She struts center stage and lowers her Besta Summerfun sunglasses.
With a bored tilt of her head, she presents herself, lifting her arms as if to say, “Begin.”
The flashing of cameras immediately floods the room in an epileptic nightmare. Her sunglasses act as a shield, but nevertheless the cameras annoy her. She holds her hand up, classic pataka mudra style, and the flashes stop. The voluptuous woman clears her throat and strikes AngelicOrator#2, her favorite pose for public speaking.
A question is shouted at her from the crowd.
“How long is your book?”
“Oh, you know...book-sized,” she answers.
“What genre?” another voice rings out.
She struggles to remember the phrase Tamara taught her.
“Transgressive fiction,” she manages proudly. The words are large and foreign to her. Saying them makes her feel as though the people cluttered beyond her stage will believe she's worldly.
“What do you know of the author, Amanda Bassett?” someone else asks her.
Besta's girl closes her eyes to concentrate. It was all in the script if she could just get it out right.
“She is a 26 year old writing a story about me, possibly for the Gazer tabloids – I don't really care. She grew up in Ohio and writes professionally as a freelancer, though her portfolio is pathetic. In college she published an essay in her school's literary journal. Some claim she's smart.”
“Has she ever published a book before?” a woman calls in a clear but skeptical voice.
“Only e-books. I told you – pathetic.”
Besta's girl crinkles her nose. Her distaste is almost imperceptible on her perfect face.
“Do you mind her interest in your life?” someone asks ironically.
“While I may question her qualifications, she's welcome to try. My life, as they say, is an open book.”
She grins down at them, hiding her resentment. Nobody would ever get the whole story right, and Gazers' efforts were beginning to leave her sore. Amanda Bassett would be no different.
“Where do you come from?” A shrill voice vaults itself toward the stage. It cuts her upon impact.
The girl answers with a look that makes clear that this line of questioning is mundane. They could be asking about her secrets, but they just want the where-why-when. Even asking about Ms. Bassett's pathetic secrets would be better than this.
“I live in the sky,” she answers vaguely. She looks to the left (SuperiorityofDecadance#6), signaling that she's done answering. She calls for the next question and demands a change of subject.
“What's it like to be Besta's girl?” another man anxiously calls out.
She frowns out at the crowd of Agents, wondering if this is a trick question. However, Tamara had told her to answer with complete honesty, so she does.
“It is...confusing,” she answers. She stops. She's learned not to say too much.
“How is it confusing?” another Agent asks, and the girl prickles. After taking a deep breath, she answers.
“I have to hide everything about myself. Everything is a conflict. I don't like networking or club events but I have to pretend to. The people with the glowing eyes terrify me. I never know what the Agents want, but whatever I want to do or say isn't it and they hurt me. I have to obey. Nobody lets me do what I want.” She sighs heavily after her rant.
“What is it that you want?” a woman shouts from the back of the room.
“To be allowed to want,” the girl replies helplessly. The regal nature of her face has softened, almost melted, and the crowd begins to murmur. She doesn't know why.
“What are the people like, the ones you live with?” an Agent asks, and the girl, in a striking moment of vulnerability, is surprised by the flashing of a camera in her face. She shirks back, then quickly composes herself.
“The people...” she trails off, remembering how they respect her, admire her, hate her, and fear her for her elevated status. It reminds her that she has to look her best. The world is counting on her composure. Without it, the Brand hierarchy would crumble and she would lose her station at the top. She straightens her posture into LionessDuress#22 and begins again.
“The people are Brands like me, except they're nothing like me. They're pretty but they're empty. Trying to connect with anyone is like trying to catch air.” She hesitates before admitting, “They scare me. The EthniCorp Brands are the only ones that I understand. They know what it's like to be...”
She cuts herself off, sure that she's said too much. Besides, she doesn't know how to describe what it is that she has in common with the EthniCorp Brands. She's the very top, they're the very bottom. All she can think of is Cheung, the pain on the girl's face and her desire to go back home to her mother. What they both understand, she realizes, is the weight of their bondage to the glass city.
The crowd is hanging on her every word, and someone impatiently asks what it is that they both know what it's like to be.
“Different,” she finally answers. “We're not the same as the other Brands.”
“What makes you different?” an Agent cries. The cameras flash lazily as the girl replies.
“We have feelings.”
