by Rae Mariz
“Mom, cut it out,” I said softly, but it felt like I was choking on something. I’d never seen my mom so happy.
Mom also seemed really impressed with Harrison’s play-by-play of what Protecht Securities provided for the Game as a whole and its sponsored students particularly. “In addition to the GPS and intouch® response system available to all players, which alerts the authorities to potential dangers both in and outside the Game, our young agents work closely with us to develop new security measures. They enjoy a level of access to protective services and are provided with personal guidance to navigate ethical concerns and safety situations.”
Dr. Grant briefly outlined the changes that would be made to my Network status and the onsite benefits of being on the It List. He pulled up a textual agreement for us to scroll through on the glass table. He finished with “Any questions?”
“Sounds like an amazing opportunity. Doesn’t it, Kiddie?” She was so excited, and I definitely didn’t want to let her down, but I couldn’t stop feeling that they must’ve made a mistake.
“Why me, though?” I asked everyone in the room. “Why did you choose me out of all the kids in the school? What do you expect me to do?”
Anica laughed. “I know, it’s all probably overwhelming, but you don’t need to worry. We chose you because you had an eye for the cutting-edge, so actually, all we expect from you is for you to be yourself. And share your content with us, if applicable. We won’t ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“You’ve shown a special talent in extracurricular investigations,” Harrison said cryptically, obviously preferring not to mention the Unidentified in front of my mom. “The kind of talents we tend to keep a close eye on under any circumstances.” His lip twitched in a kind of hidden warning. “In any case, we’re very pleased that young Jeremy recommended you to us. He expressed a deep interest in getting the chance to work together with you.”
Jeremy said that?
Mrs. Bond set a fingerprint-scanning touchpad in front of my mom. She made a valiant effort at reading the glowing print, but I could tell she was skimming the end.
Harrison, then Anica, slid the touchpad over to my side of the table. I still had questions about what would be expected of me, but whatever it was, it had to be worth all the benefits I was about to get in this arrangement.
I scrolled quickly through the text.
Then clicked OK.
18 PRIVATE MESSAGES
I couldn’t believe it. It probably didn’t feel real because I hadn’t told Ari yet, so when I got home I opened my notebook® to send her a private message. But I noticed I had a new message in my inbox and opened it.
Congratulations. You have joined the ranks of the sold souls. Hope you got a good deal for the price you paid. by anonymous
I was more pissed off than scared this time. I was about to fire off a demanding who are you? email, but I didn’t click Send. In all the stranger-danger seminars they said I should never respond to people I didn’t know, but that’s not what made me pause. I read the message again. Three times. News of the branding still hadn’t been made public. Jeremy knew about it from his sponsors, now our sponsors. So this person had access to parts of my record that only administrators and sponsors could see.
And there was something familiar about the cadence of the words. The language. It was him.
I wrote:
I know who you are. I recognize your voice. by kidzero
I felt a little dizzy after I sent it, maybe because I had been holding my breath. A new message pinged and the air rushed out of me like a deflating balloon.
You shouldn’t be talking to strangers anyway.
Who am I?
by anonymous
I didn’t really know his name or anything about him, but I couldn’t admit that now. I wanted to keep talking to him. I quickly typed:
You are the Unidentified. The Unidentified refuses to be typecast, target-marketed, corporate-identified, defined.
by kidzero
I didn’t have to wait long for a response.
the UnID.
“Kiddie, what are you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” I said, closing my notebook® quickly.
Mom opened my bedroom door. She was smiling. “Well, are you ready to go out and celebrate? Let me take you out to dinner at Aunt Gillie’s.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, feeling a little guilty. This was, like, my mom’s worst fear, me chatting with strangers on the interweb, but I smiled back at her. My mind was a chemical rush of excitement from my little secret. I needed to find out who this guy was.
