“You know,” says Agent Marlow in a kind tone. “You’re not in any trouble. You can answer a few of our questions. There’s no need for a lawyer.”
I look down at my wrist and don’t respond. The first thing they did when they brought me into the brick FBI building was take away my chip-watch for “safekeeping.”
“We won’t access your accounts,” said the agent who sealed off my watch in a special box. “This is standard protocol for being escorted into a federal building. Most people hauled in get the lead-lined mitts. We can’t let their finger-chips make trouble.”
Naked skin taunts me. First my cuff and now my watch.
“I know all about you,” says Agent Plunkett. “Every last detail.”
I look straight at her. I know all about Margie Plunkett too. I studied her in the class I took during junior year called Vestal Enemies. She’s aged significantly compared to her picture in my textbook.
Agent Plunkett leans into the table. “I’ve monitored the Vestals for seventeen years. You were in diapers when I first started investigating Barbelo Nemo.”
I cross my ankles and fold my hands. I straighten my spine like I’m being pulled from above. I smooth my expression so all evidence of emotion evaporates. If there’s one lesson Ms. Corina taught me, it’s that 60 percent of communication is nonverbal. No way am I going to let my body speak while I keep my lips closed.
Agent Plunkett raps her tattooed fingers on the table and stares back at me. “I have a lot of questions, Blanca. It’s time to prove whose side you’re actually on.”
I answer by not moving one muscle. I could sit like this forever. Headmaster Russell, Ms. Corina, and the other teachers at Tabula Rasa would be proud. Barbelo too, of course, if he was still alive.
The seconds tick away like hours. After an eon, I hear a rustle at the door. I turn to see the McNeal family lawyer, Nancy Robinson, enter in a flurry of worsted wool. Her hair is up in an elaborate French twist, and her face gleams with determination.
“I’m finally here.” Nancy blusters into the room. “Traffic was awful.” She reaches out her hand to shake with the agents. “Nancy Robinson. Pleased to meet you. Now let’s get this travesty over with.” She sits down in the chair next to me and clicks on her finger-chips. “We’ll record this for our own evidence, of course, even though Blanca is here completely voluntarily.”
“Yes, well. Let’s get started.” Agent Plunkett eyes me closely. “We are here to interview Blanca Nemo about the inner workings of the Vestal order.”
“My name’s not Nemo.”
“Have you been adopted by Mr. Calum McNeal?” asks Agent Marlow. “I was unaware of this.”
Nancy nods at me, so I answer. “No,” I say. “Not officially.”
If we made it official—supposing Cal wanted that—it would be tricky. Legally, Seth would become my brother. Hypothetical incest is more than I could handle at the moment.
“Blanca has the right to use any name she chooses,” Nancy says. “Please honor it.”
Agent Marlow continues. “Are Barbelo Nemo and Lydia Xavier your birth parents?”
“Lydia Xavier?” I ask, before Nancy can stop me. “Where did you hear that name?” I’m angry with myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. I know better than to reveal unnecessary information. But I’ve never heard Ms. Lydia’s last name before.
“We don’t reveal our sources,” snaps Agent Plunkett. “Answer the question.”
“No, I think not,” interjects Nancy. “There’s no need for Blanca to cooperate if you’re going to be rude. She’s not under arrest. And her question is a good one. We’ve been trying for months to discover Lydia’s last name. I need it for probate court. We’re working under the assumption that Blanca is Lydia’s legal heir.”
Agent Marlow’s lips twitch. “I’m sorry, but we can’t expose our sources. This is an ongoing investigation into the alleged criminal activity of the Vestal order. We thought, given the posts Blanca’s made on The Lighthouse, that she would be as committed as we were to achieving justice for everyone who was wronged.”
“I told you, Marlow,” Agent Plunkett says in her harsh, raspy voice, “she’d be as tight-lipped as the rest of them. Never trust a lunatic in white.”
“I’m not a lunatic!”
“That was uncalled for.” Nancy’s voice is shrill.
