Date With A Rockstar (6 page)

Shelley Anne wanders over to me. “What did you think of the commercial?”

I tuck my hair behind my ears. Jeremy's so generous and I'm after money. Not much of a match. Shelley raises her eyebrows, waiting. Right. “I think it's awesome he's supporting such a great cause.”

“Me, too. Cancer is the worst.”

I nod, not sure what I can add. Cancer's worse than Fluxem because there's no cure and it affects a lot more of the population.

Jasmine stops Bill before he can leave the room. “How many days will we be gone? Should we be prepared for dressy dates or casual?”

I listen in, even though I don't have many clothing options. How am I even going to get to the airport? I fear the subways, but the shuttle costs a lot. I'd be better off scraping the last of my money together for a dress. I don't suppose they could pick us up?

“You'll be allowed two suitcases of clothes. No more than that, so pack carefully. You might end up hiking or at a fancy restaurant. The dates haven't been coordinated yet, so I can't give you any more information than that.”

Two suitcases? I don't even own enough to fill one.

“That's an awfully small amount of luggage if y'all are expecting us to do our own hair and makeup,” Jaime says. Her purple contacts gleam in the artificial light. Maybe Jeremy likes purple.

Bill shakes his head. “You'll manage.”

I study Jaime, and she thrusts her chin out and returns my stare. She has a petite button nose and curly brown hair. I wish I could find a flaw in her appearance, but other than the fake eyes, I can't. Maybe she'll be a finalist.

All of the girls are complaining about the allotment. Who cares? I don't even own a suitcase.

Then Bill drops the second problem. No electronic devices on the trip. Another item I don't own. The girls yell over each other about how impossible that is, as though their phones are physically implanted in their heads.

As Bill wraps up our day, I'm freaking out enough to consider spending the money I've been saving for
the cure on clothes. If I looked better, would I stand more of a chance at winning the prize? Maybe a new dress could be thought of as an investment in getting more funds.

Eleanor hands each of us a pamphlet on Key West and releases us out the back door, right into the waiting herd of press. With the rest of the line dismissed, they must have figured the final ten were inside. I keep my hand over my face, duck down, and block as much of myself with my arm as I can. None of the other girls stop, either. The threat of being disqualified looms over us.

As the others drive off in cars, I start off toward home at a brisk jog. A reporter follows me for a couple of blocks, yelling questions at my back. I'm in better shape than he is. I have to get home and to the mall. Discount shopping takes time and I need to find a killer outfit.

I'd feel safer if I had a chip in my arm like everyone else, but I don't have enough money to warrant a bank account. I rush up the stairs and into the apartment. I grab my meager savings from my bedside table. My backpack is still on the floor from yesterday. I bite my lip. The fact that I left property of the Society in an unsecure location for twenty-four hours just proves how insane this competition is already making me. I dig through the bottom. My fingers close around the small metal disc and I exhale my relief. I remember how Jeremy looked at me when he found the piece. Is it possible that he appreciates visual art, too? I tuck the gold chunk deep in my front pocket. I need to get it out of my possession before I leave.

I speed down the flights of stairs. Snatches of conversation follow me from floor to floor. I suspect rodents consumed all the insulation in the building years ago, because I hear everything. The faster I can descend, the less I have to learn about my neighbors.
From what I do catch, they're a miserable, creepy bunch. Still, this building is nicer than where Mom and I used to live. With the limited available housing, we were on a wait list even for this place.

Outside, the thick, oppressive air clogs my lungs. There isn't enough sun to bake off the humidity, so the moisture hovers in the air, trapped on this messed up planet just like me.

The Metal Society has an entrance on the bottom floor of the old public library. I walk the few blocks, trying not to draw attention to myself. The old library is wedged in between taller buildings. I start down the alleyway to the side entrance, but there's a street cleaner machine in the way and I have to wait.

The metal in my pocket has me shifting on my feet. I could be attacked, robbed, arrested. Would the show producers inquire about my disappearance or just pick another girl? Finally, the cleaner moves down the road. A guy across the road throws a plastic beer bottle against the front steps. When nothing happens he staggers forward and gives the brushes a kick.

