youthjuice

Chapter 1

We bathed in their blood to stay young. Slick, fatty liquid kept us alight in our wild beauty. Their blood was the fountain of youth, burbling through our very own veins. Platelets are the secret to radiance. The key to a brighter complexion. Blood, with the fortifying run of an egg yolk’s slow drip, is the opposite of tech. It’s messy, never sterile.
     To care for one’s skin is a learned art. Tree famously wore sunscreen every day from age five onward. First applied by her mother before Tree picked up the mantle of self-care when she turned twelve. She was the master and I her apprentice. The world is one assault on the face after another. The bloodbath was all we could do to survive.
An email. Ghostly at the top of my empty inbox. It’s from Marigold Vreeland, Assistant to the Founder and CEO. Tree will see you in the subject line. The body is blank.
     Tree Whitestone’s office is at the end of a long hall. I shake the wrinkles from my first-day skirt. Japanese designer with a complex system of pleats. Borrowed from Dom. I bury my gloved hands into the pockets, posture lifted, and head for the frosted glass door. Stationed out front at a kidney-shaped obsidian desk is Marigold, her hair a center-parted bob swishing on either side of her freckled face like the panels in a car wash. She works her flat lips into a mirthless grimace. No teeth.
     “Hi, I’m—”
     “The new Creative,” she finishes. “Welcome. I’m Marigold, Tree’s assistant. You’ll work with me to schedule appointments with the founder and CEO.”
     She extends an arm. I shove my right hand, sheathed in flimsy lace frayed at the seams, into hers and we shake. Marigold pumps with a propeller’s force. “You may go in.”
     A Lucite desk, the transparent mirror of Marigold’s, is the centerpiece of the room. Through it I see Tree’s cigarette trousers tapered to crossed ankles, the impressive bend of her knees, which are pressed together, calves set neatly to the side like a ballet dancer in repose. Her eyes are closed, the wall behind her splashed with old campaign imagery. Light spills through the tall windows. A quiet bell chimes.
     I take a tentative step and clear my throat.
     Tree’s eyelids unfurl like electronic window shades. She stares and stares and then—she smiles. She says, “Soph.” As if she has been waiting decades to hold my name in her mouth. “Please. Sit down.”
     Tree gestures to a pink velvet settee and moves over to a beverage dispenser on a rattan table in the corner. I sit on the couch, taking in the room: the collaged photos of dew-soaked women behind the desk, the faux-bohemian accents, the product prototypes with naked, malformed packaging spread on a teak and gold tray. I must be one of the first in the world to see them.
     Beside the desk is a library cart with two rows of books, the spines battered. Some are old. Binding peeling away from the pages. I can’t read the titles from this distance.
     Tree’s narrow torso blocks my view as she hands me a glass of lemon water and rests on the opposite domed cushion. “Soph,” she says again. No one has ever felt the need to shorten Sophia before. “Welcome.”
     I balance the glass on my knee. The gloves affect my grip so that I’m often on the verge of dropping something. Richard, my boyfriend, calls me butterfingers. Inside my left pocket, my index nail worries a dent in the thumb’s knuckle. The urge to bite is strong. I rub the uneven ridge through the glove’s lace weave.
     “I’m so happy to be here,” I say. “This is my dream job.”
     “You’re already a vital member of our team,” Tree replies. “You’ve been given a computer? And the products? Everything you need?”
     “Yes, thank you.”
     Tree waves. “No need to thank me, I have moisturizer coming out of my ears. And everywhere else.” She winks.
     I blush and force an echoey laugh. She is, indeed, incredibly moisturized. Her forehead flashes, a boom light. Her shoulders glimmer in her sleeveless top. I feel it coming off of her in waves, a hissing mist. Tree laughs heartily, from the gut. She laughs and laughs. Slaps a knee.
     I sit there, smile frozen, an ache burning my cheeks, clutching the glass.
     Her white-blond hair, parted down the middle, grazes her shoulders as she shakes her head. “Loosen up. Beauty is fun. That’s one of HEBE’s guiding principles.”
     Hebe. The Greek goddess of youth. Serving ambrosia to the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus.
     I laugh, softening into it, and settle farther into the couch’s embrace. I’m suddenly tired; I could nap. I touch the water glass to my inner wrist, hoping for a jolt, but it’s lukewarm.
     “Let’s talk business for a sec. Your first major project will be next Wednesday; Gem will fill you in on the details, but we have a shoot for a new launch. And please, come out for drinks with us tonight! My treat.”
     Gem is Gemma. HEBE’s Lead Storyteller, my boss. She hates the word boss, Tree said in our final interview. I do too. It’s so masculine. Call me your True North. She plucked the final word from the air with a finger curl.
     “I would love to, but—”
     She cuts me off. “Ah, time for my next appointment. Take your time settling in. The real work starts soon!”
     I’m nodding, hard. Picturing my head rolling off my neck. I see it plunging onto the creamy rug, dripping the wrong pink for the color scheme. There’s a light knock and we both turn toward Marigold’s spooky face pressed to the door, summoning me.
     It isn’t until I’m back at my desk that I realize I’m still holding the glass of water, tight enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t break.