Scarlett Fever

by Maureen Johnson

  “One sec,” she said, disappearing into what Scarlett presumed was her bedroom to change. It looked like there were two bedrooms in this apartment—one for Chelsea, and one for Chelsea’s mom.

  “Must be kind of hard,” Scarlett said. “All three of you in here.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” Chelsea emerged, dressed in a nearly identical set of exercise clothes. Scarlett had a feeling that if she looked through Chelsea’s drawers, she would find a dozen of these uniforms. “Max sleeps in here, which is why his stuff is everywhere. It’s a pain for him to be in the living room, but in a way, he has the most space.”

  She shrugged away his lack of privacy as if it simply could not be helped, and sat down next to Scarlett to put on her sneakers.

  “We’re supposed to be getting a bigger place sometime,” she said. “But we can’t afford it right now. Everything here is so insanely expensive! He didn’t want to move, and he doesn’t need to be here like I do. But my mom was obsessed with getting him into a school in Manhattan.”

  “We’re lab partners now. He sits next to me.”

  “Be careful,” Chelsea said. “He cheats.”

  “That’s what he said. I thought he was kidding.”

  “It’s true. He does. He’s really lazy, and he’ll try to get you to help him. Don’t let him take advantage. I’m not going to mind, trust me. I don’t even know why my mom dragged him to New York. He should have stayed at home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Binghamton. A few hours away. Our house is there, and my dad.”

  “Your parents are still married?” Scarlett asked. Scarlett had assumed that there was no Mr. Biggs, that Mrs. Biggs had divorced and taken her kids to the city. As soon as she said this, though, she realized that sounded kind of bad. But Chelsea just laughed.

  “Oh yeah. My parents are just…they’re fine. I don’t think it matters to them if they see each other very often. I think my dad likes having the house all to himself. We live on a golf course. He manages the place. He can just golf whenever he wants now. That’s like his dream.”

  Mrs. Biggs returned with a shopping bag and Max in tow. He looked absolutely appalled to see Scarlett in his living room. She would have warned him in advance, but he hadn’t shown for Bio that day, which had been a pleasant surprise. A totally Max-free day would have been better still, but life doesn’t give you everything you ask for.

  “Scarlett’s here for dinner,” Mrs. Biggs said.

  Max grunted what Scarlett assumed was some kind of insult and dropped his bag in the center of the room.

  “Not there, Max!” his mom called. “Someone will trip!”

  “Who?” he asked, kicking it aside.

  “I’m just making chicken and vegetables,” she said, ignoring this remark and addressing Scarlett. “I don’t like…weird food. I don’t like spices and things.”

  What Miranda Biggs didn’t like, it seemed, was flavor of any kind. She steamed some broccoli until it was anemic, piled some lettuce with no dressing, and plopped down a baked, dry chicken breast. This was served up at a tiny table really only made for two people. Max sat down at the table without bothering to remove the earbuds from his ears. Sound dribbled from his head.

  “I have some low-fat salad dressing spray,” Mrs. Biggs said. “Max, turn that off!”

  Max couldn’t hear her, on account of the earbuds. She pulled one of them loose. Then she reached around to the refrigerator without even getting up and retrieved a spray bottle of low-fat dressing, as promised.

  “Your brother went to the High School of Performing Arts, right?” Chelsea asked.

  “Right.”

  “But you don’t have the acting bug?”

  “No,” Scarlett said.

  “So what do you do?”

  Max was clearly paying some kind of attention, because Scarlett saw him looking over at her at this.

  “I…go to school…”

  She was answering this question like a five-year-old. I go to school. Genius. What else did she do? She tied her shoes. She liked kittens.

  “Yeah,” Chelsea said sympathetically, as if she knew this answer was exactly as pathetic as Scarlett feared. “You have to feel it. It has to be in you. And, you’re, you know, an agent. Or something.”

  Max let out an audible sigh, grabbed the salad dressing, and sprayed everything on his plate until it had a high sheen.

