Veneer (14 page)

If anything, Ilya was a great listener. She had a habit of keeping quiet at the right times, smiling and nodding as Rosalia droned on and on. Sometimes her eyes wandered, as if she weren’t listening, only to follow up with a question that got at the heart of whatever Rosalia was trying to say. The first couple of weeks had been like that—deeply invasive interrogations that got beneath the veneer. But now, she had settled down, accepted the fact that Rosalia was just a private person and no amount of digging would uncover more than she was willing to share.

They stopped at the Tropical Smoothie Café in the food court as they made their way to the north end of the mall. Ilya chose a blue concoction that must have been sour based on the way she crinkled her nose when she drank it. Rosalia got her standard: a blend of strawberries, bananas, and pineapple. It didn’t taste as good as The Fountain of Youth at Perrault’s, but it sufficed. She sipped it up quickly, creating a momentary brain freeze in her forehead.

“Too much of a good thing,” Ilya commented. She was walking close to Rosalia such that their shoulders occasionally brushed together.

“I should have tried something new,” she replied, taking another sip.

“I always order the Blue Rain when Travis is working.”

“You know him?”

“We dated. Briefly. I wasn’t impressed.”

The glimpse into Ilya’s past focused Rosalia’s attention. “Didn’t he graduate last year? So he was a senior and you were a sophomore?”

Ilya sipped loudly and nodded.

“That’s kind of...”

“Yeah, but his parents had just given him a car, so it made sense. I didn’t ride a tram for weeks.” There was a forced glee to her voice that didn’t match her body language. Looking straight ahead, it appeared Ilya was trying to avoid eye contact. “Anyway, he was always trying to put the moves on me.”

“Is that why you broke up?”

A scoff. “We broke up because I found out he was seeing Gemma Reese on the side.” Waving her hand dismissively, she added, “God, she’d spread her legs for a friendly smile.”

Rosalia wanted to laugh, but the idea of Ilya being cheated on played on her empathy. “That was you?” There was too much cheerfulness in her delivery. “Sorry, I just remember it being some girl.”

“I was new,” said Ilya, shrugging. “The only regret I have is the wasted time. You and I could have been going shopping every weekend.”

Rosalia felt a squeeze on her arm as Ilya collapsed the space between them. It wasn’t like walking with Deron, who would hold her hand but still maintain a respectful distance. Ilya didn’t seem to know or care about personal boundaries. She did as she pleased, despite the pious looks from the people they passed.

“Can I tell you something honestly?” asked Rosalia, looking away.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t think you were into boys.” When she heard a giggle in response, she looked back to find Ilya smiling brightly.

“You think I’m a lesbian?” She let her hand drop from her arm. “Is that why... You thought I was coming onto you?” The delight in her eyes was obvious.

Rosalia blushed and waved her hands frantically. “No, of course not. I just hadn’t seen you with anyone this year and...”

Ilya bit her lip and beamed mischievously. “Well, you
are
attractive, I’ll give you that. But anyone can see you’re in love with Deron.” A hint of sadness flitted across her eyes. “You have a Fool’s Love. Very deep and very dangerous. But that’s the best we can hope for right now.” Then, resolutely, “We’ll get over the pain.”

“A
fool’s
love? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s what my grandmother calls it.” She slipped into an exaggerated accent. “Teenagers love like lemming jumping into pit, with all their heart and no idea how to get out.” She paused, returned to her normal voice. “Then it rains, fills the pit with water, and all the lemmings drown. That or your boyfriend asks you to have a threesome and you refuse and he goes out and bangs the first available nailable he can find.”

They reached Victoria’s Secret and found a gaggle of fidgety boys sitting on the benches making lewd gestures at the underdressed mannequins in the display window. Rosalia ignored them, held her question until they were within the sound-proof glass doors and examining a table full of spring underwear.

“So Blue Rain holds some kind of significance for you two?”

“Oh,” said Ilya, noticing her drink again. “No, I thought you knew. It has vodka in it. And curaçao and pineapple, I think. They’re really good when it’s all frozen together.”

