“Sparklefroth, French chocolate cake, and bubble rides, as the sun goes down on the twelfth year of Ms. Abigail Danforth’s life!” cries the Clockwork waiter. “And happy day, your guests are all here, even—” But no one hears the last part of his statement.

Chip’s head spins on his neck, 360 degrees, around and around, and at the same time he emits a piercing bottle-rocket whistle. Red, white, and blue sparks crackle and fly from his ears. A Wurlitzer organ plays the opening chords of “Happy Birthday” from inside his chest at a staggering volume.

Iris lifts her glass like she belongs and shouts, “Happy birthday!”

The kids shriek “Happy birthday!” and rush to collect flutes of Sparklefroth, while the sparks pouring from Chip’s ears turn to cotton-candy clouds of pink and purple smoke. The girls sing. The room echoes with their gay noise. When the song is over, they erupt into gales of laughter and gulp Sparklefroth. Iris drinks with them. Her eyes widen. Her blond hair begins to lift and float around her head with electrical charge.

“Whoa,” she says, and reaches for Chip’s arm to steady herself.

A blue pop of electricity flies from her fingers. She twitches in surprise. Then, experimentally, she snaps her fingers. Another blue spark.

The party girls are zapping each other, provoking screams of hilarity and shock. The room is full of dazzle, flashing lights, loud crackling noises. It looks like Chinese New Year. Iris’s presence has already been forgotten. The Clockwork waiter believes she belongs, while the partygoers accept her as someone who just happened to be there when the celebration began, nothing more.

“I’m electric,” Iris says to Chip, her eyes wondering.

“Welcome to the club,” he tells her.

8.

As the Sparklefroth begins to wear off, Iris turns from the crowd of girls to watch the sun slip out of the sky. The low-voltage drink has left her frizzy-haired and frazzled, keyed up in a way that is not entirely pleasant. It’s the little girls in their Hideware. “Pampered bitches” is the phrase that comes to mind. Who buys thousand-token new faces for children?

The Hideware is a delicate, transparent mask that disappears when it adheres to the skin. New faces have moods, not features, and a person sees his or her own psychological projections. The birthday girl wears Girl-Next-Door. Iris knows it, because at one glimpse of her slightly upturned nose and her wry, knowing eyes, Iris felt almost overwhelmed by a desire to ask her something about sports. There’s a girl in Celebrity, another wearing Copy-My-Homework, a Tell-Me-Anything, a Zen Sunrise. If Celebrity comes over to her, Iris will probably ask her to autograph her boob. The great pleasure of Hideware is the opportunities it gives you to humiliate others.

“Do you see them all? In their awful new faces?”

“Why awful?” Chip asks.