“Yar,” he replied, drawing out the word.
“How was it?” Suddenly the idea of a naked Jordan writhing on his wall didn’t seem as enticing.
Again, he shrugged. “It was alright. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
“Son of a dick!” bellowed Sebo, punching Deron on the shoulder. “If only you could reconcile, you could show me.” He trailed off as his friend gave him an odd look in return. “I mean, not you, but Rosa...” The look changed to a glare. “Huh,” he said, figuring it was as good a time as any to stop talking.
Across the street, a booming voice called out, “Mr. Kahani, you need to get back on campus at once!” It was Principal Ficcone; the lunch monitor had ratted him out.
Sebo waved enthusiastically, causing the principal to put his hands on his hips and intensify his glower. “I need to return to campus at once,” he repeated. “When are you coming back?”
“Tonight,” replied Deron. “Ten o’clock.”
“No.” Something caught in Sebo’s throat; the surprise put him off balance. “I mean, back to school. Back to...” He wanted to say us, but Rosalia had made her choice.
A thin smile spread on Deron’s face. “If all goes well, at five past ten.”
59 - Ilya
The interesting thing about Ramsey was that she had the most divine tan lines decorating the back of her neck. Whether reconciled or the product of actual exposure to the sun was anyone’s guess, but sitting behind her in sixth period Biology gave Ilya plenty of time to argue each side. For one, it was a perfect line; a true strap would have moved around a little, creating the smallest of gradients between the tan skin and her true color. Ramsey’s line simply stopped and became another color instantaneously.
It was the mark of poor reconciliation skills.
Ilya sighed, crinkled her nose at the latent scent of formaldehyde. It was warm in the Biology room, in the whole school in fact. Warm and humid such that the students had been shedding clothes all day. Even Mr. Randall had shunned his customary blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-down. He was handsome in an angular sort of way that was tragically paired with an abundance of body hair, some of which poked out from the top of his shirt.
Desiring something smoother, Ilya returned her attention to the back of Ramsey’s neck. There, a few strands of hair had fallen out of her ponytail and now hung over the back of her collar. They contrasted with the white tee that was blank on the back but veneered with a pink mess of flowers on the front. Ramsey seemed focused on Mr. Randall as he droned on about the day’s project, several times pointing to the microscopes huddled in the center of the lab tables. Ilya glanced over at the materials counter and saw a large beaker full of murky water. They had done this lab before at Dahlstrom, but not with such ancient equipment.
“Today, we’re doing things the old-fashioned way,” said Mr. Randall. “This is how young scientists before you investigated life on a small scale.”
And they used to carry around a thousand little gadgets to accomplish what Ilya could do with her finger and a smooth surface.
As the teacher dismissed the students to their work, Ramsey spun around in her chair and faced the lab table. Her veneer displayed a playful smile, but it was directed at Zachary, who evidently was what passed for a varsity lacrosse player these days. Ilya ignored the longing gaze and instead focused on the two pale lines tracing over Ramsey’s clavicles. They dipped under her shirt, forcing a mental reconciliation. Ilya imagined them bending towards the center of Ramsey’s breasts where they expanded in elongated triangles wide enough to cover her nipples but narrow enough to expose everything else. She looked like the kind of girl who would let the world bask in the glory of her teardrop tits but at the same time drive the boys crazy by covering up the interesting parts. As if nobody knew what was under that tiny bikini.
Grinning, Ilya let her eyes drop and looked through the table to where the other tan lines would have been. She had the urge to pull out her palette and reconcile the image for posterity and for other, more selfish, reasons. After a minute of blissful daydream, she looked up and saw Ramsey fidgeting under the intense scrutiny.
“Your tan lines,” Ilya said, scratching her neck. “Are they real or did you reconcile them?”
“They’re real,” replied Ramsey, trying in vain to get her eyes on them. “I usually lay out a few times a week.”
A lie—part and parcel of every good reconciliation.