A dumpster blocks a door with a scan panel. I palm the metal disk in my hand and run it underneath. The Society does something to the metal to make it traceable, which also works to open the door. I have a coin at home that works the same way. A few years ago a guy caught me doing scratch graffiti and gave me the first invite to work for the Society. So far I haven't seen the guy again, but if I do, I'll thank him.

I glance down at my work. It's a little sad not to be able to keep what I make. If I had a chain, my carving would be a complete and beautiful necklace. I love making jewelry, even knowing it's going to wealthy patrons. With the plastic knock-offs so convincing, they can get away with wearing the real thing. The door releases and I slip in. Horizontal strips of sun filter in from the barred windows far above. My feet
leave prints in the dust as I cross the room to the metal cage of lockers. Mine is twenty boxes from the left and five up.

I punch in a long string of numbers and digits. The cage pops open. I reach around inside and pull out a finger-sized bit of silver. I push the intercom button at the top of my locker.

“Excuse me, there are no instructions with this piece.”

There's a long pause. “Number 8723M1, no instructions on file. Let me check the system.”

I squint at the back of my locker. The person on the intercom might be behind the wall or on the other side of the country.

“There's an accommodation for your last necklace, but nothing else.”

I rub my sneaker through the dust. “How about payment? Any tips?”

“Not yet.”

I didn't really expect anything, but it would've been nice. “Thank you.” I leave both the gold and silver pieces behind and hurry out.

The air outside the old library has taken on a slightly sulfurous tinge as the wind shifts in my direction. I walk back out to the main street. Mall entrances are located all over the city. In some areas the mall is underground, and in others it stretches up above the street.

Heavy plastic doors flashing with advertisements welcome me to the mall. The corridors are enforced by remote security. I stop and wait while a couple in front of me is scanned for weapons. Two double green lights indicate that they are clean. I'm next.

The mall is one of the safest places to be. I wish they'd apply the same defenses in the subways. I tuck that thought away. There's no point in worrying about tomorrow morning. I thought about asking Shelley
Anne for a ride, or seeing if the studio could send a car to pick me up, but I don't want special treatment.

As I enter the mall, I press my money deeper into my pocket. Macy's flashes sales and product advertisements at me. A small perfume-spraying robot waits just inside to ambush shoppers. From the outside the white floors and walls give the store a brightness I envy.

Macy's isn't a store I can afford, but I go in anyway. The robot wheels up. “No. Thank. You.” I announce the words slowly so that the voice software recognizes them. The damn thing sprays my leg anyway.

I stroll around the fountain and stare up at the fake sky ceiling. I'm wasting time. Maybe I shouldn't buy a dress. It's a stupid idea to spend money to stand out from the other contestants. Before I got Fluxem I was too young to have money of my own and by the time I actually started to earn a little from the Society, I needed to give it to Mom for the cure. I get it. I know what's important. I just occasionally wish I could shop. Maybe go on one of those sprees like you can win for signing up for all those magazines.

I drag my hand over the clothes. I pull a black dress out. Beautiful. I feel awkward walking into the mirrored dressing room. God, do people actually have closets like this? I pull off my pants and shirt, straightening up in front of the mirror. My legs look stronger. The dress slides easily over my head, pooling around my thighs. Such a pretty cut. Flattering.

I walk out and sit on the couch. The luxurious fabric matches the fake room. I'm like a different person. I'm about to get up when I hear a slightly familiar voice.

“No. No. This one won't work, either.” Claire walks through the rows of formal dresses. She's changed out of her salsa outfit for a suit. I freeze. Shit. I quietly stand up and try to slip back to the dressing room to get my clothes.

“Monet.”

I turn back around.

“Shopping for the trip, I see.”

I shrug. “They, uh, didn't give me much time to pull together a suitable wardrobe.”

