Frida turned towards me eagerly. ‘Yeah, Em. See? You don’t have to go back to TAHS.’
‘Oh no,’ I said, giving Frida the evil eye. ‘TAHS is exactly where I want to go. And they can’t act like they don’t have space. We all know there’s an opening in the junior class, don’t we?’
And my going back there would kill two birds with one stone… I could keep watch over Frida and make sure Christopher was OK. And, OK, it wouldn’t be fair of me to make sure he wasn’t dating other girls. I knew if I really loved him and all, I was supposed to set him free. But… why should I, when I wasn’t really gone?
And I also knew I couldn’t tell him who I really was, either.
But still. Maybe we could become friends, like we were before the accident. And maybe… just maybe… more than friends. Like Brandon and Nikki were more than friends.
Only hopefully neither of us would be fooling around behind the other’s back like those two appeared to have been doing.
The bad thing would be that I would always know something Christopher didn’t know… that apparently, a lot of famous people — because only the super rich (or people like me, who had a massive corporation like Stark Enterprises paying for it) could afford a whole body transplant — who we’ve been told are dead are actually really alive, just living in a new body.
I’m not going to name names (primarily because no one at the Stark Institute would tell me for sure), but hints were dropped that a lot of famous people — some of whom had been about to be sentenced for crimes like securities fraud, several others of whom were famous musicians long thought to be dead by their adoring fans, and still others of whom were members of certain British and European royal families — who supposedly ‘died’ are actually alive and well and just living in different bodies under assumed identities, while their family members go around pretending to this day like they’re all sad about them having passed away.
But the joke’s on us, because they aren’t dead at all.
In other words, Christopher and I were right all along: there really are Walking Dead.
The problem?
Now I’m one of them.
Fifteen
The press release went out the next afternoon.
I couldn’t go online to Google News it of course, since I was still lacking a computer (although, given the state of Nikki’s computer, this was probably just as well). But I saw it on the running scroll at the bottom of CNN, and then again later, on the evening news.
Then, next thing I knew, it was the lead story on all the entertainment news shows.
It turns out Kelly, Nikki’s publicist, didn’t mess around when it came to her most popular client.
‘The fashion and beauty industry breathed a collective sigh of relief this evening when a statement was issued from representatives of Nikki Howard,’ chimed Entertainment Tonight, as photos of Nikki Howard flashed up on the screen, ‘assuring her fans that the teen supermodel would be back at work this week after a month-long absence from the catwalk and the New York City club scene. Fashionistas worldwide have been alarmed by reports that Nikki was suffering from exhaustion and hypoglycaemia, which are said to have been responsible for that now famous fall she took at a Stark Megastore grand opening last month, giving her concussion and a bona fide case of amnesia… ’
The next photo to flash across the screen was one that caused me almost to choke on the bag of Wasabi Peas Frida had smuggled in for me at my request, and which I’d been inhaling (yes, I know. I used to hate them. Now I love them. Dr Holcombe says it’s normal for patients to find themselves with tastes quite unlike the ones they used to have in their previous bodies).
It was a grainy cellphone photo of me (well, of Nikki Howard) on the back of Gabriel Luna’s green Vespa. Both of us were looking back at the photographer with slightly alarmed expressions on our faces — though I don’t remember anyone taking my picture that day.
The alarmed expressions were due to the fact that we were being pursued by a herd of stampeding fourth-graders.
But of course it looked as if we were upset over the fact that we were being photographed together. A fact the television news ‘journalists’ were only too quick to point out.
‘Perhaps amnesia is the excuse Nikki will give on-again, off-again boyfriend Brandon Stark for this photo snapped yesterday of the model taking a joyride on a motorbike belonging to hot new British singing sensation Gabriel Luna. The pair met at the same SoHo Stark Megastore opening at which Nikki suffered the fainting spell responsible for her head injury, and at which a young fan was killed during a melee caused by ELF protesters.’
I waited in horror for the reporter to show a picture of me — the old me.
But I should have known they wouldn’t. I was yesterday’s news… if I’d ever even been news at all. Why report about a girl being killed by a falling TV when you could show pictures of Nikki Howard on red carpets with her dress slit up to her belly button?
‘Representatives for both Howard and Luna had no comments on the photo. But perhaps Nikki can tell Brandon she just “forgot” that she already had a boyfriend… ’
Oh my God. I couldn’t believe it. I could barely breathe, I was so upset.
But the story didn’t even end there.
‘Stark Enterprises founder and CEO Robert Stark has issued a statement,’ the reporter went on, ‘expressing get well wishes for Howard — whom many refer to as the Face of Stark —’
The camera panned towards an older, craggy-faced version of Brandon Stark — his father, dressed casually in an open-collared shirt, who said, ‘We here at Stark Enterprises respectfully request that the press, during this period of recovery for Nikki, afford her the privacy she needs. For the next few weeks at least, Nikki will be spending slightly less time in the limelight. She even told me she’s considering going back to school —’ he grinned as this statement provoked chuckles from the press corps, as if the idea of Nikki Howard attempting to get her high-school degree was the funniest thing in the world — ‘a decision we here at Stark Enterprises are behind one hundred per cent.’
What? I’d never told Robert Stark any such thing. I’d never even met the guy. And great. My own boss — well, Nikki’s boss anyway — thinks she’s too stupid to make it through high school. Nice. Thanks for the support. He probably thinks that because he’s been reading her emails.
‘But highjinks like this,’ the reporter went on to say, flashing the photo of me on the back of Gabriel’s motor scooter on to the screen again, ‘may just get this model student detention!’
Then a new reporter came on to talk about the current celebrity-divorce scandal.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe one of those schoolgirls had snapped a photo of me and Gabriel… and sold it! Was this what my life was going to be like from now on? Being stalked by paparazzi, my most innocent activities being spread all over the tabloids?
I was so busy staring at the television screen above my bed in horror, I didn’t even see the person who came into my room a minute later.
‘Nikki?’ The eyes looking out at me over the top of the surgeon’s mask were huge… and not just because they were rimmed in black kohl.
Lulu Collins had snuck on to my floor again. This time she’d added to her ingenious disguise by carrying around a medical clipboard.
I know. The mind boggles.
Well, it was late, and most of the staff — including my father, whose turn it was to spend the night at my bedside — were gathered in the lounge, watching some kind of sporting event. I didn’t know which one, because I couldn’t have cared less.
So it hadn’t been hard for Lulu to slip past the security guards posted at the doors. Especially in her current ensemble.