The image of the girl on fire is hard to forget: her body shaking uncontrollably as the drugs overtook her, her crimson skin spontaneously combusting.
“Anyway, the point is that she’s dead and I saw it. I wonder if I have to go into therapy now,” Kiki says.
I shoot her a sideways glance.
“Well, more therapy than I’m already in,” she says. “I ran into Thomas, too.” Kiki raises an eyebrow. “He said you left early because you weren’t feeling well. Are you okay now?”
Hmm. Makes sense that Thomas didn’t tell her about Gretchen. I certainly want to tell her, but I haven’t decided what to do about it just yet. Inform my parents and call off the wedding? Pretend it never happened?
Until I decide, best to keep it to myself. “Yeah, I’m fine. What time is it?” I put down my spoon without finishing my oatmeal, no longer hungry. “I don’t want to be late.”
“It’s eight-thirty,” says a voice from the hallway. Davida is walking toward me with a stern expression on her face. Her hair is up; she’s wearing her black uniform and, of course, her gloves. “Aria, may I have a word with you?”
Before I can respond, Kiki answers, “No, Davida, you may not.”
I’d laugh if Kiki’s tone weren’t so serious. “What’s your deal, Kiki?” I ask.
Kiki tugs on the hem of her striped cotton day dress. “I promised your father on my way in that I’d escort you to work and make sure you got there on time,” she says, “and I won’t disappoint him.”
Kiki takes one final bite of her apple, then drags me into the foyer. My purse is in my hand, and before I know it I’m out the door.
“I hate how she orders you around,” Kiki says, tapping her foot impatiently as we wait for the elevator. “You should get rid of her once and for all.”
For some reason, Kiki’s dislike of Davida really bugs me this morning—more than usual. Also, I’m annoyed that she’s basically made it impossible for me to speak with Davida when I need to ask her about the other night. “You know, how I interact with my servants is really none of your business.”
Kiki flinches as though I just slapped her. The elevator dings and the doors retract. “Come on,” she says. “Some of us have places to be.”
At work, I can’t seem to do anything right.
I accidentally spill coffee on my blouse and have to rush to the bathroom to try to scrub it out before it leaves a stain. I’m left with a white collared shirt that has a huge wet spot just underneath my right breast. So embarrassing.
Then, because I’m so upset about the spill, I do something to the TouchMe at my desk—I must’ve touched a wrong button on the screen—and the monitor goes blank. I’m forced to wait for someone from technical services to come and reboot the entire system.
“Don’t worry,” the young man—Robert—says. He looks about my age, maybe a few years older. “We’ll get you back to work in no time, Ms. Rose.”
My phone buzzes as I wait for Robert to finish. It’s Thomas calling. This is the fifth or sixth time he’s called me since Saturday night. I let the call go straight to voice mail. I’m not in the mood to speak to him, not after the party.
Gretchen Monasty.
I think back to the plummet party, when she was so rude. Was Thomas hooking up with her then, or is this a more recent development?
My phone beeps: Thomas has left me a message.
The sound of his voice makes me bristle.
Aria, it’s me. We need to talk. I care about you so much, and I don’t want you to have the wrong impression. Please call me back. I miss you.
The message ends. I play it back. I don’t want you to have the wrong impression. What other impression could I have?
I press Delete and stare at the phone, incredulous. I caught my fiancé cheating on me. Shouldn’t I be breaking down and crying, unable to get out of bed or move a muscle?
Oddly enough, all I feel is … relieved.
Who is this boy I’m supposed to marry—did I ever even know him at all? Or has our entire relationship been a sham? And yet … The locket. The letters. Who are they from, if not from him?
“Ms. Rose,” says a voice, bringing me back to the present. It’s Robert, standing before me with a timid smile.
“Yes?”
“All fixed,” he says. “Have a nice day, now.”
I watch as he walks to the elevator, undergoes a body scan, and then steps inside. The door zips closed behind him, and I think, Great. Back to work.
