No One Knows Us Here(23)

Leo frowned and handed it back. “I’ve already wiped the data from it.”

“Leo—” I didn’t know what to say. I had walked right into this, handed my phone over to him of my own accord.

“The Mirror can do everything your old device did and more. The processing power alone—”

I stared dubiously at the Mirror, the tiny round screen. “I can’t watch a show on it.”

“A laptop is better for viewing media anyway,” Leo said. “Or use a tablet.”

I turned the Mirror over and polished my fingerprints off on my jeans. It was beautiful, that silver. I noticed something else, then. My name was engraved into the silver. Beneath that, etched so finely I could barely make it out, was the Lookinglass logo. “Is this—is this like a tracking device or something?” I asked.

“It’s not a tracking device.” He laughed, as if the idea were ludicrous. “It’s synced up with Lookinglass, though. Double tap the screen.”

I tapped it twice and it lit up. Two figures appeared in perfect resolution. Me and Leo, hunched over the conference table. I looked up from the screen and scanned the walls, the ceiling. On one wall, a shelf was lined with plants in white ceramic pots. Next to the pots, Glasseyes, their pupils pointed in every possible direction.

“I’m not on Lookinglass.”

“You are now.”

Leo explained that he had taken the liberty of registering me, using the photograph Sebastian St. Doug—as I now liked to call him—had sent him. It was that easy.

“Wait, so I can just take someone else’s photo and sign them up to an app that’s going to track every move they make? How is this legal? What about stalkers—”

“Of course not,” Leo said. “We have very strict privacy controls.”

“But—”

“I can do it. Thought I would save you the trouble. If you don’t consent, I’ll deactivate your account, no problem. That is what I’m asking for now.”

“My consent? So you can monitor me on this thing?”

Leo tapped on the Lookinglass app and held the Mirror up for me to inspect. Welcome to Lookinglass! You have one watcher, a notification read. “It’s really more of a convenience. We’ll be each other’s contacts. Use it to communicate with each other. It goes both ways. I’ll follow you, you’ll follow me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be on Lookinglass. I don’t want anyone watching me.” I don’t want you watching me, I almost said. At the same time, I was seriously considering it. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. It made sense that the inventor of Lookinglass would want his employees to have accounts. When you work in clothing retail, you have to wear their clothes. It was like that. Sort of.

Leo shrugged, unconcerned. “So don’t accept my offer.”

“You’ll be like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz,” I remarked, “monitoring me through your crystal ball.”

“You’ve seen the Glasseye stickers on store and restaurant windows, right? Glasseyes aren’t a secret.” I had started noticing them, ever since Mira brought it up. Some people even made a point to go into establishments with Glasseyes, so their followers could observe them there, holding up cute outfits, sipping coffees. I’d also seen “no Glasseye” stickers, like no smoking signs with a big eyeball instead of a cigarette. It was possible to avoid Glasseyes, then. They weren’t everywhere. As Leo said, they weren’t a secret. “People buy them,” he was saying, “put them in their own homes—”

“I’m not doing that. Putting one in my place.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m serious. I can’t be monitored in my own home.”

“I get it. I don’t have Glasseyes up in my place, either. I have six million watchers. You think I want them to see me dance around in my underwear?”

“If I agree to this, I need you to promise. There’s my sister to think about. I can’t have you watching me—us—with Glasseyes. If I so much as see one of those Glasseyes in my building, I’m out.”

“Understood.”

“Also, because of my sister—” I hesitated, worried I was pressing my luck. “She needs stability. I wouldn’t be able to have you over; it wouldn’t be good for her—”

“We’ll meet at my place. Where we can have our privacy.”

I smiled in relief, nodding. “Thanks. Thanks for understanding.”

I bent over the contract, trying to concentrate. It was vague and legal-sounding. Nothing on it even outlined my duties. If I signed, I would be under contract for one year to work on a special project (“Hereinafter referred to as The Project”) with Leo Glass. There was a noncompete clause: The Project would be my only employment. All the stuff about my complete discretion, never discussing The Project with anyone, even each other. All I had to do—on paper, anyway—was make myself available to Leo Glass, sometimes at a moment’s notice. In return, I would get $6,000 deposited into my account at the first business day of every month. My rent (valued at $3,200) would also be taken care of.

Seeing the numbers made it seem real. Six thousand dollars a month, on top of rent? I could save a big chunk of it—most of it!—and divert it to a savings account. It sounded too good to be true. With the money I squirreled away, Wendy and I might even be able to stay in the apartment while I attended law school. After that I would have a legitimate job at a law firm. I’d be making my own money. Maybe that whole briefcase and business suit fantasy wasn’t such a pipe dream after all.