“Prove it.” Agent Plunkett holds out her hand and flashes me a picture. “Do you recognize this person?” She points to a tall Asian man close to Seth’s age—twenty-three. He’s naked from the waist up and kicks a punching bag. Sweat drips off chiseled muscles.
Do I recognize him? Of course I do. That’s my friend Keung. He’s looks older than I remember and more handsome than ever.
“No,” I say. “I don’t know who that is.”
Agent Plunkett stares at me sharply. Then she flashes more pictures across her palm. “This person? Or this one?”
I shake my head but keep the rest of my body perfectly still. I see no benefit in telling them anything.
“What about him?” Agent Marlow shows me another picture.
“Sorry. No idea.”
“Damn it, Nemo!” Agent Plunkett slams her hand on the table. “I know you’re lying.”
Despite my training, I startle. I jerk back in my chair so hard that the plastic rattles on the linoleum. Then I take a deep breath and focus on my heartbeat.
Nancy’s gaze turns steely. “That was uncalled for. You have no reason whatsoever to question her integrity. Let me remind you that Blanca spent her childhood in seclusion and has a recent history of being abducted, attacked, and almost murdered.”
“All the more reason for her to come forth with information rather than obstructing justice,” says Agent Plunkett.
“No,” Nancy replies. “All the more reason for Blanca to be cautious. If she doesn’t tell you something for fear of her safety, that’s not obstructing justice. What will you do, put her in witness protection? She’s been in hiding her whole life.”
“Whoa.” Agent Marlow lifts up his hands to stop the verbal assault. “Nobody is accusing Blanca of obstructing justice. Let’s take a moment to calm down and get back on track.”
“Ask me something else.” My words are soft and quick. “Ask me a different question.”
Nancy raises her tattooed eyebrows at me. Then she turns back to Agents Plunkett and Marlow. “You heard the girl. Try asking Blanca something in a different way.”
“In a different way?” Agent Marlow repeats. “Okay, Blanca. How about this, what can you tell us about the Guardians?”
This, I can do. I know exactly what to say because the textbook answer is engrained in my brain. “Founded in 2028,” I begin, “the Guardian order was created in Beijing as a rival to the Vestals. Tabula Rasa was sixteen years old at that point and celebrating its first Harvest of graduates.”
“Where your mother was purchased by Barbelo Nemo, your father,” Agent Plunkett interjects.
“I don’t consider either of those people to be my parents.” I sit up a little straighter and don’t say another word.
For a full minute, there is only silence, all four of us staring at each other in a quiet contest of wills.
“Please, Blanca,” Agent Marlow finally says, his deep voice rumbling. “Please continue. Agent Plunkett won’t interrupt again.” He glares at her.
Nancy nods at me, so I move on to the next memorized line. “Tabula Rasa was gaining international fame as the last bastion of privacy. As the world became aware that lack of a virtual footprint was a commodity, a Chinese businesswoman named Wu Park rushed to copy our success. In the years that followed, the Vestal system Barbelo Nemo established at Tabula Rasa became so popular that it was copied in other countries as well. The Keiner school in Berlin for example and the Nadie school in Mexico. As parents began to realize there was financial value in their children’s privacy, more and more families begged for placement.”
“You said ‘ours,’” says Agent Plunkett.
“What?”
“You said ‘our success.’” She places her hands on the table, and the ladybug tattoos make me squirm.
“No, I didn’t.”
Or did I? I can’t remember for sure.
“Ms. Nemo,” Agent Plunkett is expressionless, “do you still consider yourself to be a Vestal?”
“I’m no longer a Vestal, and my name isn’t Nemo. It’s McNeal. I told you.”
“We want to believe you,” says Agent Marlow. “But we can’t.”
“It’s hard to trust a liar.” Agent Plunkett sneers.
“A liar?” Nancy exclaims. “Blanca, do not under any circumstance say another word. You are done helping these people without a court order.”
“That can be easy to arrange,” Agent Marlow says simply.
Agent Plunkett flicks her fingers and pulls up one more picture. It’s grainy and hard to decipher, like the photograph was shot in the mist.
