Damaged Goods

by Jennifer Bardsley

  Right when I click Publish, an awkward thing happens. The door opens, and I hear delicate heels click on marble, then a flirtatious giggle.

  “A fire!” Pilar exclaims. “How romantic.”

  I scoot down lower behind the couch.

  “It must have been the servants,” Cal says. “Blanca isn’t here tonight.”

  “Lucky us,” Pilar murmurs.

  I hear the sound of bodies pressed together and heavy breathing. How can this day get any worse? Should I sneak away? Announce my presence? I wish Seth were here. He would know exactly what to do.

  The thought of Seth stabs me in the heart. I can’t think about him right now.

  From the echo of Pilar’s heels on the floor, she and Cal are headed my way fast. I look at my chip-watch and receive a bolt of inspiration. With a quick wave of my wrist, I turn off the gas fire in the hearth, and the room shrouds in darkness.

  Then I flee for my life.

  “That’s odd,” I hear Cal say to Pilar. “I better have this fireplace checked out tomorrow.”

  By the time the flames turn back on, I reach the safety of upstairs.

  Chapter Twenty

  I don’t venture from McNeal Manor all week, and Cal doesn’t notice. He’s too busy with work and Pilar. But to be fair, it’s not like I locked myself in my room like I did last year when I was upset. My insides are in turmoil, but my outsides look fine. Yesterday, I wandered the halls of McNeal Manor until I came to Seth’s childhood bedroom. I couldn’t bear to enter. I just pressed my forehead against the door and tried not to hurt.

  I’m a walking heartbreak, dressed up like myself.

  Every morning Irene tutors me, and then I study some more outside on the grounds. I stretch out on a quilt under the orange trees, and the sunshine offers a pittance of solace.

  A couple of days ago I showed up at breakfast with a sunburned nose, and Cal lectured me about sunscreen. A maid delivered a bottle of SPF100 a few hours later.

  I’m not sure if Cal knows that Seth and I broke up.

  I have said nothing.

  In the evenings, I float on my back in the indoor pool and stare up at the skylights. It’s my personal sensory deprivation unit—only gigantic. Before my first swim, I climbed up on a chair and blacked out all of the security cameras with electrical tape, just in case. Cal said they were deactivated, but you can never be too sure. Alan is still on paid vacation, and I don’t know who mans the guard station now. I won’t give the new guy a peep show.

  Today I sit outside on my blanket focused on my engineering notes when Jeremy calls on my chip-watch. Luckily, he calls on audio because I haven’t brushed my hair all day. Or my teeth.

  “Are you coming to tonight’s meeting?” Jeremy asks.

  “Sorry,” I answer. “I’m busy.”

  I wonder if he’ll pry. A Vestal wouldn’t press for private information but a Defecto might.

  “What you posted on The Lighthouse moved me,” Jeremy says. “It’s getting a lot of attention.”

  “That’s nice, but it’s not why I wrote it.” I think about Keung and the little pep talk he gave me before I went to Seth’s house and accidentally dumped him. I did exactly what Keung told me not to do. How did that happen?

  “Why did you write the post if you didn’t care if people read it?” Jeremy asks.

  “Because it was true,” I answer. “That was enough.”

  “Oh. Are you sure you won’t come to the support group tonight? You sound a little down.”

  “I’m fine,” I say briskly. “Sorry, but I have plans.” I click off the watch.

  At least I told the truth. Tonight I have company. Fatima and Pilar invited themselves over for a swim before dinner.

  “My back’s killing me.” Fatima slowly treads water. “The doctor said swimming might help. Thanks for this, Blanca.”

  I tread water too, but Pilar lounges poolside in a white bikini, waiting for Cal to come home. I’m pretty sure this is an excuse for Pilar to show him her supermodel attributes.

  “When’s your mom’s contract up?” I whisper to Fatima over the water.

  “What?” Fatima asks. “I have water in my ears.”

  Pilar glances over the book she reads and looks our way.

