A Girl Called Fearless (26 page)

Magda walked over to the basketball-player-turned-politician, and offered her cheek for a kiss.

As handsome as he was with his light green eyes, creamy brown skin, and bleached smile, I barely looked at Mr. VP, because the girl on Jouvert's arm was Sparrow. She stood there, giving off serenity and disdain in her five-inch heels and tight purple dress. Her curly hair was pulled off her face, and her eyes were made up like bird wings.

Sparrow caught my eye and batted her lashes at me in warning.

Mr. VP threw himself on one of the couches and Sparrow sat down beside him. The men gathered around them, but not one said a word to her.

“Who is that gorgeous creature?” Congressman Paul asked Sirocco.

“That's Persephone.”

Sparrow didn't look at me, but I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

Magda slid into an open seat on one of the couches while the Cast members perched on the backs. I hovered until Sirocco jerked me down beside her.

The Veep asked for a burger and a scotch, then said, “I'm glad you're all here. I'd like to share the outcome of my meeting.”

“So it was successful?” Magda asked.

“Another trillion in loans and investments.”

The men rocked the room with applause. “And what do we have to do to get this?” Senator Fletcher asked.

Mr. VP smirked like it was all so easy. “Merely continue on the path we're on. Our friends are very pleased with our progress. I've committed to continuing our efforts to segregate the sexes and to deny federal contracts to companies that employ women. We don't have to put that into law. We can just let federal agencies know it's our unwritten policy. Of course, once the Twenty-eighth Amendment passes, we can do whatever we want.”

You bastards. Pretty soon we won't have any rights at all.

Sparrow leaned into the Veep, and ran her hand down his leg. I couldn't believe it. Not Sparrow. What had Magda turned her into?

My head started to spin. I had to get out of here.

I stood up and, even though I felt Magda's eyes on me, I didn't stop and I didn't turn around. If I stayed, I'd explode.

61

Back in Wardrobe, I tore off my costume and threw on running shorts. I needed five or six miles on the treadmill to keep my thoughts from blowing out the walls.

Closing the border. Orphans for profit.
And Jessop Hawkins was in the middle of it. All these schemes weren't just about guys getting baby brides or rebuilding the workforce. This was so much bigger. But how? Who exactly was involved?

I wished I could call Yates or Ms. A, and tell them what I'd heard. People had to know about this. Women had to hear what they were doing.

As I went past the styling station, my eyes caught on the scissors somebody'd left out. Long, luxurious hair. All men wanted to touch it, run their hands through it, yank it.

I picked up the scissors and cut.

I won't be anybody's baby doll. Someone has to stop them
. Cut.

Those senators and congressmen, all they want is to hold on to power.
Cut.

Show the voters how they personally brought the economy back to life
. Cut.

They don't care that Samantha Rowley was murdered
. Cut.

This is a chess game, just like Father Gabriel said, and they are using us girls like pawns. Cut cut cut
. I put down the scissors.

But who's paying them to do it? Who does Father G suspect?

I had to get out of the country. The U.S. was completely messed up. No way anybody could save it.

High heels clacked across the floor, and Helen appeared behind me in the mirror. “Gracious me! You look like an—emu. One that was attacked by whatever large, vicious animal attacks emus and tears off their feathers.”

“I'm done looking like a good girl. I refuse to be some perv's fantasy.”

“Mission accomplished.” Helen ran her fingers through the spiky remains of my hair. “But if I may refine the look?”

“Sure.”

Helen pushed me into the chair. Snip here. Snip there. Gel. A little mousse.

“Ta-da,” Helen said. “Fierce. Uncompromising. The kind of girl who walks out on a room of slimy politicians—but I imagine you have experience dealing with men in high office.”

We exchanged a look. “Don't worry,” Helen said. “Your secret's safe with me.”

She whipped out a lip brush and went to retouch my gloss.

“I don't get how they can do it,” I said.

“Who?”

“Cast. I don't get how they can stand dressing up and having dirtbags paw them like that.”

