Warcross (Warcross, #1)

by Marie Lu

Dad used to say that my old school’s uniform was a pimple on the face of New York. He used to say that I should dress like the world’s a better place than it actually is. He would buy flowers every time it rained and fill our home with them. He would forget to wipe his hands during his painting sessions and end up leaving colorful fingerprints all over the place. He poured his meager salary into presents for me and art supplies and charities and clothes and wine. He laughed too often and fell in love too quickly and drank too freely. Then one afternoon, when I was eleven, he came home, sat down on the couch, and stared blankly into space. He’d just returned from a doctor’s appointment. Six months later, he was gone. Death has a terrible habit of cutting straight through every careful line you’ve drawn between your present and your future.

The car’s interior lights up. A voice comes on. “Hello, Miss Chen,” it says. I startle. “Hi,” I say back, unsure where I should be looking. “A preference for the car mood?” the voice continues. “Something serene, perhaps?” I glance out at the mob of journalists still shouting at the car’s shaded windows. “Serene would be nice, Mr. . . . Car.” “Fred,” the car says. “Fred,” I reply, trying not to feel weird about talking to a bottle of champagne in an ice block. “Hi.”

Unlike New York, or the rest of America, Tokyo seems completely redone for virtual reality. Names of buildings hover in neon colors over each of the skyscrapers, and bright, animated advertisements play across entire sides of buildings. Virtual models stand outside clothing shops, each twirling to show off a variety of outfits. I recognize one of the virtual models as a character from the latest Final Fantasy game, a girl with bright blue hair, now greeting me by name and showing off her Louis Vuitton purse. A Buy Now button hovers right over it, waiting to be tapped.

Suede gift boxes holding fifteen-thousand-dollar electric skateboards. Flights on private jets. Closets full of expensive clothes. Dinners at restaurants he owns. And yet, none of that has made my heart skip like this earnest, hopeful look on his face as he waits to hear if I enjoyed the food he made for me.