But my white pants are easy to spot. I’m standing on tiptoes leaning up to kiss Seth. We snuggle in front of the doorway of his apartment building.
“So what? Lots of people photograph me every day.”
Agent Plunkett smiles like a panther about to eat fresh meat. “Look in the corner.”
So I do. And what I see stuns me.
Keung is in the picture too. Watching us.
“Blanca,” Nancy says, “I highly advise you to not answer any more questions.”
I nod my head in agreement and rub my blank wrist.
If there’s one thing that Keung inspires, it’s silence.
Goose bumps race down my back as my skin touches the evening air. The night is moonless, the stars hidden by the city’s ugly glow. My leather jacket hugs me but offers no protection from the chill. When I see Cal and Seth waiting for me outside, I sprint toward them.
Seth reaches me first and swings me around in his arms. Cal says a quick good-bye to Nancy, and then leads us to the limo. Our driver, Alan, waits at the front of the parking lot and holds the back door open.
“What happened to my bike?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” says Cal. “It’s home in one piece.”
I sink back into the middle seat of the limo and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t open them again until we’re driving to the manor at top speed. Cal and Seth each take one of my hands.
“It’s okay now.” Cal gives my hand a gentle squeeze; then he releases it.
“What did they want?” Seth pulls me in close so that my head rests against his shoulder.
“They asked me about the Guardians.”
“The Chinese Vestals?” Seth asks.
“They’re not Vestals.” I jerk my head away and shift positions. “Guardians are entirely different.”
“How are they different? Lock up your kids in a cyber-safe school for eighteen years and then auction them off to the highest bidder.” Seth scratches the back of his neck. “It sounds exactly the same to me.”
The irritation that crawls up my throat surprises me. I bite back bile. “It’s not the same. Vestals harvest ten people a year—all carefully screened for image, IQ, and likeability. The Guardians churn out hundreds. They have so many graduates of questionable quality that they can’t land big contracts. A few lucky ones get placed as spokespeople for multimillion dollar firms, but the rest are assigned to miniscule government positions. It’s like a twisted version of the ancient Confucian exam.”
“The Con-fu-fu what?” asks Seth.
I turn to look at him. “You don’t know who Confucius is?”
“Should I?”
“He was an ancient Chinese philosopher,” says Cal. “Starting in the Han dynasty, men who were interested in becoming government bureaucrats either had to know somebody who could offer a recommendation or pass the imperial examinations, which were based on Confucian classics.”
I nod my head in agreement. “It’s similar to what the Guardians do now. Graduate the program and get a job. Except with the Guardians, the government can dispose of them at will. Since their families have forsaken them, they have no recourse except to do what their bosses say. It’s nothing like the Vestals.”
“That’s exactly like the Vestals,” Seth says.
“Vestals don’t work for the government!” Sometimes it feels like Seth doesn’t listen to me.
“So the FBI is interested in the Guardians?” asks Cal.
“Yes,” I say. “Now you know everything.”
Well, almost everything. I don’t tell them about Keung.
Or the likely reason he’s following me.
Tonight in the safety of my room, I can’t make my mind go quiet. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I change into soft white pajamas. Then I lie facedown on the velvet coverlet of my bed and press my face into the pillow. Agent Plunkett, the viral paparazzi, Cal and Seth betraying me to their therapist—I can’t turn any of it off.
And that picture of Keung watching Seth and me kiss. Is that the only time Keung has followed us?
I push onto my elbows and stretch up into Cobra. Yoga always helps me relax. Then I decide to go for it and have a real workout. I cross the room to my window which looks out into an internal courtyard of McNeal Manor. Last year when I was having some problems and locked myself in my room for an entire month, Cal had workers install a ladder outside my window. Later on, when Ms. Lydia and Cal started dating, she had shutters put up on the outside of the first-story windows. So now I can climb down into the garden and get some exercise whenever I want without anyone seeing me.