Helen draped herself over the other chair. “They all have their reasons. Your roommate Splendor? She's banking money so when her little sisters turn sixteen she can buy their Contracts.”

“I didn't know that.”

“You haven't been here very long.”

“Helen?” Sparrow called from the other side of the room.

“Over here.”

“Is my coat finished?”

“Sorry. I had to do an intervention.” Helen got up as Sparrow came around the glass wall. “Ten minutes and you'll be ready to fly,” Helen promised, walking away.

Sparrow leaned against the counter, a big croc bag over her shoulder. “Like the hair, Juliet.”

“Like the name, Persephone,” I shot back.

“I couldn't resist the irony. Hades' plaything, get it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

The sewing machine whirred in the background. I'd seen pieces of a coat laid out last night, but I never guessed Helen sewed like a pro. I watched Sparrow pick through the rows of lipsticks.

“I'm impressed.” Sparrow applied a fresh coat of gloss. “I wasn't sure you'd have the guts to run.” For a second, I felt like she'd slapped me. She shrugged like I was wrong for being insulted. “I'm just saying it's hard.”

“Yeah, but I made it.”

She smiled and her whole face brightened. “This is so great you're here. You've joined the revolution.”

“I'm only here a couple of days,” I said. “I'm going to Canada.”

“Oh.” She dropped the gloss back in its slot. “Good luck with that. But I guess in your fantasy world, love is so powerful it can move mountains. Or borders.”

“You've never been in love. If you had, you'd understand.”

Sparrow glared at me. “You don't know
anything
about me. You're not the only girl who's ever fallen in love.”

I stood there, stunned. Sparrow had never, ever dropped even a hint that she cared about someone.

“Here's what
I
don't understand,” she said. “You heard the way those men talked back there, how they're happy Samantha Rowley's dead so they don't have to deal with her anymore. You heard what they're planning to do to women in this country, and you don't even care.”

I wanted to smack her. “I care.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“What are
you
doing about it,” I shot back. “Other than partying with those jerks and letting them get off on rubbing their hands all over you.”

Sparrow smirked. “I can't believe, you really have no clue. I thought you'd figured it out. You're usually so per-cep-tive. Such a good
listener
.”

Then, I got it. That's what Magda said geishas did—listen. It's what Helen instructed us to do before we went into the party. We were supposed to listen as these guys spilled their secrets. We were living, breathing recorders. Witnesses.

“You're spying,” I said.

“I'm gathering information.”

“Almost done!” Helen called out. “You can be on your way.”

Sparrow snapped open her croc bag and pulled out her phone. “Magda got you a phone, right?”

“Yeah, but she put controls on it so I can't make calls.”

Sparrow's fingers danced over her screen. “Yep, there you are. Oooo. Outbound calling disabled. Let's fix that. One two three. Done.”

“Thanks,” I said, even though I knew Magda would be ticked if she found out.

“Happy to help a friend,” Sparrow said. “Listen. I'm heading out to D.C. for a few days, and I'm sending you a little software fix. It hunts for paternal controls and breaks through them. You can send videos of two minutes or less to millions of women before the controls turn back on.”

“Kind of like a scrambler?”

“More like an unscrambler. And it allows people to forward your messages, but not to trace them back to you.”

“Did you invent this?”

“Almost. I stole it from a defense guy and modified it.”

“So, why are you giving this to me?”

“Because I know that deep inside, you hate the Paternalists almost as much as I do. And someday, you'll want to stop them.” Sparrow bent over to whisper in my ear. “We have to be the voices of Gen S, just like Ms. A always said.”

A rush of prickles shot from my shoulders to my fingertips. Sparrow was up to something, but clearly, she wasn't about to tell me what.

Helen sashayed toward us, waving the pomegranate-red coat like it was a matador's cape. “Ready.” Helen held the coat while Sparrow slipped into it and cinched the belt. The rolled collar and big sleeves made her look like a ninja.

“It's gorgeous,” I told Helen. “How did you get to be such an incredible seamstress?”

“Ten years as a Vegas showgirl. You either sew your own costumes or spend half your take-home pay on cheap satin and plastic sequins.”

