A Girl Called Fearless (24 page)

I helped myself to the grilled chicken and salad bar set up on the island. Shae and her roommate from the night before were outcasts at a table in the corner, a five-foot perimeter around them. Shae's eyes were puffy, but she'd stopped crying. She hunched over her plate like she had a secret she was dying to tell.

I heaped carrots on my salad, listening, but pretending not to.

“Magda says I'm meeting someone very special today,” Shae said to her roommate.

“She used those exact words? Very special?”

“Yes!”

“So he's prequalified. Wow.” The
wow
was an I Wish It Was Me Not You Wow.

“I know!” Shae said.

My brain crackled and I quieted so I could hear better. They were talking about a Contract.

“Did you see a photo?”

“He's okay-looking. I mean, he's not that much older than me. I wish he didn't—”

A blender tore through what Shae was saying, but I didn't need to hear the rest. It was like being back at Masterson, listening to one of those sheep from the other class of juniors, the girls who'd rather get Signed than graduate.

I took my salad over to the window. Men were installing a megagraphic on the next casino over announcing,
TABITHA
!!! Twenty stories of long tan legs, full breasts, and a thick sweep of golden-coppery hair.

“Wish I had a body like that,” somebody said.

The Asian girl with perfect bangs snorted. “I was her roommate. Believe me, it's airbrushed.”

Shae spoke up from the corner. “Tabitha lived here?”

The other girls looked at her as a group, stoning her with silence.

Finally, a tall Latina stuffed into an exercise bra separated from the group. She smirked at Shae. “Tabitha was here all summer. Magda set up that deal for her.”

“That's disgusting,” Shae said. “I'd never do anything like that.”

“You already are.”

Shae whipped her lunch off the table and shot out of her chair. “Slut.”

“Cow!” Latina shot back.

“Come on, stop it, Sirocco,” someone said. “Magda'll be pissed if she hears you talking like that.”

Shae and her roommate squeezed by me, their eyes trained on Sirocco. “She won't hear about it unless somebody tells her,” Sirocco threw at them.

She was two feet away from me, so I ducked my head, hoping to get out of there before I turned into Sirocco's next target. But no such luck.

“You, new girl.”

I turned around.

She speared a radicchio leaf and held it up to her mouth. Her eyes narrowed like a cat. “Cast or Consignment?”

It was the second time somebody'd asked if I was Cast. Cast wasn't a who. Cast was a what. “I have no idea.”

Splendor, the girl whose picture was on the bureau, piped up, “She's in our room.”

“So you're Cast.”

“I guess.” I had no intention of being Cast, whatever that was, but I definitely wasn't Consignment. Obviously
Consignment
meant girls who were here to be sold. Or maybe resold like a previously owned Mercedes.

“What's your name?” Sirocco said.

“Juliet.”

“Ooo, romantic.” I could see why Sirocco chose her name. A hot wind that tears up the desert?

But I wasn't about to let her tear me up. “I like it.”

Billy's voice came over a speaker. “Debriefing. Ten minutes.”

Sirocco relaxed her gaze on me. “Nice to meet you,
chica
. See you around.” Sirocco and her friends scurried about, scarfing down their lunches while I sipped my drink.

It was 12:30. I wanted to see Magda and I wanted some answers.

57

I lasted about forty minutes before I couldn't stand it anymore, and marched into the foyer. Madga's office door was closed, but before I could even knock, Billy intercepted me.

“You do not want to interrupt Magda's meeting,” he said.

“But I need to talk to her.”

“I understand, but you got to wait. Take a seat on this bench. I'll tell her you're out here.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

I plopped down on the gold-upholstered bench. Vacuum cleaners roared nearby. Last night's party must have left an industrial-sized mess.

There wasn't much to look at around the room besides the big gold bowl on the table in the center and four wall hangings some decorator had hung up. The abstract desert landscapes were embroidered in gold and silver. I glanced at the one right across from me and the name Fletcher jumped out from the pattern, then disappeared.