I’ve barely sat back down when I’m accosted by Patrick Benedict, who slams his fist down on my desk. His brown eyes seem darker than usual today, his bony face a collection of sharp angles and nearly translucent skin, so thin I can see the blue veins that run across his forehead. He’s hunched over, and his eyes are bloodshot, as though he’s been up all night. His hair is slicked back and parted on the side, his lips drawn back like those of a dog about to fight, exposing his stark white teeth.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” he asks.
I can tell by his tone that he doesn’t actually care to know. I look away for a second and realize that most of the floor is paying attention to us, their heads poking up over the cubicles.
“What do you mean?”
Benedict waits for a moment, then he reaches over me and logs into his email account on my TouchMe. Within seconds, he’s able to bring up a series of pictures from when Stacy overdosed Saturday night—someone in the room must’ve taken photos on their phone. They’re mostly of me, a mirror with crisp lines of Stic in the background, my body leaning over the girl as she’s OD’ing.
“A very concerned citizen sent me these this morning,” Benedict tells me. “Do you have any idea what this could do to the election if they get out? Your stupidity is risking everything your family has worked years for.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say.
Benedict shakes his head. “A picture says a thousand words. Don’t you know by now that some people will do anything to get ahead?”
People like you? I want to say, but I hold back.
“Your family is a prime target, Aria. We were able to keep you out of the public eye during your first overdose.” He smacks his lips together. “I doubt we’ll be able to do the same if you suffer a second one.”
I curl my hands into fists and hide them behind my back. I know I never ingested Stic—Lyrica confirmed that much. Something else is going on; I just don’t know what it is.
Yet.
“What do we do now?” I ask, motioning to the screen. “Maybe we can explain to the press that I tried to save her, I wasn’t doing any drugs myself.”
Benedict closes out his email. “It’s already taken care of. We traced the email to a teenager on the East Side. We found the digital shots and erased them before they were sent to any tabloids.”
I’m immediately relieved. “Oh, well … thank you.”
“I did not do this for you, Aria.” Benedict squints, looking meaner than before. “I did it for your father. I’m not even going to tell him about this, this incident, because he’s busy focusing on the election.” He leans in closer. “Which is what you should be focusing on, too.” He straightens up. “This is precisely what I shouldn’t be doing—wasting my time on snotty little kids when there’s important work to be done, when there’s—”
“That’s enough, Patrick,” says a woman’s voice, cutting him off.
I look up, and there’s Elissa Genevieve. Her silky blond hair flows past her shoulders, and she’s dressed in a smart pair of gray pants, black heels, and a lavender blouse open at the neck.
“Aria gets your point. Don’t you?” she asks me.
I nod.
“Honestly, Patrick. You don’t need to harass the poor girl.”
Benedict is clearly shocked that Elissa has come to my defense. He stares at her, then at me, and rubs his eyes. “Fine,” he says. Then he walks away.
Once he’s disappeared into his office, Elissa turns to me.
/>
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“Any time,” says Elissa, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “He’s right, though, Aria. People look up to you in this city. I know that can be a lot of pressure sometimes, but that’s your lot in life.”
I can tell Elissa is trying to help, but she doesn’t know what I’m going through right now. So I just say, “I understand,” and get back to work.
That night, I wait for Hunter.
I don’t want him to think I dressed up too much to see him, so I select a sleeveless orange dress from my closet and step into a simple pair of tan flats. I brush my hair and pull it away from my face, dab some moisturizer on my cheeks, and run a light coat of lip gloss across my lips.
I’ve been poised on the edge of my bed for what seems like hours when I hear a light tap on my window.
Eagerly, I press the touchpad on my wall. The curtains part, and I can see a shadow on my balcony. I easily pull the windows open, feel the hot air against my face, and stare up into the eyes of—
Turk?
