The Unidentified (16 page)

Harrison asked me questions about the boys’ eye color, hair styles, height, age, body type, race.

“They were Level Seventeens, I’m sure.”

Harrison inputted all their details, and found a match with their names on Network.

“Are these the guys?” Harrison asked, pulling up Game ID photos on the screen.

I was so amazed by the program, interested to see how it worked, that I barely realized what I was doing. I was about to hand their identities over to Protecht just because they were bragging about some crazy stunt they may or may not have the guts to pull off.

“Well?”

I didn’t know how to turn back now without raising suspicion, so I nodded.

“Okay, Mr. Kimo Kauwe and Mr. Derek Ennis,”

Harrison said, going in as admin and flagging their Network pages. Putting marks on their record that they would never see. “We’ve got our eyes on you.”

I breathed in sharply. That first private message. The voice of the Unidentified.

“Can anyone use Profile?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He watched me carefully and asked, “Why?”

Because I wanted to see if I could use it to find out more about the leader of the Unidentified, I thought. I blinked my eyes, opened them wide and did my best impression of Quelly Atkins. “I know so many people who would love to try it out. It’s almost like building a SimKid! It would revolutionize dating technology.”

He just stared at me. “It’s not for public use.”

“Too bad. It would be such a high-volt matchmaker.” I played with my hair for added Quelly emphasis.

“Silly girls,” Harrison muttered.

“You watch out,” a musical-sounding voice called out from the hall . Both Harrison and I swiveled toward it.

Anica stood in the doorway, smirking. “Underestimate a girl and she’ll take full advantage.” She pushed away from the wall . “Kid, when you’re finished chatting with the man, come by and see me, okay?”

She waved to Harrison and continued down the hall .

His face had a pinkish color now, I couldn’t tell if it was anger or embarrassment or what.

“Are we done?” I asked cautiously.

He waved me away, and I made my escape.

Anica welcomed me into her office. She was sipping a blue-colored beverage through a straw and looking out her window. A window that looked in on the VIP Lounge.

“How’re you settling in to branded life, Kid?”

I didn’t know how to reply to that without sounding ungrateful. “It’s different,” I mumbled.

“But are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Different.” She clinked her glass down on her desk and took a seat.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you know why we branded you, Katey?”

“‘To provide me with opportunities only available from the dedication and investment of a caring sponsor,’” I quoted monotonously from her Terms and Conditions spiel.

“You’re not like your mother,” she said simply. I think she meant it as a compliment, but I was offended. Anica wasn’t anything like how she had been when speaking with my mother either. “No, we branded you because we hoped for your authentic insights. We’re looking to branch out,”

She smiled. “Expand our markets…”

She lifted her glass to the people out the window, laughing animatedly in the VIP Lounge, unaware of being watched—or hyperaware of being watched; it was hard to tell sometimes.

“The previous model of partnering with kids who have reached their height of popularity by doing the things they ought to do and buying the things they ought to buy hasn’t given us the results we’re looking for.”

I thought of Ari, every calculated step she took to get the attention of the cool hunters.

“You mean like Cayenne Lewis?”

Anica nearly choked. “Oh, yes. That was a PR nightmare. She had the most perfect statistics, looked so good on screen. It was such a shame.” She wagged her finger at the window. “That Palmer Phillips. Such a heartbreaker.”

He was sitting at a booth in the lounge laughing with Abe Fletcher, trying to pul Eva Bloom into his lap.

“No. As much fun as it is courting the top players, it’s like…advertising to the stockholders. You know? No. We want to be relevant to the tough customers. The disenfranchised, dissenting voices of your generation.”

“Why?”

“Because being a rebel never goes out of style.” She smiled. “So, Katey. What more can you tell me about your friends the Unidentified?”

I managed to leave the Trendsetter office without revealing anything about the Unidentified, mostly because I didn’t really
know
anything about the Unidentified. Anica seemed to think that I was friends with them, and I was afraid to correct her. If the truth came out, Mom would be so disappointed that I couldn’t manage to stay branded for one single day.