The head of the Paternalist party? My eyes had to be playing tricks on me.

I stood and examined the hanging behind me. The silk dashes, dots, and curlicues transformed into names and dates. The stitch-code was the same one Ms. A taught us.

The names were clearly in English, but there were other words that didn't make sense when I decoded them. Acronyms? Or maybe a different language? And there were amounts of money stitched in, too.

Secrets. Recorded in silk. It was daring to leave them in plain sight, but maybe it was genius, too.

Sirocco and the other Cast members filed out of Magda's office, followed by Billy. The girls looked me over like I'd annoyed them. “Go ahead,” Billy said. “She'll see you now.”

Magda was curled on the couch in expertly tailored pants and a sweater that bared her perfect shoulders. She waved me in with her teacup, and kept right on talking into her phone. “I assure you, we're known for our discretion.”

A long strip of sage green silk, a needle barely visible in one corner hung over her head. I perched on my chair and stole glances at the cryptic story coded into the pattern of blossoming cherry branches. Names. Dates. Money. Magda was collecting this information for a reason. Blackmail? Maybe a little insurance policy if she ever got arrested for sheltering runaways.

Magda snapped her phone shut. “Billy said you insisted on seeing me.”

Suddenly I felt rude and ungrateful, and then just as quickly I got ticked she made me feel that way. “I thought I was leaving today.”

Magda blew on her tea. “Umm. Let's discuss that.”

Adult-speak for “you're getting screwed.”

“What do we need to discuss?” I said.

“We're having to reconfigure your arrangements in light of recent events in Los Angeles. Everyone's safety depends on it. We won't pass you on until we are sure we aren't endangering you or the volunteers helping you.”

I should have known Father Gabe's arrest would affect a lot more people than me. What Magda told me sounded reasonable, like there was no question that I was leaving, it was just a matter of when. “Sorry for asking, I didn't understand.”

“Yes, I'm delighted we could clear that up, but Juliet, we should talk about your Contract.”

I gulped. “Why?”

“Fifty million? I think we both know the dangers facing a young girl with a bounty that size on her head.”

My foot started to jiggle. “How do you know about my Contract? Am I on the news?”

“Not as of an hour ago, and I'm sure Jessop Hawkins wants to keep it that way. He'd hate for his political rivals to know that he couldn't hold on to a little sixteen-year-old.”

I crossed my ankles to steady myself. “Do you know him?”

“He's not a client, if that's what you're asking.”

I nodded.

“You may have realized that I'm a broker.”

Wherever this discussion was going, I didn't want to go there. “I guessed when the girls asked if I was Consignment.”

“Oh, I wish they wouldn't call it that. I specialize in brokering girls who've landed in unhappy relationships. I arrange for—”

“Transfer of ownership.” My tongue tasted like metal.

Magda tilted her head like I'd surpassed her expectations. “I find a better match, one the girl can live with, and I give her half the profits as a dowry.”

“I'm not interested.”

“Well, it's unlikely I'd be successful in your case. You're simply too expensive. Unless you have a talent I don't know about.”

“A talent?”

“Like Tabitha. Surely you couldn't avoid seeing the billboard?”

“She's a
stripper
.”

“Tabitha is a talented, charismatic singer who is on track to become a millionaire in the next eighteen months.”

“I heard you set her up.”

“I put together a group of investors who bought her Contract and bankrolled her show. You're very fit. Are you a dancer, a gymnast? The Dallas Cowboys are paying a fortune to remake their cheerleading squad. A multiyear contract might get you—”

“No, I'm not a dancer. I'm a runner.”

“Ugh. Unfortunately, the Olympic Committee pays nothing.”

“I'm going to Canada,” I interrupted.

Magda pressed a finger to her temple. “It's very dangerous out in the real world.”

“Yeah, I figured that out already.”

“Eight in ten don't make it across the border.”

“I didn't know that.” Yates had made it sound like almost everyone did.