The crowd gasps. She is unsure of whether it's because they are surprised by the fact that she has feelings or because they are surprised that the others don't. She soon receives her answer.
“Wouldn't that make the others inhuman?” a flabbergasted man asks, but she doesn't speak. His words seem too rhetorical.
The crowd shuffles as the Agents look around at each other in confusion. A few cameras flash. Then another question is posed.
“I've never heard of EthniCorp,” someone shouts. “What is it?”
“It's where all the dark Brands live. Our Agencies don't actually employ them, they're rented from EthniCorp.”
“I'm sorry, but – dark Brands?” someone asks in disbelief.
“You know. Skin tones that exceed 'Pretty in Peach' on the palate.”
She struggles to explain the hierarchy of skin tone that she was taught at the Besta Academy, but falls short.
“That's so racist!” a man spits accusingly.
Besta's girl blinks slowly. She has never heard this term, but his anger resonates with her.
“Life in the sky is nothing to envy, especially for them,” she acknowledges.
“And yet that is all the Gazers do – envy their lives away. It's our jobs to help them do that.”
“Well, you can't be happy there.”
A statement, not a question, from the same man.
She looks down at him coolly.
“I'm no terrorist, sir. I love my home. I love Skye.” The words are recited mechanically.
“You just implied that it's terrible there. Would you leave? You would leave if you weren't racist,” he prompts. She frowns visibly.
“There is nothing to do. I accept my life. I could never live as a Gazer. That's the only other option. My life in Skye is a gift. To me, but most especially to mankind. You're lucky to even look at me right now.” She strikes Vanity'sTalking to emphasize her point.
The man, knowing that she's right, grows uncomfortable and says nothing else.
“But,” a meek woman asks, “what would you do if you had the option of a safe home, away from Skye?”
Besta's girl looks squarely at the woman and removes her Besta Summerfun sunglasses.
“Would you leave then?” the woman pries.
The girl's eyes flare. Their sudden flame is captivating, and the room grows silent and still.
She answers in an icy voice that clashes with the fire on her face.
“There is no such place.”
Someone snaps one last picture before Besta's girl is escorted offstage by two large men. Tamara trails behind them, waving her hands and repeating,
“No more questions.”
With a bored tilt of her head, she presents herself, lifting her arms as if to say, “Begin.”
The flashing of cameras immediately floods the room in an epileptic nightmare. Her sunglasses act as a shield, but nevertheless the cameras annoy her. She holds her hand up, classic pataka mudra style, and the flashes stop. The voluptuous woman clears her throat and strikes AngelicOrator#2, her favorite pose for public speaking.
A question is shouted at her from the crowd.
“How long is your book?”
“Oh, you know...book-sized,” she answers.
“What genre?” another voice rings out.
She struggles to remember the phrase Tamara taught her.
“Transgressive fiction,” she manages proudly. The words are large and foreign to her. Saying them makes her feel as though the people cluttered beyond her stage will believe she's worldly.
“What do you know of the author, Amanda Bassett?” someone else asks her.
Besta's girl closes her eyes to concentrate. It was all in the script if she could just get it out right.
“She is a 26 year old writing a story about me, possibly for the Gazer tabloids – I don't really care. She grew up in Ohio and writes professionally as a freelancer, though her portfolio is pathetic. In college she published an essay in her school's literary journal. Some claim she's smart.”
“Has she ever published a book before?” a woman calls in a clear but skeptical voice.
“Only e-books. I told you – pathetic.”
Besta's girl crinkles her nose. Her distaste is almost imperceptible on her perfect face.
“Do you mind her interest in your life?” someone asks ironically.
“While I may question her qualifications, she's welcome to try. My life, as they say, is an open book.”
She grins down at them, hiding her resentment. Nobody would ever get the whole story right, and Gazers' efforts were beginning to leave her sore. Amanda Bassett would be no different.
“Where do you come from?” A shrill voice vaults itself toward the stage. It cuts her upon impact.
The girl answers with a look that makes clear that this line of questioning is mundane. They could be asking about her secrets, but they just want the where-why-when. Even asking about Ms. Bassett's pathetic secrets would be better than this.
“I live in the sky,” she answers vaguely. She looks to the left (SuperiorityofDecadance#6), signaling that she's done answering. She calls for the next question and demands a change of subject.
