fund,” Cal mutters.
“My trust fund? What does that have to do with anything?” Eavesdropping doesn’t allow me to see his face, but I picture the Virus tugging at his unruly black hair.
“Everything!” Cal explodes. “If I hadn’t given you your own bank account, you never would have moved out to begin with.”
“Oh, I would have moved out, all right.”
“Not until college. Your mother would be crushed you didn’t get a degree.”
“I didn’t go to college. Big deal. I’m doing fine without a diploma.”
“Yes, but someday … ” Cal’s voice trails off as he and the Virus move to another room beyond my hearing.
I take a deep breath and clear their argument from my head. I need to concentrate on more important things. Tonight I’ll write that letter to Ms. Lydia, and soon I’ll be at the Vestal corporate banquet dancing with my friends.
Chapter Nine
Barbelo Nemo has a brilliant understanding of human nature, as well as unlimited empathy. Human beings want two things, he wrote. Relationships, and a feeling of importance. Vestals deserve both.
That’s why the Vestal banquets began.
In the early years, most corporations only owned one Vestal. It took years for companies to establish complete Vestal families, one Harvest at a time.
Vestals can’t date non-Vestals; that would be ridiculous. How could you trust somebody? What if they took your picture and sold it to a Virus? An evil ex-boyfriend could ruin you forever. The only person a Vestal can trust is another Vestal.
So every three months Barbelo would call his followers home to Tabula Rasa. Even now, decades after Barbelo retreated, the Vestal banquets continue four times a year.
All Vestals are invited, but whether you can come or not depends on your purchaser. Most companies readily agree.
Vestals dating is good for business because of synchronistic advertising.
Take Beau and Fatima for example. Every time Beau’s company releases a photo of Beau driving Fatima around in a gigantic truck, Fatima is always pictured looking gorgeous. So her fashion house ends up getting publicity too. They then return the favor by running an ad showing Fatima strutting down the catwalk in a white version of their latest design with Beau sitting in the audience, so stunned by her beauty that he “accidentally” drops his truck keys, company logo and all.
America loves it. It doesn’t matter if the Vestal relationships are real, arranged, or fake; the public doesn’t care. All they want is gossip. Purchasers control the whole story, and they always leave the public begging for more.
It all comes back to supply and demand. Since so little of a Vestal’s life is made public, there is high demand to exploit it.
I’ve never been to a Vestal banquet because only harvested Vestals are invited. But Fatima heard they’re wild. “The perfect place for hookups,” she said. “Secluded corners, dim light, and music so loud nobody knows what’s really going on.”
In the middle of all that, my soul mate is waiting. Tonight I meet the boy who sells soap. My perfect match!
The only problem is Cal. Things are weird between us. Cal says he wants to be my father. And not in a creepy way like Ms. Lydia warned me about, but in a real way. Like I’ve read about in books.
Cal wants me to choose to be his daughter. He’s not saying it, but I can see him thinking it every time I look at him. Choose to be free, Blanca. Choose to make your own decisions.
And I can’t.
That doesn’t mean I’m not proud of Cal. He’s accomplished a lot, with my help. I want you to bring Seth back into my life. That’s what Cal told me that first night at the manor. One way or another.
I would do anything for Cal too. That’s how I got him invited to the Vestal banquet. I wrote to Ms. Lydia and explained that Cal directed me to secure him an invitation, and that I always deliver.
Ms. Lydia wrote back the next day. “Good girl,” she said. “I’ll bring you the invitations in person.”
And somehow, when she did, Cal turned that into Ms. Lydia coming with us. In our car.
The backseat of the limo is roasting hot, even though the moon roof is open. Cal raps on the divider and asks Alan to turn the air system up to cool things off. My white satin pants are getting sticky. Ms. Lydia is probably overheated too, but she doesn’t show it. She takes a deep breath, as if breathing is her own personal cooling system. Then she