“Exactly what I said. Can you imagine all of my clothes trapped in my closet a thousand miles away, and they expect us to leave in the morning like we have everything we need already? Ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” I say. She doesn't know anything about me. I could have money. I walk back through the closet to the dressing room and quickly change back into my clothes. I put the dress back on the hanger, letting the gorgeous fabric run over my fingers one last time. I gulp and take a deep breath before putting it back in its spot.

Claire looks up from the couch.

“Not going to buy the dress?” she asks.

“Eh, I'm still shopping. It didn't fit that well, anyway.”

She raises her eyebrows and then her lip tilts up like she knows I'm lying.

“Good luck finding what you need,” I say as I hurry away.

“Likewise,” she says with a slight edge to her voice.

The robot sprays me again on my way out of the store. My jeans are going to stink for a week.

I don't have enough money to buy anything. It was silly to even come here.

Humidity coats me as I exit the mall and jog home. There's something so freeing about running, like I could escape my own limited future if I move fast enough. I tip my head up, letting the air blow my hair back from my face.

Mom's at home when I get back. I wonder what she would say about my plan to win the prize money. It's a bit manipulative on my part, even if it is for a good reason. Money, that's important. Most of the time I
feel like if I can't buy opportunities I won't have any, and Jeremy is the key to the prize.

“I went to the mall,” I say, slumping back on the couch. “All the clothes are too expensive.”

She sighs. “I wish I had more money to give you.”

Shit, now I feel guilty again. “You do more than enough for me.”

She frowns and I know she's thinking about the cure she hasn't been able to provide. “How about you grab dinner out of the oven for me?”

I stand in front of the stove. “Mom, you forgot to turn it on again. What were you trying to make, anyway?” I open up the oven door. Oh! There's a package. A wrapped gift. I grab up the box and run to the other room.

“I got ya, didn't I? You thought I messed up another vitamin spread a' la casserole.”

“Oh, Mom, you didn't have to.” I tear into the paper. My hand meets green cloth. A dress. The leafy green fabric unfolds in my hands and I'm holding up a simple wrap dress. “I can't believe you got me this! Can we afford it?”
How much harder will you have to work because of this?

She swats my words away with her hand. “Now, what else do you need to pack?”

At the end of the night, we catch the commercial for the dating show. I point to where I am in line and Mom
oohs
and
ahs
over the close-up of Jeremy. We read over the Key West pamphlet, marveling at the photos. On the cover in between high-rises, a swath of aquamarine beach surrounds a palm tree and a bar.

I wonder if the water really is that blue. I know the skies can't be that clear. They must have pumped up the images for print. Nowhere I've ever been is clean like that, not that I've ever been out of the city. In less than twenty-four hours I'll be there, at the hotel on the brochure. I squeal in delight.

MY BELONGINGS ARE packed in a tote bag, cinched tight with string and looped over my shoulders. I'm ready to run. Mom lifts her head up off the pillow and waves goodbye. Two hours should be more than enough to get to the airport by seven.

I pause at the exit of our building and take time to stretch my hamstrings. I flex onto the balls of my feet and lean over the front of my legs. Next I slide out a small metal cylinder from where I've hidden it in my waistband so Mom wouldn't notice. I grip it tight in one hand and then the other. Its weight in my fist comforts me as I do a few test punches. I don't have enough body mass to make my hits count without the added weight.

I'm as ready as I'm going to get. The stairs down to the subway station are covered in pigeon feces. I fold my hands close to my body, not touching the railings. Clean air is pumped down into the tunnels, but that doesn't keep disease off the surfaces. A man slumps over on the stairs. He opens his hand weakly as I pass. His shoe is on a step a few feet down, leaving his dry, cracked foot exposed.

At the bottom of the stairs the murmurs of pain crescendo. Why do the miserable always crawl down into the subways? They rest up against the walls, begging and moaning. Flies land on the face of an
elderly woman who's spread out on her back. She might be dead. I pick up my pace. Smells of decay and vomit creep into my nose even though I breathe through my mouth. There's a map painted on the main wall by the platform. I check for the number car I need.