19 GENERATION TRIPLE-A
When I entered the Game the next day, my full attention snapped over to one of the advertisement screens in the Pit. It was showing the dummy suicide film. Right there on one of the sponsors’ screens.
The film had been re-edited so instead of the long shots and slow music, it was cut up into choppy, out-of-sequence clips. The final splatter instant-replayed five or six times, intercut with the close-up of the balloon face. The text: WHO ARE YOU? CHOOSE YOUR IDENTITY. flashed on the screen in an edgy-looking font, followed by the logo for Trendsetters clothing.
I stared at the screen in shock. Did clicking OK give Trendsetters permission to remix the film just because it was linked from my page? I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t have the rights to that film.
Everything subversive about the Unidentified film had been spun to sell Trendsetter clothing. I wondered if I had an angry anonymous private message waiting for me now, or if the Unidentified were already planning ways to retaliate.
Everyone I passed was chattering about the ad spot.
“I was there when they were filming it! I can’t believe our Game site is in a national campaign.”
“I saw an original director’s cut. But the remix is so much better.”
“Look. It’s her.”
People I barely knew were pointing at me.
The hype was making me uncomfortable. Why was it getting so much attention now? Two days ago, no one had even blinked.
A new text buzzed into my intouch®.
aria: why didn’t you tell me? @KID
Oh no. Ari. I didn’t think news would spread so fast. I thought I’d have time to tell her everything before it went live.
Ari’s Network page told me where she was “right now,” and I hurried up to the Sweatshop.
I found her sitting on a sofa with her advisor Jaye. Jaye’s hair was cotton-candy pink, and her eyeliner looked like Ari had done it for her.
“I’ll let you girls talk,” Jaye said, standing up. “Come by my office if you need anything, Aria.” Jaye pronounced her name the way Ari liked.
Ari’s violet contact lenses were shimmering with tears.
She swiveled her notebook® toward me so I could see the screen. On top of my Network page, the Trendsetter logo and Protecht Securities name were in a banner that read: PROUD SPONSORS OF KATEY DADE.
“How did that even happen?” she said, her voice rising.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “It all happened really fast.” I told her about what a fluke it all had been, that they used my first search hit and continued interest in that Unidentified film we’d found to tag me as a trendspotter.
“I’m sorry, Ari. I didn’t plan any of this.”
My intouch® buzzed. I checked it on impulse, even though I probably should’ve waited until we weren’t in the middle of a supersensitive conversation.
#IT_List_serv: yr invited to a meet & greet at the VIP lounge. come on! @KID
“What is it?” Ari asked.
“Nothing,” I answered automatically. “It’s just a meeting.”
Ari held out her hand for my intouch®. “No more secrets,” she said. I watched her read my invite. “You should go,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, I know.” I stood up. “But we’re cool, right?”
“Sure,” she said, still sniffling. “I mean, it’s not like you
purposefully screwed your friends over to get fame, right?”
“Right,” I said carefully. I was relieved, but it still didn’t seem fair. Ari had busted her ass all year to get branded, and I kind of fluked my way into the VIP Lounge. “I’m sorry, Ari.”
WE ARE GENERATION TRIPLE-A. The slogan hung on the wall in an edgy font etched in metal. The tenets of the It List were Articulation, Argumentation, and Association. The lounge was supposed to be a place to meet and associate with other promising players. Generation Triple-A was also the marketing term assigned to us, the kids spawned after Generation X, Y, and Z. They had been the end of an era, we were the beginning. We were rewarded with a peppy, battery-operated generation moniker (AAA) in exchange for our promise to remember the brands that formed our dearest childhood memories. Those chosen to be on the It List prided themselves on being the voice of this generation.
The lighting must’ve been different in the VIP Lounge than in the rest of the Game. It made everyone look air-brushed and perfect, even better than the natural light coming in though the skylight.
The whole back wall of the lounge was a mirror, making the space feel crowded and infinite. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the wall and it looked like I had been Photo-shopped into the scene. Falsified evidence to make it look like I belonged with all these pretty people.
