Tweaks for my design are debated. Adjusted. Lines shifted slightly to the left or right. Thickened. Sent back upstairs for everyone to wait again. Until finally, Nicolle claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and announces, “We’re locked!”
The design team stops working and exchanges smiles and high fives. A guy with spiky blond hair wearing a bright green shirt slaps his hand on one of the tables and says, “I knew we nailed it.”
I smile even as I clench my hands under the design table. When everyone quiets, Nicolle continues, “The ads are being uploaded to the public screens. They will go live in two hours. Mrs. Webster has asked that we all meet her outside to watch when that happens. I’m giving you ten minutes to celebrate and refuel. Then I expect you back at your stations working on the layouts for next week’s issue.”
Designers grumble, but I get the feeling it is exactly what the team expected to hear. A few of them wander off to grab a snack or coffee. Nicolle heads to a meeting and the rest settle back in to work. No one seems to remember that I exist. I glance at the clock—one hour and fifty-two minutes until the Gloss ads with the new logo go live across the country. I’m glad Nicolle didn’t let any of us go to lunch or I’d be throwing up.
I shift in my seat and doodle on the screen in front of me as the minutes tick by in the ever-thickening air. I’ve been anticipating and dreading this moment with equal weight. We have all agreed it is the best way forward—but . . .
“Well look at that.”
I crack my knee against the table as I jerk around to see Nicolle looming. Her pale, hazel eyes narrow as they shift to my screen. Streaks of electric blue, pink, and yellow wind over a backdrop of silver. In the center of the image is a large handbag, like the ones pictured on dozens of advertisements on the electronic pages of Gloss. The black lines are woven to give the bag texture. Sharp, hard gold colors the geometric fastenings lending them weight. But it is the handles of the bag that I spent the most time on. Each line created to lend depth to the braids. But if anyone looked closely in the shadows and empty spaces, they’d find fanned out V’s like the ones in the new Gloss logo. V’s that formed the open pages of a book. V’s for “verify.”
I hold my breath as Nicolle studies my work. Takes in the details. The flaws—because there are dozens of them. So many places to refine and rework and reimagine. If I had several more hours, it would be better. I could . . .
“Huh,” Nicolle says, shifting her intense gaze from the tablet to me. “You can draw. Maybe by the time the summer is over, I might actually try to remember your name.”
Before I can react, she turns her back on me.
The crawling minutes speed up as the end of the day approaches. I drop my stylus several times and can barely draw a straight line by the time Nicolle announces, “Okay, everyone. It’s time!”
My stomach flips. I shut down my screen, retrieve my phone out of my bag, and hold it tight to my chest, then hurry after everyone as they stream into the hallway. We join the rest of the Gloss staff as they make their way out of the office.
The sidewalk is jammed. I shove through clusters of Gloss workers and look for Rose. I spot her hurrying across the street to the other side, where her mother stands at the edge of the sidewalk surrounded by several fashionably attired individuals I assume are top Gloss executives. Sunlight gleams off Mrs. Webster’s jewelry as she stares at the enormous public screen far above the Gloss entrance. A blond man in a ruby-red shirt moves to the side as Rose walks beside her mother. Without looking at her daughter, Charity Webster reaches out and clasps Rose’s hand tight in hers. They know the risks they are taking even if the others chattering excitedly around us don’t.
“Any minute!” someone shouts from nearby.
I shove my way through the crowded sidewalk and step between two cars parked at the curb just as the chirpy brunette on the screen ends her broadcast. She tells everyone to stay tuned for the five o’clock news that will start after the commercial break.
The credits roll. I clutch my phone tight. Everyone around me holds their breath. Then a rainbow of brilliant color explodes onto the screen. Music blares. Lights pulse as if dozens of photographers are taking the images that follow one after another. Shots of the American Dream pop band, women walking down Michigan Avenue in high fashion as if they are on a catwalk, the president of the United States and her husband waving from the balcony of the White House—the American flag fluttering behind them. The images pass too fast for me to catch them all. Smiling families. Tourist attractions. Sports. Models in stunning dresses walking on a creamy-white beach with a compelling female voice narrating over the kinetic images and music and the excited shouts of the staff around me about how Gloss is always where you want to be.
I stumble and have to catch my footing, but I look up in time to see the flashes of colors—pink and blue, orange and yellow. They alternate faster and faster as the music grows louder until there is a cymbal crash and the new logo for Gloss appears.
It isn’t exactly the same image that I drew. It’s better. The designers worked their magic so the colors almost leap off the screen, which will hopefully make it impossible to ignore.
Down the street, in the distance, other public screens are filled with the same image as the narrator’s voice says: “A new Gloss—so you can be a brand-new you.”
The Gloss staff cheers and exchanges congratulations as the next commercial, one praising the stepped-up recycling program, plays followed by a Pepsi ad.
Employees on the sidewalk start to stream back into Gloss. Several cars honk their horns. I step back onto the sidewalk and spot Rose and her mother waiting at the crosswalk for the light to change.
My new phone vibrates. With an unsteady hand, I punch up the text message.
THEY’VE AGREED TO MEET. SEE YOU TONIGHT—STEF
Satisfaction flares. Step one is done. Now we have to move on to step two and hope that nothing goes wrong.
I start to text Rose, when I notice the shoes of the woman strolling past me on the sidewalk. They are the same as the man in the gray suit that appears on the sidewalk across the street—and the woman who comes to stand beside the bus stop only a few feet away from me.
Black running boots with metal straps.
The Marshals—the people responsible for taking Isaac, and killing my mother. The people who have been searching the city for me—are here.
Two
A female Marshal dressed in gray slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and carrying a large brown handbag stops in front of Gloss’s front door.
I hold my breath and prepare to run.
The last time I faced the Marshals I survived, but Spine and so many other Stewards did not. When the Marshal’s eyes sweep my way and she doesn’t immediately show any sign of seeing the real me under the makeup and fashion-forward hair, I stay put and attempt to take normal breaths.
We knew the logo would gain unwanted attention. We knew there was no avoiding Marshals asking questions when they saw the ad. But we never dreamed so many would arrive just moments after it played for the first time.
The female Marshal steps around a twentysomething couple who are hurrying down the sun-streaked sidewalk. Then she turns in my direction.
Don’t stare, I tell myself. Pretend not to notice the male Marshal in the suit who is currently crossing the street to this side—right behind Rose who has no idea he is there.