“Okay, I gotta run,” Sparrow said. She embraced Helen. “Thank you.”

“Be naughty,” Helen said, “but not too naughty.”

Then Sparrow reached for me. “Come on, give me a hug. If you're not here when I get back,” she said, squeezing me tight, “I'll see you in heaven.”

Sparrow strode off, but I stood there, mesmerized by the way she walked in that deep red coat, so cool and tall and detached. Persephone, ready to kick butt in the Underworld.

I wasn't Sparrow. I wasn't a rebel obsessed with a cause. I was just an ordinary girl, trying to have an ordinary life. Get an apartment. Go to school. Get a job. Fall in love. All those things girls did in movies from when I was young.

“His name was Imran,” Helen said, keeping her voice low. “MIT student. Indian. Fabulously wealthy. They met online. Tragic story. Absolutely tragic.”

“What happened?”

“I really can't—Magda would kill me if she knew I'd told you any of this, but let's just say Persephone is committed to getting revenge on our nation's leaders.”

The skin on my neck pulled tight. Not the first time I'd heard someone say that about her.

Helen handed me a dustpan and broom and pointed to the hair on the floor. I started sweeping.

Screw it.

I'm not Sparrow and I don't want to be a witness.

I don't want to be a voice for Gen S.

I want to go to Canada. Love Yates. Be free.

Let Sparrow be the witness. The sex spy.

“I'm not Cast, Helen.”

“I knew that the minute I saw you, Juliet. You don't have that protective shell the rest of the Cast has. Besides, girls like us, we write our own scripts.”

We locked eyes. Maybe Helen had chosen to be a woman or just to dress like one, but she'd definitely made a choice most guys didn't. “Is it wrong that I don't want to be part of the revolution?” I said.

“No, baby, it's not wrong.” Helen pointed to a spot I missed. “You're in love. And God knows, I envy you.”

“It's not like I'm giving in. I'm not a collaborator. Not like those Consignment girls.”

“Harsh. Those are merely poor little lambs who've lost their way.”

“I have a dream about how my life could be. I don't want to give that up.”

“Then that's what you've got to do, hon. But you need to know that if the revolution wants you, it's going to find you.”

“Not in Canada, it won't.”

“I hope you're right, Juliet,” she said, holding up the trash can. “I'm a sucker for romance.”

I emptied the dustpan into the trash. A couple of days and I'd be back on the road, headed for Canada. I couldn't wait.

62

I lay out by the rooftop pool, soaking up the morning rays as I ate my cereal. Behind me, the doors swung open and I heard someone pad across the deck. Sirocco set down her coffee and eased onto the lounge chair next to me.

“That party last night, not what you expected, Juliet?” Sirocco seemed softer today, as if she'd lowered her defenses, or maybe she was just tired.

“Yeah, the Vice President in bed with the Paternalists. I didn't see that coming.”

“Sick, right?” Sirocco leaned back and tipped her sunglasses over her eyes.

I remembered what Helen said about how all the Cast have stories, and I wondered about Sirocco's. “Can I ask why you're here? Is it for the cause?”

Sirocco looked at me over her glasses. “I couldn't do this if I didn't believe, but Magda paid off my Contract. A year from now, I'll have paid her back and I'll be on a plane for Barcelona.”

“Spain.” I imagined floating in the turquoise Mediterranean. “Sounds heavenly. Lying on the beach—”

“No, more like sitting in a classroom. Cinema studies at Universitat de Barcelona.”

“You want to be a filmmaker?”

“
Historias de amor
. Love stories.”

“We need love stories.”

“Yes, all Hollywood makes now is garbage: guns, drugs, war, murder—”

The phone Magda gave me vibrated in my robe pocket.
That's weird.
“It's a message from Persephone, but she used a timed release. She sent it a half hour ago.”

“Maybe she didn't want to wake you.”

I pressed play. Sparrow was standing on the Capitol Hill steps. “Sorry to stick you with this, but in case anything happens, someone needs to know the truth. I'm sending a message to the media and copying you. Remember, we're the voices of Gen S.”