A Girl Called Fearless

by Catherine Linka

  I gulped. “Why?”

  “Fifty million? I think we both know the dangers facing a young girl with a bounty that size on her head.”

  My foot started to jiggle. “How do you know about my Contract? Am I on the news?”

  “Not as of an hour ago, and I’m sure Jessop Hawkins wants to keep it that way. He’d hate for his political rivals to know that he couldn’t hold on to a little sixteen-year-old.”

  I crossed my ankles to steady myself. “Do you know him?”

  “He’s not a client, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I nodded.

  “You may have realized that I’m a broker.”

  Wherever this discussion was going, I didn’t want to go there. “I guessed when the girls asked if I was Consignment.”

  “Oh, I wish they wouldn’t call it that. I specialize in brokering girls who’ve landed in unhappy relationships. I arrange for—”

  “Transfer of ownership.” My tongue tasted like metal.

  Magda tilted her head like I’d surpassed her expectations. “I find a better match, one the girl can live with, and I give her half the profits as a dowry.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Well, it’s unlikely I’d be successful in your case. You’re simply too expensive. Unless you have a talent I don’t know about.”

  “A talent?”

  “Like Tabitha. Surely you couldn’t avoid seeing the billboard?”

  “She’s a stripper.”

  “Tabitha is a talented, charismatic singer who is on track to become a millionaire in the next eighteen months.”

  “I heard you set her up.”

  “I put together a group of investors who bought her Contract and bankrolled her show. You’re very fit. Are you a dancer, a gymnast? The Dallas Cowboys are paying a fortune to remake their cheerleading squad. A multiyear contract might get you—”

  “No, I’m not a dancer. I’m a runner.”

  “Ugh. Unfortunately, the Olympic Committee pays nothing.”

  “I’m going to Canada,” I interrupted.

  Magda pressed a finger to her temple. “It’s very dangerous out in the real world.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out already.”

  “Eight in ten don’t make it across the border.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Yates had made it sound like almost everyone did.

  “I’m not surprised. Juliet, I’m happy to hide you until the next stage of your extraction, but I think you’d be better off staying here and working for me.”

  I knew men paid women for sex. And it was pretty clear men came to Vegas to party. And those girls Backstage? They were partying last night.

  “No, thanks. I’m a virgin.”

  Magda banged her teacup on the saucer. “This isn’t a whorehouse.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “We are in the entertainment business. We are geishas, not prostitutes. Geishas caress men’s egos. We embrace their desire to break rules and have tantalizing secrets. And we listen.”

  “So the girls here don’t have sex with people?”

  “Sexual favors are not included on our menu,” Magda said.

  “And you want me to join the Cast?”

  “I’m offering you a less dangerous alternative than attempting to cross the border at sixteen with forged documents.”

  Maybe being a party girl was safer, but I didn’t want safe. I wanted freedom and I wanted to dream about my future. About Yates. “No, thanks. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to try for Canada.”

  “I understand.” Magda arched one eyebrow like she knew she didn’t have the whole story. “Perhaps you’d do me a favor, however. We have very special guests tonight, and I could use one more hostess.”

  Hostess. The word made me want to put on rubber gloves.

  But Magda was risking jail to hide me, and if all I had to do was hang out for a couple hours with some guys looking for fun, I’d be ungrateful to say no. “All right.”

  “Thank you.” Magda stood up and pointed out the window at the airport. “Do you see that large jet set apart on the tarmac? It brought in a delegation from Congress.”

  “They’re the special guests?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But won’t this place be crawling with security? Shouldn’t I hide?”

  “Quite the contrary. With the Secret Service outside the door, you couldn’t be in a safer place.”

  I guessed Magda knew what she was doing. If the other Cast members had escaped like me, she’d figured out how to hide them without landing in prison.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Excellent.” Magda picked a phone up off her desk and handed it to me. “This is for you as I promised. But understand that we’ve placed limits on it for your protection.”

  I took it from her. “All right, what are they?”