  I sink into the pool and swim closer to Fatima. Maybe I should ask my question in a different way. “How old is your mom?”

  Fatima glances at Pilar and back to me, like she’s scared to get caught revealing such private information. “She’s forty-two,” Fatima says. “One more year to go on her contract and she’ll be free.”

  “Does she want to return to Tabula Rasa and become a teacher?”

  Fatima shrugs. “I don’t think school’s her thing. Probably she’ll just retire.”

  And wouldn’t it be nice to end up as the lady of McNeal Manor? I tread water angrily. “Oh,” I say, to Fatima. “That’s great. But honestly, your mom doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.”

  “That’s because she has no stretch marks.” Fatima leans back to float, her gigantic stomach protruding like a basketball from her slim frame.

  “You won’t get stretch marks,” I say. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Fatima rubs her stomach, her face contorted with worry. “Sarah gave me some special cream that’s supposed to help but …”

  I give Fatima a playful splash. “You’re gorgeous, and after the baby, you’ll have even bigger boobs.”

  “Great. Just what I need. Double Gs.” Fatima splashes me back and smiles. “So what’s new with you and Seth? Where is he?”

  “Doing Veritas Rex stuff,” I offer. Which is probably true.

  Underneath the water, my chip-watch buzzes. I feel butterflies at the thought that it might be Seth, messaging me after a week of silence.

  But it’s only a text from my lawyer.

  Nancy Gilbertson: Good news! Your mother’s estate releases to you shortly. Expect delivery in the next 24 hours.

  “What is it?” Fatima asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “My lawyer’s dropping off some boxes. That’s all.”

  I glide through the water at top speed, and the chlorine stings my eyes.

  At least I have Irene. She comes to tutor me every morning in the library. Most days, I wait for her, immersed in calculus. Something comforts me about studying the math of change while I attempt to reboot my life. It’s been over a week now since Seth and I broke up, and I’ve never felt better.

  I don’t need Seth. I don’t need the Vestals. I don’t need a support group, and I certainly don’t need Dr. Meredith.

  The only thing I need is a plan to take care of myself. I won’t be like Pilar and wait for someone to rescue me. I want to be independent.

  College is the first step.

  The problem is that Irene still doesn’t think I can do it.

  I only score eighty-five percent on a quiz today, and she spouts her irritation. “You started off too far behind to make meaningful progress.” Irene pushes a chunk of dark black hair behind her ear.

  “Then I need to study harder. The interview is still six weeks away.”

  “And you’re going to embarrass yourself,” Irene says. “Mr. McNeal will blame me.”

  Her words hurt, but Irene has always been a tough teacher. It’s hard to argue with brutal honestly.

  Still, some small thing inside me speaks up. A little voice begs to be heard.

  “I won’t embarrass myself. I always say the right thing in difficult situations. I might not have the best math and science background, but I can discuss history, literature, or languages with any professor in that room. That gives me an advantage.”

  Irene sniffs. “Maybe.”

  “And Cal won’t blame you. No matter how I do.”

  Irene shakes her head. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “If you thought I’d fail, why did you take the job?”

  “I’m a McNeal Solar intern! It’s not li
ke I get to choose!”

  “Cal said you volunteered.”

  Irene stares at her cuticles.

  Something clicks in my brain. I zero in on what she’s already said. It’s not like I get to choose.

  My hands curl into tight fists. “Who do you really work for, Irene? Did Keung put you up to this?”

  Irene colors but doesn’t answer.

  “I know it’s not the Vestals. I would have recognized you.”

  Irene hastily gathers her tablets. “I told you. I work for Mr. McNeal. It’s time I head back to the office.”

  I watch her closely and notice her eyes glance toward the windows of my walled-in courtyard.

  “It was you.” I stand up tall. “You put the last message from Keung on my pillow.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Who’s Keung?” Irene grabs her coat.

  “How many other Guardians did Keung plant at McNeal Solar?” I demand. “Tell me or I call the FBI.”

