I fall backward on the bed with a groan.
“I don’t want you to worry about this right now. Dahlia will be here any minute to prep for the shower, and I want you to focus on that. I’ll take care of everything else.”
I nod, and my hair snags on the comforter beneath my head. But I’m lying. I don’t think I can think about anything other than my “expiration date” now that I know we might not be able to change it.
“Hey.” My mom pats my leg. “Get up. Put your game face on, or Dahlia will know something’s wrong the moment she walks into the room. After that stunt she pulled this morning, I’m pretty sure both of you take after me more than after your father.”
I sit up and brush my hair back from my face. “You have only yourself to blame for that.”
My mother actually laughs, and though the sound is more bitter than amused, I find myself laughing along, because my only other option seems to be crying. And I’m done crying over this.
* * *
Dahlia arrives minutes after my mom leaves, and I wonder for a second if she timed that. She looks beautiful in my dress, and though her hair could use a little help, she’s clearly mastered the automatic makeup applicator I had installed in her bathroom last week.
“Trigger’s back in the gray room?” I ask.
She nods. “Waverly…I feel like I—”
“Don’t.” I wave her apology off. “You did what you had to do.”
She seems surprised that I understand that. “I…I think I love him. I know I miss him. And I had no other way to—”
“I know. How is he?”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet, but your mom gave me access to the feed from his room. He looks much more comfortable. And he won’t stop staring out the window.”
I feel bad about that. I can’t imagine being locked in the basement for a week. “If this goes well, Mom said she’d let you have a late dinner with him tonight after the shower. Speaking of which…” I mentally shake off gloom and wave to wake up my wall screen, where I’ve already loaded head shots of the most important bridal shower attendees. “Okay, the theme of the shower is ‘Pink Champagne.’ You won’t have to sit down to a formal dinner, but when it’s time to open the presents, all eyes will be on you.”
Thank goodness the network vetoed the intimates-themed shower; I can’t imagine trying to explain the purpose of sheer lingerie to Dahlia.
“Just like at the engagement party, eat nothing with onion, garlic, or anything leafy that might stick in your teeth. This is a smaller, more intimate function, which means the cameras will be watching you more closely. So after you’ve tried the food, sneak out to the bathroom and do a teeth-and-breath check. There’s a mini bottle of mouthwash in your clutch.” I pick up the small, pink sequined bag from the edge of the table and hand it to her. “Do not lose that.”
Dahlia peeks inside, then sets the purse in her lap.
“Pick one cocktail and sip from it. Drink it slowly—you only get one; I’m serious—but make sure you’re always holding it. That way it looks like you’re having fun without actually compromising coordination or doing anything stupid.”
“One drink,” Dahlia repeats.
“And make it something pretty. Something colorful. But do not spill.” I look down at the lacy white bodice of her dress and suddenly wonder if I should have put her in something darker. But I had that dress, with its pale pink skirt, designed specifically to coordinate with the theme of my shower, and I’m not going to let it go to waste. Even if I can’t be the one wearing it.
“What if I do?”
“Don’t,” I repeat. “But if you do, head straight to the restroom. My mom will follow you with her cleanup kit. Worst case scenario, you’re traveling with a change of clothes. But if that happens, we’ll have to let the network broadcast the spill and make a big drama moment out of it.”
Dahlia looks like she might object, but I move on. “Sofia and Margo both think they’re your best friend, and since this is a girls-only party, Hennessy won’t be there to act as a buffer.”
“Really? But they were mean to you—to me—at Seren’s party.”
“Friendship is complicated here. It’s a little bit like dancing with an alligator. You know that at some point it’s going to snap at you, but until then, it’s taking bites out of your enemies.”
“Do you have enemies?”
I shrug. “Everyone has enemies. Most of the time, they look just like your friends.”
That, she seems to understand. Is she remembering some identical gardener from the training ward? Or is she thinking of me?
“Anyway, you have to spend equal amounts of time with each of them. Both of them together, if possible. But don’t compliment Margo’s lipstick in front of Sofia.”
“Why not?”
“Because Margo had her lips done last year, and the Administrator won’t let Sofia get hers done. And if you compliment Margo’s lipstick, Sofia will think that you’re pointing out that Margo has the prettier mouth.”
“Why would she think that?”
I roll my eyes again. “Because when I compliment Margo’s lipstick, I’m actually pointing out that she has the prettier mouth.”
Dahlia shakes her head slowly. “Friendships are much simpler in the training ward. Where there is no lipstick.”
“Yeah, well, simpler doesn’t always mean better.”
The door slides open and my mother steps into my room wearing a knee-length, off-the-shoulder dress in pale blue. She looks like an only slightly older version of Dahlia. I hope I look that good when I’m forty-three.
I hope I live to be forty-three.
“We need to go.” She studies Dahlia for a moment as if she’s looking for something to criticize. When she can’t find anything, she turns back to me. “Waverly, they’re hooking up the live feed from the garden, and as soon as it’s ready, I’ll have it fed directly to your screen. Obviously, just like last time, you need to stay in your room until we’re back from the event, just in case.”