Rosalia suddenly understood the weird faces Ilya had made while sipping her drink. “And he just spikes your smoothie whenever you want him to?”

“That sounds dirty.” She put down her cup and picked up a professionally reconciled pair of panties. Holding them to her body, she shook her head in disgust. “I’m getting big.” Then, looking up, “I think he’s still holding out for that threesome.”

“Ew! With Gemma?”

Ilya shrugged. “With anyone with tits and a south mouth.”

“You should have told me. I could use some alcohol.”

“You drink?” She folded the underwear carelessly and tossed it back onto the pile. “I never would have taken you for a vice girl.”

“I do,” explained Rosalia. “It’s just harder for me to get.” With a haughty voice, she added, “I never denied sex to a blender jockey at Tropical Smoothie.”

Ilya allowed for an appreciative pause. “We could go back if you really want a drink.”

“No. I’d probably start laughing if I saw Travis again.”

Nodding, Ilya wandered towards a nearby rack. She pulled out a sheer shirt and held it up for inspection. “Why would anyone buy this?” she wondered aloud. “Why not just veneer your skin?”

“Would
you
go to school wearing just a veneer?”

“I don’t like reconciling my body,” said Ilya, her voice brimming with proud conviction. She replaced the shirt and pulled another one. “I’ve heard stories of people that reconcile themselves so much that they forget what they used to look like.” Facing Rosalia, she declared, “This is the body God gave me. It doesn’t need a veneer.”

She had a point, Rosalia admitted. Ilya’s earlier comment about getting big was more self-deprecation than anything else. She was one of the lucky few who could rely on the less-veneer-is-more style, a theory most girls abandoned the moment they realized they could change their entire appearance with mere thought. With the exception of their physical shapes, everyone looked exactly how they wanted, with clear skin and sparkly eyes and clothes that were always unique. Nobody seemed to care that none of it was real. Instead, there was backlash against girls like Ilya, those who refused or didn’t desire to reconcile themselves into perfection. It all stemmed from envy, of course, envy of a natural beauty that even the best veneers struggled to duplicate.

Ilya had been talking for several seconds before Rosalia latched back onto the conversation.

“And if you really want to make an impression, we’ll need something truly wicked. Grandmother says there is nothing in the world that rivals American decadence.”

She had forgotten about Deron, but the prospect of a romantic night with him drifted into her mind and made her smile.

Ilya held up a red full-body piece that was dangerously short on fabric in key areas. As Rosalia approached, she changed her mind. “No, we need something memorable, but not trashy. We don’t want him to think you were thinking too much about sex. But you can’t be unprepared either.”

“He’s seen me in my underwear before.” She pointed to a simple ensemble on the opposite rack. “And his favorite color is blue.”

“Trust me, he’ll see the fabric, but he won’t really be looking at it if you know what I mean.” Ilya pulled another hanger from the rack and held it up to Rosalia’s body. “If only I had your boobs.” She shook her head. “The bottom is revealing. Are you prepared to wear something like this?”

Rosalia smiled, her mind lost to daydream. “I think it’s Deron we have to worry about. I can’t wait to see his face when he sees me in this.”

“He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

Rosalia’s face blanked with a flicker of her veneer. It took a moment to recover, but she managed to force the words out. “Yeah. He’ll love it.” Turning away, she pretended to browse the rack behind her.

“I’m stupid,” said Ilya. “I shouldn’t be allowed to talk.”

“It’s fine,” she assured her.

“You’d forgotten about it.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

“I can put it out of my mind if I want to.” Rosalia turned the lingerie over in her hands. “I just hope Deron can too.” A pause. “Maybe we
should
go see Travis again.”

They walked together to the cash register. Ilya wanted to pay, saying she felt bad about bring up Deron’s accident. Rosalia declined, thinking it would have been too strange to be on the bed with Deron, him running his fingers over her blue panties, saying how nice they were. And she’d have to tell him they were a gift from her new girlfriend.

“We don’t need Travis if you want something relaxing,” said Ilya, as they made their way out of the store. One of the kids on the bench gave them a thumbs-up sign.

