“I don’t want to be coached. He’ll just tell me to lie, and I can’t do that.”
It still hurts for me to put full weight on my foot, but I don’t want Pia to see me limping. She’s waiting for me in the library. I take a deep breath and enter. I tell Mom it’s okay for us to be alone. I would prefer it, without having to look at her constantly and worry if what I’m saying is okay. I don’t plan on saying much anyway. Monosyllabic answers would kill Pia, and that’s what I intend on giving.
Pia is even tinier in the flesh than on TV. She’s like a petite doll that looks like the wind could blow her over, though I know that is not the case. Even the wind would lose a battle with her. Her skin is soft and peachy, her clothes delicate and pretty, a silk ivory top with delicate organza flowers and a lace pencil skirt. She even smells of peaches. Everything about her is so fine and pretty, but then her eyes are hard. Not cold, but ready. All-seeing, aware of everything like two zoom lenses on a camera.
“Pia Wang,” she says politely, holding out her hand.
I stall, unsure what to do. My seared hand is no longer bandaged; I had to remove the light gauze for school so I wouldn’t be seen as hiding my flaws. I haven’t had to shake hands with anyone yet. My hand hangs limply by my side. I leave her hand hanging midair. Her eyes drop to my hand, and then she smiles. “Oh, of course.” She drops her hand. I’m certain she knew what she was doing.
I didn’t trust her before, and I don’t trust her even more now. If she tried to put me in my place, on the back foot, then she has failed. It is she who has fallen back first, because I won’t make this easy for her.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “Shall we sit here?”
There are two armchairs by the bay window, which overlooks a small, pretty flower garden that Mom tends when she insists she’s having a fat day. But the shutters are still closed to protect our privacy from the press.
She holds out her hand for me to sit, as though this is her home.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time,” she says with a big grin. “You’re big news, Celestine. Seventeen-year-old ex-girlfriend of Art Crevan, branded five times, turns out to be the most Flawed girl in history. Talking to you is the biggest scoop of the year.”
“I find it intriguing that my life entertains you so much.”
Her smile lessens a little. “I’m not alone in that, obviously.” She refers to the press outside the house. “As you know, under the Guild rules, I have a sit-down with the Flawed, which will go out on our online news, TV, magazines.”
“All the Crevan media.”
She pauses. “Yes. I’d like us to do an interview first, and I propose something new. A series of televised interviews as we follow you around and film your life as it is now.”
“A reality show?”
“If you want to call it that. I prefer documentary.”
“Because you’re a hard-hitting journalist and all.”
She pauses to take the insult. “I’m interested in people. Intrigued by what makes them tick. Interestingly, with you”—her eyes run over me—“I can’t quite figure that out. I’d like to find out.”
“I don’t want to be followed around by a camera. My dad is a TV editor. I know exactly how you can make me look: whatever way you want. If I have to do the newspaper interview, then I’ll do it, but that’s all.”
She’s clearly disappointed by this, but there’s nothing she can do about it. “Okay. It will be a series of meetings, not just one sitting. I want in-depth. I want to understand you, Celestine, really get to know you.”
I half-laugh.
“I amuse you?”
“You work for Crevan. Do you think I’m stupid enough to think that you want to understand me? That anything you have to say about me will be favorable? That anything I actually say will make it into your articles?”
“You’re an interesting case, Celestine.”
“I’m a person. Not a case.”
“Friend of Judge Crevan, honors A student, a perfect good girl. You’re an unlikely candidate for this situation. People want to know about you.”
“Me and Angelina Tinder. Funny, isn’t it, two Flawed on one street within the span of two days? Such a coincidence.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Something different. A doubt of some kind, but then she resumes normal play.
“Euthanasia is frowned upon by our society,” she says, defending the Guild’s ruling on Angelina Tinder.
“So is compassion. I helped an old man to a seat.”
Then I realize I just gave her a headline. She’s thrilled.
“You see, Celestine.” She grins, moving forward in her chair. “It’s comments like that that are making people pay extra attention to you. You’re refreshing. For one so young.”
“I’m not trying to be anything.”