The metal rungs of the ladder burn icy cold on my bare feet. The sandstone pavers feel scratchy, but the courtyard is bathed in starlight. In the corner is a redwood box where I keep my yoga mat. I roll it out in the center of the courtyard and step onto rubber.
Instead of Salute to the Sun, I salute the dark. When I slide into Downward Dog, the blood rushes to my head.
I focus on Keung. The first time I saw Keung I was fifteen, a few days away from my sixteenth birthday. Not that it mattered. Birthdays were never celebrated at Tabula Rasa. We didn’t know parties existed.
Keung was eighteen years old, tall and lean. He was in the gymnasium jumping rope. His Guardian friends were kicking the air and practicing martial arts.
Fatima was with me. As soon as the Beijing boys saw her, they did a double take. She filled out her gym shirt in a way that made everyone stare.
“Come on,” I told her. “We’ll be late for calisthenics.” I fiddled with the end of my braid and turned away.
But Fatima was always bolder than me. “Hi, guys!” She stood up on tiptoes and waved, showing off her impressive cleavage. “Welcome to Tabula Rasa.”
“Fatima,” Ms. Lara, the PE teacher, bellowed. “You come here this second! You know you’re not supposed to talk to them.”
Fatima giggled, and we rushed to join our classmates. When I turned back to look, the Guardians were watching.
Chapter Three
My best friend’s apartment rings with rage. The plush white carpet can’t absorb the noise. Fatima’s Vestal-mom is six feet tall and wears razor-sharp stilettos. Pilar’s long black hair swishes down her back in a raven river. Through the skintight satin of her white dress, I see nipples. But most of all, I hear her voice, because Pilar shouts at the top of her lungs. Ever since I stepped foot in Fatima’s home, my ears have bled.
“A Virus?” Pilar shrieks at Fatima. “You want to invite a Virus into our home?”
“Not a Virus, Mami. Seth McNeal.” Fatima cuts me a glance and raises her shoulders as if to apologize for her mother’s histrionics.
“But what if he takes our picture? What if he uploads us straight to the Net?” Pilar slices perfectly manicured fingers through the air.
“He’s not going to do that, Mami. Besides, how could he? Our whole apartment is lined with lead. We live in a cloister, remember? Seth’s finger-ch
ips won’t work.”
“Seth would never betray you,” I add. “He’s not like that.”
Pilar sits down on the bench of her grand piano and crosses her impossibly long legs. She’s not Fatima’s birth mom. They’ve only been a Vestal family for a year, after their fashion house purchased Fatima’s contract at the Tabula Rasa Harvest. But they are exceptionally close. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Pilar says. “Veritas Rex was the one who took your picture before you were Harvested, Blanca. He stole your privacy and then broadcast it to the world!”
“Yes.” A chill passes over me as I remember the humiliation. “But that was a long time ago. Seth has changed.”
“He helped rescue me. Remember, Mami? Mr. McNeal arranged it, but Seth was the one who brought me to the safe house.”
“Yes, mijiha.” Pilar reaches out and places her hand on Fatima’s belly. “And I’ll be forever grateful. Who knows what would have happened to my little grandbaby? All the more reason to be careful. Do you want your child to be exposed to the world before it’s been born?”
“Seth would never!” I feel my face go hot.
Pilar shakes her head. “Blanca, I worry. This isn’t the life your mother wanted for you at all. I feel like I’m failing Ms. Lydia by not speaking up or offering you more guidance.”
“Ms. Lydia wasn’t my mother.”
“Blanca,” Fatima says softly.
“She wasn’t.” I look straight at Pilar. “She never loved me the way you love Fatima.”
“You don’t know that.” Pilar’s full lips pout. “Ms. Lydia was a good woman. The best Vestal ever. It would kill her to know you chose a Virus over your Brethren.”
I shake my head vigorously. “No. You’ve got it all wrong. The Brethren would have killed me if it weren’t for a Virus.”
“So can Seth come?” Fatima pleads.
Pilar doesn’t answer. She turns toward the piano and plays Chopin. A cacophony of notes swirls around us, sucking the heat out of the conversation.
Damaged Goods Page 2
