Unfolding the jumpsuit, I examine its boxy cut and cargo pockets. It’s the opposite of anything I would have worn in my previous life, and I’m grateful for its protective covering after so many months of forced overexposure.
“Actually, could you stay?” I ask. “I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now.”
“Of course,” she says. “Let me get something to sit on. I’ll be right back.”
After using the time alone to kick off my dress, I sink into the tub. The bubbles foam up over my shoulders, and the hot water is heaven to my stiff muscles. I relax until I’m reminded of the lake and the ever-present sadness that lingers in the recesses of my brain surfaces.
I miss my mom. We weren’t speaking when I died, but I wish I could go back to a time when I thought she loved me—to when the future was full of possibility—to laying safely next to her in my own bed with her arms wrapped around me. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away.
“I’m sure you have lots of questions,” Allard says, returning. She carries a small orange stool with two cups of tea balanced on it. “I was thinking after your bath we can have breakfast, and then I’ll give you a tour of the campus.”
“Cool,” I say, swallowing a sob, grateful for her distraction.
“And we’re also going to have to do something about your looks.” She sits, handing me my tea.
“I thought you said I wasn’t going to have any scars?” Sitting up in the tub, I take a small sip from the mug. The hot liquid soothes my parched throat.
“You won’t. I’m more worried someone might recognize you.”
“But doesn’t being a Disconnect mean no technology? How would anyone even know about me?”
“We may live off the grid, but it’s important we’re aware of what’s going on in the world. At Keystone, we’re a special legion of Disconnects. Our mission is to steal analog history—to preserve the truth—before corporations and the government can alter the past to benefit their personal futures. We’re in danger of entering a Digital Dark Age, where the only information available is digital. Tape recordings, printed books, films, photographs—proof of history—are decaying and becoming scarce. Digital information is easy to tamper with, and there are forces at work that want current society to reflect their version of the past.” She sips her tea before continuing.
“Often, we’re after priceless works that are protected by the latest technology, so we have to understand tech even though we don’t use it ourselves. We have internet access in the Crypt—that’s our code-breaking library—and the TMI-feed is likely a guilty pleasure for some of the girls. They watch the Networks—they have to. For your Initiation Heist, you’ll be asked to go under cover in Influencer society, and you’ll need to know how to fit in—and how to hide in plain sight.”
“Initiation Heist?” I almost choke on my tea, the cup rattling in my trembling hands at having to reenter society.
“It’s the final test before becoming a full-fledged Keystone member with access to our top-level secrets, but don’t worry,” Allard says. “You’ll have plenty of time to learn our ways—and you’ll participate in a heist as an assistant to an Initiate—before you’re asked to lead a heist the following year.”
“Lead a heist?” My eyes bulge. “Right.”
Pressing her lips together, she represses a smile. “We won’t make you do anything you aren’t prepared for. Though, with your exceptional intuition, I suspect you’ll learn quickly.”
“No pressure,” I mutter, inhaling lavender, processing the enormity of what she’s telling me.
She laughs. “As you can imagine, invisibility is essential to being a thief. We don’t use technology because we don’t want to be tracked,” she continues. “We may shun the Networks and refuse to be ranked, but we’re not like Unrankables. They aren’t allowed to rank, while we choose not to rank.”
Unrankable. The word is quicksand in my mind. The worthless, greedy, lowest of the low. The unemployed, unmotivated poor who live off our handouts. My face must betray the prejudices so ingrained in me, because Allard straightens, a sad frown forming on her lips.
“I didn’t know that,” I admit, setting my tea on a shelf and sinking back into the tub. “I’ve always lumped Disconnects and Unrankables together. My parents taught me Index ranking is everything. If you don’t rank, you don’t matter.”
“This is a lot for you to get used to,” she says.
“It is…” I shake my head. “My mom used to say, ‘For you to matter, somebody has to be talking about you, eavesdropping on you—spying. Your worth is measured by your number of followers, your Index trade amount, your engagement rate. If nobody’s watching, nobody cares.’ It sucked, but I’ve lived and breathed my numbers forever. Who am I without them?”
“We’re going to discover that together. You have so many gifts, Elisha. Believe me—numbers don’t mean a thing. A one becomes a zero, and a life is erased? Not here. Here, you are always someone. You have purpose.”
For the first time in forever, I smile. “I hope that’s true. I’m so tired of BS people posting their BS lies. Nothing out there is real. If there isn’t a picture or your Life Stream didn’t record it, it didn’t happen, it didn’t matter. But the truth is, nothing matters. It’s all…stupid. Pointless.” Dipping my head back, I wet my hair.
When I raise my head, Allard’s sparkling eyes meet mine. “I think we can find out what matters to you. So, what do you say we get to work making you unrecognizable? I’m not worried about your face—by the time summer is over and everyone returns to campus, the collagen and other injectables should have worked their way out of your system. Whatever your mom was using to keep you looking like her will be gone, and we’ll see the real Elisha. But maybe we should start with your hair.” She holds up a pair of scissors. “Do you trust me?”
Pouring shampoo into my hand and working the soap into my hair, I consider her. She helped me escape. She’s taking me in. She’s the closest thing I have to family now… “Yes,” I decide, using a handheld shower head to rinse out the bubbles. “What are you thinking?”
“As you know, asymmetry is important to disguise yourself from the facial-recognition cameras that are all over the place. That goes for hair, too. I think we should chop it off. Maybe angle it just above your shoulders?”
I rub creamy conditioner into my thick locks, weighing my wet hair in my hands, recalling my mother’s signature windswept spirals. When she smiles in the cutesy, infectious way of hers while twirling a curl around her finger, she twists whoever she’s manipulating right along with her. We spent years growing my hair out in the hopes it would mimic hers but never quite succeeded. All I ever wanted was to be hers…but I was never enough. Her love fluctuated with my share price.