“They look good on you. I wish I could get some color like that.”
Ramsey did a quick inventory of Ilya’s body; the attention felt good. “You’d look great with a little more color.”
Ilya’s eyes drifted to the high windows dotted with rain drops. “As soon as the rain goes, maybe.” She had to look past Zachary to see outside and when she focused closer, he was leering something filthy.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
Zachary licked his lips. “I heard you and Rosalia Collier were making out in the showers this morning.”
Ilya didn’t even blink. “So?”
“Really?” asked Ramsey. “I thought she was with Deron.”
“Things change,” explained Ilya with a shrug. “I guess something came between them.”
“I heard he died,” said Zachary.
The girl next to Ramsey with horrible bangs nodded her head, putting in, “He ran away to Paramel and got killed by some gangbangers.”
Gangbanged to death; it would have served him right.
“No,” said Ilya, “he’s not dead. Rosalia was with him last night.” Then to Zachary, she said accusingly, “He tried to rape her. We weren’t making out in the shower; I was just trying to console her. I’d like to see how you’d react if Deron tried to rape you.” Inside, the laughter was tingling all of her muscles. The thought of Deron holding Zachary down on the floor and delivering the business was just too comical.
“That asshole,” said Ramsey, shaking her head.
“Yes!” Ilya pointed to Ramsey as if she’d just won a prize. “That’s exactly right. He’s an asshole. I’m not surprised at all though. Rosalia said he’s always been after sex. ‘Always wanting to fool around’ was how she put it.”
“That’s all guys,” said the girl with the forehead curtain. “He’s thinking about sex right now,” she pointed out, gesturing to Zachary.
“Not with you,” he shot back.
“You’d fuck anything that moves,” said Ilya. “And maybe even things that don’t move, if I know boys.” With a wink towards Ramsey, she added, “And I do.”
“Aw, come on,” countered Zachary, “let’s not fight. You and I have a lot in common: we both like fucking chicks.”
Ramsey giggled and the other girl snorted.
“It’s a wonder more girls in this school aren’t lesbians if you’re the best that we have to choose from. I’d rather bury my face in Ramsey’s tits than see you without a shirt on.” Ilya delivered her words nonchalantly, but she could see Ramsey flinch at the mention of her name.
“I bet you would,” replied Zachary, the suggestive smile on his face again.
There was a pall as the four students considered each other. It was finally broken by Mr. Randall who expressed disappointment that they hadn’t even started their lab.
“Take your slides and get your samples, ladies, Mr. Evans,” he ordered.
Never cross a lumberjack, thought Ilya, as she scooted off her seat. Zachary and Bangs got their samples first and for a few moments she was left alone with Ramsey at the materials counter.
“So you weren’t making out with Rosalia?”
Ilya winked. “We’ve kissed a few times,” she admitted.
“I didn’t think she’d be that kind of girl.” Ramsey’s voice was curious; they always started out that way.
“She’s not. I mean, she just does what makes her happy. If kissing a girl doesn’t make you happy, don’t do it. But if it does...” She left the rest of the sentence unsaid as she ha
nded a slide to Ramsey. Their fingers touched briefly under the glass.
“Don’t people tease you though?”
“Who? Like Zachary? He’s an idiot. If I cared what people like him thought, I’d never have any fun.”
Ramsey bared her teeth in amusement.
Back at the lab table, Ilya went through the motions of loading her slide onto the microscope and staring vainly into the eyepiece. There were shapes in the water but no way to tell organism from flotsam. It occurred to her that she might be able to reconcile something on the slide, an immobile single-cell creature shaped like a horse.
“Hey, Ilya,” said Zachary. “Do you want to look at my slide? It kinda looks like a little pussy.”
Ilya turned her head just enough. “I’m already looking at a little pussy.”
The smile on his face faded so quickly that his veneer actually stuttered.
“You’re kind of a bitch, you know that?” he asked after stewing for a minute.