  “You need to be a special kind of person to be a star,” Mrs. Biggs said, slicing her chicken breast with a vigor usually reserved for the severing of human heads from still-struggling bodies. “It doesn’t just happen. It’s about talent, and it’s about focus. Chelsea’s been working toward her goal all her life. Sure, there are people who work just as hard, but if they don’t have the special something, then they aren’t going to make it. Chelsea has both.”

  Max’s eyes fluttered slightly closed.

  “Max is the academic one,” Mrs. Biggs said, remembering her other child at the table. “He gets by on just brains.”

  “And the blood of virgins…” he said, drifting into the conversation.

  “Don’t use that language at the table,” Mrs. Biggs snapped.

  “English?”

  Mrs. Biggs just looked up tiredly.

  “That’s not what Max gets by on,” Chelsea said under her breath.

  It was so strange being the outsider to all these little barbs and understandings. Scarlett suddenly had a lot of sympathy for people like…well, Eric and Chip…who had sat in the middle of six Martins at the dinner table and tried to keep up.

  “I have to get home,” she said, the moment Mrs. Biggs stood to yank the plates away. “But thanks…”

  “You should come again!” Chelsea said. “Anytime you want.”

  Just when Scarlett thought she’d made her escape and was halfway down the steps, she heard a creak above her. Max was following her down.

  “So,” he called down the stairwell, “you’re dating my sister now, huh? Or was that just you being a good lackey?”

  “My boss gave me fifty bucks,” Scarlett answered honestly. “Next time? I’m going to ask her for double.”

  For the first time, Scarlett heard Max laugh. If she had been guessing, she would have thought his laugh would sound like a mancackle, or something like the squawk of a dying bird. But it was a full, round sound. Not unlike an actor laugh—from the belly, full of voice. The largeness and humanness seemed to startle them both, and he turned and went back up.

  As Scarlett walked back to the Hopewell, she saw Spencer’s bike still leaning against the stop sign invitingly. Someone had put a half-eaten hamburger on the seat, but still, no one had made the effort to take it. Upstairs, it was very quiet. The pigeons were cooing and resting on the outside of Scarlett’s air conditioner, their tiny feet tapping on the metal. She looked through her homework list—three paragraphs of French, thirty-five Trigonometry problems, five chapters of Great Expectations to read, one chapter of Biology with six end-of-chapter questions to answer, and five articles on the government of Pakistan to find, digest, and summarize. She decided the articles were a good place to start, but once she got online, she ended up reading all of her messages and watching Eric’s commercial seven times, closing down the window after each viewing and telling herself that she would not reopen it. Then she would go looking for articles for five minutes, but find her mind dragging her back to the commercial for one more look.

  She slammed the computer shut and faced the silence. And in the silence, a question came. Another creeping question. The question the Biggses had put there: What was she going to do with her life? She’d never felt a pressing need to answer this question before now. She was fifteen. She wouldn’t have to choose a college or decide on a major for at least two more years. But still…there were classes to pick now. There were skills to pick up. Everyone else did things. It wasn’t just Chelsea who had trained since she was just a small cellular life-form. Almost all of her friends were developing some k
ind of special skill. And it wasn’t just a question of who she was and how much money they had—after all, Spencer had become an actor. Sure, he was just kind of born that way, but he had also taught himself many, many things. He always had a mission. Marlene had…well, cancer. But that had weirdly provided her with a social life and maybe some kind of perspective. And she was eleven, so who cared?

  The only other person who didn’t really seem to have a definite goal was…

  The door to the Orchid Suite flew open, and in came Lola, the very person she was thinking of.

  Except that Lola didn’t look like Lola. Her face was flushed and her eyes were narrowed. She was walking quickly, instead of her usual smooth, graceful step, and her back was hunched. It was like her entire body was trying to curl itself into a fist.

  “You okay?” Scarlett asked.

  Lola tore off her Bubble T-shirt and threw it at the end of her bed.

  “Fine,” she said, her jaw set.

