She kisses me on the forehead and leaves.
I try not to cry. I will remember.
Davida rests a hand on my shoulder. “Come,” she says. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Kiki arrives a few hours later to take me out to lunch. We’re meeting up with my brother’s girlfriend, Bennie Badino, then attending a plummet party.
“Can I tag along?” Kyle asks, splayed out across a couch in the living room.
“Absolutely not,” says Kiki, who is standing impatiently in the kitchen, a Slagger purse dangling from her elbow. She’s wearing a knee-length skirt the color of ripe tangerines; her sleeveless beige top is tight across her chest, with a low V-neck. “It’s a girls’ lunch. If you came with us, it would be … a girls’ lunch plus a boy.”
“I can be a girl,” Kyle says. “I’ll just pretend to have no common sense and cry all the time for no reason.”
“I don’t mind if he comes,” I tell her, smoothing out my skirt. Kyle and I haven’t spent a lot of time together recently—at twenty, he lives at the university during the year, and is only home for the summer.
Kiki throws her arms up. “Doesn’t anyone care about the sanctity of feminine bonding over expensive salads?” She stamps her foot. “I refuse!”
“Fine, fine.” Kyle gets up from the sofa and runs a hand through his hair. Unlike mine, his complexion is fair; he has light green eyes, blond hair, pale skin. Almost every girl at Florence Academy has had a crush on him at some point. “I’ll ring up Danny and ask him to eat with me. And then when you try to come over and hang out with us, we won’t let you. Boys only. See how you like it.”
“We’ll like it just fine,” Kiki says, then turns to me. “Now come on. We’re going to be late meeting Bennie if we don’t leave now.” She rushes over to Kyle, kissing him once on each cheek. “It’s what they do in Europe,” she says. “My mother just got back from Italy. All they do there is kiss on each cheek and eat spaghetti. Anyway, ciao!”
We exit the building and cross the arched bridge that links our skyscraper with the next, then another bridge to the nearest light-rail station. There are stations throughout the Aeries. They’re all oversized rectangular buildings made of reflective glass to help block heat from the sun.
Kiki and I step inside—unlike the air outside, it’s ice cold in here.
“Come on, Aria. Keep up!”
The station entrance opens into a large waiting area, where people are milling about, meeting friends on incoming cars or simply seeking respite from the heat. On either side of the station is a wall of terminals—one for cars heading uptown, another for cars heading downtown—and lines of people. The lines can get quite long, but the light-rail moves so quickly that you never have to wait more than a few moments.
“Waiting,” Kiki says as we’re in line and the light above Terminal Four lights up, indicating it’s available, “is never as fun as not waiting.”
A shuttle blinks in almost immediately.
We walk forward and Kiki presses her hand against the scanner.
CLAUDIA SHOBY
flashes on a screen overhead. The doors retract, letting her into the car.
“I do love seeing my name in lights,” she says over her shoulder.
The doors remain open as I complete my own scan.
ARIA ROSE
flashes overhead as I enter the car.
“The Circle,” Kiki announces to the car’s autopilot. She plops down on one of the cushioned seats. I sit, too. Even though the rail is incredibly smooth—it barely feels like we’re moving at all—I’ve sometimes gotten nauseated when I look outside the glass and see the city flashing by.
A few minutes later, the doors open at the Circle, the complex of stores and restaurants around Fifty-Ninth Street on the West Side, which we love to frequent. Everything is enclosed in a large glass dome to keep out the hot air, the buildings connected by tiny bridges with mystic slidewalks that move beneath your feet.
When we were younger, Kyle and I would come to the Circle and just stand still, letting the pavement shuffle us all around the inside of the dome. We would look at the shops and smell the food, content simply to watch. These days all we do is see each other on the way in and out of the apartment, if that. We barely even text.
Now, Kiki and I bypass all the stores and head straight to the American, which is the perfect venue for a plummet party. Made entirely of glass, the circular dining room provides a panoramic view of Manhattan, and when you’re there in the evening, all you see is blackened sky.
