Beneath the Shine

  Gia Fortin is evil. I wish I could have seen her face when we won, when she realized all her money had been flushed down the toilet.

  To my left, a girl snickers. “God, it looks like she styled her own hair.”

  “In the dark,” says another.

  “Ugh, what’s that smell?” asks a third.

  “Rancid wannabe.”

  I don’t look. I just keep walking.

  “Oh! Did you see that one video of her where she fell up the steps? Hang on—”

  I can’t help it. I glance over and see a tall blonde in a shiny, high-collared coat draw her finger along the round surface of the nodule embedded in her head, then tap it. Next to her, a curvy girl with silver eyelashes and silver-streaked dark hair goes still for a moment, then doubles over, laughing. “That’s hilarious. Let me send it to Lara and Hannah.” She, too, draws her finger over her Cerepin nodule, then taps it.

  Finally I reach the door. I hold up my arms so that the school’s security cannies, which are older and look less humanlike, scan me for contraband. Having none, I’m allowed into the academy’s soaring atrium. There are kids sitting at tables on either side of a broad, curved staircase that leads up to the second floor. Some of them are chatting, but others seem lost in their own heads, staring at the tabletops or floor.

  These kids have the most outrageous shoes, and their clothes are obviously custom-genned. I can tell by the fit and style—there’s no way these were mass downloads bought at wholesale fabric generation facilities like the kind we had back home. I see a guy with slicked-back hair and thigh-high boots, his nails filed to points, and a girl with a shaved head and an outfit that looks like it’s made of bloody bandages. So weird, but I guess money can buy you just about anything. Most kids are a little more toned down, though a lot of them sport little sparkly diamond-dust tattoos on their cheeks and necks. In Houston we had temp knockoffs, and they made our skin itch like crazy. My blood starts to boil as I think of how much money went into my classmates’ school outfits and how it could have been put to better use.

  Be your best self, Mar.

  Using my comband, I pull up the map of the school and my schedule. My homeroom’s on the second floor, so I make for the steps—and almost immediately stumble. The girl who made me trip flips her shiny sheet of brown hair over her shoulder as she bounces past. Her arms are at her sides, but the middle finger of her right hand is extended, pointed at the ground yet clearly meant for me. Oh, this is crap. I’m not going to be bullied.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  She stops. Looks over her shoulder. “Are you talking to me?”

  I walk forward with my hand outstretched, offering to shake hers. “Yeah. I’m Marguerite Singer. I’m new here. And you are?”

  She snorts as she looks down at my hand. “Oh, sorry. I have a feeling I know where those hands have been, and I’m determined to stay disease-free.”

  My hand drops to my side. “Is this really how you treat new students? It’s not very nice.”

  She gives me a bemused look. “Of course it’s not how we treat new students. It’s how we treat destructive haters. Like you.”

  “That last bit was kind of obvious, Bianca,” drawls a boy who is leaning against the wall, narrow hips cocked. Whoa. Even in this sparkly, stylish crowd, he stands out. His lips shine with gloss, and his pale skin is perfect—not a zit in sight. I think he might be wearing blush? His blond hair swoops up from his forehead like a cresting wave and glitters under the light like it’s flecked with metal. His clothes are a riot of color and prints that somehow go together perfectly—and he’s wearing a jacket with tails, like he’s from the 1700s or something. He looks totally out of place and time yet completely at ease. He also looks vaguely familiar, but maybe that’s because he reminds me of an anime character, all exaggerated lines and sharp eyes—which are focused on me.

  “Obvious to all of us, maybe,” Bianca says, turning to the boy. “But we all know she’s a bit slow without her scripted talking points, Percy. I wanted to help her along.”

  Oh, here we go. There has been a rumor for months that Uncle Wynn’s campaign wrote out scripts for my vids and all I did was read them off a screen. “Just a pretty mouthpiece,” I mutter.

  Percy tilts his head to the side as he watches me, as if I’m an animal in a zoo. I shoot him a glare. Interesting or not, he is definitely not on my side.