Eva Bloom was giggling and gossiping up front with the big-name crowd, trying to get the attention of Palmer Phillips, but he was too busy posing with Abercrombie Fletcher. Fletcher had been branded since birth—he’d kinda inherited it from his PR-Papa.
Getting linked with a brand was supposed to be like being backstage with an Idol band or something, but the whole scene felt pretty plastic to me. I’d never socialized with these people before and couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to talk about with them now.
“Hi.” A guy in a logo T-shirt holding a can of Liquid Crack® came and sat next to me. “What’s your name?”
It was obvious he didn’t go to school here. He was outside of the Game’s demographic age by at least five years.
“Kid,” I mumbled, arms crossed.
“Whoa! Great name. Can I get you a drink, Kid?” He held up a can of Liquid Crack®.
“No thanks, I’m cool.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said, tilting his head back, chugging his high-energy, no carb, caffeine cocktail. I could almost hear his heart seize.
“I like your style, Kid.”
I winced, but I think he took it as a smile.
“It’s true, you’ve got a real cool anti-style style. And that shoelace accessory?” He raised his can to my pocket, like he was toasting my “look.” “Subtle. Nice.”
“It’s utilitarian,” I said.
His face dropped in a look of surprise and pulled out a notebook®. “I’ve never heard of that brand, did they just launch?”
I smiled a polite, someone-please-save-me smile.
“So who are you here with? Who got you? It was Élan, wasn’t it?” He glared at a good-looking guy, early twenties, surrounded by a herd of Fashion Fascists. “That slick bastard,” he muttered into his drink. He smiled at me. “I would’ve liked to have been the first to brand you,” he said, winking. “I’d brand you any day of the week.”
Ugh, gross. Was he flirting with me?
“No. Um, Anica invited me?” I said, looking around, trying to find someone else to talk to. I was surprised to see Rocket sitting by herself at a table. In the Sweatshop, she was the sun all the Craftsters orbited around. Here, she was just a girl.
“Anica Lass?” the Liquid Crack® guy said almost reverently. “Wow. She hasn’t been interested in anyone on site since last year’s popularity implosion with what’s-her-name. Pepper Lewis.”
“Cayenne? She had been with Trendsetters?” I was kind of embarrassed about how greedy I was for gossip, but I really wanted to know this story.
Two hands grabbed my shoulders firmly and I heard a smooth voice say, “I’m sorry, can you excuse me? I need to borrow my friend for a moment.”
The Liquid Crack® guy said, “Obviously, she’s a hot commodity,” and immediately swiveled to talk to the kid on the other side of him.
I turned around to see Tycho Williams standing in front of me. I’d never been this close to him and had about forty emotions battling on my face. Surprise. Awe. Shame. Fear.
I think my expression finally settled on dread.
“Good game cashing in that linked-to film for celebrity perks,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic. He gestured to the glitzy room around us. “It was so worth it, no?”
I frowned. He thought I’d sold them out. “I didn’t give them permission to use that film,” I said a little too loudly. Then softer, “When I signed, they told me they wouldn’t ask me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable with. And they didn’t. Ask, I mean.”
A crease flickered in the smooth space between his eyebrows. “Business as usual,” he muttered. He watched the room cautiously. “Take everything you think you already know and do a cost-benefit analysis before you sell your soul.”
“Hey, don’t act like you’ve never smudged the glass with your thumb,” I said defensively. “You did the same thing to get in here.”
“On the one hand, you’re right. On that one, you’re wrong.”
He pointed to the balloon wristband I’d been wearing all this time. I covered it up, embarrassed, then guiltily pulled it off with a snap.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out.
His teeth flashed white as he laughed it off. “Why are you apologizing to me?”
“Thought maybe you could pass it on? Tell the others I didn’t mean for this to happen? Let them all know. Sophia. Lexie. Elijah…Cayenne.”