Just as we’re about to enter, I turn to Kiki. “Did you happen to notice if one of the guests at the party last night had a starburst tattoo?”
“Hmmm?” Kiki says, half listening and fixing her hair.
“A boy … well, someone our age. Who might’ve had a tattoo on his wrist. Did you see anyone like that?”
“No,” Kiki says, shaking her head. “But I wish I had. Sounds hot.”
Inside, we’re greeted immediately and taken to the front of the line.
“Ah, Ms. Rose,” says the host, a young man with spiky black hair. “So good to see you again.”
“You too, Robert.”
“You must come more often. Congratulations on the engagement.” He beams at me. “May I see it?”
“See what?” Kiki asks.
“The ring, of course,” Robert says.
I glance at my hands, which are completely bare. Engagement ring. I can’t remember ever having one, and yet … this seems like such an important detail. I’m surprised my mother didn’t make an issue of my not wearing one last night.
“Is our table ready?” Kiki asks, thankfully changing the subject.
“Follow me,” Robert says with a bow. “Your other guest is already seated.”
I hear Bennie before I see her. “Ladies! You look gorgeous!” Bennie is tall, with legs that go on forever. She has black, shoulder-length hair and skin the color of the caramels I used to eat when I was younger. She’s three years older than me—Kyle’s age—and while she’s not conventionally beautiful, she has a certain spark that draws people. A brazen confidence, a sense of adventure. Plus, she shares my taste in music: bands with boys who sing about broken hearts. Of all the girls my brother has dated, I like her the most.
“Thank you, darling,” Kiki says. We exchange a round of kisses and sit down. “I feel more plucked than a chicken,” she continues. “I went to the dermatologist this morning and got a pore zap.”
Immediately, two waiters—servants from the Depths—fill our water glasses. Etiquette dictates that we not speak to them. As a child, I used to feel guilty about letting Depthshods serve us. I remember once when I was ten, thanking a waiter—both of us were slapped by my mother as a result. I haven’t risked it since.
“A pore zap?” Bennie asks skeptically. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Me either,” I say.
“I’m not surprised.” Kiki looks around the room as though she suspects someone of eavesdropping. “They’re very experimental. I could have dropped dead then and there.” She smacks the table. “That’s the price we pay for beauty, girls!”
“But what is it?” Bennie asks, leaning forward.
Kiki shakes her head. “Sorry, Bennie. Love ya, but you’ve got butter lips. Can’t keep a secret. Once I tell you what a pore zap is, the entire Aeries will know, and then everyone will look as good as I do and I’ll have no chance of getting a boyfriend, which defeats the whole purpose of getting a pore zap in the first place.”
“Hey!” Bennie says. “I resent that. I do not have … butter lips.”
“They’re so buttery I could rub a piece of bread on them and I’d have myself a meal,” Kiki says.
Bennie gasps. “You’re so full of—”
“Ladies,” I interject, “what is everyone going to eat?” I glance down; each table setting has a menuscreen to touchpad your order. I quickly choose a chicken salad and change the subject, asking Kiki what on earth happen
ed to my engagement ring while Bennie ponders the menu.
“It’s being engraved,” she says. “Thomas mentioned it last night. Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“Oh. No, but that makes sense.” I feel relieved. A simple answer.
“If I’d actually known you were even dating, I could have told you that a while ago,” Kiki says. “But you’re the lady with the secrets.” Her voice is tinged with disappointment. She’s mad at me for keeping my relationship with Thomas from her, and I understand her frustration.
“I’m sorry, Kiks. If I could remember why I didn’t tell you, well … I’d tell you. But I don’t. Don’t be mad, please?”
She sighs, scrolling through the touchpad and ordering her lunch. “Fine, whatever. I’m hungry. Should I get the squid? Is squid good?” She presses down with her thumb. “I guess I’ll find out!”
