« Jools Power, Chill Down! »
Back to street clothes. Including the eyeshadow.
Fuck me, I’m a genius. A Mad Genius wearing undies made of jellyfish stingers and hagfish slime, but still.
Science rools!
I look at the clock: 8:43 A.M. It’s Saturday morning, but K will be up. Maybe Miranda, too. I go downstairs.
Miranda says, “Why do you have eyeshadow on only one eye?”
* * *
K SITS AT THE kitchen table, poking stray Cheerios as they turn soggy in zir bowl. K doesn’t turn to look when I come in, but says, “So how did it go?”
“Total success,” I say. “Watch this.”
K doesn’t turn for several seconds. I don’t think it’s lack of interest—zir body language gives the impression of paying attention. But these days, K’s eyes are purely ornamental: not used for seeing at all. Instead, Spark-o-Vision gives a clairvoyant 360-degree view of zir entire surroundings.
If K’s not careful, ze’s going to forget how normal humans engage. But eventually, K realizes that politeness requires actual eye orientation. Ze shifts in zir chair and turns to face me.
Behind me, Miranda says, “What’s this about?”
“My first cool invention. Watch.” I think, « Ninety-Nine Power, Make Up! » The nematocysts do their stuff. In the time it takes for my friends to gasp, I’m completely costumed up.
“Holy shit,” Miranda whispers.
“I know, right?” I say.
K doesn’t even speak.
“How did you do that?” Miranda asks.
I’m half a second away from explaining how everything works. But for Miranda’s sake, I’d better not lead with stingers and slime. “I whipped something up,” I say. “Isn’t it awesome?”
I think, « Jools Power, Chill Down, » and I’m back in my civvies.
“O-kayyyy,” Miranda says, “that’s definitely Mad Genius.” She doesn’t say it in a Jools, you rock! kind of way. More like, How could you be so reckless?
“It’s not Mad Genius, it’s Nice Genius,” I say. “We had a problem; you know we did. We’d never have enough time to gear up in an emergency. It was even a hassle going in and out of the house. But with this, we can pop behind a tree and change easy-peasy. No more risking a high-speed sneak through the back door.”
“But Jools,” Miranda says, “weren’t you afraid … aren’t you afraid…” She shakes her head. “You told me you were terrified of becoming like Diamond. You were the one who kept saying ‘slippery slope.’ And of course it’s convenient if we can change clothes quickly. But what’s next? What will it be convenient to make tomorrow?”
I ask, “Are you afraid I’ll make some weapon of mass destruction? Not a problem. I’m stupid with weapons; you saw that last night.”
“Is that what this is about?” Miranda asks. “You hated not understanding Diamond’s bazooka, so you made this as a means of compensation?”
“I made this as a means to change clothes!” I say. “I solved a problem. This is where you say thank you.”
Miranda just tightens her jaw. After a moment, K says quietly, “Thank you, Jools. How did you do it?”
“You probably don’t want me to describe the exact mechanism.” I glance at Miranda. “It involves biology.”
K says, still softly, “I probably wouldn’t understand the exact mechanism. But how did you go about it? I heard you come and go several times in the night. And of course, you woke me up that once. Do you remember?”
“Uh, sure,” I lie.
“So where did you go?” K continues. “Where did you get the raw materials? What facilities did you use? Did you break into a lab on campus? Multiple labs? Are you sure you covered your tracks? Are the cops going to show up and say, ‘Hey, you folks broke into a lab before Christmas, and now we’ve had more break-ins. Where were you last night and can you prove it? ’”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. And I have no clue how well I covered my tracks. In my zoned-out state, maybe I cleaned up perfectly. Or maybe I didn’t make the slightest effort.
K’s not psychic, but I think Spark-o-Vision makes it easy to read my face. K says, “Do you remember anything at all?”
I say, “Um.”
Without another word, I go to my room and shut myself in.
5
Punctuated Equilibrium
I SPEND THE REST of the morning wishing I had homework. But classes haven’t started yet, and there’s no point even reading textbooks—if I glance in a book’s direction, I immediately know its contents. No, rephrase that: I’ve mastered its contents. I understand the material as well as the author or better. So reading the actual text would just be masturbation.