Ilya returned to her specimen. “You’re just mad I’m not a pushover like your little cheerleader girlfriends. Empty heads and spread legs—that’s all they are.”
“It’s not just stupid girls,” Ramsey remarked. “Some of them are special needs kids, too. Why do you think they’re always practicing their spelling?” She shared a private smile with Ilya.
Dump one project in first period; gain another before the day was out. Ilya regarded Ramsey carefully, examining each of her features while her attention was focused on the microscope. Her face was squarer than Rosalia’s and her high forehead left something to be desired. Still, there was potential in her eyes, an unspoiled optimism that Ilya wanted to make her own. There was curiosity too, which meant she might be a willing partner instead of a girl so hung up on the socially accepted standards that she was too terrified to stray into unfamiliar territory. Besides, the mystery of the plunging tan-lines ate at Ilya, begging to be solved.
Just as a new fantasy was taking root in her mind, the classroom door opened and in walked the dreaded ex herself.
From the back of the classroom, Mr. Randall asked, “Can I help you, Ms. Collier?”
“Um, yeah,” she mumbled. “I left my palette in here...” She trailed off, pointing down the row of lab tables.
“Go ahead,” he replied, beckoning her into the room.
She looked rattled. The way her eyes kept darting around the room, the way her arms hung motionless at her side, all of it spoke to a deep trauma burning away inside her. Maybe their moment in the shower had been too much for her. Crinkling her nose, Ilya wondered if she actually felt remorse for hurting Rosalia like that.
The moment passed without resolution.
Rosalia avoided Ilya’s gaze as she walked between the two lines of lab tables. There were already whispers spreading through the room. A squeaky voice even called out, “Didn’t get enough this morning?”
It made Ilya chuckle, since in her case, it was true. It could have gone so much better, she thought. She’d had unrestricted access to Rosalia’s body and that stupid bitch had messed everything up. It was her fault she got hurt. If she’d just played along and accepted Ilya’s advances, then everything would have turned out okay. She’d be happy instead of sad, maybe even elated in a post-orgasmic haze.
When Rosalia reached her row, she broke right and approached Ilya, who turned sideways to greet her old friend. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Did you miss me?”
Ilya thought it would have been funny to see the reaction on Rosalia’s face, but her veneer had morphed into anger even before the last word came out. The next thing she knew, Rosalia’s fist had caught her square on the nose, filling her eyes with a million sparks that her body tried to counteract with a spray of tears. Dazed and half-blind, she only remembered Rosalia when the girl’s hands gripped the side of her head. Long fingernails dug into her scalp and then tangled themselves in her hair. She felt herself moving sideways and then being off balance. A moment later, something hard and black was slamming into the side of her head. The lab table created an intense pain on the right side of her face. Then the hands disengaged and moved to her shoulders, to her neck, where they carved out little lines in her skin: some drawing blood, the others just stinging.
The classroom erupted into panic and Ilya felt people all around her trying to stop the fight. Someone was pulling her backwards, away from the attacker she could no longer see through the tears. Wiping at her eyes, her arms shaking badly, she cleared enough away to see two boys holding Rosalia and dragging her away. Mr. Randall was shouting, desperately trying to restore order, but all Ilya could do was stare into those hateful eyes.
It was a side of Rosalia she had never seen, a counter-balance to the mousy girl whose interests were artistic and generally passive. But this, this raw emotion, raw power, there was something exciting about it.
And despite the blood and the pain, Ilya couldn’t help but want her all over again.
60 - Russo
For hours, Russo watched the spectacle unfold from the safety of the diner across the street. Sitting in a booth by the window, he sipped water from a sweating glass and pretended to read his palette, but all he could think about was the crowd forming by the alley next to the Holly Street Hilton’s parking garage. There were so many gawkers, obese Eastonians who waited in anticipation of another onlooker so they could be the one to tell the story, incomplete as it was.