  Magda gracefully maneuvered me to the door. “You’ll see. Now, go find Helen in Wardrobe. Tell her CHI.”

  And before I had a chance to ask what CHI was, Magda swept me out.

  Backstage. Cast. Wardrobe. This place was one big theatrical production. And all those actresses were girls like me, looking to not get Signed.

  I headed back to Wardrobe. So I’d join the Cast for a night. It was harmless. Like being in a play.

  Shae strolled ahead of me, her bandage peeking from under her tee. Her friend’s words came back to me. You know how Magda is about resale value. I clenched my new phone. Magda was amazing. She’d made me think she was caring and generous the way she helped the girls here, but she’d forced Shae into a tattoo wipe so she could get more money for her.

  Plus, Magda got me to agree to join the Cast tonight. She had me right where she wanted me and I didn’t have a clue if I could trust her.

  58

  I had every intention of finding Helen, but she could wait a minute while I checked out my new phone. The yoga room was empty, so I tucked into a space behind the exercise ball rack.

  The phone screen went live when I touched it, and my face appeared in one corner. It was the pic Magda took when I first got here. Then the phone snapped a picture of me now and lined it up with the first. “Welcome, Juliet,” the screen flashed. Even my restricted phone at home didn’t verify like this.

  Icons peppered the screen, but not ones I was used to: Current Events, Politics and Government, Science and Industry, Global Affairs, Religion and Society. There were two marked Onstage and Backstage. Finally, I found one for live calls, but when I tapped it, it said, “Function not available.”

  Magda didn’t trust me not to call Yates. Damn.

  At least I could see if my disappearance had hit the news. I clicked on Current Events, bypassed Top Stories, and went to Search and typed in “Avie Reveare.”

  Instead of bringing up links, the screen flashed, “Search denied.”

  I typed in Dad.

  “Search denied.”

  Biocure.

  “Search denied.”

  Clearly, Magda or one of her minions had programmed the phone to block me. And maybe that made sense if they wanted to prevent someone putting a trace on me. But what if I searched Jes Hawkins?

  “Search denied.”

  Yates.

  The screen flashed white, then, “Warning: continued searches in restricted areas will result in revocation of privileges.”

  English translation: Stop or we’ll take it away.

  I went back to Top Stories, even though I doubted I was scandalworthy enough to rank Top Ten. The list popped up and I almost dropped the phone. No, this can’t be happening. The top story: “U.S. Pressures Canada to Close the Border.” I clicked on it.

  “Canadian officials report that the United States government has threatened to cut off exports of American pharmaceuticals to Canada unless it closes its border to Americans seeking asylum.”

  Americans seeking asylum like me. The U.S. was blackmailing Canada into cutting off the exits.

  I k
ept reading. “This move by the U.S. would jeopardize the health of millions of Canadians suffering from diabetes and heart disease. The Canadian prime minister responded that he will not buckle to American bullying despite warnings that the embargo could triple the Canadian death rate within six months.”

  Canada wanted to save us, but their citizens were going to raise holy hell once people started dying.

  How long before Canada gave in? A week, two? I had to get out of here.

  But what about Yates?

  Even if the police didn’t charge him with helping me escape, he would never be able to join me.

  A voice came through the speakers overhead. “Juliet, please report to Wardrobe. Juliet, Wardrobe.” I scrambled to my feet as the voice continued. “Tonight’s guest list is now posted. Please familiarize yourself before this evening’s event.”

  The phone screen automatically switched to a photo gallery of men. I scrolled through them as I scurried off to Wardrobe. Senators, congressmen, a couple congressional aides. The same dirtbags who were trying to cut off Canada.

  59

  Wardrobe was crazed. Girls rushed around in shortie kimonos and expensive underwear while two men in silky shirts and perfectly done eyeliner worked on faces and hair.

  Helen was tall with siren-red hair, an Adam’s apple, and a phone that never left her hand. With heels on, she towered over everyone in the room, even the guys. As I approached, she pointed at two of the girls. “You and you. UVA cheerleaders. You’re assigned to Senators Wagner and Sanders in the Sportslounge.”