  Bianca’s eyes are unfocused now, and her fingertip is sliding over her Cerepin nodule. “Oh, here it is. Have you seen this one?” She taps the nodule. “It’s a compilation of all the times she got nailed by protesters. Paint, fruit, oh, there’s pee!” Her laugh is like breaking glass. “I’m even in one of them—it’s from the rally over in Arlington last summer.”

  Percy continues watching me.

  “Must be nice, having instant access to the entire Mainstream in your head,” I say to Bianca, since she’s the most obnoxious. “There are so many important, useful things you could do with that privilege instead of trying to tear other people down.”

  Bianca rolls her eyes. The swirling diamond-dust tattoo that resides along her collarbone winks at me in the light of the atrium. “Maybe I think it’s important and useful to put conceited, greedy social climbers like you on notice—I’m capping every move you make, so there’s going to be a record. You’re not the only one who can stream a vid.”

  And unlike me, she can do it with a blink of her eye—the lenses connected to her Cerepin will do the rest. She can even boost the vid capture to the Mainstream so her followers can watch us live—my dad went on and on about the possible uses, including letting other humans remotely witness lectures, groundbreaking surgeries, weddings, personal disputes, or accidents. He said it even has a feature that instantly coms for police assistance when it detects violence or danger approaching.

  But Bianca is using it to try to intimidate and hurt me, because of course.

  “Go ahead and cap, Bianca,” I say. It’s a great reminder to me that I have to be on at all times. “And please stream all of it. Your followers might need to think about how many American people have either lost or can’t get jobs they need because they don’t have Cerepins and can’t compete with the cannies, and yet this amazing technology has a price that no average American can afford. I’m happy to raise their awareness. They might want to think about the income inequality that—”

  “I’m sorry, what?” She’s fiddling with her Cerepin again. “I was too busy watching a video of you showing off your wretched dance moves.” She gives me a lacerating fake smile. “Is that what attracted sleazy Sallese?”

  My cheeks burn—now she’s talking about a vid I posted before everything happened. Me in my old life, innocent and clueless and happy. For some reason, I glance over at Percy, the fancy boy who’s still leaning against the wall. He’s still watching me, still wearing a smirk, like he’s just waiting for me to lose my temper or fall apart.

  He doesn’t know me at all. “You’re trying very hard to be mean in an effort to upset me,” I say. It’s working, but I’m stronger than that. The movement is bigger than her. “But no matter how hard you try, you won’t change the fact that Wynn Sallese won the election, and he’s our president now. It won’t change my belief in his agenda or my understanding of just how badly everyday Americans need an advocate after what eight years of greed and corruption have done to this country.”

  “Of course you won’t stop believing in him—you have to do whatever he wants to hang on to your free ride,” Bianca says. She taps out a little rhythm on her nodule. Several other kids get up and amble over. She must have just messaged them or something.

  Bianca puts her hands on her hips. Now she’s blocking my way to the steps. “I’d like to introduce all of you to Marguerite Singer,” she announces. “As she has told us in vid after vid, she comes from a humble family and a humble place.” The pitch of her voice swings from high to low, all drama and mockery. Her full lips pout, and she bats her gold-flecked eyelashes.
“Because of this, she feels entitled to have everything for free, and she thinks other losers like her should have it just as easy as she does. She got lucky when she attracted the eye of the man who would be president. He scooped her out of the crap pile where she was living, and as long as she’s his dirty little girl, he’ll be her sugar daddy.” She skims the tip of her tongue along her lips, all suggestion.

  “Got lucky?” I ask in a trembling voice. “You think I’m here because I was lucky?” Rage spirals up my backbone, turning it molten. “And how dare you—”

  “Dirty little girl.” A stocky boy with sandy blond hair and a red jeweled collar band has come to stand next to Bianca. He lets out a giggle. “I love it. Can we call her that, B?”

  “I think we’ll have to, Winston.” Bianca doesn’t take her eyes off me. “I’ve already forgotten her actual name.”

