Call me plastic, I don’t care. Call me a princess or a bitch or a slut. Type it into a DM. Shout it in the street. Strap it to the leg of a carrier pigeon if that’s your weird, twisted thing. It doesn’t matter. You and I both know you’re just jealous.
Either you want me or you want to be me.
I swing my flame-red hair over one shoulder and laugh for the camera, making sure they get my best angles: slightly to the side, chin angled down, eyes flicking up. These smart glasses aren’t easy to work with. They’re big and blocky, and my false lashes keep scratching against the lenses. But the rules state that I can’t take them off once the game begins, even for a moment.
I have twenty minutes until everything kicks off. There’s always time for a photo shoot though. My starting position is outside the aquarium, which means swarms of tourists. Look at them all, in their poorly fitting chino shorts and backpacks, watching me pose against the backdrop of the Thames. I try to act like I’m the only one here, gazing serenely across the water.
Then the makeup artist we hired leans too close, and I’m hit by a waft of the meat pasty he had for lunch. My stomach lurches and I stumble back. My mother, Amber, rushes in to catch me, but I’ve already righted myself. I swat the powder brush aside.
“Give me some space,” I snap. “This isn’t a fucking date.”
The man rolls his eyes and mutters, “As if,” under his breath. He strokes his brush, comforting it.
“Erin, darling,” Amber says, laughing nervously. “Let’s take a moment.”
She shoos our entourage away and tries to raise a perfectly stenciled eyebrow at me, except she had her Botox topped up last week, and everything is smooth and shiny. It’s impossible to tell if she’s furious or worried or holding in a fart.
“You’re lucky we’re not being filmed right now,” Amber whispers. “This is our chance to nudge our subscribers past four million. We need people to like you, remember?”
I curl my lip but don’t bother arguing. She plays this fame game better than me, but then she’s been doing it far longer. She started her parenting, lifestyle, and fashion blog—Amber Loves—when she was seventeen and had just had me. For a while it was huge, but she lost a lot of subscribers when I hit my tweens and stopped being quite so cute.
Fast-forward to two years ago when I turned fifteen. Amber set up a YouTube vlog and brought me on board again, this time wearing her clothes and her makeup. Chasing her dreams. Her second chance.
And for a while it worked.
Amber and Erin Love grew in popularity to the point that magazines wrote articles about us, illustrated with dozens of fashion shots in which Amber and I could have been sisters. Glossy red hair, laughing smiles, the kind of figures that come from spending hours in the gym and a strict paleo-vegan diet.
Then our subscriber numbers plateaued. Amber’s always pinning the blame on me for being “unlikeable.” She says I’m arrogant and cold, and there’s only so much I can get away with based on looks. She’s right, I suppose—about the first part.
The problem is, Amber wants more. She needs more if she’s going to continue to afford her lifestyle. She spends thousands a month trying to wind back the clock and look seventeen again. Sometimes I catch her observing me with disgust, like it’s my fault that I’m young and she’s not. And then she’ll book another procedure.
She sighs. “If I could enter myself…”
“The cutoff’s twenty-one and you’re thirty-four,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Yes, I’m aware of how old I am,” she snarls. “Quit being such a brat.”
I feel my whole face coloring. I hate that my mother can hurt me with her bad opinion. When I was a kid, I’d do anything to make her happy, but it was never enough. I wish I could stop caring what she thinks of me. I try to keep my emotions locked tightly away when it comes to her, but still they bleed through the cracks.
“Anton’s a friend of mine,” Amber continues, glancing nervously at the photographer. “You’d better not embarrass me.”
Anton’s not her friend. They collaborated a number of times, a year ago, before Rose died. He used to invite us to his parties, but he was never really interested in hanging out with a woman fifteen years his senior or with me, a surly sixteen-year-old.
That’s where this game comes in. According to her, tonight is our ticket to fame and fortune. The prize money will pay for the butt implants she’s been eyeing, and winning would also boost our audience. After all, Anton has a cool hundred million subscribers to our four million. But she needs me to win.
I need me to win.
She takes a slow breath. “Eyes on the prize, Erin.”
I nod. “I know. I’ve got it under control.”
“I’m trusting you with this. Now let me look at you.” She fusses with my extensions, scrunching the long curls and letting them fall again. Her swollen lips are pursed, like my hair has personally insulted her by not being bouncy enough. But three hours in the stylist’s chair was never going to be a match for the damp London air.