  This was so obviously a lie that it didn’t need to be said. Scarlett just kept looking at her until she decided to explain.

  “Do you remember Boonz?” Lola finally said.

  “Chip’s friend?”

  “Well, she’s one of his friend’s girlfriends. He doesn’t like her. Boonz was the one who made fun of me about the dress.”

  “Oh,” Scarlett said, nodding quickly. “Her.”

  Chip had given Lola a beautiful Dior dress. It was a dress Lola had seen in the window of Bergdorf’s and coveted deeply, but never even imagined owning. Lola wore the dress everywhere, to everything. It was the best article of clothing she had ever owned—was ever likely to own—and she maintained it with the zeal of a curator. It was her favorite thing until Chip’s friend Boonz made a snide comment about the repetitive wearings, questioning whether or not Lola owned any other clothes. The weight of dealing with much wealthier people must have been pressing on Lola for some time, though she had never really shown it. But when Boonz did that, something inside of Lola snapped. She ran away from the party and from Chip, escaping from society types and a competition she could never win.

  “I guess I thought that stuff was over,” Lola said. “Chip’s up in Boston in school. He doesn’t see a lot of these people anymore. But she came into the spa this afternoon, she and some other girl. I was restocking some shelves. They followed me around, asking me stupid questions about the products. It was all just to mock me for working there. I even lost a sale, a big sale, because they wouldn’t leave me alone. You can’t get away when you work there.”

  Her humiliation was so clear, Scarlett couldn’t think of anything that would make it better.

  “Sorry,” Scarlett said.

  “It’s fine,” Lola said. But she didn’t look fine. She reached to her dresser for a shirt. The drawer stuck. She jiggled it once, but it only gave another inch or two. She rattled it even harder until Scarlett heard a tiny crack and the drawer stopped moving completely.

  “It’s their problem, not yours,” Scarlett said. “There’s nothing weird about having a job.”

  Scarlett knew this was a pointless thing to say. It was true, but it was pointless.

  “They make it my problem!” Lola yelled. “I can’t get away from them. How do they make me feel so bad…about everything? Everything in my life?”

  She tried to squeeze her hand into the opening to get a shirt, but she obviously couldn’t reach. She grabbed the drawer on either side and pulled it hard.

  “Damn it!” Lola mumbled. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  Each word increased in volume and brought a more fervent shake and pull. The entire front piece of the drawer came off in Lola’s hands, leaving the contents exposed. Lola dropped it in disgust, reached into the naked, half-extended shelf and yanked the first shirt from the stack. She sat on the end of her bed and looked at the hole she had just created. It was all too symbolic.

  Demo version limitation

  ACT III

  NEW YORK MOURNS SONNY

  The New York Bulletin

  Last night, television history was made when Detective Sonny Lavinski (played by Donald Purchase) was shot dead on the season premiere of police drama Crime and Punishment. Lavinski’s death came as a major surprise to millions of viewers who had tuned in for the start of Lavinski’s 16th season. What began as a fairly ordinary case involving the murder of an NYU student ended with a shooting at the foot of the courthouse steps, with Lavinski dying in the arms of his partner, Mike Benzo.

  Reaction across the city, the country, and the Internet was immediate. News of Lavinski’s murder trumped coverage of real-life murders, instantly becoming one of the top news stories. The headline rippled across news tickers around Manhattan, causing crowds of people in Times Square to stop and point. The Crime and Punishment online fan site, which boasts more than two hundred thousand members, immediately crashed.

  Sources from the set report that Lavinski’s departure was long in planning, and that much work had gone into keeping the story line under wraps.

  “It was just time,” said one staff writer who asked to go unnamed. “Donald’s been great to work with. We were all crushed when he said he had to go. He didn’t want it dragged out. He said that would hurt the fans who were really attached to his character. He wanted it to be quick. So that’s how we wrote it.”

  Lavinski’s killer, David Frieze, is played by cast newcomer Spencer Martin, 19.

  “Yeah,” another on-set source confirmed, “that story line is going to be a big part of this season. David Frieze is the new baddie on the street.”

