“But, madam, her lenses weren’t polarized—”
“Madam? Are you going to call me Grandma, too?”
“Miss!” he said quickly, covering his mistake. “I meant ‘miss,’ of course. That woman’s glasses weren’t polarized. They’re not like yours—they’re not colored.”
I felt the imaginary Nancy’s blood boil. I stepped back. “So that’s what this is about? We’re back to judging things by color? BY COLOR?”
The other hosts frowned. Mine grew increasingly flustered, beat down by his colleagues’ angry glares. “Er—I’m sorry madam. I mean miss, definitely miss—but your glasses—”
“I know.” I raised my voice. “IT’S THE COLOR! COLORED ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU—”
The host ushered me forward without another word. The retina scanner beeped its objections, but he knocked it to the ground, muttering something about it being defective. The other hosts looked on.
“Enjoy your stay, miss,” he grumbled.
Stay. People who came through these doors didn’t leave.
I wandered into the victims’ grand foyer, an oasis of gold. It adorned the walls, the frames, even the floorboards. King Midas would’ve crapped himself.
The ceiling, however, was a starry abyss. Walls melted into nothingness, and specks of light broke the darkness. Stars, looking just like the real ones. The ones we could see before the war. Buttons of light swaddled in black cloth.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” A small woman in black stood beside me, her eyes turned to the ceiling. Fine lines traced the cracks between her lips. She turned, and her blue eyes stared back at me beneath a head of mousy brown hair.
“Quite.” I nodded. In one hand, the woman held a book. “Fancy a bit of reading this evening?” I asked. “You haven’t got much time.”
She laughed gently—if such a laugh were possible. “Oh, no,” she said, “it’s not mine at all. It’s my daughter’s.”
I walked with her to the back of the gold foyer. Two young women ushered us forward with warm smiles.
“Are you seeing her tonight then?” I asked. “Meeting up with her in the club?”
“Not in the club,” said the woman, “but after.”
Her daughter was dead. She’d been in the group that didn’t make it to fifteen. I put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and she smiled sadly. I thought of my own mom and the notes she’d left for my birthday, wondering when I’d see her again. Or if.
The two women retrieved our Daisies from glowing boxes. The devices wrapped around our necks with a click and began to glow. They weren’t really necklaces at all, but collars. We were dogs. Trapped. There was no escaping death.
The two of us wandered into the club’s main ballroom—the place where younger visitors (not victims) were allowed to enter. Bright lights flashed over deafening music, but our Daisies’ glow rose above it all, like little suns. People stared, drawn to the pearly light that was rivaled by none in its brilliance.
We moved to the ballroom’s edge to avoid further attention. Along its perimeter stood a row of massive vaults.
“Indulgence Rooms,” explained my new friend quietly.
One was red and covered in round beds sporting moaning patrons. I felt sick to my stomach. Another—deep blue—was filled to the brim with food, drink, and gluttonous victims. The Indulgence Rooms continued along the perimeter, each one catering to its own particular human vice.
The woman with the book grabbed my hand and held it. We stood there for a while, hands locked, and watched strangers dance, ignoring the stares of people who longed to look at the Daisies. We were like idols and victims both. In a way, it was nice not to be so alone.
“What’s your name?” my new friend asked finally.
“Nancy,” I said quickly. “Nancy Perkins.”
She nodded and stroked the back of my hand with her forefinger. Her skin was soft like velvet—a byproduct of old skin that hung loose from its bones.
“And your real name?”
My eyes widened—how had she known?
She noticed my surprise, pinching my hand’s taut skin between two fingers. “Not the skin of any old woman I know. A boy, perhaps? Your secret is safe with me. I only want to know your name. I haven’t met a young person in—in such a long time.”
The creases that lined the corners of her eyes reminded me of my mother. Her bright blue eyes were the same. “My name is—Kyle,” I said finally. I couldn’t give her my real name. It was still too dangerous.
“What a lovely name,” she whispered. “Too nice a name for you to kill yourself tonight.”
“WHAT?” I shook my head. “I’m not—I couldn’t—listen, I’m not gonna kill myself.”
But she wasn’t listening. She had a faraway look in her eyes, and she stroked her book’s spine. “My Marie told me the same thing the night she did it, too.”
Her daughter hadn’t died from the Carcinogens—she’d killed herself. Probably the only thing worse.
“My sweet Marie,” the woman continued, eyes watering, “she—she didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know stepping in front of that train would change so many things.”
I wrapped my arms around her. “I’m so sorry.” My shoulders grew wet with her tears.
“You had your whole life ahead of you…” Suddenly she pulled away and slapped me. “You shouldn’t have done this. You really shouldn’t have done this.” She raised her voice. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO BE DOING THIS!”
She thought I was trying to kill myself. Thought I’d dressed up as a woman and snuck into this club to die.
“It’s not real,” I said. “I’m not really doing this! I’m—I’m with my friends. They’re here—somewhere. We could find them.”
She slapped me again. “You fool! Your friends aren’t here,” she pointed around the club, “they’re here. INSIDE YOUR HEAD! You have a mental illness. Just like my poor Marie. Oh, Marie!” she wailed.
She was hysterical. A few people on the dance floor stopped and stared at her—us. Security would be here in seconds. They’d test my eye with their retina scanners, and then I really would be dead. The clocks chimed quarter to midnight. I was running out of options.
“I’m on a mission,” I hissed. She looked like my mom. A poor, broken version of my mom, but my mom nonetheless. I could trust her.
“I’m with the Lost Boys,” I explained. “It’s gonna be all right. I’m not gonna die.”
She fell silent. “The Lost Boys?” she asked, wiping away her streaked makeup. “They’re here tonight? You’re—you’re not going to kill yourself?”
I shook my head. “This is all part of the plan.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Wait—cross-dressing is part of the plan?”
My face flushed red. “It’s a long story.”
She pointed to a clock. “We don’t have time. I’m—I’m… glad you’re safe. Listen—could you hold my book for a minute while I go to the restroom?”
“I could go with you,” I said. “Make sure we don’t get separated—you know—so you have someone with you at the end.”
“Go with me to the women’s restroom?” She made a face. “No, I don’t think so.”
I guess she had a point… but I couldn’t help but feel that she was acting strange as she left. Was she going to tell someone else? The dampness on my shoulders from her tears, however, said I could trust her.
I scanned the crowd for Phoenix and Mila. A waitress in a tight cocktail dress approached me with a tray. “Care for a drink, miss? I have beer, wine, nectarine…” I started to wave her away. “…And the house specialty, the ‘Triple C’—Cotton Candy Cocktails,” she finished.