The outside light glints off his Mohawk. His eyes are dark and metallic-looking, and a grin plays across his angular face. He’s wearing a sleeveless yellow T-shirt, the lines of his tattoos accenting his defined muscles, coiling around his arms like snakes.
“Miss me?” he asks.
I shake my head and take a step back. “What—what are you doing here?”
He hops inside and closes the windows behind him. “Hot out there,” he says, wiping his forehead. “Thanks for inviting me in.”
“I didn’t.”
Turk collapses into the chair in front of my desk. He looks around my room and whistles. “Sweet pad,” he says.
“Seriously,” I say, crossing my arms. “Where’s Hunter?”
“Story of my life,” Turk mutters. “Hunter, Hunter, Hunter. You know, I’m a pretty skilled guy myself.”
“Apparently,” I say, gesturing to my window. “Did you use the loophole to get here? How does it work? How did you get past all the security measures in the Aeries?” I ask, thinking about all the people on the night shift monitoring the Grid. “Can’t the loophole be detected? Or is it … invisible?”
Turk scratches his chin. “You ask a lotta questions.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him.
“Who do you think designed these so-called security measures?” Turk scoffs, standing up from the chair and pacing around my room. “Who do you think designed the entire Aeries? Mystics. We built up this entire city.” He points out my window, to the surrounding buildings. “Security measures? The Grid? They’re nothing. If need be, we can take down the entire Grid.”
“So why haven’t you?” I ask.
“We’re not looking for a war, Aria. We want to win the election fairly.”
“Who’s we? You and Hunter?”
Turk shakes his head. “Everyone. All the drained mystics in the Block and the rebels underground. We don’t want anything more than what you have, Aria. We just want to be treated equally, like human beings.”
But are they human beings? The magic they can do, the powers they have, they’re not natural. After watching Stacy OD, what Stic did to her body, knowing that Turk’s or Hunter’s touch has the potential to kill in a mere instant …
“What are you thinking?” Turk asks softly.
No, I tell myself. That’s an awful way to think. I’m not my parents. I think of Davida, of Hunter. I want everyone to be treated fairly.
“I’m confused,” I say. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“You don’t have to figure it all out right this second,” Turk says, widening his eyes, “but one day soon, you’ll have to choose a side. I hope you choose the right one.”
“I hope so, too,” I say.
Turk stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Hunter couldn’t make it. Obviously. So he sent me—he didn’t want you to think he was standing you up.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I’m disappointed. I didn’t realize how much I want—need—to see Hunter until now.
“No problem,” Turk says.
“Why couldn’t Hunter make it?” I hear my voice falter, nervous that Turk will tell me what I don’t want to hear—that Hunter thinks I’m annoying, a nuisance. A child.
Turk is about to speak when my door opens. “Aria? Who are you talking to?”
Turk and I freeze immediately.
Kyle stops in the middle of the room when he sees Turk. His entire body goes rigid; the veins in his neck and forehead bulge, and his cheeks flash tomato-red. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost. I’ve never seen Kyle so angry.
“What the hell?” Kyle turns to me, then back to Turk. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my little sister’s bedroom?”
Turk doesn’t wait around to answer. He hops out onto the balcony and opens the loophole—the green circle blazes wide. Turk looks back over his shoulder, winks, then plunges through. With a snap like a rubber band, the loophole shrinks and fades to nothingness, as though it were never there in the first place.
Kyle bolts through my room and onto the balcony. He swipes the air with his hands, as if there is anything there to grasp on to, but the air is just air—hot and thick and heavy with moisture.
He screams, a scary, primal roar. “I’ll find you!”
I’m frightened. Kyle has always been laid-back. Why is he reacting like this, like it’s the end of the world?
“Explain yourself,” he demands, coming back into my room and shutting the windows behind him. “What do you think you’re doing, Aria?”
“Nothing,” I say, realizing how ridiculous that must sound. My brother walked into my bedroom and saw a dangerous-looking boy standing there—a boy who disappeared into a mystic loophole. As an answer, nothing doesn’t really cut it.