  Irene whips her head and glares at me. “You wouldn’t dare! Keung said we could trust you.”

  “How many?”

  “Only me,” Irene answers. “And I quit.” She stalks out of the room but turns and sneers at me from the doorway. “Good luck getting into Stanford, Vestal.”

  The door slamming rattles my nerves. My chest contracts with stress. I stare at the notes Irene left behind. The entrance interview is the least of my worries now. I can’t allow spies in McNeal Solar.

  The horrible thing is I don’t know if Irene is telling the truth. If not, who should I tell? If I mention this to Cal, I’ll have to explain about Keung. “Oh, by the way, Cal. I know you trust me and think I’m worthy of being your daughter, but I secretly met with a Chinese diplomat who I slept with when I was sixteen. I think he planted people in your company to spy on me.” Lovely conversation that would be.

  If I tell Agents Plunkett and Marlow, they’ll ask why I’m suspicious. How can I do that without getting myself in trouble?

  If I told Fatima or Beau, they would understand, but they couldn’t help.

  Jeremy would probably lecture me about how evil Vestals and Guardians are to begin with.

  No. Only two people can really help: Seth and Nancy. I take a deep breath and brace myself for what I need to do.

  I text Seth on Veritas Rex so he’ll know this is business, not personal.

  Me: McNeal Solar might have Guardian spies in their midst. Start with Irene Page first. She is no longer my tutor.

  Then I load up my physics tablet and get back to work. My chip-watch buzzes immediately.

  Veritas Rex: What do you mean?

  Me: I don’t know for sure. Only a hunch. Please look into it and broadcast at will.

  Veritas Rex: On it.

  I stare at my wrist a full two minutes before I put my hand back down, hoping the conversation will continue.

  But it doesn’t.

  I knew I could count on Seth. So why did I screw things up? Over finger-chips?

  I try so hard not to let technology get in the way of relationships, yet here I go doing exactly that.

  I click on my chip-watch again, only this time I text Seth on his personal account.

  Me: Do you have a minute? Could we talk?

  I wait, breathlessly, staring at the silvery gray screen.

  Seth: Not right now. I’m with Tiffany.

  A sucker punch in the stomach.

  I click off all my electronics and stack the tablets neatly on the desk.

  It’s time to leave the manor.

  I put on my mother’s blue coat. The wool feels scratchy but warm. I’ve never worn color before, except that one time my mother shared her red scarf when she kidnapped me. I paw through the clothing, hoping to find it, but the scarf must be lost in Nevada.

  When the courier delivered the boxes this morning, I knew exactly what they were. Nancy had warned me. “I’m sending over Lydia’s wardrobe,” she said. “I thought you might like to have her things.”

  Two of the boxes are filled with white. My mother’s long silk initiation robes, her traveling cloak, the fluttery dress she wore the night she went to the Vestal banquet with Cal and me. But the other box holds a kaleidoscope of colors I never imagined my mother wearing. Reds, blues, yellows, and greens. A purple swimsuit. Where did she wear that?

  She owned jewelry too. Costume items that sparkle in the light and a tiny silver chain that twinkles delicately. I see a turquoise bracelet with an ornate silver clasp. I inspect it closely and smile. The gemstones wink at me. My mother had many secrets.

  Exactly like me.

  I wear a short white dress. When I button up the blue coat, I don’t look like a former Vestal. I slip the turquoise bracelet on my wrist above my chip-watch. Then I bury my hands deep in the coat pockets. It’s like my mother and I hold hands.

  I can do this. I’m a big girl now.

  It’s time to stick up for myself and protect my family.

  The new white limo glows like lightening in the bright sun. When Alan holds the door open for me, he looks tanned and refreshed.

  The backseat has butter-yellow seats, soft as velvet. I click on my chip-watch to see if it will work, and only get static.

  “Lead-lined walls,” Alan says through the divider. “Especially for you.”

  Or Pilar, I can’t help think. It’s only been two weeks, but Cal is definitely infatuated.