  “Hi, Helen, I’m Juliet.”

  Helen looked me over like I’d come to audition. Then I saw a flicker in her eyes like she knew exactly where she’d seen me before.

  Please, please don’t say anything, I thought.

  She pointed a long green fingernail at my head. “So you’re the last-minute addition. As if I didn’t have enough to do.”

  “Umm. Magda told me to tell you CHI?” I said.

  “Capitol Hill Intern. Hmmm. It has possibilities. Now, the hair. Normally I would suggest a headband—”

  My mouth dried up like a cotton ball.

  “Politicos just love the naughty conservative look, but I think bangs and a smoky eye.” Her voice dropped about six octaves. “What do you think, Jul-yet?”

  “Perfect,” I squeaked.

  She led me over to the stylists. “Ah, my miracle workers. The look: CHI.”

  Helen did a checklist on her fingers. “Bangs, smoky eye, pale pink lipstick. Outfit: silk blouse, pencil skirt, thong, enhancer bra, sheer black stockings, heels. Remember. Sexy, not slutty.”

  Stylist One scurried off to wardrobe while Two shoved me into the chair. I waved into the mirror. “Hi, I’m—”

  “Honey,” he said, “we’ve got no time to gab.”

  One and Two exfoliated, polished, groomed, and mascaraed me like I was getting ready for the runway. Meanwhile, Helen cruised the room, adjusting clothing and makeup, checking hair, and ordering girls to hurry up and get it together.

  A couple of hours later when I slithered into my skirt, Helen clapped her hands. “Places, everyone,” she cried. “It’s Showtime.”

  We lined up at the big metal door in our tight dresses and cheerleader outfits. Sirocco squeezed in front of me. “Listen, new girl,” she said. “If a guy starts putting his hands places you don’t like, tell him you need to freshen up. But save it for when you really need it, ’cause you can only do it once.”

  “Why?”

  “Magda’s rules.”

  Helen stood beside the door, her head held high. “As you enter Onstage, remember: these men carry the weight of the nation. They want to unburden themselves, and you will lighten their burden. You will listen.”

  We marched past her, and Billy escorted us across the foyer. My snug skirt barely gave as I walked. My skinny heels sank into the carpet, and I teetered on my tiptoes. The style boys had unbuttoned my blouse for a glimpse of my pink silk bra. Any resemblance I had to Letitia Hawkins was gone.

  All I had to do to keep Magda happy was to hang out with these guys for a couple of hours. Smile and pretend I was having a good time. Compared to everything else I’d been through, this would be easy.

  Polished and packaged like a Capitol Hill intern, I entered Onstage.

  60

  Onstage was a big open room. The sky was twilight blue beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, orange-red couches warmed the room, and the eternal lights of the Strip danced below.

  A dozen men hung around the foosball, pool, and air hockey tables. Their suit coats were thrown over chairs and their ties were torn off. The girls spread out like bees over a rosebush, handing out drinks. A buffet was set up, and I smelled ribs and sausage and burgers from across the room.

  I hung off to the side, not sure how to do the whole congressional geisha thing. But Magda didn’t wait for me to catch on. She stuck her arm through mine and propelled me over to a tall man with silver hair. “Senator Fletcher, I don’t believe you’ve met Juliet.”

  I held out my hand and forced a smile. “Senator.” The real live head of the Paternalist Movement. The guy who’d transformed me and my girlfriends into property. He’d probably masterminded both the Twenty-eighth Amendment and closing the border with Canada.

  “Well, aren’t you something?” he said. “You look good enough to get a man impeached. How much?” he asked.

  My mouth dropped. Magda shot me a “get that smile back on your face look.” She placed her hand on his arm. “For display only, I’m afraid. I’m brokering her Contract. The latest bid is fifty million.”

  “Fifty!”

  “She comes with partial ownership in a manufacturing concern.”

