Unplugged by Donna Freitas Page B

toward me. “Skye?”
    â€œUm, Inara, this is—”
    Lacy stretched out her diamond-laden fingers. “Hello. Lovely to meet you.”
    A stunned Inara took Lacy’s hand.
    Lacy pulled it away quickly as though Inara’s skin was diseased. “I was just extending my condolences to thissad, lost little Single, doing my patriotic duty and all. Got to go, though! The funeral awaits my celebrity presence.”
    We watched her totter away on heels too high for anyone to walk in without the help of a special App.
    â€œDo you know who that was?” Inara asked.
    â€œI may not keep up with the Gossip Apps,” I said, “but I’m not dead.”
    â€œI can’t believe Lacy Mills was hanging out with you,” Inara said, sounding jealous.
    â€œTrust me, you didn’t miss anything,” I said. “She’s just as awful in person as she is on Reel Time.”
    Inara studied me. “How did you end up talking to her?”
    I watched Lacy swerve through the crowd, air-kissing people as she went. I shrugged. “It was just as Lacy told you,” I said, hoping my answer would satisfy Inara and put the topic to rest. A line of long black cars drove up and distracted her.
    â€œThat must be the families of the dead,” Inara said.
    The crowd hushed. They pointed and whispered.
    The first limousine came to a stop by the door, the engine purring softly. Out of the back stepped Jonathan Holt, followed by his wife, a long black veil covering her face. The Prime Minister wore a black suit. His virtual skin was off-color. Almost gray. He took Lady Holt’s hand and led her to the cathedral’s entrance. Their heads were bowed. I hadn’t seen the Prime Minister since the night ofthe announcement. The look in his eyes then—and that of his son’s—was burned into my mind.
    The doors opened wide.
    Before entering, Jonathan Holt stopped. He stared up at the cut-glass windows, then lowered his gaze to the statues of government officials, one of which was in his likeness. His eyes lingered there, as though he wasn’t sure what to make of his presence carved in virtual stone. His attention shifted to Marcus and Eleanor, his parents. He walked over to them, studying their faces.
    â€œHow moving,” said a woman’s voice from the crowd. This was followed by giggling and more whispering.
    Without acknowledging the other guests, Jonathan Holt returned to his wife, and they disappeared inside. One by one, the rest of the grieving families emerged from the other cars. They were the only people who truly seemed to know the meaning of the occasion, who’d come to this event to pay their respects and say good-bye. The rest of the funeral goers wanted to ogle and whisper and be part of a spectacle, everyone laughing, as though sadness wasn’t an emotion they’d known in their lifetimes. When the last family entered, everyone else began to file in after them.
    Inara and I got in the slow-moving line. I searched for Mr. and Mrs. Sachs and caught sight of them just before they made it through the doors ahead. It seemed impossible that we would all fit inside this building. A womanwearing a gown made of black calla lilies was in front of us, the perfume of the flowers filling the atmosphere. The woman behind us reached a long, gloved hand between Inara and me, and tapped the other’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat App did you download for that dress?” she asked. “It’s lovely. So unique!”
    The woman turned, releasing even more of a flowery scent into the air. She smiled at her admirer. “My husband had it created special for today. It’s a Juniper Jones original.” She plucked a lily from her dress and handed it to the lady behind us. Its stem grazed my cheek. “These are mourning flowers. Isn’t that so apropos?”
    I resisted the urge to cover my nose. I thought I might choke on the smell.
    The woman buried her