Mindwalker (13 page)

But this is important to Ian. He wanted so badly for me to come. And maybe I need to take some time away from this
mess, find a way to center myself. Perhaps a party will help me shake off this mental fog.

“You should go,” Steven says. “You seem like you need a break.”

I think about the death pill Steven might be carrying. Even if we can't do a session today, I don't like the idea of leaving him alone.

Then a solution presents itself: a simple, albeit reckless, solution. “Do you want to come with me?”

His mouth opens. He couldn't have looked more surprised if I'd suggested we start dancing naked on top of the table. “You're serious?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Okay, number one.” He holds up one thin finger. “I'm not exactly a social butterfly, as you might've noticed. Number two.” Another finger joins the first. “Everyone at school hates my guts.”

“I wouldn't say they
hate
you. More like you make them nervous.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, that's a relief.”

“They're nervous because they don't really know you,” I add. “Because they have only rumors and hearsay to go on. If they have a chance to interact with you …”

“They'll be so impressed with my sparkling personality, they'll forget everything else?”

“Um, well …”

He chuckles without humor. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I'll stay home. You'll have more fun without me following you around like a stray cat, anyway.”

I imagine him sitting in his apartment with only his memories
for company. “Well, I'm not going unless you go. I don't like showing up at parties alone.”

He looks thoroughly confused. “You really want me to come with you?”

“I do. I'll ask Ian if it's okay.” I text him.

CAN I BRING A FRIEND?

SURE. HAVE I EVER MET HER?

NO, I DON'T THINK SO.

THE MORE, THE MERRIER. :)

I tell myself that I'm not actually lying—I'm just not correcting his assumption. I don't want to explain this awkward, delicate situation through text messages. It'll be simpler if we just show up. “He says it's fine.”

The puzzled crease in Steven's brow deepens.

“Come on. It'll be fun. When's the last time you went to a party?”

“I've never been to one.”

Suddenly, I don't feel like such a geek. I grin. “Well, there's a first time for everything.”

He blows a sigh through one corner of his mouth, puffing his cheek out. “Fine.”

Steven at a party. This is something I have to see.

That evening, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room and try on a few different outfits. I turn around, modeling a light green dress with spaghetti straps. I bought it on impulse a few months ago after seeing it in a store window. I've never actually had the chance to wear it. “Chloe?”

She materializes on my bed. “Yes?”

“What do you think about this dress? Is it too revealing?”

Chloe tilts her head. “I don't know. What do you think?”

“The neck is a little low.” Not that I have much to show. I haven't filled out like some of the other girls in my class. “What about the color?”

“Red is more popular this year. But green goes better with your coloring.”

My avatar knows more about fashion than I do. I let out a small sigh. In moments like these, I really wish I had a female friend. One with feelings and opinions that aren't based on data algorithms.

I comb my hair out, letting it spill over my shoulders. Maybe I'll wear it down tonight. I roll on a bit of pink lip gloss. When I look into the mirror again, I barely recognize myself. For once, I'm not a Mindwalker. Just a normal girl having a night out. The feeling is unexpectedly pleasant, like a spot of warmth in my chest.

Chloe smiles a sly, teasing smile. “Going out with someone special?”

I give a start. It's probably just one of the programmed questions in her repertoire, a response to a visual analysis of my facial expressions and posture, but there are times when she seems eerily perceptive. I open my mouth to say no, then pause. “Sort of.” Before she can ask anything else, I add, “You can deactivate now. I'm heading out.”

“Have fun!” Chloe nods and vanishes with a shimmer.

When I walk down the stairs, Greta's vacuuming in the living room. Or rather, she's reading on the couch while a basketball-sized black orb does the work, humming up and down the length of the floor. She looks up and closes the holoscreen. “Where are you off to?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“A party. At Ian's place.”

She raises her eyebrows. She'll probably tell Dr. Swan, who'll undoubtedly be pleased to hear that I'm doing normal teenager things. Though he might be less pleased if he knew who I was going with.

I take the car to the Underwater Café, where Steven waits, sitting on a bench outside, with his arms crossed over his chest. When I get out of the car and wave, he stands up. “Hey, you ready to—” He freezes, mouth half open.

I fidget. “Is it too much?” Now that I think of it, I'm probably overdressed. Most people there will be wearing T-shirts and jeans.

“It's fine.” Suddenly, he can't seem to look directly at me. “Let's go.”

***

Ian lives at the top of a high-rise. From outside, it looks like a sleek black obelisk crowned by a huge, translucent jewel. The jewel, of course, is his Plexiglas-walled penthouse apartment. Usually, at night, the penthouse is lit up with a clear white light. Now it's dark, except for flashes of neon blue and red from within.

Steven walks beside me, hands shoved into his pockets, as we enter the lobby. It's all polished pink marble. He whistles. “This guy must be loaded.”

“His mother's a very wealthy drug researcher.”

“She's okay with him throwing these parties?”

“She's away at work. And she's his only parent. Well, I suppose he
has
a father, but—” I give an awkward shrug. “I don't really know the situation.”

Steven snorts. “Maybe he's a clone.”

My shoulders stiffen.

“Hell,” he continues, “these days, you can't even step inside a mall without seeing those NewVitro ads. ‘Hey there, all you rich Type One ladies and gents! Why play the genetic lottery and risk popping out some defective loser when you can get a copy of your own perfect DNA? Just change the sex chromosomes
or the eye color or whatever and call it individuality!' It's ridiculous. You'd think humans have forgotten how to—”

“That's my friend you're talking about,” I snap. “Even if he
were
a clone—which he's not—that remark would be incredibly offensive.” I stare straight ahead, jaw clenched.