I went up to the Sweatshop to see Ari. She would know about these kinds of things, whether the sponsors could just end my contract because I was a bigger loser than they thought.

“You coming over to Ari’s to get ready for After Hours?” Tesla asked me when I entered, not caring that those intouch(r) comments from Swift were supposed to be a private conversation.

I leaned over the arm of the sofa to see Tesla poking diodes into molded-polymer beads. Her blond hair was styled with elaborate braids, making a perfect Fibonacci spiral on the top of her head.

“Oh. I didn’t know that was the plan.”

The needle of Ari’s machine went silent. “Yeah, everyone’s coming over around seven,” she said.

“OK. Good game,” I said.

The sewing machine motor whirred as the needles The sewing machine motor whirred as the needles stabbed the fabric.

“Jeremy Swift.” Rocket said his name like a statement.

“How did
that
happen?”

She and Ari exchanged a glance, and I didn’t know what to say.

“He was, like,
on
you in the VIP Lounge,” she said, putting the finishing touches on her needlepoint project.

She was stitching the quote:
There is a special place in
hell for women who don’t help other women
surrounded by embroidered flames and sexy pinup devils. “It was like he was claiming you or something. Kid, you need to watch out for those super-possessive boys. Believe me, I know.”

Oh, you mean like Palmer, who barely even looks at

you in the VIP Lounge anymore?

I felt like a supersized jerk for even thinking that, but I was annoyed that she needed to say shit about Jeremy to make herself look better in front of the Craftsters.

“Aw, I think they look cute together,” Tesla said. “I mean, I know he’s technically a meatpounder and therefore deserves no praise from any self-respecting Princess, but full points for that pull, Kid.”

Ari just continued sewing.

“I always thought you and Littleton had something going on,” Avery said, breaking the yarn of her knit project with her teeth. “Showing up at After Hours with his best friend is quite the dagger-twist, don’t you think?”

“What? No,” I said louder than I meant to. The scene from the Kiss Off(r) contest flashed like a subliminal blip.

“Jeremy’s not his best friend.
I’m
his best friend.”

“Jeremy’s not his best friend.
I’m
his best friend.”

Ari shook her fashionably too-long bangs and muttered, “Best friend. Right.”

She released a slip of brown material from the torture of the sewing machine, held it against her body and admired the reflection of her newly fashioned slip dress.

What was I going to wear to After Hours? “Can I get a ride home to pick up some stuff before I come over?”

Ari didn’t take her eyes off the mirror when she answered. “Oh. Sorry. I have a lot to do before tonight.

Can’t.” She fake-pouted. “Sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

I guess I would have to take the shuttle home, then try to convince Mom to take me to Ari’s. I’d say I was counting down the weeks until I turned sixteen, but I wasn’t deluded enough to think that I’d be getting access to a car for my birthday.

“I can take you, Kid.” Tesla was packing up her project.

“Thanks,” I said. Tesla was always a sweetheart, but I was still surprised she volunteered to chauffeur me around all afternoon. Maybe it was just another hidden perk of being branded now.

Tesla held her card up against the dash and the motor purred to life.

“I still can’t believe your folks didn’t activate
any
restrictions on your ride.”

“Just because the technology is available doesn’t mean they’ve got to use it,” she said, checking her mirrors.

“Besides, I think they secretly like it when I come home and “Besides, I think they secretly like it when I come home and tell them about my day without GPS spoilers. If they’d preprogrammed my routes, all my adventures would have no entertainment value.”

She maneuvered her car out of the massive parking lot, singing unselfconsciously to herself. Her singing voice was huskier than her speaking voice. It was a nice surprise.

“So. How’s branded life?” she said casually.

I’d suspected it, but was a little disappointed to have it confirmed that Tesla was being friendly because of a change in my record.

I shrugged. I honestly didn’t know how to answer. A lot had changed, but I still felt the same.

“Did you know they wanted to brand me?” she said, signaling left. “A couple times, actually.”

“Who?”

“I don’t want to name-drop,” she said. “Doesn’t really matter.”

“Why didn’t you click OK?”

“Did you
read
those terms and conditions?”

“Almost?”

