both frantically typing their fingers into the air makes me assume they’re viral paparazzi, uploading us straight to the net.
“Get out of here,” Seth growls, chucking bread at their faces.
A rounded man with a balding head rushes over. “Is there a problem?” He turns to the paparazzi. “I am the maître d’ of this establishment and I will notify the police unless you leave this instant.”
Seth pelts them with more bread. The one with greasy hair catches a piece and crams some in his mouth. “Thanks, Rex,” he mumbles through crumbs, “see you around.”
Several waiters rush over to pick up bread and clear off our wet tablecloth. “I sincerely apologize, Ms. Blanca. I don’t know how those Viruses got in.” The maître d’ uses the derogatory term for viral bloggers, the one that Headmaster Russell taught me at Tabula Rasa.
“It’s not your fault. Viruses are hard to shake.” I slide my foot underneath the table and brush my leg against Seth’s.
“They must have seen your white outfit.” The maître d’ tugs his collar.
“It’s okay.” I nod. “I’m used to it.” I wave off his offer of a meal on the house, but he insists.
Later, over cheeseburgers, Cal brings up my wardrobe again. “You know, Blanca. You don’t need to wear white anymore, unless you enjoy the attention.”
“Of course I don’t want the attention!”
“Then why not change things up a bit?” Cal says. “Shop for new clothes. Try to blend in.”
I look at Seth for support, but he nods in agreement with his father.
“Fatima wears colors now,” Seth adds, “and she’s still a Vestal.”
I picture my best friend Fatima. The last time I saw her she wore a silky green dress from her fashion house and looked like a snake that had swallowed a watermelon. Six months pregnant, her figure still says “Babe alert!” Tomorrow night is Fatima’s engagement party with Beau.
I, on the other hand, am the proverbial girl-next-door. Brown hair, green eyes, and clear skin. Back at Tabula Rasa they said I had a face that could sell soap.
“I don’t want to be a Vestal. I’m a McNeal now. But wearing color seems wrong.”
“It’s not just the clothes.” Seth’s finger-chips buzz and he flicks them off. “The only time you leave the house is with me or Dad.”
“That’s not true!” I insist. “I went to the soundstage last week to shoot a McNeal Solar ad.”
“True,” Cal admits. “But it’s what a Vestal would do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you want me as the face of McNeal Solar?” My stomach feels bubbly, like I ate too many French fries.
“Of course I do, sweetheart. I love your campaign for my company.” Cal reaches out and pats my hand. “We’re concerned about you though. We want you to get out there and make new friends.”
I turn and glare at Seth. “This is about the other night, isn’t it? You’re still mad because I wouldn’t go to that club with you, so you got your dad to take your side.”
Seth stares at me hard. “It’s not just the other night. It’s all the time. Your world is so tiny that it’s unhealthy.”
“College is a big step,” Cal says, “in terms of academics, forming new friendships, and learning to mingle.”
“I meet lots of people! I’ve made a ton of friends online. Every time I write a new post for The Lighthouse I get thousands of comments.”
Seth looks at me with piercing brown eyes. “Blanca, you’re new at this, but online friends are easier than people you meet face to face. It’s a different type of interaction.”
At that moment a flash makes me jump. But it’s not a Virus snatching my picture this time. It’s a family in the corner taking a photograph of their kid. “Face to face can be scary,” I say.
“Sometimes,” Cal nods, “but not normally.”
“Normal for me is different.”
“Exactly our point,” says Seth.
Cal leans forward in his seat. “We think it would be helpful if you could chat with someone, to help you process all you’ve been through.”
“You mean like a psychiatrist? You think I’m crazy?” I twist my chip-watch around and around my wrist where the cuff used to be.
Seth scoots closer and lowers his voice. “We don’t think you’re crazy. But some really shitty things have happened to you.”
“You lost your mother,” says Cal.
“Ms. Lydia wasn’t my mother! I mean, she gave birth to me. That’s it. What do I care what happened to her?”
“You must feel something,” Cal says.
“I feel nothing.”
“Then why are you talking so loud?”