Hearing about my engagement ring leads me to think about another piece of jewelry: the locket. Perhaps Kiki knows something about that as well. I catch her gaze. “Did Thomas ever buy me a locket?”
“What’s with you and all the questions today? I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Think,” I say. “Bennie, do you remember seeing me with a locket? An older-looking thing shaped like a heart? Vintage?”
Bennie shakes her head.
“Thomas has bought you a ton of presents, I’m sure,” Kiki says. “What do you care about some old locket?”
I don’t know what to say without revealing too much. The mysterious locket, the cryptic note—surely they are pieces of a puzzle, but I have no clue how to put them together.
“Never mind,” I reply. “Just wondering.”
The food comes quickly, and the three of us do what we do best: eat and gossip. Bennie wants to know more about the party, since she spent most of it upstairs in Kyle’s arms. She’s in her third year with Kyle at West University, where all the Rose supporters go. Kiki and I have both been accepted to West, too. Typically, after graduating from high school, people from the Aeries take a year to travel and see the world before entering college.
I’m going to be a wife.
Despite that realization, I find the conversation comfortable, familiar, just as it always was before the overdose, and I’m grateful for it.
And then it’s time.
We push aside our plates and stand with everyone else, then are directed to the opposite side of the dining area, which has been roped off. Servers hand out glasses of champagne as people take their spots before the windows.
The plummet party is about to begin.
Because of global warming and the seawater that fills Manhattan’s depths, the foundations of the city are eroding. Every year, certain buildings are deemed unsafe because of water damage belowground—to the cement, the soil, to whatever it is skyscrapers rest on. The condemned buildings are abandoned, and a team of demolition experts guides the wreckage straight down so that no one is hurt. At first, these occurrences were feared by those in the Aeries; now, however, they’re celebrated.
Really, they’re almost beautiful to watch: the corner of a skyscraper suddenly sinks and the building contorts with a low shriek of metal, windows shattering as the stresses reshape the walls and floors. Then the upper floors accordion down to the waters below.
By the time a plummet begins, everyone in the building has already fled to safety—but not always. Sometimes a sinking comes on suddenly, and then workers rush in and try to support the building while rescuers empty the floors.
They don’t always arrive in time.
The building we’re losing today has been around for over a century, a tall black skyscraper with a mirrored front.
“What do you think happens when the building actually sinks?” I ask.
Kiki rolls her eyes. “It goes into the ocean, silly.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I glance around the restaurant. People are chatting idly, waiting for the party to begin. What must it be like to witness a plummet from below, to live in a world where it rains granite and glass?
“Well, then what?” Bennie asks.
I think for a second. “Everything happens so smoothly from way up here. I wonder what it’s like in the Depths. If things get … messy.”
“Who cares?” Kiki says, shrugging as a trio of girls move past us. “Hey, isn’t that Gretchen Monasty?”
“What is she doing here?” Bennie hisses. “She should stay on her own side.”
I blink. Gretchen Monasty—her family is a huge supporter of the Fosters. She’s pretty, I suppose, with sleek brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a nose that scoops to a pointed tip. I’ve seen her picture on tons of gossip blogs; she’s quite the socialite. I’m surprised she’s here, but since Thomas and I are getting married, I suppose the decades-old boundaries that divide Manhattan into East and West sides no longer matter.
“Calm down,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”
Even though it sort of is.
A bell rings. Everyone quiets, and Kiki and Bennie and the rest of the crowd gaze out the window at the building that’s about to fall. I, however, can’t stop staring at Gretchen. I remember my mother’s words this morning, and I know what a Rose daughter should do.
“Excuse me”—I lean past Kiki and hold out my hand—“we haven’t met, but I thought I would say hello. These are my friends—Bennie Badino and Kiki Shoby.” I smile as genuinely as possible. “I’m Aria Rose.”
One of the girls standing next to Gretchen—with stringy hair and milky eyes—leans forward. “We know who you are,” she says.