  “I don’t care whether you remember my name. Because I represent the millions of Americans out of work and trying to support their families. The government subsidies are enough to get by, but by that I mean barely survive. So what do your fellow Americans do, Bianca? They numb the pain however they can. If that doesn’t work, they end it.” I swallow hard, because the lump in my throat threatens to steal my voice. “They don’t know how to keep their children safe. They don’t see themselves as having a future.” My fists are clenched, but I’m speaking quietly enough that several of the kids around me tap at their ears, probably upping the volume on their auditory chips. “You don’t have to remember my name so long as you remember that.”

  “So you think Fortin Tech should just give the Cerepins away to these people?” asks Bianca, suddenly more vicious than before. “You think the billions they poured into research is worth nothing? That sleazy Sallese should be able to barge into their facilities, take the ’Pins, and hand them out on the street? You think businesses that develop or use cannies should be punished for wanting to be successful and efficient? You think we should live in the past, because things were so much better then? You act as if all these people are left on the street to starve, when in actuality they’re sitting on their couches all day, eating chips and getting fat off our parents’ tax dollars!”

  “You’re so out of touch, it’s scary,” I tell her.

  “And you’re so brainless and classless that you’ll wrap your arms—and legs, probably—around anyone who promises you a better deal.”

  “Ah, Bianca, when the appallingly sordid becomes your go-to attack, you’re doing it wrong,” says Percy, finally shoving himself off the wall. The tails of his coat flap against the backs of his thighs as he saunters forward. “You’ll have to be a bit savvier if you want to knock our Marguerite off message.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Bianca asks.

  “It’s just . . . you’re using more of a club,” says Percy. His eyes glitter as he looks me up and down. “This job calls for a scalpel.”

  “Cut it out,” says a voice I haven’t yet heard.

  Percy turns to someone behind me and arches one eyebrow. “Literally?”

  “You know what I mean, Percy. Quit egging Bianca on.”

  Standing just behind me is a girl with brown skin, white hair, and white eyebrows. She’s dressed in all white, too, a crisp tunic and pants. Subtle but elegant. Obviously super expensive. Her dark eyes look past me and focus on Bianca. “We’re not bullies. Stop acting like one.”

  “Actually, Anna, Bianca is a bit of a . . . ,” Percy begins, but the white-haired girl holds up her hand, and his mouth twists into an amused smile. With a flourish of his hand—one that draws my eye to the lacy cuffs and ruby cuff links at his wrists—he cedes the floor to the girl in white.

  Anna moves to stand next to me. “This isn’t the way to prove a point,” she says to Bianca before turning her head and speaking to the other students who have gathered around. “We’re all upset about this, but it’s no excuse to act like jackals.”

  “Come on, Anna,” Bianca says, her lip curling. “You know I’m just saying the things everyone else is thinking.”

  “Thankfully, no you’re not,” says Anna. “How about you step aside and let Marguerite walk to her homeroom in peace, instead of making us look like the soulless monsters more than half the country already thinks we are?”

  Kids are backing off now, tossing hateful looks at me over their shoulders. Bianca rolls her eyes when she sees her audience abandoning her and blows a kiss at my new white-haired friend. “You’ll bulk up your shoulder muscles, toting this extra baggage.”

  Anna doesn’t say anything, but her jaw works beneath her skin, and her eyes are wide and steady on the mean girl. A classic shut up shut up shut up look. Hmm.

  Bianca puts up her hands in surrender. “See you tonight?” she asks.

  “Maybe,” Anna replies. “Mom may want me home.”

  Bianca sighs. “I know. Dad said it might not be safe on the streets now that Sallese is bringing all sorts of low-class trash into the District. The beatings, people being attacked just because they have Cerepins. Dad says it’s only a matter of time before we’re rounded up and—”

  Anna groans. “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Bianca looks toward Percy, as if she’s wondering if he’s leaving with her, but he’s not looking in her direction.

  He’s looking in mine—I can see it out of the corner of my eye. I’m not going to return his gaze. Out of all the people in this scene, he’s the one I can’t figure out. With one last eye roll, Bianca pivots and heads up the steps, dragging the stocky blond guy—Winston, I think she called him—along with her.