“I'm not surprised. Juliet, I'm happy to hide you until the next stage of your extraction, but I think you'd be better off staying here and working for me.”

I knew men paid women for sex. And it was pretty clear men came to Vegas to party. And those girls Backstage? They were partying last night.

“No, thanks. I'm a virgin.”

Magda banged her teacup on the saucer. “This isn't a
whorehouse
.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean—”

“We are in the
entertainment
business. We are
geishas,
not prostitutes. Geishas caress men's egos. We embrace their desire to break rules and have tantalizing secrets. And we
listen
.”

“So the girls here don't have sex with people?”

“Sexual favors are not included on our menu,” Magda said.

“And you want me to join the Cast?”

“I'm offering you a less dangerous alternative than attempting to cross the border at sixteen with forged documents.”

Maybe being a party girl was safer, but I didn't want safe. I wanted freedom and I wanted to dream about my future
. About Yates.
“No, thanks. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but I'm going to try for Canada.”

“I understand.” Magda arched one eyebrow like she knew she didn't have the whole story. “Perhaps you'd do me a favor, however. We have very special guests tonight, and I could use one more hostess.”

Hostess.
The word made me want to put on rubber gloves.

But Magda was risking jail to hide me, and if all I had to do was hang out for a couple hours with some guys looking for fun, I'd be ungrateful to say no. “All right.”

“Thank you.” Magda stood up and pointed out the window at the airport. “Do you see that large jet set apart on the tarmac? It brought in a delegation from Congress.”

“They're the special guests?”

“Exactly.”

“But won't this place be crawling with security? Shouldn't I hide?”

“Quite the contrary. With the Secret Service outside the door, you couldn't be in a safer place.”

I guessed Magda knew what she was doing. If the other Cast members had escaped like me, she'd figured out how to hide them without landing in prison.

“Okay, sure.”

“Excellent.” Magda picked a phone up off her desk and handed it to me. “This is for you as I promised. But understand that we've placed limits on it for your protection.”

I took it from her. “All right, what are they?”

Magda gracefully maneuvered me to the door. “You'll see. Now, go find Helen in Wardrobe. Tell her CHI.”

And before I had a chance to ask what CHI was, Magda swept me out.

Backstage. Cast. Wardrobe. This place was one big theatrical production. And all those actresses were girls like me, looking to not get Signed.

I headed back to Wardrobe. So I'd join the Cast for a night. It was harmless. Like being in a play.

Shae strolled ahead of me, her bandage peeking from under her tee. Her friend's words came back to me.
You know how Magda is about
resale value.
I clenched my new phone. Magda was amazing. She'd made me think she was caring and generous the way she helped the girls here, but she'd forced Shae into a tattoo wipe so she could get more money for her.

Plus, Magda got me to agree to join the Cast tonight. She had me right where she wanted me and I didn't have a clue if I could trust her.

58

I had every intention of finding Helen, but she could wait a minute while I checked out my new phone. The yoga room was empty, so I tucked into a space behind the exercise ball rack.

The phone screen went live when I touched it, and my face appeared in one corner. It was the pic Magda took when I first got here. Then the phone snapped a picture of me now and lined it up with the first. “Welcome, Juliet,” the screen flashed. Even my restricted phone at home didn't verify like this.

Icons peppered the screen, but not ones I was used to: Current Events, Politics and Government, Science and Industry, Global Affairs, Religion and Society. There were two marked Onstage and Backstage. Finally, I found one for live calls, but when I tapped it, it said, “Function not available.”

Magda didn't trust me not to call Yates. Damn.

At least I could see if my disappearance had hit the news. I clicked on Current Events, bypassed Top Stories, and went to Search and typed in “Avie Reveare.”

Instead of bringing up links, the screen flashed, “Search denied.”

I typed in Dad.

“Search denied.”

Biocure.

“Search denied.”

Clearly, Magda or one of her minions had programmed the phone to block me. And maybe that made sense if they wanted to prevent someone putting a trace on me. But what if I searched Jes Hawkins?