She laughed. “Yeah, no one does. But I didn’t think it was a good deal. I didn’t want to give away the rights to my content and inventions, for what? Some free shit? To hang out in the VIP Lounge or whatever?”

“I should introduce you to Tycho Williams.”

“Damn. Yes, please.” She honked the horn in three short bursts for emphasis. “If I knew getting some branded boys would be part of the deal, I probably would’ve reconsidered.”

I didn’t answer at first. I didn’t really want to admit how big a factor Jeremy had been in my decision to get on the It List.

Then her tone got serious. “And if I had known that the sponsors I declined would challenge every new design I came up with…” She punctuated her sentence with a frustrated animal growl. “Sore losers, for real.”

“Is that why you’re getting harassed for your flipstreams?”

“Indeed. If I drove over to their corporate headquarters and spent the night nailing all the office furniture to the ceiling to really flip their shit up, would you be my alibi?”

She laughed. But I froze at the word “alibi.”

“Tess,” I said quietly. “About Alibi…there’s no, um, contaminated code in that program or anything, is there?”

“No way. Elle crafted that app. It’s sparkling sterile.

Completely safe for consumption.”

I told her about Protecht and their investigations into Alibi. “Just tell her to be stealthy. And to watch her back.”

“You too.”

I smiled, “I’m protected by the Protech logo. What do I have to be worried about?”

But Tesla still looked unconvinced. “There’s been talk around the Sweatshop.”

“There’s always talk around the Sweatshop.” I sighed.

“I know.” She hesitated. “And I don’t really want to add to the talking-behind-people’s-backs…But Ari and Rocket?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re talking. So just be careful.”

Ari lived in a nice house in a nice neighborhood. I’d been in this nice house so many times over the years that I knew everything about this place.

I knew the exact blooming schedule for the synthetic seeds in the front lawn. Mrs. Knowland made sure the grass was purple this time of year because she could. She was proud of how her landscaping made the natural oranges of the neighbors’ oak trees look cheap. Not that Mrs. Knowland spent much time personally enjoying her yard. She always selected the “English garden in spring” view on her touchscreen kitchen window.

Everything was familiar at Ari’s place, but never really comfortable. My cheeks always hurt a little bit from my strained smile. I can almost understand why Ari went around looking for drama and tragedy. It was painful to be perfect all the time.

Ari opened the door when I rang. She had a huge smile on her face that shrank a little when she saw me.

“Oh, hey,” she said, not exactly unfriendly. “I thought you were Rocket. Hey, Tesla.”

“Hello, Kid,” Mrs. Knowland called from the kitchen.

“Congratulations. We saw your name on the It List updates.

Imagine our surprise.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I was planning on redesigning Merilee’s front room in opulent eggplant on Tuesday,” she continued. “Please tell me you can get the workers to deliver the stone work by seven.”

“I…don’t,” I stammered.

“She’s not talking to you,” Ari said, impatiently maneuvering us toward the staircase, past the showcase of all the gifts Mr. Knowland brought back for Ari from his conference trips.

“I don’t care,” Mrs. Knowland said to the phony flowers in the hall . “They need to get it done.”

I followed Ari upstairs.

The wall’s of Ari’s bedroom were wall papered with posters and magazine pages. The layer was so thick that the room was probably completely soundproofed by now, which was good because the girls had the music up loud.

Ari never took down old posters, she just put her new interests up over them. Imagine the history you could read on those wall’s, like growth rings on a tree.

The latest layer on the surface now looked a lot like her Network profile page: Ari’s favorite
Idol
band, manga drawings from her Japanese e-pal, crafty fashion spreads, the cover of
Times
featuring the vice president and her “controversial” hairstyle.

And speaking of controversial hairstyles, I soon found myself sitting on the bed while Ari tugged and twirled my limp and lifeless hair. She had bobby pins between her lips, so her voice was kind of muffled.

“OK. Now there’s no escape. You are going to get
made
!”

“Yeah, you could be so pretty, Kid,” Kasi said, looking wide-eyed at herself in the mirror. All I heard was
You’re not
pretty now
.