“Look.” Xiayne pointed to where Perrie’s face was projected on the Bubble, tossing her long dark hair, glamorous and beautiful. Royalty comes with a price, the tagline read, in calligraphied script above her tiara. Rylin was stunned to think that she’d worn that very tiara just half an hour ago—that she’d helped edit that image of Perrie, and now there it was, projected over an entire city full of people.
“It’s amazing,” she breathed.
Xiayne tried to shrug off the compliment, but Rylin could tell he was excited. “It’s just a few production stills, nothing fancy,” he demurred, and stepped closer to the window.
Rylin followed, moving so close to the flexiglass that her nose was almost pressed up against it. To think that each glowing pinprick was a person, all of them caught up in their own lives within this funny bubble-wrapped world. How many of them were looking up right now, seeing the ad for a holo that Rylin had helped make?
She and Xiayne were both reflected in the flexiglass, their silhouettes dim outlines against the glare. They were like forgotten spirits gazing over the star-flecked city below.
“You like the view?” Xiayne asked. Rylin nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak, and he grinned. “I thought you might. This is the highest point in LA, you know.”
“I didn’t know.” Rylin’s heart was pounding in her chest. She suddenly wanted to go back to the sensory overload of the party, but she felt strangely immobile.
“Rylin,” Xiayne said softly, and placed his hands tentatively on her shoulders. She watched as if from a great distance as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
Rylin hadn’t been kissed by anyone since Cord—hadn’t, in fact, been kissed by anyone at all except for Cord and her ex-boyfriend, Hiral—so at first, she tentatively returned the kiss, out of some combination of curiosity and flattery. She’d liked spending time with Xiayne. And she’d seen how all those senior girls looked at him, sending him doe-eyed glances heavy with meaning. Part of her felt oddly pleased to know that of all the girls at Berkeley, he’d chosen her, Rylin Myers, the talented scholarship student from the 32nd floor.
And then she remembered what Cord had said, what he’d implied about Xiayne’s interest in her, and suddenly it felt wrong, all wrong. Maybe Cord was right, and all Xiayne had ever wanted was this—to get her alone in the dark.
She broke away and took an unsteady step back.
Xiayne’s face was a mask of bewildered shock. “Rylin,” he stammered, “I’m sorry. I never—”
“Do you think I’m talented at all?” she interrupted.
He blinked, startled. “Of course you’re talented,” he assured her, but she wasn’t sure she believed him anymore.
“So this wasn’t just a game to you,” she said slowly. “Bringing me to LA, letting me help in the edit bay, this wasn’t all just because of … this?”
Xiayne ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, Rylin. You think I’m in the business of hiring filming assistants because I think they’re pretty? Not that you’re not pretty,” he added quickly, “because you are. I mean—shit,” he stammered again, and looked at her with something like panic. “I’m sorry I crossed a line. I just thought … you’re a legal adult, and …”
Rylin took a halting step back. Some part of her registered what Xiayne was saying, but Cord’s words kept replaying in her head. She couldn’t help feeling used, and wounded. Looking at Xiayne now, all Rylin could think was that he seemed like an immature teenager—a very talented teenager; but at the end of the day, he had a teenager’s desire that everything be a big party, with himself at the center of it.
In that moment, Rylin lost all respect for Xiayne. And for herself, too, for letting it all happen the way that it had.
“I’m sorry,” Xiayne said again, but Rylin was already stumbling backward. She felt her face burning from shame. She needed to get out.
She pushed blindly toward a crowd near the door. Seagren and a few of the other crew were standing with Perrie, who looked like a modern goddess in her leather pants and heels and the enormous fake tiara.
“Rylin!” Seagren called out, but Rylin ignored her.
“Poor thing,” she heard Perrie coo softly, when she was almost around the corner. “She looked like she was about to be sick. Do you think she drank too much?”
Rylin hurried away before she could hear anything more.
CALLIOPE
CALLIOPE HAD BEEN to more holiday markets than she could count, in Brussels and Copenhagen and even Mumbai, but none of them quite compared to this one, at Elon Park on the 853rd floor. Though she had to admit, a huge part of the appeal was simply being here with Atlas.
She kept glancing over at him, wondering why exactly he’d asked her to come with him today: whether this was a date, or just Atlas calling in backup for his holiday shopping. Calliope had no idea how things stood between them after that moment last week, when they’d held hands at the top of the climbing wall, and Atlas had declared with such conviction that he was her friend.
All week long they’d been exchanging warm, yet decidedly not flirtatious, flickers. Then this morning Calliope had woken to Atlas’s message: Callie, I have so many presents to buy, and you’re the greatest shopping expert I know. Can you help?
Of course she would help. She had less than two weeks left to wrap up this con before Atlas moved to Dubai—unless she planned on following him there, which she wasn’t especially interested in.
Calliope had suggested they head to the upper-floor boutiques, but Atlas insisted they come here instead. She had to admit, it was certainly more festive. Red and green lights floated above them like dancing fireflies. The entire park was crisscrossed with vendors, their stalls filled with everything from cheap gimmicky nutcrackers and low-tech toys to expensive jewelry and Senreve purses, the latest models that shrank and expanded depending on what you needed the bag to hold. Calliope held her own fuchsia Senreve bag close to her chest. Her boots crunched on the snow underfoot, which was made with frozen velerio fluid instead of water so that it never melted or even looked dirty. In several corners, the snow attempted to form itself into small snowmen, self-generating into little round stacks, complete with buttons.
She and Atlas had both accumulated heaps of gifts, which floated before them on carrier bots: this market was upscale, but not quite nice enough to offer charge-send like the boutiques did. Calliope found that she didn’t mind. There was something delightful about watching her purchases bob along ahead of her, as if her own unabashed materialism were pulling her forward on an invisible cord like those children on proxi-leashes.
“I think I’ve discovered the way to make Callie Brown go anywhere. Just send a bot covered with shopping bags ahead of you, and you’ll inevitably follow,” Atlas said, as if reading her mind. Calliope laughed at being so blatantly caught out.
“I’m glad you dragged me here,” she replied, rewarding him with the full force of her smile.
“Me too,” Atlas said softly.
They turned a corner, and were surrounded by an enormous crowd pushing toward one of the stalls. Calliope took a step forward, curious—she never could resist being in the center of the action—but the animal yelps and squeals of the children gave it away before she’d seen the holo-sign.
The booth was full of tousling, barking puppies, all wearing festive red and green collars. They were forever-puppies, dogs whose DNA had been tweaked so that they never aged. There were always protests surrounding them—some people claimed they were unnatural, that it was cruel to deprive any living thing of a normal, full existence. Calliope didn’t think it sounded all that bad, being young and adorable your whole life.
Her eyes were immediately drawn toward one of the dogs, a sleek terrier puppy with a bright pink tongue. For a moment she let herself imagine taking him home. She would name him Gatsby, after that book she’d read at the boarding school in Singapore, the only school reading she’d ever finished. She would carry him in her purse and feed him treats and—
She let out an involuntary gasp. A little girl was reaching for Gatsby and handing him to her father. Calliope had a bizarre urge to cry out at them to stop, to let go of her puppy, but she stifled the impulse. There was no room for a puppy in her glamorous, nomadic life.