Tracked by Jenny Martin Page B

too-tight shirts and skirts and hapless halter tops. It’s like the Castran Fashion Feed vomited all over the living room.
    â€œI think the poppy red is a much better color for you than the desert mauve. And that jacket has to go,” Cash mocks. “Don’t you think?”
    Phillip, the eggplant-wearing hell spawn that he is, agrees. He taps his chin. “Hmm,” he says.
    He says hmm a lot.
    â€œHold still, Fiona,” Bijan says. “And stand up straight.”
    â€œIt’s Phee,” I growl. “My name is Phee.”
    â€œUh-huh,” she says.
    I can tell she’s sick of my backtalk. She’s getting huffy; her fat-transferred behind jiggles every time she has to push my shoulders back to adjust my posture. She’s not the only one who’s about had it, though. I’m this close to chasing everyone out, canceling all fittings until further notice.
    Bijan has already scanned me with her handheld laser four times. How many measurements of my nearly nonexistent chest does anyone really need? I let Phillip hold things up under my chin. I even let them both drape two dozen cocktail dresses in my face without throwing up all over the silk bodices and strappy shoes.
    But I am not trying anything on. No way.
    â€œI don’t need these,” I say.
    â€œYou need them,” Goose argues. “Press conferences. Circuit events. Parties. On the circuit and off, you represent the wealth and prestige of Benroyal Industries. Racing is more than the national obsession—no other sport on three planets commands such attention, and you are about to become a part of the spectacle.”
    If he wanted to win me over, that was not the way to do it. “This is not me,” I say. “At all.”
    Auguste frowns at me. “Yes, yes, Miss Vanguard. That’s the point. We don’t want you to look like you. We want you to look extraordinary.”
    There’s a blur of words as both Bear and Cash talk over each other. “. . . already are extraordinary,” Cash says.  “. . . fine as she is,” Bear agrees.
    I’m a little stunned. It almost feels like I’m not alone, like we’re all in this together. Unfortunately, their mutual faith in my worth as a human being does nothing to neutralize the bad blood between them.
    Cash stands up. “I’m out.” He looks at Bear and extends a fragile olive branch. “Wanna catch a feed at my place? Ditch the fashion show?”
    Bear shakes his head and summons his worst stoic face of doom. “How about you just leave?”
    Everyone stops what they’re doing to stare at the bald-faced rudeness of the exchange, and even I’m not sure what’s gotten into Bear. The boy I know is careful with words, but always, always kind. He still opens doors and carries groceries for every old lady on Mercer Street, for sun’s sake.
    I could say something to Bear, but I know it would just push him over the edge. And I don’t need Cash making a scene either.
    â€œYou know what?” I say, pushing the latest chiffon monstrosity out of my face. “I’m done for the night. Everybody out. Right now.”
    Cash is the first one out the door, and I’m not sure that’s a relief. After Bear stalks to his room and everyone else clears the apartment, I’m alone with nothing but brooding thoughts.

    I walk into my room just as the Castran sun dies. I know this because the milky iridescence of the outside flex wall has somehow morphed into transparent glass. Whoever made my bed must have also swiped the wall sparkling clean. I didn’t know they made flex walls like this, but as I face the horizon, this window on the world is a gift.
    We are above the worst of the smog, the choke and residue of a thousand gritty streets. I can see past the city into the shadow-veined foothills of the Sand Ridge Mountains. The sight of it all is so seamless and clear,