  Anna looks over at me. “Our parents work together. I’ve known her all my life.”

  “Okaaaaay.” Once I’ve given Bianca a respectable head start, I trudge up the stairs with Anna next to me. Percy falls in behind us. I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder at him—it seems better to ignore him.

  “She’s usually nice,” Anna insists.

  Percy laughs quietly.

  Anna drops her head back, looking tired. “Well. Nicer.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She seems like a sweetheart.”

  “Everybody’s just intimidated by you.”

  “Right. They seemed absolutely terrified.” If Anna hadn’t shown up, I might have needed the Secret Service after all.

  Anna starts to respond, then seems to think better of it.

  “I’m sure I can find my homeroom on my own, even without GPS in my head,” I tell her, holding up my comband. “You don’t have to be the welcoming committee.”

  “It’s okay. My mom told me to look out for you. But I’d have done it anyway. Someone has to.”

  “Why?”

  “Marguerite, I care about my classmates, even when they’re acting like idiots. Don’t even think about it, Lara.” She lightly shoves away another girl who was about to collide with me. “We don’t need vigilantes coming in and firebombing our school because they think you’re being bullied. One tearful video from you and—” She makes a little explosion sound.

  “I wouldn’t—”

  She holds up a hand. “I saw what happened in Silicon Valley.”

  Not my best moment. Some protestors threw a bucket of pee on me as we headed into a rally. Wynn’s security quickly got me inside, where I sat in the women’s bathroom and fed a vid to the Mainstream, gagging on the stench, my hair dripping. It had just become a habit at that point to tell everyone what was happening to me at the moment it happened. Plus, I was scared and frazzled and needed the comfort of the strangers who’d become family. But this time, my vid got more than just views and comments—Uncle Wynn’s supporters went on a rampage that lasted for days. When they were finished, some of the Valley technocrat enclave’s nicest neighborhoods were nothing but smoking ruins. “I didn’t want that to happen, and neither did the president. He called for calm.”

  “Mm-hmm. And that fixed everything right up.”

  My fingers grip the banister, anger turning my knuckles bloodless. ?
??So basically, you’re being fake-nice right now to save your own ass?”

  “No, I’m being real-honest right now because I want you to understand where I’m coming from.”

  My eyes flick to her Cerepin. I wonder what it’s doing for her right now, and for all these other kids who have them, too. I bet they can see the tiny beads of sweat on my upper lip. I bet they can hear the frantic swish-thump of my heart. And I bet they’re still hoping I lose it and embarrass the president. After a deep breath, I smile at Anna. “I’d like to understand, Anna. We’re all a part of this country. Everyone has a perspective. President Sallese believes that, and so do I.”

  Behind me, Percy snickers. “I don’t know about you, Anna, but I totally get the appeal.”

  His condescending drawl is getting under my skin, making me itch with irritation. “You’re very good,” he says when I finally turn to look at him. “Much better than I thought you’d be in person, on the fly. I think I’m jealous.”

  Anna rolls her eyes. “No you’re not, Percy. You have almost as many Mainstream followers as she does.”

  “Oh, stop flattering me. It’s not even close.” But he looks like he’s eating it up.

  I look him over with new suspicion, my brain churning as it tries to identify him. This is where a Cerepin would come in handy—instant facial recognition that automatically opens a person’s Mainstream mention results and social feed. “Did you campaign for the technocrats or something?”

  Anna chuckles, but Percy looks horrified. “Lord, no. I’d rather have my teeth pulled. Politics.” He shudders, but then his blue eyes flash as he looks me over. “I must say, though—I’m not a huge fan of Hyra’s, and I thought her winter collection was positively provincial, but your ensemble for the inauguration was divine. I did think it skewed young for you, but I suppose they wanted to project innocence.”

  I’m opening my mouth to ask what the heck he’s trying to project with his ridiculous outfit when Anna’s head jerks up. She stops right there on the steps. “Accept.” After a few seconds, she says, “Excuse me,” and jogs up the stairs.