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“Isn’t it so amazing,” Christine said, staring at the television, “what they can do with their bodies? All that beauty and

grace?”

They were sitting in Persephone’s living room, Christine kneeling before Persephone’s feet, polishing her toes, and a commercial

for the Los Angeles Ballet was running.

Persephone could feel the bitterness, the self-pity, the fight-or-flight adrenaline churning in her stomach. She tried to

ignore it—all the its : the commercial, the physical response, the memories of being onstage, her mother’s intrusive directives interspersed with

shouts of encouragement, the great big What Could Have Been.

That teacher just told me you’re the kind of natural talent an instructor works with maybe once in their life , her mother said after class as they walked through the strip mall parking lot.

Christine turned to Persephone. “We should go one day.”

You’ve found your thing, baby.

Persephone tried to sound nonchalant. “I didn’t think you were into ballet.”

“I’m not,” Christine said, shrugging. “But you know I’m all for new things. We should go.”

The world is going to see you shine! Persephone’s mother reached out and hugged her harder than she ever had, and Persephone had been chasing that embrace ever

since, until finally she convinced herself that she didn’t need it anymore.

“It’s not my thing,” said Persephone.

If Ruben was right and John might become a solid ghost, John wouldn’t need her anymore. He said he wanted to go home, but

what if he liked being solid, being A-list? He wouldn’t need her, after all. Always thinking of yourself. She felt she should be prepared to feel happy if John became solid and liked it, but all she felt was frustrated that her

plan would be up in smoke before it had a chance to take off. What kind of person thought like that? The kind of person who

didn’t care that there were people who got hurt on her way to the top. Parker...

“So,” Persephone said, “you ready for Vancouver?”

Christine smiled that embarrassed smile she’d had ever since giving Persephone the news a couple of days ago, news that Christine

had been holding for over a month.

“I’m fine,” Persephone said. “One of us had to land that big gig first, right? Only makes sense the better actress did.”

“Don’t say that. You’re good.” There was a hitch in Christine’s voice.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Persephone found herself holding her breath, uncomfortably expectant. “What?”

“Have you watched those tapes? Those acting lectures Umed wanted you to watch?”

“I’ve been, you know, busy.”

“You don’t want it enough,” Christine blurted.

“I do.”

Christine sighed. “I know you want it. I just don’t think you want it enough . You know how hard it is for women of color? Like, how many Asian leading actresses do you see—in the big shows and films,

I mean. Black? Indian? Especially dark-skinned ones?”

“So what, you read a book and now you’re going on the lecture circuit?”

“I heard some actors talking. I never gave it any real thought before because, I mean, as a white girl, I never had to.”

“Well, I have.” But of course she had no right to be upset at Christine for not understanding.

Christine opened her mouth but closed it. And then: “OK.”

Persephone leaned back into her chair. OK. They sat mired in silence until Persephone exhaled. “It’s just, I haven’t had time.”

“Seph, I’ve watched them twice. It’s what Delia says to us all the time. You have to really want it.”

“I get it—you’re so gifted and dedicated and you’re going to be on a huge show.” Christine had a recurring role on a hit Netflix

psychological thriller. “Why do you have to rub it in?”

Christine looked hurt, and part of Persephone, the part that was buoyed by indignation, found satisfaction in this, but the

part of her that never wanted to injure anyone just wished Christine looked angry instead. Also, she hated being that friend. “I’m sorry. You deserve it. I’m proud of you.”

Christine pulled Persephone into a bear hug. “I know you are.”

“And thanks for doing my nails. Every time I look at them I’ll think of you. But hey, we should get you out of here if you’re

going to catch your flight.”

“You just can’t wait for me to leave so you can have Bianca all to yourself.”

“Who told you?” said Persephone. It was generous of Christine to let Persephone use her Cadillac until she returned from Vancouver,

which wasn’t going to be for weeks, and even then, for just a few days.

A text from William came in, and after Persephone read it her heart did a series of soubresauts.

Christine hurried over. “What is it?”

Persephone held up her phone.

“Wait, I can’t read it when you’re moving all—oh my god! Seriously?”

Persephone reread the message: Upcoming media day is going to be at the Peninsula. Also, Hannah’s pitching you to Interview magazine... for a pairing

with Rihanna.

