that, though it was her party, they seemed more interested in following her mother. This suspicion had been confirmed afterward, when she saw the footage, which her mother watched obsessively for weeks—searching for what, Marlow still couldn’t say.
“We’re going to move to a new town,” Floss told Marlow, squeezing her. “A place no one’s ever lived before. They built it just for us. And when we get to our new house, we’ll be famous again. You, too.”
Marlow said nothing at the time. The statement did not seem outrageous. Floss talked about past fame and current fame and strategies for future fame as easily and as often as other mothers referenced being out of milk.
After they were settled in their new home on Pitt Street, Marlow sat at the kitchen table with Stella, the rainbow-haired clown who tried to explain Constellation to its children. Everywhere in America, she told Marlow, people were watching her. Rooting for her. “Even people I don’t know?” Marlow asked, her stomach an uneasy jumble. Stella put down her star-topped wand and cupped Marlow’s face reassuringly. “You may not know them like you know your mom and dad,” she breathed, “but your followers are your friends—your very special friends. The happier and brighter you act, the more special friends you’ll get—and the more special friends you get, the happier and brighter your life will be.” Stella’s pancake makeup fractured into tiny white fissures as she smiled. “No one loves you more than your followers,” the clown said.
* * *
A few weeks after Marlow bit Honey, Floss came into her bedroom. Her face looked the same determined way it did when she came back to the motel years ago, to tell them they had made the cut for Constellation. “Get up,” she said to Marlow. Then she went into Marlow’s closet and chose an outfit: a starchy petal-pink dress Marlow had never worn, a white cardigan she had outgrown. When Marlow protested, Floss ignored her. She slid a white headband into Marlow’s hair. Marlow’s cowlicks rejected it instantly, pushing it back down her forehead.
They drove to Mountain View and slowed at the guarded road for Antidote Pharmaceutical. A network exec and a writer met them in the parking lot. They didn’t look at Marlow; they wouldn’t stand too close. They profusely thanked the man from Antidote who joined them in the conference room. When Floss spoke, they took turns cutting her off.
“Marlow’s never done anything like this before,” Floss said. “She’s never been angry. She’s never been violent. I mean, she, like, threw her helmet at a softball game, once, when she was younger, but I think she was just caught up in the vibe. Softball girls are like—” Floss held her arms out, curved at her sides, and made a guttural sound.
The female executive, who wore her dark hair snipped short, leaned forward to block the Antidote rep’s view of Floss. “Marlow has always been an exemplary student,” she said. “And she’s made excellent content for us. Normally, to be frank, an incident like this would be grounds for terminating a talent contract.” The executive smiled at the rep, who was leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled and touching his lips. “But Antidote has always been such a valued partner. And when we heard about your troubles with marketing Hysteryl, we thought a bit of fate might be at play here.”
The man’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward. He studied Marlow for a long time.
“Hi, Marlow,” he said, as if she had just sat down. “So you like softball?”
“No, I quit,” she said.
“She does ballet,” Floss cut in.
“I hate that, too,” Marlow said.
The man smiled. “I get it,” he said. “Marlow, do you ever feel like—” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Like life is just too much?”
“What?” Marlow looked around the table. All the faces were carefully neutral, not willing to help her with the answer. Floss blinked at her almost pleasantly, like she was watching her play the piano.
“I think I have a good life,” Marlow said slowly.
The man nodded thoughtfully. “But even a good life can be so hard, can’t it?” he said. “Life will always be hard. We can’t do much about that. But you’re so lucky to live in this day and age: we can control how you feel about it.” He waved his hand over his shoulder. A screen on the wall behind him flicked on. Marlow watched as a boy her age clapped a capsule into