“In case of what?” Dahlia asks me. She hasn’t looked at my mother since she walked into the room.
“Rogue photographers,” I explain. “Stalkers. Whoever. Sometimes if they think no one’s home, they try to break in, and if they find me here, the headline goes from ‘Stalker Breaks into Waverly Whitmore’s House’ to ‘Concerned Citizen Finds the Real Waverly Whitmore in Hiding While Her Secret Clone Parties.’ ”
“This is a very strange place,” Dahlia says. And for once, I agree.
Being in a car alone with Lorna feels like sitting inside a refrigerator. I give her my best cold shoulder, hoping she feels the same way.
The car begins to slow, and my gaze catches on the crowd of people gathered at the entrance of the large hotel—a building where people with enough credits can rent a bedroom for the night. Just like last time, they’re all holding tablets or professional cameras, eager for a glimpse of Waverly Whitmore or—if they’re lucky—a personal greeting. A smile. A handshake. A picture taken with the people’s princess.
I’ve done this before, but last time I had Trigger and Hennessy for support. This time I have only Lorna Whitmore.
I’d rather be wearing a python as a necklace.
As the car rolls to a stop, people from the crowd lift their tablets, which come in as many sizes and styles as the clothes they wear, and though we haven’t opened the door yet, they begin taking pictures. The car windows hum with vibrations from the buzz of their excited chatter.
“They’ve been here for hours, waiting,” Lorna says.
I ignore her.
“You got what you wanted. It’s counterproductive to act like a child when you could be asking for last-minute advice.”
I want to hurt her. I want her to understand what it feels like to know that your life is worth nothing more
than the lie you are about to tell. Than the chemicals your body produces. I want to lock her in a windowless room for a week with no human contact so that she feels like a possession held for ransom. I want her to understand what it’s like to be someone else. Anyone who wasn’t born with an account full of credits and a unique, beautiful face.
But Waverly’s right. This world is too broken to be fixed by one person. This place is a cruel game people in my position have no choice but to play, even though we know people like Lorna will win every time. People like Waverly herself.
What I don’t understand is why everyone keeps letting them win.
“Why would so many people who’ve never even met Waverly want to stand out here for hours, just to get a glimpse of her?” I meet Lorna’s gaze without bothering to hide my anger, hoping for one honest moment from a woman whose life is a tower of lies.
“Because she’s the people’s princess.” Lorna turns to me, her hands folded in her lap over a sparkly silver purse. “The most common network search the year I was pregnant with Waverly was ‘Lorna Whitmore baby bump.’ The picture we released from the hospital was of me holding her, wrapped in a white blanket. It became the single most viewed image of the decade. The world watched her grow up, and Dane and I let that happen because if you don’t throw crumbs out for hungry birds, eventually they’ll swoop down and take the whole loaf right out of your hands.”
I nod as the picture starts to come into focus. From her perspective, the problem is everyone else—all those people who don’t have everything they could possibly need or want. “Give them a little to keep them from taking a lot. The same reason she does the show.”
“Exactly. For most people, the life Waverly and Hennessy and their friends lead is a fantasy. A reality so far out of their reach that when they watch her, they are, in essence, living that life through her. Vicariously. In a way, that makes this their wedding too. They are deeply invested in every little detail of the planning. And when they watch the wedding episode on their wall screens and tablets—when they see Waverly peek through a crack in the door and giggle when she spots Hennessy waiting for her at the front of the chapel—they will feel like they’re actually there.”
Lorna taps the e-glass window, and suddenly I hear the excited buzz from the crowd outside the car. “Those people love Waverly. They think they know her. Your job is to maintain their fantasy. To get out of the car and be gracious and beautiful and kind and generous. To maintain that image on behalf of the nobility, so the people know that their belief in us has not been misplaced. So that they know we care about the problems that plague common citizens and we are working to fix them.”
“That feels like a lot of pressure.” It also sounds like a lie. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give some of the credits you don’t need to people who need them, so they can pay rent and buy food?”
Lorna’s gaze ices over. “That’s not how the world works.” Before I can ask her to explain, she taps the back of the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”
The driver circles the car and opens the door. Lorna steps out, and the crowd goes wild, shouting her name. I watch as she waves and smiles. People love her, just like they love Waverly. Because they don’t really know her.
When she steps out of the way, a clone in a security uniform reaches down to help me out. I take his hand and step out onto the sidewalk. The excitement from the crowd explodes into a cheerful cacophony.
I can do this.
“Waverly!” Shouts echo at me from all sides. “Waverly, over here!”
I glance at Lorna, and she gives me an encouraging smile so sincere-looking that if I didn’t already know she hates me, I would never guess.
I take my clutch in my right hand and lift my left into the air, showing off the union ink as I wave. Then I smile and start walking.
“Waverly! Waverly! Over here!” They’re all calling for me—for her. They’re desperate for eye contact. For acknowledgment. For a smile. For a word. And now, seeing their faces, seeing their unwavering support, I want desperately to give them what they want. To let them know that I see them, even if they don’t truly see me.