The little boy jumped from the top floor.
I heard he was suicidal because he was fat.
They were all plausible, but they were all wrong.
The way Ruiz had played it up, Russo thought a covert team of black-clad agents would descend on the parking garage and cover up any trace of the incident. Instead, it was a standard cruiser that showed up first, with two uniforms that looked bothered to be there. They disappeared into the alley and a few minutes later, the smaller of the two came back to the car and retrieved a roll of yellow cordon tape from the trunk. She strung it up across the alley and then knelt on the pavement. When her hand touched the ground, a red barrier grew out into the sidewalk, flowing like water up a beach, causing the nearby pedestrians to scurry away as it approached their feet.
After that, the number of uniforms just kept growing. A fire truck got involved for some reason, followed by an ambulance. Two med techs in flashy orange vests jumped out of the back as soon as it came to a stop. Their urgency surprised Russo; did they really think they could resuscitate Jalay? It was a regular circus, far more attention than Jalay could have ever garnered when he was alive.
The show lasted only a few hours, though a solitary uniform remained for much of the afternoon, leaning against the evercrete columns and discouraging passersby from getting too close. By the time Ruiz slid into the booth around two o’clock, Russo was getting antsy. Already, the waitress was giving him dirty looks for taking up space.
There was something cold about the nonchalant way Ruiz sat across from Russo. If he had any desire to see the crime scene, he wasn’t giving into it. The only thing he seemed to care about was Jalay’s palette, which he had taken from Russo the moment he sat down. He had been trying to guess Jalay’s password for a while.
“You want me to try?”
“Try what?” replied Ruiz without looking up.
“I knew Jalay better than you. I could probably guess—”
Ruiz didn’t smile, but there was a haughty undertone when he said, “Yeah, I’m already in.” Clucking his tongue, he explained, “I know every word that Chapman has ever reconciled. All I had to do was play them back one at a time. Sometimes intelligent brute force is the best approach.”
“So...”
“I’m almost done,” said Ruiz, agitated. He swiped his finger a few more times before dropping the palette on the table. Pushing it towards Russo, he pulled his own palette from his jacket and began reconciling his notes. “I need you to look for information, find out how much he’s leaked and to whom.”
“Haven’t yo
u done that already?”
A grin in return. “Yes, but now I want you to do it. This is how we learn, Rivera. You’ll want everyone he’s talked to. That’s message boards, mail, instant messages, anything that connects him to other people.”
“Then what?”
A reconciled flame passed in front of the agent’s pupils. “Then we close up the wound before Vinestead loses too much blood.”
It was hard to see that kind of future, hard to see the consequences being as dire as the agent made them out to be. “And if it does?”
“Well,” said Ruiz, standing, “then all of this goes away. You think it’s bad with people like us running the show? Wait ‘til we’re gone, then you’ll see. Or won’t see...”
He left without elaborating, leaving Russo to consider all the ways the world could be better or worse without the veneer. Personally, his goal was still the same—to have a power that other people didn’t, to have an advantage that would put him in another league. All of that depended on the veneer. Without it...
Looking outside again, Russo began to catalogue the reconciled surfaces, from building façades to the paint jobs on vehicles. If the fire truck didn’t have a unique shape, if the ambulance weren’t just a box on wheels, then without the veneer, no one would know what they were for. It might not be that shocking in the short term, but to get everything back to the way it was, to make signs useful again, to make computers replace portals, would take time and resources beyond what Easton had.
That was the point that Ruiz was trying to make by leaving him with a bleak outlook. Russo needed to believe in the veneer, believe in its necessity so that he would defend it with his life because really, it was his life.
Russo touched the edge of the palette and flipped the image around. Jalay’s start page settled onto the screen, a mix of small icons spread unevenly around three larger ones in the center. A folder on the left read Jubs and when he clicked into it, a grid of smaller icons filled the screen, beige folders with photographs hanging out of them, providing a preview of their contents.
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