“He should have used more hairspray. You’ll be flat by midnight,” she says.
“Urgh, limp hair is the worst,” an overly confident voice says.
We both look up with a start. Striding over is Matthew, his dark faux-hawk and cheesy grin making him look like he’s in an old-school boy band. I have to admit that he’s fairly hot, even if he does try a bit too hard. I mean, the personalized motorcycle leathers? The low-necked T-shirt that shows off a flash of waxed chest? The shark’s tooth necklace? Call me a hypocrite, but I’ve never been a fan of boys who care too much about their appearance.
He’s recording me with an action cam mounted on a flashlight-sized stabilizer. That explains his friendliness. We met dozens of times during our channels’ collaborations, pre–Rose’s death. He always used to ignore me when there was no camera around, which is surprising given his reputation. Perhaps dating Beatrix really has changed him.
“I’m checking in on some of our top contestants before the game starts,” he says. “Are you ready, Erin?”
I instantly switch on the charm. “The real question is, are you ready for me?”
He holds out the camera to get us both in the shot and laughs along with me, as good-natured as he is in Anton’s videos. We both know the parts we’re supposed to play, the lines we have to say. I sometimes wonder if, like me, Matthew ever feels as if he’s made of hollow plastic, waiting for someone else to fill him with their own fantasies. Or maybe he’s bought into the lies and believes it’s real.
“The people at home will want to know if you’ve remembered to pack your thermos and a spare pair of underwear,” he says.
I smile even wider, making my cheeks ache. “I’m always prepared, Matthew.”
He briefly looks me over. Today, I’m wearing skintight, wet-look leggings and an off-the-shoulder T-shirt. It’s not the most obvious outfit for playing a game of tag, but sportswear isn’t on-brand for the Amber and Erin Love channel.
“I don’t want to know where you’ve got them stashed,” he says with his famous wink.
“Cheeky.” I laugh, adjusting my T-shirt.
He clears his throat and looks away, his gaze briefly settling on Amber as he does. His whole demeanor darkens. I’ve always had the feeling that he doesn’t like her, but he used to hide it better than this. He claps his hands, upbeat again. “All right, everything’s a go in ten minutes. Your glasses will give you a countdown, and Anton will introduce the game. You good on your starting coordinates?”
“Of course,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder to a white cross on the chewing gum–stained sidewalk. A unique set of coordinates was texted to me earlier today. All the contestants are spread across several square miles, the sleeper cells of an invasion. “I’m ready to go.”
Matthew narrows his eyes at my shoes. “You know, I almost wore those exact same six-inch spike heels today. Could have been embarrassing. Also, can you actually run in those things?”
“Faster than you,” I say. “Want to have a race?”
“My ego couldn’t take it if I lost.” He lowers the camera and turns off the smile. “Got to go, Erin. I’ll be in big trouble if I’m late.”
“With Beatrix?” Amber pipes up.
He frowns. “With Anton. OK, I’ll be seeing you later, Erin.”
“Bye, Matthew,” Amber says.
He ignores her and jogs off toward Westminster Bridge, taking the steps two at a time. There’s a Segway parked at the top. Pushing the handlebars forward, he rolls off at a blistering five miles an hour. The motorbike gear is serious overkill.
Amber glares after him, then checks her watch. “I need to get to the hotel. I’ll follow your progress online.” I think she’s going to leave, but she hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “We need this, Erin. You can’t let us down.”
“I won’t.”
She watches me closely, but if she wants to say anything else, she doesn’t. She clicks her fingers at the photographer, makeup artist, and hairdresser, then sashays away, already scrolling through the photos from our pregame shoot. She’ll have them uploaded onto our socials in no time.
Then she’s gone, and I’m on my own, if you ignore the endless stream of aquarium visitors kicked out at closing time. A countdown appears on my smart glasses. Ten minutes to go.
Time to get my head in the game. I stretch out my shoulders and make sure I’ve memorized the routes I can take from my starting position. My big advantage—other than the fact that I’m as fit as most professional athletes—is that I’m not here to play. I’m here to win. It’s a competitive streak that’s served me well in life, even if it doesn’t earn me many friends.
I’m interrupted by something flickering in my field of vision. A half-transparent screen swipes open on my lenses, and a video call from Anton appears. I can see through him, like he’s overlaid on the real world. I’ve tried smart glasses before, and they always make me feel motion sick. These new models are no better.