Which is another obvious way to pass the time. But I’m not horny at all, so I spend the morning making a shitload of money.
It’s Saturday, and stock markets are closed. Still, I can make online bets on sports and horse races—mostly in Europe, since it’s too early in the Americas, and too late in Asia and Australia. I’m not perfect, but I’m an Olympic-class gambler. I know the odds perfectly and I know all the relevant facts. Also, I’m not a gambling addict like many people who frequent online betting joints; I don’t feel compelled to bet when there’s no good choice.
By noon, I’ve amassed more than four thousand dollars. I’ve also established a string of false online identities. As soon as the paperwork goes through, I’ll have an anonymous bank account in the Virgin Islands.
I hear a rustle behind me. A dress has appeared on my bed: a flame-red evening gown finer than anything I’ve worn in my life.
A gift from my sugar daddy. Sugar mommy. Sugar witch-demon-unhealthy-relationship. I stare at the dress a moment, then turn away.
Minutes later, a knock comes at my door. I say nothing, but the door opens anyway. So that tells me who it is: my third roommate, Shar, is finally back from holidays.
Astonishingly, she has bright purple highlights dyed into her black wavy hair. They look great: a good contrast with her dark Sri Lankan skin.
“Wow,” I say. “I love the new look.”
“So do I.” Shar cocks her head and smiles at me. Conceivably, she’s reading my mind. Shar has all the mental powers you’ve ever heard of: telepathy, mind control, telekinesis, and more. Some of the powers give off fluorescent violet glows. Others she can do invisibly. “You’re in the doghouse,” Shar says, waggling her finger at me. “You hurt K’s feelings. You’ve upset Miranda, too—she’s afraid you’ll become a Mad Genius. She wants to save you from yourself but doesn’t know how.”
“So they sent you up to deal with me?”
Shar chuckles. “No. They’re too busy sublimating their feelings by listening to Hamilton. Besides, they’re annoyed with me, too.”
“Why?”
“For making household decisions without consulting them.”
“What kind of decisions?”
Shar smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.” A disk of violet light floats around from where it’s been hiding behind her back. Curled on top of the disk is a sleeping black kitten, all fragile and beautiful. I’m torn between grabbing it for an immediate cuddle, or leaving the little darling to sleep in peace.
“You got a cat?” I whisper so as not to wake it up.
“I got us a cat,” Shar corrects me. “We needed a pet—that’s what turns a house into a home. And my cousins in Toronto have a cat who had kittens. The kittens are just old enough now to be adopted, so I took it as a sign.”
I stroke the kitten’s head with my finger. The fur is impossibly soft. I say, “I’ll bet Miranda is allergic to cats. She’s the type.”
“She’s a superhero now,” Shar says dismissively. “If she can be punched in the face without flinching, she can handle a harmless little kitten.”
I don’t bother explaining that allergies have nothing to do with toughness. Shar is a chemistry major and supposedly steeped in scientific thinking. However, she won’t believe in anything s
he finds inconvenient.
“Is the cat a him or a her?” I ask.
Shar grins. “With K in the house, haven’t we gotten past the need for gender pigeonholes?”
I roll my eyes. “All right. What’s zir name?”
“I thought we should decide that together,” Shar replies.
“Because we’ve done so well choosing a name for our team?” After ten days and dozens of suggestions, the four of us still can’t agree on a team name. Miranda doesn’t even want a team name. (“Why can’t we just be individuals?”) But Shar thinks a team name is vitally important. It looks like she’s decided she’ll thin-edge-of-the-wedge us by forcing us to name the kitten.
Naming will also force us to buy into having a pet. Because it is pretty high-handed of Shar to get a kitten without asking the rest of us. At the very least, we’ll all have to cat-proof our rooms. Then there’s the cost of food, and vet fees, and toys, and who’ll clean out the kitty litter? But if the four of us spend time deciding whether to call the kitten Felis or Jub-Jub or Tigresse …
“I’ve got a basket and a litter tray,” Shar says, “and some packets of the kitten food that … oh, what a lovely frock!” She’s caught sight of the dress on the bed—hard to miss, considering its color. “Did you get that for Christmas?” she asks.
