“How many beautiful criminals do you know?”
“Maybe they’re advertising Improvement,” said Tash.
Ronnie laughed. “Why not? That makes as much sense as anything else.”
Clair didn’t get the joke.
“What’s Improvement?”
“A dumb new meme,” said Ronnie. “I got an invite this morning and deleted it immediately.”
“I got one this afternoon,” said Tash. “Check your infield, Clair. You might have been ‘selected’ while you were here, you lucky thing, you.”
Clair did check, and found the message exactly where Tash had suggested. It had come forty-five minutes earlier. She read the opening lines:
You are special.
You are unique.
And you have been selected.
“It does sound like spam,” she said.
“Read it all,” said Ronnie. “It’s a classic.”
Clair skimmed ahead. The idea was to write a series of code words on a piece of paper, of all things, with a description of what you wanted to change about yourself—height, intelligence, good looks, whatever; then you hid it under your clothes and took it with you through d-mat. Do this enough times, the invite said, and whatever you wish for will come true.
Keep this a secret.
You deserve it.
“Not even a sixth grader would fall for those last two lines, would they?” said Tash, adopting a fake voice. “‘No one but you is special enough to receive this message, which we probably sent to everyone in the whole world.’ Yeah, right.”
“It can’t be real,” said Clair, approaching the issue from a more practical angle. “It’d be illegal, for starters.”
“Absolutely,” said Ronnie. “You just can’t change patterns like that. But writing it down makes it seem real, like a spell from a fairy tale—something that ought to work, even though it’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Libby. “Things go wrong. This afternoon my fabber mixed up my makeup—I asked for thirteen and it gave me a thirty-one. What’s to stop a booth from mixing a person up as well?”
“Maybe you asked for the wrong skin tone,” said Ronnie.
“I didn’t. You think I haven’t done this a thousand times before?”
“Let’s not argue about some stupid meme,” said Tash. “We’re perfect as we are. Who’d want to change?”
“There’s always something,” said Ronnie.
“Like what?” Tash asked with a grin. “Being such a know-it-all?”
“Pfft. Legs and lungs so I could run a marathon. What about you?”
“Bikini line, no question. Clair?”
“Uh . . .” Clair would have chosen her nose, but she wasn’t playing that game. Behind her sweat-thinned makeup, Libby’s birthmark had turned a deeper shade, as though it was blushing on her behalf.
“My invite came yesterday,” Libby said. “I did it. I used Improvement.”
“Why the hell?” said Ronnie.
“Just in case, okay?” She looked sheepish but her jaw had a defiant set. “The note says it takes a while. Maybe I haven’t d-matted enough yet for it to take effect.”
“You could d-mat for a year and it wouldn’t make a difference,” said Ronnie. “Listen—”
Tash put a hand on Ronnie’s arm, silencing her. Tash looked mortified, probably by the memory of her own “sixth grader” comment.
“No one even notices your birthmark,” she said.
“It’s true,” said Clair. “You’re the only one it bothers.”
“I notice it,” Libby said. “It does bother me.”
“We love you no matter what,” said Ronnie, “and you know Zep will, too.”
Clair nodded a little too hard.
“I think Zep’s seeing someone else,” Libby said.
The resulting chorus of outrage drove all thoughts of Improvement from the conversation.
“Details!” Ronnie demanded, but there were none for Libby to relate, really, just a feeling of distance, of pulling back, that she was certain of but couldn’t explain.
“Gut trumps heart,” said Tash. “I always knew he was too good to be true.”
“He wasn’t good enough,” said Ronnie.
“Agreed,” said Clair. “Why would anyone cheat on you, Libby?”
Libby shot Clair a look that was unlike anything Clair had ever seen from her best friend before. It was challenging and vulnerable at the same time. This was a Libby Clair barely recognized.
She knows, Clair thought. Oh God, she knows.
But how could she? There wasn’t really anything to know. That was the thought Clair had alternately reassured and tormented herself with since it had happened, or not happened, depending on how you looked at it. After an ordinary night hanging out and mucking around at Libby’s place, wherever in Sweden, Zep had walked Clair to the booth on the ground floor and kissed her good night. A simple good-night peck on the lips no different from any other in the past—except this time maybe it went on an instant longer than normal, and maybe something new crackled between them, and maybe Zep felt it too, whatever it was, because he hesitated before getting into the booth and zapping off to the Isle of Shanghai, leaving her reeling with the unprompted and unwanted thought that maybe he was dating the wrong girl.
It should be you, that thought said. Not Libby. Only it wasn’t a thought. It was a feeling so deep in her gut, she couldn’t fish it out. It was snagged in her, interfering with everything—school, her friendships, even her sleep.
Zep was fun, handsome, and her best friend’s boyfriend. He wasn’t an option. And she didn’t know what was worse—the cliché or the strain of holding two equal and opposite feelings at once.
Nothing had changed since the kiss, of course. He had played typically hard to get ever since, and it didn’t look like anything had changed between him and Libby.
But now this, and this only, made things worse. If Libby did break up with Zep, and if Clair and he did hook up, what would Libby think then? That Clair had been the other woman all the time?
As if, Clair told herself, unable to hold Libby’s hot gaze any longer. Zep probably had girls mobbing him everywhere he went. Take that very night, the crashlander ball. Who knew where he was right then? He wasn’t with Libby, and he wasn’t with Clair, either, and that spoke volumes.
“Sorry, guys.” Libby’s voice was barely audible over the racket of the party. “I think I’m going to go home. My head is pounding, and I’m not really up to this now.”
Clair and her friends tried to talk Libby out of leaving, but she was adamant. Migraines were migraines, and the party bubble had popped, she said. It simply wasn’t fun now that Zep was here; he was stressing her out too much. Yes, Libby would confront him about it, but not now. Tomorrow, maybe.
Clair trailed with Libby back to the booth, just the two of them, as the night had started.
One of the doors was open, its mirrored interior empty and waiting.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Clair asked.
Libby nodded, downcast. Clair impulsively took her hand and held her there for a moment. I love you, she wanted to say. I’ve known you nearly all my life, and you understand me better than anyone. You’ve fixed everything from grazed knees to panic attacks. I would never do anything to hurt you. When this stupid crush passes and you and Zep get married, I’ll be your maid of honor, and no one will remember but me.
But the words wouldn’t come. Clair could only hope that her eyes said everything she needed to express.
Libby let go and went into the booth.