowned and unplugged herself, suppressing a shudder as the real world seemed to solidify around her. The music dulled into the background, seemingly on the edge of her awareness despite its volume. “Synesthemes don’t cause blackouts.”
“Not as a rule, no,” said Saif, “but they can, like any sensory interface, and when they do it’s completely harmless.”
Anja grabbed the drives from his hand. “Stop focusing on the blackout,” she said. “The buzz is the whole point. The blackout just means it’s time for another dose.” She dropped one drive in her purse and slipped the other up under her hair and behind her neck, and Marisa thought she could see in the girl’s eyes the exact moment the drive clicked into her headjack. Anja leaned back against the couch, clenching her hands into tight fists, and Saif pulled another pair of drives from his pocket.
“Care to join her?” He grinned, flashing a brief glimpse of perfect, white teeth between his lips. “On the house. I’ll stay here the whole time you’re out—keep these khotas away from you.” He gestured around at the crowd in the club.
Marisa looked at the obvious ecstasy on Anja’s face, feeling more than a little envious, but before she could answer, another message from Sahara popped up in her vision: Here comes the Princess.
Marisa’s eyes went wide, a combination of surprise and disgust, and she managed to recover just before La Princesa stepped into view: Francisca Maldonado, Omar’s only sister and the unbearable, unofficial royalty of El Mirador. She wore a bright white dress that opened at the top like a flower, with unzipped petals of fabric folded down past her shoulders. Marisa thought it made her look like a spoiled banana in a colorless peel. She had long white sleeves that came all the way down into gloves, and the hem of the dress was almost exactly the same length, coming just to her fingertips, with nothing but fishnets on her long legs below. Her face was pretty enough, slender and smooth with proud, arching eyebrows and jet-black eyes, but tinged with such arrogance Marisa could hardly look at her. She was flanked by a pair of pretty yet nameless attendants.
“Mira, que bárbaras,” said Francisca, eyeing Marisa and Sahara with unveiled scorn. “Playing ‘rich girls’ today, Marisita? Didn’t they tell you at the door? Any clothes you bought on layaway aren’t allowed inside.”
Marisa fumed, but Sahara looked back coolly. “Is that why you bought your dress at a grocery store?”
La Princesa was unfazed. “Is this who you’re selling to these days, Saif?” She affected a look of innocent sadness. “I thought you had better taste.”
“Franca,” said Saif, his voice smooth and diplomatic, “so good to see you. Would you like to join us?”
“I wish I could,” said La Princesa, “but I can’t imagine I’ll stay long. This used to be such a classy place, but I simply don’t feel safe here anymore.” She glanced out at the dance floor, her eyes settling for a moment on the tight-shirted Mexican boy Marisa had been dancing with earlier. She looked back at Saif with a conspiratorial whisper. “Too much barrio trash.”
Marisa sent Sahara a message: You think we’ll get kicked out if I knock this girl’s teeth into the back of her skull?
“I won’t keep you then,” said Saif, his voice unreadably formal. “Bluescreen?”
“Four,” said Francisca, and smiled seductively. “Five if you’d like to come with us.”
Keep it subtle, Sahara messaged back. What’s that nickname she hates?