  “So she’s investment grade.” Fletcher paused like he was considering making a bid. My cheeks twitched from holding my smile in place. What the hell was Magda doing, telling him all this real stuff about me?

  Finally, Fletcher shook his head. “Nope, I’m just a humble public servant. Besides, the wife would probably frown on the deal.”

  “Wives. So inconvenient.” Magda crooked her finger, and a blonde in a too tight cardi set bounced over. “Senator,” Magda purred, “I think Amanda would be interested in learning some of your billiard secrets.”

  Amanda guided him away.

  “Why’d you tell him about the fifty million and my dad’s company?” I asked.

  Magda dropped her elegant accent. “Because he’s old and married, and he probably thinks I’m inflating the number to impress him.”

  “So he thinks you’re lying.”

  “Exactly. Ready to meet our guests?”

  Magda strolled me around the room, introducing me and making each of the senators and congressmen tell me which committees they controlled. I smiled and listened to them talk, but I couldn’t stop thinking how if Ms. A was here, she’d blast them right out of the room.

  She’d tell them what she thought of their laws. These guys had conspired to keep girls out of college. Made it a crime to run from a Contract. And now they were imprisoning us in our own country.

  Magda left me at the air hockey table with a senator from Kentucky and a congressman from Illinois. The congressman handed me the puck. “Ready to play?”

  “Sure,” I said, skimming the puck onto the table.

  “We playin’ teams?” Senator Kentucky asked. Sirocco nuzzled up against him with a plate of sliders. “I’ll be on your team,” she said.

  I bent over the table, ready for the first round, when the congressman pressed against me. He whispered something nasty in my ear about an intern and a cigar. Every cell in my body wanted to smash my heel into his foot, but I forced myself to grit my teeth and smile. Perv.

  Senator Fletcher waved his pool cue. “Don’t molest the girl, Paul. You can’t afford her.”

  The congressman eased off. “So you’re luxury goods.”

  “Very,” I told him, smacking the puck into the goal.

  “Nice shot.”
The congressman raised his glass. “Gentlemen, a toast to Senator Fletcher and his action group for persuading American universities to put women’s safety first.”

  By keeping us out!

  The men raised their glasses to Fletcher, and Congressman Paul ran his hand down my back. “Now you wouldn’t want to go to college, would you?”

  I gripped the plastic puck tight. “No, Congressman, I can’t imagine anything more fulfilling than being a mother.”

  “Spoken like a true patriot. We can fix this country, but we need every seventeen-year-old like you to start popping out babies. We lost half our workforce,” he said. “Half! No babies. No workers.”

  “Seventeen’s too old,” Fletcher said. “There are only four million seventeen-year-olds in this country. If we could lower the Signing age to fifteen we could triple the number of births in the next three years.”

  Fifteen! They wanted to pull girls out of school their freshman year.

  “Forget fifteen. You’ll be lucky if the old lady voters don’t demand eighteen,” Senator Kentucky said. “That Rowley girl getting shot on the Supreme Court steps today has them all riled up!”

  My knees turned to Jell-O and I had to lean on the table. She was only sixteen.

  Congressman Paul smacked the puck into my goal. “Senator, our office has surveyed women across the country and most have never heard of Samantha Rowley.”

  I lined up for the shot.

  Samantha died for nothing, because women didn’t know about her. Of course they didn’t. How would they hear about her? Their restricted phones? The Sportswall?

  Disgust flickered on Sirocco’s face, and then she slinked over to the aide and slid the phone out of his hands. He grinned as she played with it and asked questions like she’d never seen a phone before.

  Congressman Paul fingered the ends of my hair. “These old men can be pretty boring.”

  I wanted to rip his arm out of the socket. “I don’t mind. All anybody ever talks about around here is clothes.”

  His cell buzzed in his pocket and he turned to answer it.

  Thank God. A reprieve.

  The senator with the bow tie playing pool against Fletcher was getting looser and louder. His name was Perue, and Amanda had refreshed his drink at least three times already.