“My sisters all chipped in,” I lie. “Did K and Miranda tell you about the memorial tonight?”
“What memorial?”
I explain. Shar gives me a quick hug, then hurries off to assemble a suitable outfit. She takes the kitten away with her, still floating on its bed of violet.
Now that I think about it, what are “suitable clothes” for a memorial? It’s basically a funeral, right? I get the feeling it’s not somber, but it’s still intended to pay respect. Why did Calon send me something so drop-dead crimson? To dress for a Darkling wake, does etiquette demand you look like arterial spray?
I have this mental image of everybody else dressed in black, and me a blaze of color in the midst of the crowd. Like marking the chosen victim. On the stroke of midnight, everyone rips me to shreds.
Maybe I should skip the bright-red gown. I own a passable LBD that would blend in much better at a serious event. But when I say “passable,” I mean “passable for anything I’ve ever gone to,” not “passable for a gathering of the richest people in the country.” I don’t want to hobnob with the prime minister while I’m wearing something I got for thirty bucks on Amazon.
Besides, Calon will be mad if I don’t wear what she sent me. Reluctantly, I pick up the dress. Underneath it on the bed are matching underwear, shoes, a purse, and … holy shit, are those real diamond earrings? And a diamond necklace?
Of course, the diamonds are real. I have an eye for jewels as good as the best appraiser in Amsterdam. I’d better keep these rocks away from K or I’ll never get them back.
And the dress! It’s softer than the kitten. Almost literally lighter than a cloud. I’m sure it’ll feel amazing.
But I’ll have to keep Miranda from fingering it. She’ll instantly figure out that my cover story is a lie. Miranda knows clothes—fancy clothes like this dress—and she’ll realize that even if my sisters chipped in their total annual incomes for a Christmas present, they’d still come up short. This dress is a crimson flag saying, “Jools has a deep Dark secret.”
Maybe I should tell them all the truth.
Nah.
If they call me on the dress, I’ll just say I’m fucking a banker.
* * *
I TRY ON THE dress, and holy shit, I could fuck a banker. Not that the outfit is sleazy—I won’t be flashing my cleave to the country’s elite. But you can be totally covered up and still look hot.
Smokin’.
I already had a good ass from skating and running. Becoming a Spark then sweetened the whole Jools package. On Boxing Day, K commed me to ask if I’d developed belly muscles … and while I already had killer abs thanks to actual exercise, I can’t deny that my six-pack is sixier and more packed. As for up top, my old bras still fit, but way better. I don’t know if my girls have actually changed in weight or geometry, but they’ve blossomed to a more uplifted outlook.
That leaves my face. Which is a perfectly passable face, even if I’ll never get called pretty—not unless there’s a craze for chicks with long noses and an overbite. Just label me a respectable five.
My hair occupies the same numeric ballpark. I cut it short because I don’t think mermaid hair works with a hockey helmet (even if some girls disagree). But I’ve often wished my hair were less flyaway.
And I think it’s improved. Becoming a Spark has given my hair more body. And maybe my nose has shortened a little. Not dramatically, but. My recent changes are like the opposite of a passport photo. Passport pictures take your real face and make it look like crap. Becoming a Spark does the reverse, like having a really good makeover.
Since I turned super, every photo of me looks great. Seriously, I can take a selfie in the bathroom mirror two seconds after I wake up—while I still have sleep in my eyes and total bedhead—but the result looks like a shot from a Hollywood movie. I’ll never be a glamour girl, but I look like someone interesting.
The only truly blatant changes to my body are my feet. They used to be like everyone else’s: grungy, squashed, and hard-used. Now they’re soft and cute. I could model sandals for Vogue. When I was home at Christmas, I never went barefoot for fear that my sisters would squeal and demand my secret.
