Every ounce of blood inside me leaked free. I was nothing but skin, bones, my body as wrinkled and flat as a discarded pillowcase. “You know my last name,” I said.
“What did I say?”
“Marist,” I said.
“Isn’t that it?”
Her condescension enraged me. I no longer felt small; I felt used and derided, feelings I’d felt throughout our friendship—though it was never a friendship. “We worked together for three years,” I said. “You know my name.”
“I’m sorry I misremembered your name,” she said. “Remind me: What is it?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“How childish, Sasha. We don’t deserve help if we’re unwilling to help.”
“I’m not going to tell you,” I said. “I want you to say it.”
“Clearly, Sasha, the stress of everything is getting to you. And I understand. I really do.”
“I know that you know it.”
“Of course I don’t understand personally. It’s nothing I’ve gone through. But I sympathize with you and your plight. That’s why I’m so happy you’re working for Roger. This is such a perfect fit for you. You’ll thrive outside of the spotlight. The pressure buckles you when you’re at the center. I say that without any judgment. The center isn’t for everyone. Life in the center is hard. I’m barely surviving. I am so happy you found a place where you can be valued for the journey you’re on.”
“You’re nothing without your little thimble of fame,” I said. “I pity you.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your places came over the loudspeaker.
Cassandra kissed my cheeks. “I love you,” she said, then leaned to my ear and whispered, “Remember: Your future is riding on this. This time, don’t fuck it up.”
María waved from the tables onstage. Cassandra’s comments had put me in a morose trance. I followed the movements of her hand as if dragged by a tractor beam.
Roger, María, and I stood at a table left of the podium, with Roger closest to it and María between us. On the other side stood Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, and a former president (a bad one). They opened the ceremony with timbered speeches praising Roger’s “revolutionary technology.” I gazed into my clutch, refreshing my phone, hoping to find a message from Dyson—for any distraction from this evening.
Roger stepped to the podium. He opened by thanking his guests. He thanked donors. He thanked his employees, name by name, even the ticket takers at the DAM movie theater. “When I started DAM,” he said, “my goal was to create a safer online community. A place where my friends and family and, knock on wood, children would never have to fear the threat of online harassment. And with your help, we’ve created that place. A place that’s not only safe for people like me and our employees, but safe for people like you. Safe for people like Sasha Marcus, a visionary influencer whose career was tragically cut short by a slip of the thumb.”
Behind him, an enormous screen descended from the ceiling. The lights were respectfully dimmed. A montage tracking Lucas Devry’s death played over a somber piano melody.
“But DAM can help us prevent such tragedies,” Roger said.
The commercial premiered. My fifty-foot hands typed a response to Lucas Devry. I brought one hand to my face, quietly trying to hide. Applause cascaded through the room. The guests marveled at the alternate world promised by DAM. In that world, I wasn’t onstage. I stood among them applauding some other pariah demolished by public humiliation.
Roger said, “A toast to Sasha.” Everyone lifted their glasses. “Sasha has brought honor, grace, courage, and dignity to DAM. DAM was created because people like Sasha deserve to save themselves from themselves. They deserve what you deserve: Preventative Atonement.”
I stood—and the applause intensified. María clutched my hand, shook her head no. It wasn’t yet time for me to deliver my speech. But I was angry at Roger for casting me in such a demeaning role. I felt humiliated, upset with myself for agreeing to come here. I would have been better off at The Atmosphere. At least there I had some agency. There, I was Sasha. A leader of sorts. Here, I was a prop in DAM’s ad campaign. I was Sasha Marist—at once special and interchangeable—merely a mannequin in a display window.
I joined Roger at the podium.
“Here she is to say a few words.” Roger gestured for the crowd to keep clapping.
The applause eventually diminished.
I said, “There’s something very important you should know: Roger hates you. Every one of you. He thinks you’re dullards and cowards, all you demented investors, you failed celebrities, the C-list influencers who live off the self-doubt of your clients. You mean nothing to Roger.”
He lunged for the microphone: “Let’s give it up for Sasha!”
I tugged the microphone back.
He stepped away to avoid a confrontation.
“I don’t blame him for hating you,” I said. “Because I hate you, too. I hate that you’re funding a way to insulate yourselves from your worst instincts. You’re not saving yourselves. You’re avoiding yourselves. And I’m happy Roger made me the spokeswoman for DAM. Because if I’m here, then I’m not out there with you, hated by someone like me and by everyone who works for the company you think will protect you. I’m here to tell you, though, that nothing will ever protect you.”
Their applause grew even louder, more manic and charged. The only thing these donors liked more than being praised was being held accountable. These were people who never spoke without checking their privilege. They loved me for telling them they deserved to feel guilty.
“I have been to a place where people are committed to changing the world. I have seen men saved from their worst instincts by the beauty of nature and companionship. I have seen genuine expressions of love made by people who couldn’t care less about profit. I have seen men sacrifice their lives to protect a cause they believe in. I have seen the childless parent the