“Do any of your ex-boyfriends deal?”

“Your point being?”

Rosalia laughed, felt the memory of Deron’s scarred face recede in her memory. It was fading out, but not quickly enough and certainly not permanently.

“Can we go back to your place? My parents aren’t very...” Ilya trailed off, as if her knowledge of English had suddenly failed her. “Understanding,” she said at last, nodding as if agreeing with herself.

“Sure,” said Rosalia. “Do you want to stay over tonight?”

A thin eyebrow climbed her forehead seductively. “You really
do
want to get high, don’t you?” When Rosalia began to laugh, she put her arm around her back and said in someone else’s voice, “That’s cool, baby. I’ve got what you need.”

17 - Deron

The smell of seared alien flesh permeated the air.

Deron wished his costume had included some kind of mask that would filter out the offending odor. It worsened the further he got from the command room, becoming unbearable at the third level. There, the ground writhed with crispy remains, parts that were still jittering, pushed around by little bubbles of air popping through the top layer of congealed blood. Beyond the gulf of sludge, the incoming swarm was relentless even as the mounted guns tore through their ranks. Deron fired his weapon, discretely at first, until finally the bullets were flowing of their own accord, spilling out into the battlefield in random trajectories.

They barely made a dent.

“Contamination imminent!” announced a voice from the heavens.

The ground gave a frightening shake in response and Deron watched as the dirt began to sift through previously unseen grates. The revealed metal glowed dully, highlighting a strip of green down the center of the giant red grid. Without thinking, Deron shuffled to the middle of the path, made sure his boots were well within the line. A second later, spikes shot up from the ground, pointed towards the enemy. Squeals went up from around the corner; a good number of aliens had just impaled themselves on the automatic defenses. He moved forward cautiously and put a few finishing shots into the baddies that were simply hung up.

On level four, he found a large number of critters walking through the spikes. Though they were small enough to avoid being impaled, they did lose some time moving around the obstacles. Most were dutifully following the green strip, lining up in an orderly fashion to meet their deaths.

Deron trained his gun and put down suppressing fire until he noticed an empty patch in the grid. About halfway down the level, the green broke off to the right and led to the wall. There, he found a glowing portal with the word
PURGE
flashing on it. It sounded like a good idea, even though he had no idea what it would do. The chittering from the crowd rose to a fevered pitch as he moved his hand towards the portal, as if they could sense what was about to happen.

The sound of petrol igniting echoed from the other side of the wall, filling level five with enough heat to melt just about anything. The light from the flames flickered unnaturally on the ceiling; the glass simultaneously reflected the carnage and showed the infinite night sky. It looked like the entire universe was burning. Deron shook away the moment of wonder and hurried to the end of level four. Peeking around the partition, he saw that the flames had spread through the enemy like they were kindling. Holding his nose with one hand, Deron moved forward.

It was carnage unlike anything he had ever seen; piles of bodies reached to his knees, throbbing masses of limbs and pinchers and other strange appendages. They looked dangerous and he was suddenly thankful that the outer guns were still working. Turning in place, he retreated to the 4A gun and put his glove to the repair portal. The progress meter filled slowly, but Deron kept his head moving, always looking for the next alien to come around the corner.

Most of the guns had gone silent except for the flame thrower on level three; he could still hear the popping and hissing of the few stragglers that had made it past him. From his vantage point, he could barely see the barrels of the outer gun rotating slowly, searching for a target. With things winding down, Deron couldn’t help but feel victorious.

Out of nowhere, a tiny electrical shock exploded on his shin guard, simulating a bite from the critter that had latched onto him. Deron kicked wildly, stumbling away from the cannon, watching helplessly as the progress meter fell back to zero. With his other boot, he pressed down on his shin, his steel toes moving through the oatmeal lump of a creature. After the third try, it came off, skittered away, and assumed attack posture again. Deron emptied his clip into the dirt and luckily, a few bullets hit their mark. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and the familiar sensation made him smile. He hadn’t had this much fun since the first few runs of Destined 4 Death. The sim games were like drugs in that way—indescribable highs and diminishing returns.