His face lost its confident expression for a second.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, talking over me. “I’ll spread the word if you don’t.”
“Sorry,” I said again, not catching on until now that maybe the VIP Lounge wasn’t the best place to be discussing the Unidentified.
“Yeah,” he said, frowning.
Jeremy snaked his arm around my shoulders. “Hey, Kid,” he said, then nodded to Tycho. “What were you two chatting on about?”
“Music production,” I said without hesitation. Then I asked Tycho about mixing techniques I always wished I could discuss with him.
He answered without missing a beat and we talked for a bit before he excused himself.
“Be sly,” Tycho said, then mingled back into the scene.
“Tycho Williams, huh?” Swift asked after he left.
“It’s a meet-and-greet.” I shrugged. “Besides, who doesn’t know Tycho Williams. Why?”
He smiled and squeezed me tighter. “Just checking out my competition.”
I didn’t know how to answer. It was pretty surreal. Discussing music with Tycho Williams, flirting with Jeremy Swift. It was almost like everything they ever said about the VIP Lounge was true.
“Hey, I just have a small announcement to make,” Palmer said to the crowd, hopping up on a catwalk. Everyone got quiet and looked up to Palmer. The cool hunters who were working the room stood off to the side, admiring their choice of spokesman.
“I’d like to say a few words from our sponsors.”
He went on about how Eva Bloom’s sponsor, Kiss Off® lipstick, was going to hold some kind of kissing contest by the Park after the meeting. He mentioned the marketing campaign tagline: “If you’re not man enough to kiss off this long-lasting lipstick, then Kiss Off®!”
“Trust me”—Palmer tousled his ironic haircut—“I can tell you from personal experience, you are not going to want to miss this event.” He winked at Eva, sitting in the front row.
She licked her cherry-stained lips and looked back over her shoulder at the other Team Players all fidgety in their seats. Gross.
I shot a glance at Rocket to see how she was handling this announcement. It was disgusting. Kiss Off® was going to ride the
rumors of Eva’s reputation just as much as all the guys in there wanted to ride Eva. I was about to leave Jeremy and go and comfort her when Palmer jumped down from the stage.
“Hey! New recruit!” I saw Palmer Phillips playfully pushing past Abercrombie Fletcher to get closer to me. “Sorry it took me so long to spot you. You already fit right in.” He nodded to Jeremy’s arm slung across my shoulders. “I usually take it as my solemn duties as spokesman to help the newly tagged get accustomed to life on the It List.” He grinned magnificently. You could kind of tell how he got to be the top-ranked player on Network. He was definitely charming.
But his fang tooth gleamed a little too sharkily when he smiled, and I glanced uncomfortably over to the table where Rocket still sat alone. Had going out with her just been one of his duties as spokesman?
She watched him talking to me now, the hurt of being recently dropped still fresh on her face.
“It’s quite a scene, eh?” Palmer said, spreading out his arms to embrace the preening mob of Fashion Fascists, the obnoxious Team Players, all looking like catalogue cut-outs.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything appropriate.
“Still, it’s not all champagne soda pop and scene parties being It, you know?” Palmer confided in us. “There’s some generics…jealous generics, I bet…targeting people on the List. It’s getting out of hand. We shouldn’t have to worry about snipers.”
“Snipers?” Jeremy said, immediately interested.
“Yeah, someone vandalized Abercrombie Fletcher—”
“How do you vandalize a person?” I interrupted.
“Well, OK. They vandalized his jacket, but Abe really loves his jacket, you know? So yesterday some generics were shooting spit wads and stuff at him because someone had stenciled a bull’s-eye and the words I AM A TARGET MARKET on his back.”
“Any idea who did it?” Jeremy wanted to know.
“Yeah, have you ever heard of the Unidentified?” Palmer asked as if he were talking about an obscure buzz band.
I froze, and Jeremy shot a glance at me.