Elusion(13)

I want to say something, but if I let one word escape my lips, I won’t be able to hold us up anymore. So we stand like that for a while, quietly, until we’re both strong enough to let go.


I don’t look or feel at all like myself.

Maybe it’s because I’m not used to wearing haute couture, diamond chandelier earrings, waist-length hair extensions, or the pound of makeup that I let my mother layer on my face.

Or maybe it’s because the last time I followed hordes of guests up the polished granite walkway of the Simmons estate, Mom and I had just finished watching an empty coffin being loaded into our family crypt.

I inhale deeply, trying not to remember Dad’s memorial service or the reception that Patrick’s mom hosted for us afterward. But images from that day start flooding my mind, and I freeze, right in the middle of Cathryn’s stream of incoming party guests.

The boring black shift that I mindlessly slipped on that morning.

The minister bestowing blessings that I paid no attention to.

Mom doubled over when we said our final good-byes with the help of two single red roses.

I was in so much shock then; I didn’t even shed one tear. Perhaps if I’d seen my father’s body, I might have cried.

As I stand here, unable to move in my perfectly fitting, two-thousand-credit designer gown, I wish that shock had never gone away. Sometimes I desperately miss the beautiful numbness that gets you through that first stage of grief or, if you’re lucky, makes you think that what’s happening to you isn’t even real.

Before my dad’s accident, Patrick and I used to Escape together with our Equip prototypes so we could feel that wonderful nothingness, but now . . .

Running my hands up my bare arms, the same way I did at my dad’s funeral, I feel like all the nerves on my skin are raw and exposed. It only gets worse post-Aftershock.

I know it. And so does my mom.

Suddenly, two women whiz by in identical hot-pink pantsuits, almost knocking me over. I’m actually thankful for their rudeness, because it propels me forward, although in baby steps. I steel myself and set my gaze on the enormous villa that Patrick grew up in. I don’t recall this place looking so intimidating, which is strange, because it’s the size of a city block and, with its large, domed ceiling, bears a strong resemblance to the old Detroit Observatory. It’s also on top of a steep hill in the exclusive Heights Sector, far from the reaches of Florapetro pollution, so no one has to worry about putting on their O2 shields.

I glance at the sparkly little white lights that coat the postmodernist sculpture garden and the three-tiered outdoor fountain, which bookend the house. Strands of silver garland are skillfully hung over the front of the forty-foot-tall arched windows. I’ve never seen the estate so impeccably decorated before, but I suppose that’s because a few years ago, Dad thought I was too young to attend galas like these.

If only he could see me now.

I wait for the crowd to thin out a bit before I approach the grand entrance, and when I do, a long-legged woman in a gold spandex leotard holds out a scanner and smiles at me.

“Passcard, please,” she says.

I open my silver beaded clutch and pluck the card out. While Goldie scans it and politely gives it back, another woman walks over, decked out in a similar blue costume and batting her glittering eyelashes.

“Follow me, Ms. Welch,” she says, motioning toward the right.

I know the way, of course, but I let her lead me because it makes it seem like I’m a stranger around here, and I have to admit, pretending feels kind of good right now. Along the way, I catch a flash of long spiral curls and shimmering green in one of the mirrored walls. I don’t even register that the reflection is actually of me until Blue Lady and I are just about to step into the ballroom.

But when she opens the doors, I don’t know where I am anymore, let alone who.

The ballroom has been transformed to imitate the space theme of the Universe Escape. A hologram show beams brightly colored images of stars and planets overhead. They flash in synchronized patterns above the guests, who seem totally delighted by the scene that’s playing out on the cathedral-style ceiling.

I meander through the room, noticing the stage that’s erected at the far end, where enormous speakers blare hybrid classical-techno music while shirtless male models wearing the new Equip and purple lamé boxer-briefs strike statuesque poses on towering platforms. Tuxedo-clad men and ornately dressed women crowd the dance floor as silver-painted cocktail waitresses sporting Elusion visors weave among the masses, holding large trays filled with crystal glasses of champagne.

Clearly, this party isn’t just celebrating Cathryn’s fiftieth birthday.

I take a deep breath as my eyes scan the crowd, hoping to find Patrick’s friendly face. Instead they connect with someone else, someone totally unfamiliar. He’s standing only a few feet away and wearing a uniform—small bronze medals and pewter buttons are sewn onto his gray jacket, and his black pants have thin red stripes up the sides. His sandy-colored hair is cut close to his scalp, making his cheekbones stand out as much as his amber-tinted eyes.

Military academy. No doubt about it.

And from the small grin he’s giving me, there’s also no doubt he just caught me staring at him.

I blow out a sharp, nervous breath and glance to my right, praying that a champagne girl will be in reach all of a sudden so I can grab a glass of bubbly and wash the embarrassment away in one big gulp.