I focus on Anton and try to block out the world behind him. He’s in his well-lit office, lounging in his race car bucket seat and grinning into the camera. On the wall, there are framed images from Shadow City, ghostly monsters lunging with their claws outstretched.
He’s dressed in one of his own branded rainbow hoodies, and he’s whitened his teeth. He could almost be the fresh-faced teenager who first started up his channel all those years ago. There’s the faintest sign of dark circles under his eyes, masked with concealer though.
“Accomplices!” Anton yells, spreading his arms wide.
I wince. The glasses have built-in speakers. It sounds like Anton is shouting right into my brain.
“Welcome to my game! Sucks to be home alone while you’re having all the fun, but someone has to take the helm at Anton HQ.” He turns the camera. One wall of his office is set up with dozens of screens, like a closed-circuit TV operations room. On them are the one hundred feeds from our smart glasses. “I’ll be watching everything. Like God, only hotter.”
His ego clearly hasn’t mellowed with time. He winks at the camera like it was a joke. I don’t think it was though.
“Oh, and if you want to be all-seeing like me, you can check out your competition’s feeds too. Flick your eyes down and to the left, and your smart glasses will open the menu. It’s like magic. These smart glasses are the greatest. And in a few months, they’ll go on sale. Hint, hint.”
I ignore the advertising spiel and try out the menu. Several icons appear superimposed over the real world. I scroll between them with a flick of my gaze and open them with a blink. It’s clever, I have to give him that. Like having your cell phone projected in front of your eyes.
“You’ve also got a map where you’ll be able to see the locations of the opposition. Now, here’s the best part. I can change the accuracy of your position shown on the map—anything from a precise location to a fifty-yard radius—meaning my favorites will have an advantage and be harder to catch.”
He’s not telling me anything that his prerecorded video didn’t explain earlier, but I listen carefully all the same.
“Any minute now, the wristband lights will come on, and you’ll find out if you’re starting the game as a Chaser or a Runner. Remember, Chasers are blue, and they can tag out a red Runner by getting within five yards of them for longer than ten seconds. How long you stay a Chaser or Runner is up to me. So get ready to fight for your prize.”
Fight, I can do. I’m no spoiled princess who’s scared of breaking a nail, even if that’s what you’d believe from watching my channel. I’ll break whatever it takes, break whoever it takes.
Anton sits forward in his chair and stops smiling. “Now, being serious for a minute. There have been some health and safety concerns raised about my game. I wanted to reassure everyone that this is totally under control. I have people out there keeping an eye on things, and if anyone gets in trouble, someone will be right there to help. OK? OK.”
I snort. Wouldn’t want any more negative publicity, would you Anton? One dead girl is enough.
“One final thing.” He claps his hands. “My Accomplices Matthew and Beatrix have been busy organizing a few special surprises. You’ll be able to earn advantages by competing in a little treasure hunt of challenges that I’ve set up. The first location is the place where we created my second stunt. You do know where my second stunt was filmed, right?”
Like I pay attention to that sort of thing. So it’s lucky that, for the past year, I’ve been dating someone who happens to now be working behind the scenes on Anton’s game. Jesse isn’t the kind of boy people expect me to be dating. He’s quiet and skinny, with unruly hair that never lies flat. He doesn’t care about his clothes and has never been inside a gym. But that’s why I like him. It’s refreshing to be with someone for whom those things don’t matter. There’s enough vanity in my world.
Jesse’s my boy on the inside. He’s going to help me win this competition.
“Get ready to play, Accomplices,” Anton says.
The video call ends, and the projected screen closes. The map in the corner of my vision updates. I bring it up with a glance. My closest competitor is a hundred yards away. Depending on whether my bracelet goes blue for Chaser or red for Runner, I will either be running toward or away from Gray26.
This is it. This is my chance. See, I’m not playing to win for my mother’s ambitions. I’m playing for me and Jesse. The money would be enough for us to start a new life. Jesse could pay to record his demo album and go on tour; I wouldn’t have to pose for a photo ever again.
All those hours in the gym, pretending to care about my thigh gap and my bicep definition. All those climbing lessons, and Pilates and spin classes. All that wasted time pandering to my mother’s obsession with my looks. Protein shakes, chin-ups, hours being primped and plucked. All of it has led up to this moment.
I’m done being made of hollow plastic, ready for my mother to fill me with her dreams and her ambitions. This game is my way out. My future.
And losing is not an option.