“You’ve been seeing a mystic behind everyone’s back?” Kyle asks, spitting out the words as if they’re poisonous. “Behind your fiancé’s back? How could you?”
“No, Kyle.” My entire body is shaking. “It’s not like that—”
“What’s it like, then? Do you have any idea what Mom and Dad would do? Are you insane, Aria? You’re playing with fire.”
“He was nobody.” How can I explain that Turk means nothing to me? That Hunter is the one … the one I love? The thought nearly makes me laugh. I barely know Hunter. Maybe Kyle is right. I am insane.
“Kyle,” I say, “you don’t—”
“Understand?” he asks, glaring at me. “These people aren’t like us, Aria. They’re barely human. They’re using you, and you’re too foolish to see that. What you’re doing is dangerous, and more than that—it’s disgusting. I can’t believe you’d stoop to that level. Just like before.”
Is he referring to my overdose? I can’t tell whether Kyle is about to scream again or cry, his face is so twisted up. I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that I never took Stic in the first place, when he continues yelling. “Don’t you have any respect for Thomas? For me, for your family?” He nearly chokes on his words. “For yourself? A mystic like that—someone undrained—could kill you.”
“How dare you throw words like family at me,” I snap. “My family doesn’t care about me—forcing me to marry someone I can’t even remember!”
“And whose fault is that?” Kyle yells back. “No one forced you to be an addict.”
“That’s not what I am.”
“Prove it,” Kyle says, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, right—you can’t.”
I don’t know why, but at that moment, I think about my brother as a little boy. How we’d play together when our parents were away, how we’d sometimes stay up late and sneak into the kitchen, eating colored ice pops from the freezer. How after my father would yell at him, I would sneak into his bedroom and comfort him while he cried, even though he’s the older one.
But I haven’t known that Kyle for a very long time. “You’re just like Dad,” I say. “You care more about mone
y and politics than you do about me. You’re too busy kissing ass to see past yourself.”
In a split second, Kyle’s anger morphs into an intense sort of sadness. He doesn’t answer me—instead, he looks away and walks out.
My bedroom door shuts behind him.
All those things he said to me, those awful insults—did he truly mean them, or was he just upset to discover a part of my life that he wasn’t privy to?
And what exactly did he mean, Just like before?
• XVII •
When I awake the next morning, I expect to be under total lockdown.
Magdalena enters my room early to help me prepare for the day. Usually, she assists my mother, but since the weekend, she’s been helping me in the mornings; I wonder if this is something my mother requested or if Davida has purposefully made herself scarce. I’m not sure why she would do this, since we need to talk.
I study Magdalena’s face for any sign of strangeness—a quirk of the eyebrow, a judgmental glint in her eye—but she seems unaware of what happened last night.
Downstairs, my mother is eating apple slices and reading. She looks up as I enter the kitchen. “Did you sleep well, dear?”
I nod. “Where’s Kyle?”
“He went off early with Danny to get fitted for a new tuxedo,” she says. “Speaking of which, we have an appointment this coming weekend for a gown fitting.” My stomach knots. The last thing I want to do is try on my wedding dress and imagine myself walking down the aisle.
To meet lying, cheating Thomas.
“I know,” I say, still not ready to reveal what I’ve learned about Thomas’s infidelity. It’s too big a secret to drop at the moment; who knows exactly what it might be worth. Plus, if I do tell, I’m worried it will somehow backfire on me: my parents might think I’m hesitant about the wedding and keep a closer watch on me, maybe even assign me a bodyguard. And I certainly don’t want that.
Even early in the morning, my mother’s makeup is perfect—a light shimmer of blue on her eyelids, a dusting of blush on her cheeks—and her hair is wrapped into an exquisite French twist. “Good, then. Maybe I’ll add a spa appointment on top of that, and we can make a girls’ day of it!”