  Over five hundred dedicated fans had an impromptu candlelight vigil on the steps of the New York Supreme Court, where the death scene was shot.

  “I can’t stop crying,” said Felicia Wills of Brooklyn, as she placed a bouquet of flowers on the steps where Lavinski fell. “It’s never going to be the same without Sonny.”

  Andrew Walsh of Manhattan said he was riding by on his bike when he saw the gathering and asked what happened.

  “I was recording the show,” he said. “I was about to go home and watch it. I never thought they’d kill Sonny Lavinski. That’s like…killing television. I’m in shock. I’m honestly in shock.”

  A larger, more organized event in Central Park is to follow on Saturday.

  THE LOVE OF THE MASSES

  The next morning, when Scarlett emerged from her room, she was struck by the sight of Spencer coming out of the bathroom wearing white pants and a white shirt. It was the whitest outfit she had ever seen, broken only by a sliver of dark silver tie.

  “Is it Dress Like a Kentucky Colonel Day?” she asked. “I always forget to mark it on my calendar.”

  Spencer straightened his tie.

  “I kind of wanted to get dressed up today, but my only dress pants are my work ones and these. And my good suit, but I didn’t feel like wearing that. They’re nice, right? They’re really nice pants. I should wear them more often.”

  “They’re nice,” Scarlett conceded, taking a good look at them as they walked down the hall. “But they do look a little…musical-ish.”

  “That’s because they are musical-ish,” he said, pushing the elevator button, which stuck and clacked back out again. “They were part of my costume for The Music Man. I swiped them from the costume room when the show was over. I have the jacket, too, but it doesn’t fit right. The arms are too short. Here, read this.”

  He pulled a copy of the New York Bulletin out of his messenger bag and passed it to Scarlett. It was already folded open to a page, and he tapped on an article.

  “They’re already lying about it,” he said. “I am already spinning in the spin machine.”

  “Why are they saying it was planned?” she asked, scanning the article. “I don’t get it. You said he walked off.”

  “Because it sounds better than, ‘Bitter, greedy, slightly drunk guy leaves set with no warning after fifteen years.’ Did you see the part about ‘cast newcomer Spencer Martin’? That’
s my favorite part. That’s the part where the article really shines. I’m the new baddie on the street!”

  The arrow above the elevator pointed to five, and the doors creaked open. Spencer reached over and opened the gate for Scarlett.

  “I’m feeling generous this morning,” he said. “I feel like treating my favorite sister to an iced coffee.”

  “You still killed Sonny,” Scarlett said. “You can’t just buy me off with cold caffeine.”

  “Did I mention that I’d also treat you to a cab ride to school?”

  “It’s important to forgive,” Scarlett said. “Are you always going to be like this? I like this new you. The old one was okay, but this one is better.”

  “As long as I’m a fancy, rich television star.”

  Spencer yanked the gate shut, and the inner doors squawked closed.

  “You seem calmer today,” she observed.

  He shrugged, dismissing the panic of the day before.

  “You know,” he said, “the more I think about it, the more I’m glad I killed that guy. I’d do it again.”

  Scarlett smacked him playfully. Rather than reply, he threw himself back against the sunburst and slid down to the elevator floor. The door opened at that moment and the German couple staying in the Sterling Suite looked at him in bafflement. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t immediately notice. Scarlett kicked his foot, and he looked up.

  “Sorry,” he said, getting up and stumbling slightly as he exited the elevator. “I have this inner ear thing and I lose my balance…”

  He swayed a bit as he held the gate for Scarlett to exit and the couple to enter. They looked concerned, and a little scared.

  “It’ll pass,” he said as the elevator door slowly closed on them. “It always does. Have a good day!”

  “They don’t speak English,” Lola said from behind the front desk. “Could you not freak them out by pretending to be dead in public spaces?”

  “You can’t be mad at me today, Lo,” he said, leaning over the desk. “Your heart is filled with Spencerlove.”