“What's it like to be Besta's girl?” another man anxiously calls out.
She frowns out at the crowd of Agents, wondering if this is a trick question. However, Tamara had told her to answer with complete honesty, so she does.
“It is...confusing,” she answers. She stops. She's learned not to say too much.
“How is it confusing?” another Agent asks, and the girl prickles. After taking a deep breath, she answers.
“I have to hide everything about myself. Everything is a conflict. I don't like networking or club events but I have to pretend to. The people with the glowing eyes terrify me. I never know what the Agents want, but whatever I want to do or say isn't it and they hurt me. I have to obey. Nobody lets me do what I want.” She sighs heavily after her rant.
“What is it that you want?” a woman shouts from the back of the room.
“To be allowed to want,” the girl replies helplessly. The regal nature of her face has softened, almost melted, and the crowd begins to murmur. She doesn't know why.
“What are the people like, the ones you live with?” an Agent asks, and the girl, in a striking moment of vulnerability, is surprised by the flashing of a camera in her face. She shirks back, then quickly composes herself.
“The people...” she trails off, remembering how they respect her, admire her, hate her, and fear her for her elevated status. It reminds her that she has to look her best. The world is counting on her composure. Without it, the Brand hierarchy would crumble and she would lose her station at the top. She straightens her posture into LionessDuress#22 and begins again.
“The people are Brands like me, except they're nothing like me. They're pretty but they're empty. Trying to connect with anyone is like trying to catch air.” She hesitates before admitting, “They scare me. The EthniCorp Brands are the only ones that I understand. They know what it's like to be...”
She cuts herself off, sure that she's said too much. Besides, she doesn't know how to describe what it is that she has in common with the EthniCorp Brands. She's the very top, they're the very bottom. All she can think of is Cheung, the pain on the girl's face and her desire to go back home to her mother. What they both understand, she realizes, is the weight of their bondage to the glass city.
The crowd is hanging on her every word, and someone impatiently asks what it is that they both know what it's like to be.
“Different,” she finally answers. “We're not the same as the other Brands.”
“What makes you different?” an Agent cries. The cameras flash lazily as the girl replies.
“We have feelings.”
The crowd gasps. She is unsure of whether it's because they are surprised by the fact that she has feelings or because they are surprised that the others don't. She soon receives her answer.
“Wouldn't that make the others inhuman?” a flabbergasted man asks, but she doesn't speak. His words seem too rhetorical.
The crowd shuffles as the Agents look around at each other in confusion. A few cameras flash. Then another question is posed.
“I've never heard of EthniCorp,” someone shouts. “What is it?”
“It's where all the dark Brands live. Our Agencies don't actually employ them, they're rented from EthniCorp.”
“I'm sorry, but – dark Brands?” someone asks in disbelief.
“You know. Skin tones that exceed 'Pretty in Peach' on the palate.”
She struggles to explain the hierarchy of skin tone that she was taught at the Besta Academy, but falls short.
“That's so racist!” a man spits accusingly.
Besta's girl blinks slowly. She has never heard this term, but his anger resonates with her.
“Life in the sky is nothing to envy, especially for them,” she acknowledges.
“And yet that is all the Gazers do – envy their lives away. It's our jobs to help them do that.”
“Well, you can't be happy there.”
A statement, not a question, from the same man.
She looks down at him coolly.
“I'm no terrorist, sir. I love my home. I love Skye.” The words are recited mechanically.
“You just implied that it's terrible there. Would you leave? You would leave if you weren't racist,” he prompts. She frowns visibly.
“There is nothing to do. I accept my life. I could never live as a Gazer. That's the only other option. My life in Skye is a gift. To me, but most especially to mankind. You're lucky to even look at me right now.” She strikes Vanity'sTalking to emphasize her point.
The man, knowing that she's right, grows uncomfortable and says nothing else.
“But,” a meek woman asks, “what would you do if you had the option of a safe home, away from Skye?”
Besta's girl looks squarely at the woman and removes her Besta Summerfun sunglasses.
“Would you leave then?” the woman pries.
The girl's eyes flare. Their sudden flame is captivating, and the room grows silent and still.
She answers in an icy voice that clashes with the fire on her face.
“There is no such place.”
Someone snaps one last picture before Besta's girl is escorted offstage by two large men. Tamara trails behind them, waving her hands and repeating,
“No more questions.”