She typed back, Sweet baby Jesuusssssss with crossed fingers to which William replied Contain thyself. Not confirmed. followed by a couple of screaming emojis.

Several more screams and hugs later, after Christine’s suitcase was loaded into the trunk of a chauffeured SUV and Persephone

waved her friend off, she came inside, still riding the high from William’s messages.

Her cellphone rang and she crossed the room in a hurry, eager to hear any new details about her upcoming press. But when she

lifted her phone from the kitchen counter her stomach sank.

He hadn’t texted in nearly half a year. But there it was, Parker’s message glowing on her locked screen:

We need to talk.

2

John sat with Hannah at a table surrounded by True executives. True Inc. had agreed to sponsor a search for John’s friends

and family. All John had to do was endorse their True Water brand, align it with his transcendence , and wait for anyone from his past to make themselves known. Everyone stared at the glass water bottle set before them. The

bottle was beyond simple, nearly sterile, with nothing but true written down one side in thin, white lowercase.

“Strip away labels, preconceptions, and we get to the essence of us. We get to our spirit, to the truth. True. The essence of you, ” said the bright-eyed executive, a young white woman who was head of the Urban Marketing department, which was all white

save for one East Asian woman. The department head laughed sheepishly.

Could it be she was a little embarrassed? John was dead and even he thought it sounded cringingly New Age.

“And these,” she added, placing on the table a tray of black rubber bracelets, “are just a sample of some swag we’ve created.

What Would John Do?”

Hannah turned a bracelet over between her fingers and held it out for John to see: wwjd in graffiti type. There was even faux paint dripping from the J .

The executive looked nervously pleased.

“I don’t know what about me screams graffiti ,” John said. “Perhaps I should be relieved the bracelet isn’t a graffiti and kente cloth combo?” Then he remembered Hannah

saying something about sitting, smiling, and listening. He smiled.

“Still in the ideas phase!” chirped the executive, come back to life and adding with an edgy laugh, “We’re still brainstorming.”

The team explained to John that the search would launch via social media, and that John would make another announcement on

Lee Kingston’s show. As there would be no way to DNA-test John, testing alleged relations would be useless; they’d instead

rely on personal statements and two rounds of lie detector tests, as well as background checks and interviews with family,

friends, and coworkers.

It would be, by all measures, a highly unscientific process.

A shard of light beamed in from the window and lit the bottle up so that it looked like a shining crystal. Circling the very

bottom were recycling rates and a barely perceptible logo. But there was another: a triangle encircled by a single ring, similar

to Saturn and its rings.

John had seen it before.

More than that, it had meant something to him.

He reached for the bottle and curled his fingers around the glass. Slick and cool. He lifted his hand. The bottle was heavier

than he’d—

Heavy.

John dropped the bottle, which clunked onto the conference table and rolled to a stop against one of the executives’ notebooks.

“I was told,” said the president of Starboard Food and Beverages Inc., “that you couldn’t hold the bottle in the commercial—in

the event we do this and there is a commercial.” He looked at Hannah accusatorially.

Hannah stood. “John?”

They exited the main office and he said excitedly, “The logo. The triangle with the ring. What does it represent?”

“Northstar Group. The conglomerate that owns Starboard Food and Beverage. Why?”

John knew Starboard was True’s parent company, but Northstar didn’t sound familiar.

“John, what the hell was that? Grabbing the bottle?”

“I don’t know.”

She stepped closer and lowered her voice.

“I have to know everything . They don’t want you smiling into the camera holding the goddamned water—you’re a ghost .

You’re dead . You holding anything messes with the perception.

Look, if the message isn’t clear, if people don’t understand who you are. ..”

The narrative, the narrative; for Hannah it was always the story.

She crossed her arms. “I thought you couldn’t do stuff like that.”

“I couldn’t.”

“But now you can.”

“Apparently these days.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“I’m just being me.” He opened his arms. “He who’s come to save us all.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I’ve got a lot on my shoulders. The world and all.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Is that what this is? This lecture? You don’t own me, Hannah.”

She blinked.

And then he caught the double meaning. He hadn’t meant it that way, but it wouldn’t hurt that she understood that, as well.

Her mouth drew tight. “Let me do my job.”

He held her gaze. “And let me do mine.”

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