Then Gretchen’s other friend finishes her sentence: “And frankly, we’re not impressed. Don’t you think some things should remain how they were—separate? My parents don’t like yours for a reason.”
The bell rings again and the top part of the building folds in on itself like it’s made of soggy paper. Even from inside the restaurant, the noise is tremendous—a harsh shrieking of metal and stone, bending and scraping, the vibrating booms of the floors falling atop one another like heavy rocks banging underwater.
My smile fades. “Excuse me?”
Before us is a cloud of atomized rubble, a dusty billowing where the building used to be. Once the smoke clears, nothing is there anymore. Just a hole in the skyline, like a missing tooth.
I expect Gretchen to apologize for her friend’s inexcusable behavior. Instead, she stares at me with disgust. “Thomas was right about you.”
Gretchen has hit me right where it hurts: the fiancé I can’t remember.
Kiki pipes up, her face beet-red. “I. Have. Never,” she says, “witnessed such rudeness from such hideous girls in my entire seventeen years on this spinning planet. You have some nerve.” She wags a finger in Gretchen’s face and says, “Some nerve.” Then she turns to me and says, “Let’s go, Aria.”
Bennie, who has remained silent this entire time, follows Kiki as she pushes past the rows of people. I trail behind them, focused on Gretchen’s mouth, which is wide open. Meanwhile, the building is gone. Everyone around me is applauding wildly, overjoyed by how quickly something can disappear. Am I the only one who wishes things would come back?
Later that evening, I stare out the windows in my bedroom. It’s dark, and the city lights sparkle like jewels. The sky is midnight blue and streaked with smoky wisps of clouds. The hint of a moon reflects off the silvery webs of the nearby bridges and terminals.
I know I won’t be able to sleep. I can’t get Gretchen Monasty out of my head, the snotty tone of her voice: Thomas was right about you.
Right about what? Was she talking about the overdose or something else?
The locket. The note. Maybe Thomas knows something that can help me, something he hasn’t been able to tell me in front of my parents, or his.
I should ask him. I grab my TouchMe, about to call him, when I realize I don’t have his number. Odd. Unless I was worried about my parents finding it, so I never put it in there to begin with. I think for a minute. It’s not like any of my frien
ds would have his number. Plus—like me and my parents—I’m sure he’s unlisted.
I want to pull out my hair or scream in frustration. But neither of those things will solve my problems or bring my memory back.
On the surface, my story is a simple one. I fell in love. I took a drug. I had a bad reaction, and I’m suffering some temporary memory loss as a result.
But if I really think about it … there are so many things that don’t make sense, questions that beg to be asked and answered—most of which involve Thomas.
I listen quietly, hearing nothing in my apartment. It’s just after ten-thirty at night; my parents must be asleep, the servants turned in. I glance back outside, at the starless sky. On the East Side, across the city, my fiancé is probably in his bedroom—and he may very well have a clue to help unlock my past.
The answer, I realize, is simple: I must go to him.
• III •
Escape is not easy.
A simple fact: every fingertouch scanner that operates every door in all of the Aeries is hooked up to an electronic security grid. The west side of that grid is overseen by my father’s security entourage. A system monitors the location of every individual, and the central operators are alerted when certain people of high status—myself included—make a move.
Because the Grid is watched so closely, I’m able to travel around the Aeries without bodyguards. I had them when I was little, but when I turned sixteen, my father granted me my freedom. Or at least, as much freedom as you can have when you’re constantly being monitored.
“A true Rose can fend for herself,” he told me. Though I’m sure he regretted those words when I started sneaking around with Thomas. Whenever that was.
Just before my accident, Kyle let it slip that the back elevator in our kitchen operates without a fingertouch—it just requires a passcode, which he gave me—and that it goes directly to the sub-entry level of the building. My father and his associates use it when they want their illicit activity to remain off the Grid.
Which is exactly how I want my activity to remain tonight.
Mystic City Page 3