He blinks a few times. I expect him to make another wiseass remark, but he just says, “Sorry.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Never mind,” I mutter, and step into the elevator, which is as large as a normal person's bathroom and has mirrored walls. The numbers light up as it glides to the top floor, and I start to feel embarrassed at my own reaction. I really should have better control.

“I
am
sorry,” Steven says. “Sometimes I shoot my mouth off without thinking. I mean, I do think those ads are stupid, but I don't have anything against clo— How should I say it?”

“There really isn't a politically correct term,” I murmur. “Though I hate hearing people referred to as clones. It's so … dehumanizing.”

“I won't say it, then.”

My shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

The elevator continues to move up.

“Can I borrow your scarf?” Steven asks.

Confused, I hand it to him. He wraps it quickly around his face and neck, covering his mouth and nose as well as his collar. I realize he doesn't want to be identified.

I wonder if I'm being cruel, dragging him here.

Ian buzzes me in, and the doors slide open to reveal a living room crammed with people milling around with drinks in their hands, talking and laughing. A heavy bass beat thumps,
vibrating in the floor and in my bones. I'm not exactly overdressed, just very out of place. I see a lot of leather and fishnet and miniskirts so short that I feel silly for worrying that my dress was too revealing. Next to some of these outfits, it's as modest as a nun's habit. Claustrophobia jangles my nerves as we push deeper into the apartment. The onslaught of sensory stimuli leaves my brain burning like an overheated engine.

Ian loves things like this. It's how he deals with stress. I retreat deeper into myself and shut out the world—he drowns himself in crowds and music.

A boy bumps into me, nearly spilling a drink down the front of my dress. “Whoops.” He laughs. “Sorry.”

“Watch it,” Steven snarls at the boy, then hooks an arm through mine. There's something protective, almost possessive, in the gesture. His pale blue eyes dart back and forth, scanning the crowd as we make our way through the crush of bodies.

In front of me, a man with the head of a gray wolf is dancing, mouth open in a toothy grin. A gasp leaps from my throat.

“You okay?” Steven asks.

A half second later, realization clicks into place; it's a holomask. They're all the rage at parties, or so I've heard, but it's the first time I've actually seen someone wearing one. “Yes,” I say, breathless and a little embarrassed. I look around. Nearby, a girl with the head of a white rabbit is holding a beer, chatting and giggling. The mask's mouth moves with eerie realism. As I watch, she takes a pill and washes it down with a swig of beer.

I spot Ian in the kitchen, a bottle in one hand. “There he is,” I tell Steven. “I'm going to go say hi.”

“I'm gonna go find the bathroom,” Steven mutters.

Of course. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. I suppose I can't blame him. But at least here, surrounded by people, he's not liable to kill himself. “It's down the hall.” I tug my arm free and maneuver my way into the kitchen, which is large and modern, all marble tile and gleaming chrome. There's a table covered with bottles—in a wide variety of sizes and colors—a bowl of punch, and a tray of nachos drenched in gooey orange cheese and guacamole. “Ian!” I wave.

Ian turns toward me. “Lain.” He smiles, but his eyes are glazed—the same shell-shocked look I remember from the other day. “So, what do you think?”

“Of the party? It's … intense.”

“Yeah.” He rocks on his heels, then takes a swig of whatever's in the bottle. “You know, parties usually relax me. But it's not working tonight. No matter how loud I crank up the music, I can still hear my thoughts.”

I frown. I can see his pulse fluttering in his throat. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” He keeps rocking. A sheen of sweat gleams on his brow.

“You haven't been acting like yourself lately.”

“You don't know the half of it.” He laughs. It's not his usual warm laugh—it's too sharp, too high-pitched. Then he leans closer to me. “I'm really glad you could make it tonight,” he murmurs. I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath. He makes an odd, choked sound. “You're the only real friend I've got. You know that?”

I tense. I have no idea what's going on, but I'm not sure I like it. “What do you mean? You have lots of friends.”

“They don't understand.” His brown eyes mist over. He lets
out another jagged laugh and presses the heel of one hand against his forehead. “I can't even look at them. I can't look at anyone.”

“Ian … what—”

“I can't stand this anymore.” The bottle slips from his fingers and clanks to the floor, spilling foamy amber liquid across the tiles. He takes a step toward me. I try to move backward, away from him, but my shoulders hit the wall. He places his hands on either side of me, trapping me there, and leans in. “Help me,” he whispers. “Make me forget.”

I grab his wrists. “You're drunk! You need to stop—”

His lips press against mine, silencing me. The kiss is hard and fierce, but it's more desperate than passionate, as if he's suffocating and I'm the only source of air. I make a muffled noise of protest and shove him away. He staggers back.

“Ian, get ahold of yourself!”

He looks at me, his expression dazed. He blinks, and his eyes clear, as if he's awakening from a trance. “Lain.” His voice is soft, stunned. “I—I'm sorry. I—”

There's a blur of motion, and Steven slams into him like a white-blond wrecking ball. Ian stumbles to one side. Steven seizes the front of his shirt and rams him up against the wall. His fist plows into Ian's jaw, knocking his head to one side. Ian's face registers momentary shock, then panic. With a roar, he shoves Steven. “Don't
touch
me!” He lashes out with one fist, but Steven ducks, dodging the blow. He grabs Ian and wraps an arm around his throat from behind, squeezing. Ian gasps, his eyes bugging out.