Suddenly this feels every bit like the responsibility Waverly insisted it was.
“Hi!” I call out, thinking back to the hours and hours of footage I’ve seen. Trying to pitch my voice exactly like Waverly’s when she greets the crowds. “What a beautiful evening! I’m so glad you all came!”
“Waverly!” A little girl’s high-pitched squeal catches my ear and I bend to take her hand.
“Hello, what’s your name?”
“Morgan.” She smiles at me shyly. “I want to be as beautiful as you when I grow up.”
“You already are, Morgan.”
The little girl beams at me, and her mother mouths a silent “thank you.”
I smile at her, then continue down the line of people being held back by a black velvet rope, as well as a line of the hotel’s security staff. I shake hands and smile, and give well-wishes and smile, and accept compliments and smile.
Halfway down the line, Lorna touches my shoulder and I turn to realize I’ve been neglecting the crowd on the other side. So I adjust my attentions to include everyone.
By the time we make it to the door, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve just fought my way through a crowd of hundreds, when I’ve only walked twelve feet.
“Turn around,” Lorna says into my ear as one of the security guards pulls open the door to the hotel.
“What?”
“Turn and say goodbye.”
“Oh.” I spin around and lift my left arm in a wave again, slowly scanning the entire crowd. Taking my time. Just like Waverly does. Then I pivot and walk into the building.
The door closes behind us, and I exhale.
“Thank you,” Lorna says to the hotel’s security detail. “We’ll be fine from here.”
They nod and head off to whatever other duties they have to perform.
“Okay, we’re going out to the garden in back,” Lorna says, too low for anyone else to hear. “It’s an exclusive party, so it’ll just be you and your guests. And the production crew, of course.”
I can already see them. Audra is stationed by an exterior door on the other side of the huge, three-story lobby, whispering something to someone connected to her through the tiny headset stuck in her ear.
“Let’s go.” Lorna heads for the producer without waiting to see if I will follow.
I can feel everyone watching us as we cross the lobby, heels clicking on the slick, shiny floor, and I’m suddenly grateful for hours spent practicing walking on these stilts. I smile at two pairs of guests staring from a cluster of fancy couches on the left, but a group of identicals in hotel uniforms never even glances at me. They just stare at their shoes as they push brooms across the lobby floor.
A family of four emerges from an elevator in a well-lit alcove, and the little girl stops to stare until her parents notice us. Then they stop and stare too.
I wave. I smile.
Always, I smile.
“Waverly, are you excited?” Audra demands, her eyes sparkling as we come to a stop in front of the door to the garden. Based on her expression, I’d guess she’s several times more excited than I am.
“Thrilled!” I clutch my purse in both hands, as I’ve seen Waverly do on-screen, but when her smile slips, I’m afraid I might have sounded less than genuine. “Actually, I’m a little nervous,” I confess.
Lorna frowns, but Audra tilts her head. “Why?”
Good question. Waverly has lived her entire life in front of this crowd. Why would she be…
“Wedding,” I blurt out. Though in my head, I’m not talking about Waverly’s ceremony. I’m talking about exposing Lakeview for what it really is, to all those living under the Administrator’s lie. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this, sin
ce before I even knew what I was waiting for, and it’s finally about to happen. I’m excited, but I’m also nervous. This is going to change everything. Right?”
Audra’s smile blooms bright and big. “Great. Say it just like that in the voice-over.”
I frown, uncomprehending for a moment. Then I understand. She’s turned one of the very few genuine moments I’ve had in Waverly’s skin into a soundbite for the cameras. That makes me feel a little…used.
“Okay!” Audra touches her earpiece and seems to be listening to something. “They’re ready for you!” Then she throws open the door.
Lights flash in my face, and I blink from the glare. It’s one in the afternoon, but at a glance, this winter-season garden looks and feels like the surface of the sun.
“Waverly!” a familiar voice calls as light, polite applause breaks out from the guests.
My eyes adjust, and I step into the garden smiling, clutching my purse. Wishing it were Trigger’s hand. From near the back of the space, next to a tall wall of shrubbery, a string quartet begins a beautiful song full of rippling harmonies. All four uniformed musicians are pale-haired male identicals who couldn’t have graduated from the Arts Bureau more than a few years before.
I’m sad to see them here, working, while forty women with the wealth and power to literally buy them stand around sipping drinks in varying shades of pink and chatting softly with each other.
The garden is a broad, mostly open lawn, divided into symmetrical sections by formal lines of shrubbery. On one end stands a three-tiered white stone fountain, gurgling as arcs of water flow and splash. Lights have been strung overhead, illuminating the space for no purpose I can understand, considering that it’s broad daylight. Then I realize that the lights are actually radiating heat down at the party—the only reason we can all stand comfortably outside in short, sleeveless dresses.
There are almost as many cameramen here as there are guests.
Sofia and Margo are the only people I recognize immediately, and though their smiles seem welcoming, after hearing Waverly talk about their contentious friendship, I can’t help thinking of them as wolves descending upon a fresh carcass.
Strange New World Page 19