  “I’m glad to have you back,” I say to Alan. “How was your vacation?”

  “Not long enough,” Alan answers. “But wonderful. I told Mr. McNeal that your family deserves a vacation too.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice? I’m sorry your trip was a consolation for being carjacked.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry I didn’t see it coming. Where to now?”

  “Downtown Silicon Valley,” I say. “The Chinese consulate.”

  Alan looks at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you sure about that, Miss Blanca?”

  I lean back and tighten my seat belt. “Yes. I’m positive.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I feel invincible in this blue coat. It makes me invisible, and for me, that’s the same thing. When I walk into the foyer of the consulate, nobody stares. The security guard who conducts my full-body scan doesn’t blink. Without my cuff or my glaring white outfit, I’m nobody. At least on the outside.

  The women at the counter have sleek pageboy haircuts. They work the lines efficiently, scanning people with their finger-chips and entering data on another screen.

  “Visas in lines one and two,” says an announcement in Mandarin. “Travelers in line three. For all other business please wait in line four.”

  I pause for the instructions to repeat in English before I walk to the fourth line. While I wait my turn, I surreptitiously scan the room for cameras. Above the life-size mural of the Boxer Rebellion, I see a circular lens that blends into the molding. I check the corners of the room and find four more cameras. But the spies I don’t notice worry me the most. The man who stands to my left looks at me over and over again. Does he recognize me from the news, or is he one of Keung’s men?

  When it’s my turn at the counter, I smile in a friendly manner.

  “Good afternoon.” The receptionist speaks perfect English. “How may I help you today?”

  “I would like to speak with Mr. Timothy Wu,” I answer.

  “Mr. Wu is a busy man,” she says. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Not at this moment.”

  The woman wrinkles her nose. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Wu does not have time to see every person who wants to meet him. Are you a reporter?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then I apologize, but the best I can do is take a message for him with your contact information.”

  “I understand.” I lean forward slightly. “Thank you for your help.” Then I switch from English to Mandarin. “Instead of a message for Mr. Wu,” I say, h
oping she can understand my horrible accent, “could I please leave a message for Keung?”

  The receptionist’s eyes pop when I mention Keung’s name. “Who should I tell him is calling?” She speaks so fast in Mandarin that I barely understand.

  “Blanca McNeal.” I stand up straight.

  “Please wait a moment.” The woman types rapid fire with her finger-chips. She eyes the man standing next to me nervously. But he’s already moved up in aisle three, as if he has a burning traveler’s question for the consulate to answer.

  With nineteen years of uneasiness, I sense myself being watched. I look up at the camera above the mural and see it zoom in on my face.

  I shake back my hair a little and keep my face relaxed.

  A minute later, a gentleman in a dark suit comes out from behind the counter. “Ms. Blanca,” he says graciously. “Would you please follow me?”

  I give him the full force of my smile. “Absolutely. Thank you for your help.”

  When I follow him back into the consulate’s inner rooms, I feel the movement of heads.

  People are watching.

  Keung’s first words to me when I enter his office are, “Blanca, you shouldn’t have come.” He stands in front of a tall window that frames the skyscrapers of Silicon Valley. His designer suit accents every sculpted line. Keung could model for Fatima’s company.

  I unbutton my coat and lay it casually on the back of a chair. “I had to come.”

  “No.” Keung walks toward me and puts his hands on my bare shoulders. “This was dangerous. For both of us. You have no idea how closely your government watches me. Agents Plunkett and Marlow have interviewed me half a dozen times.”

  I smile up at him. “I thought you had diplomatic immunity.” I let my eyes go dreamy. “I had to see you again.” If you want to control somebody, instead of be controlled, tell that person what they want to hear.

  Keung’s expression softens too, and he rubs both of my shoulders. Then he pulls me in for an embrace and strokes my hair. “You should have reached out through Jeremy. He would have arranged for us to meet.” He leads me to a couch where we sit down knee to knee. The hemline of my dress rises up.