It’s good that I have cute feet, cuz Calon sent me high-heeled sandals: glittery black with silver braids that weave up and down my calves. I’d be totally screwed if WikiJools didn’t explain exactly how to strap the darn things up. WikiJools also gives me a list of what to scrub, shave, and paint in order to wear this outfit properly. Luckily, I have all the supplies I need …
… except maybe the ideal shade of nail polish.
You’d think with all the polish I’ve stolen, some color would suit the dress. But no. Maybe God is teaching me a lesson. If I actually paid for a bottle, it’d match perfectly.
I sigh and face the inevitable: I have to talk with Miranda. Her polish collection is bigger than mine, nicely organized in a spice rack. I step out my door and take two steps down the hall … whereupon Miranda’s door opens before I’m halfway there.
Her hearing is so damned acute, she could probably hear me moving around in my room, even though I was barefoot on carpet. How long has she been waiting to bump into me “accidentally”?
She wears a fluffy white bathrobe that would make a polar bear shout, “Cousin!” I can tell she’s getting ready for the memorial, too, even though it’s barely one o’clock.
Miranda loves dressing up. It’s her favorite art form after opera. And Miranda doesn’t dress to impress other people; certainly not to attract guys, or girls, or whatever floats her boat. (I’ve never known how Miranda swings. As far as I know, she’s never gone out with anyone—I mean, not in a romantic or sexual way. She just enjoys looking fabulous, the same as she enjoys singing in the shower.)
She dresses for her own satisfaction. And if I looked like her, I might get off on making myself an art form, too. Spectacular as I’ll look in Calon Arang’s gown, Miranda will put me to shame.
“Hi,” says she.
“Hi,” says me.
She hesitates, then says, “Want to give me a hand?” She looks away quickly. “I could do my own hair and nails, but it’s easier with help. And I guess now you’re good at makeup stuff.”
“Best in the world,” I say.
She pauses, then says, “I hate fighting with you, Jools. It makes me all hurt and I can’t think about anything else.”
I hug her. She hugs back. She whispers, “I don’t want you crazy or evil.”
I don’t know what to say, so I hug her more. After a few seconds, she detaches herself and nudges me toward her doorway. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s make each other look amazing.”
* * *
&n
bsp; SOME TIME LATER, WE get a mental call from Grandfather. « Hey, Waterloonies, you know about this idiocy tonight? »
« You mean the memorial service? » Miranda asks. She’s sitting in front of the mirror, warily watching as I fuss with her hair. I don’t think she’s worried that I’ll make her a mess. The problem is I’m holding a bunch of hairpins in my mouth. I didn’t think about how it would affect her until I put the pins between my lips … but now I can see she’s afraid that sooner or later I’m going to get my mouth germs all over her hair. If I say or do anything to acknowledge her nervousness, it’ll fluster her into a meltdown.
She hates that this freaks her out, and so do I. But neither of us can think of a way to back off gracefully. So we’re grateful when Grandfather provides the distraction. I immediately take the pins out of my mouth, as if I need to be ready to speak. I put them in the pockets of my robe, and I’ll do my best to leave them there.
« It’s not just the memorial,» Grandfather says. « It’s worse than that. »
From elsewhere in the house, K says, « Worse than gathering a hundred Darklings in one place, so anyone can take a potshot at them? »
« Yeah,» Grandfather says. « I’ve heard there’ll be backroom business. Wheeling and dealing. Private negotiations. »
« Well, duh,» Miranda says. « Get Darklings together in one place, and they immediately start scheming. »
I say, « People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public, or in some contrivance to raise prices. »
Silence.
« That’s Adam Smith,» I say. « The Wealth of Nations? »
“Thank you, Wikiquote,” Miranda says aloud.
It’s nice to hear her snarky again. For a while there, she had me worried.
« This won’t just be the same-old, same-old price-fixing,» Grandfather says. « Rumor has it someone got their hands on a superweapon made by Diamond himself. Since dozens of dignitaries will be in attendance, they’re gonna get together and decide what to do with the weapon: whether to let the government keep it, or sell it to the highest bidder. »
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