She’d tell them what she thought of their laws. These guys had conspired to keep girls out of college. Made it a crime to run from a Contract. And now they were imprisoning us in our own country.
Magda left me at the air hockey table with a senator from Kentucky and a congressman from Illinois. The congressman handed me the puck. “Ready to play?”
“Sure,” I said, skimming the puck onto the table.
“We playin’ teams?” Senator Kentucky asked. Sirocco nuzzled up against him with a plate of sliders. “I’ll be on your team,” she said.
I bent over the table, ready for the first round, when the congressman pressed against me. He whispered something nasty in my ear about an intern and a cigar. Every cell in my body wanted to smash my heel into his foot, but I forced myself to grit my teeth and smile. Perv.
Senator Fletcher waved his pool cue. “Don’t molest the girl, Paul. You can’t afford her.”
The congressman eased off. “So you’re luxury goods.”
“Very,” I told him, smacking the puck into the goal.
“Nice shot.” The congressman raised his glass. “Gentlemen, a toast to Senator Fletcher and his action group for persuading American universities to put women’s safety first.”
By keeping us out!
The men raised their glasses to Fletcher, and Congressman Paul ran his hand down my back. “Now you wouldn’t want to go to college, would you?”
I gripped the plastic puck tight. “No, Congressman, I can’t imagine anything more fulfilling than being a mother.”
“Spoken like a true patriot. We can fix this country, but we need every seventeen-year-old like you to start popping out babies. We lost half our workforce,” he said. “Half! No babies. No workers.”
“Seventeen’s too old,” Fletcher said. “There are only four million seventeen-year-olds in this country. If we could lower the Signing age to fifteen we could triple the number of births in the next three years.”
Fifteen! They wanted to pull girls out of school their freshman year.
“Forget fifteen. You’ll be lucky if the old lady voters don’t demand eighteen,” Senator Kentucky said. “That Rowley girl getting shot on the Supreme Court steps today has them all riled up!”
My knees turned to Jell-O and I had to lean on the table. She was only sixteen.
Congressman Paul smacked the puck into my goal. “Senator, our office has surveyed women across the country and most have never heard of Samantha Rowley.”
I lined up for the shot.
Samantha died for nothing, because women didn’t know about her. Of course they didn’t. How would they hear about her? Their restricted phones? The Sportswall?
Disgust flickered on Sirocco’s face, and then she slinked over to the aide and slid the phone out of his hands. He grinned as she played with it and asked questions like she’d never seen a phone before.
Congressman Paul fingered the ends of my hair. “These old men can be pretty boring.”
I wanted to rip his arm out of the socket. “I don’t mind. All anybody ever talks about around here is clothes.”
His cell buzzed in his pocket and he turned to answer it.
Thank God. A reprieve.
The senator with the bow tie playing pool against Fletcher was getting looser and louder. His name was Perue, and Amanda had refreshed his drink at least three times already.
Senator Perue looked down his cue. “I’m telling you, we can solve the workforce problem and the media’ll make us into heroes.”
Suddenly, Bow Tie had an audience, because half the guys in the room stopped what they were doing. Magda strolled over to our table.
“Well, what do you suggest, Perue?” Fletcher said.
Perue took his shot, and two balls dove into pockets. “Orphans,” he answered. “We’ve got millions of orphans in this country and the states are choking on the costs of keeping up the orphan ranches. If we Sign girls out of those ranches at fifteen with Contracts in their hands instead of releasing them Unsigned at eighteen, we can increase the birthrate and those ranches will turn a profit.”
“Interesting,” murmured Fletcher, the dollar bills practically glowing in his eyes.
“And gentlemen, it’s the right thing to do,” Congressman Sung said, tipping his drink at Perue. “Under current law, those girls lose their homes on their eighteenth birthdays.”
Magda echoed him. “Yes, they’re kicked out into the streets oftentimes with nothing more than a toothbrush, a backpack, and a twenty-dollar bill.”
“That’s awful,” Sirocco said.
“Think about it,” Perue continued, “these girls can go to a loving home and not be exposed to the dangers on the streets.”
They were talking about girls like they were pound puppies.
I’d never thought about girls who didn’t have fathers to look out for them. Dad had tried to make a good match for me, even though he screwed it up. And I knew he felt bad he couldn’t get me away from Hawkins. What if some bureaucrat who didn’t even know me arranged my Signing—somebody who only cared about the money?
“And we should think about imports,” Perue said.
“Well, Europe’s not helping us,” Fletcher said. “Half the continent’s considering a ban on women traveling to the U.S.”
“We don’t need Europe,” Sung answered. “You all know Jessop Hawkins?”
My jaw locked and I couldn’t swallow. I tried to look bored, but hearing his name amplified every sound in the room.
“He flew back from Asia this week with thirty Nepalese girls he found at the Indian border. Eight- to twelve-year-olds, he bought off traffickers taking them to brothels in Mumbai.”
“He saved their lives,” Magda said.
“Yes. Now they have a real chance at a future,” Sung declared.
“To the American dream!” Congressman Sung lifted his glass in a toast and the men joined in.
Sirocco nudged me to hold up my glass. In their twisted view of the world, Hawkins was a savior—but those little girls were still going to be treated like things to be sold.
“Ah, Mr. Vice President!” Madga exclaimed.
Everyone turned as he walked in. And I wondered why they didn’t look surprised. He wasn’t on the guest list. Vice President Jouvert cut the Paternalists to shreds in his speeches, but here he was, ready to party with them?
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 ju
st 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. Sh
e 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.”
A Girl Called Fearless: A Novel (The Girl Called Fearless Series) Page 20
