by Nancy Kress
At the same moment Violet said, “Here we go, One Two Three,” and yanked Amy hard. Violet, eight inches taller than Amy, was strong. Amy was pulled to her feet.
“Stop!” she cried, but Violet launched both of them forward, straight into the nearest gunman, who went down under the girls’ combined weight. He didn’t fire but instead said mildly, “Hey!”
No no no, robbers didn’t behave like this! This was—
And then the phantom in her mind: the empty box again, holding nothing.
“That’s enough,” Myra Townsend’s voice called loudly. “Thank you, everybody.”
The gunman untangled himself from Violet and Amy, rubbing his elbow. Men pulled off black hoods. The dead mother rose from the floor and hit a switch on the baby doll, which stopped screaming. The dead guard rose, seized his handcart, and wheeled it away. People brushed off their clothes, chatting and shooting amused glances around the lobby. And Amy rushed over to Myra Townsend, grabbed her gray Jil Sander, and screamed in her face, “You tell me what’s going on and you do it this very minute!”
“Really, Amy,” Ms. Townsend said, freeing her sleeve from Amy’s clutch, “why don’t you already know? Everybody else does.”
Violet Sanderson pulled Amy away. “Come here. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what!” The “second interview” had been bad enough; Amy had never been this furious in her entire life. Her stomach acids boiled, her chest was about to explode. One more word from Myra Townsend and she would slug her.
Violet said softly, “Look around you, One Two Three.”
People were crossing the lobby toward them: the blonde girl who had “saved” the baby, now looking smug. The boy who had assaulted the “robber.” Two more boys and another girl. The real TLN security guards, some looking pleased and some sulky, resumed what Amy guessed were their normal positions.
Ms. Townsend said, “Follow me, everyone,” and set off briskly toward the elevators.
Violet said, “It was a setup, One Two Three. We were being filmed.”
Well, Amy had figured out that much! She snapped, “I didn’t see any cameras!”
“And you never will. The latest microcams are super-small. Come on!”
Ms. Townsend led them to a small conference room on the second floor. Amy recognized the bald man who was waiting there: he had interviewed her the first time. Everyone sat around a polished wooden table. Ms. Townsend, looking harried, excused herself: “I’m needed in editing.”
“I’m Alex Everett,” the bald man said. “Before we do the rest of the introductions, let me explain for those of you who still don’t understand what you’re doing here.” He winked at Amy, who kept her face as blank as she could manage. “You lucky seven have been chosen from hundreds of applicants for Taunton Life Network’s newest show, Who Knows People, Baby—You? Myra Townsend and I are the producers, and this is how the show works.”
As he explained, Amy seethed. So the dog in the tree had been a setup and she’d been filmed. The “robbery” in the lobby. The “rats” outside the doctor’s office—which she had believed were a legitimate student-film project. She had been played, and she didn’t like it one bit.
And what kind of lame title was Who Knows People, Baby? Give me a break!
Had everyone else figured out what was going on? Obviously Violet had, and the blonde, and the boy who had attacked the guard. Also, from her knowing expression, the small girl with the sharp-featured face. But not the other two boys. At least she wasn’t alone.
Not that it helped. She’d been made to look like a fool. She interrupted Alex, who was now explaining how viewers could vote on a slate of the “players’ possible responses to each scenario.” Amy wasn’t playing.
“I quit,” she said loudly.
Everyone’s head swiveled to look at her.
“You lied to me, and you filmed me without my consent, and I’m not even sure that’s legal!”
“Actually,” Alex said, “no one lied. You were deliberately not told the details of the job you accepted until we had completed the first few scenarios. That some people guessed when you did not perhaps means that they are more sophisticated about television. Nor did we do anything illegal. You gave your consent to film you in the contract you signed.”
All those papers thrust in front of her: Sign here, initial here, sign here . . . All those lawyers. And she’d been too elated at the prospect of a good paycheck and full medical benefits to read anything. Medical benefits . . . Gran . . .
“Of course,” Alex said, watching Amy closely, “you’re free to quit if you choose. This is a job, not serfdom. There is a long waiting list of girls ready to take your place. But then we’ll expect repayment of the advance you’ve received.”
Mrs. Raduski’s rent. Gran.
Violet, in the chair beside her, found Amy’s hand and squeezed it.
Amy choked out, “I’ll stay.”
“Good,” Alex said, “we’re happy to have you. Now, the next important thing—none of you are allowed to blog about the show, or Tweet about it, or post anything about it on Facebook or anywhere else on the Internet until Myra and I give you the go-ahead. That’s in your contracts, and we mean it. You can send private e-mails, messages, or Tweets to your family about your participation, but nothing public. Doing so will result in not only dismissal from the show but legal action. Everybody understand?”
Everybody did. Alex finished explaining the show, adding that the first episodes would air very soon as a replacement for a show that had been abruptly canceled.
Until then, Amy realized, she would never know whether anything that happened outside of her apartment was real or not. Well, she would just spend a lot of time in her apartment! Unless—
“Can you film us in our homes?”
“No, of course not,” Alex said.
“Will we come to work here each day?”
“Yes, and your hours here are eight thirty to six, with an hour for lunch, which is free to you in the company cafeteria. You’ll be doing a variety of tasks, including previewing new TV shows, testing computer games from our games division, even assisting on the sets of different programs. It’s great training for anyone wanting a career in TV, or a spectacular assist to your résumés.”
Violet said, “I was promised a spot in the chorus line of Dance Dance Dance.”
“With one guaranteed appearance on air, I know,” Alex said. “You’ll get it, after this show has filmed all its episodes. You’ll all get whatever you were promised in your contracts. Now, let’s introduce ourselves. Lynn? Tell us a little about yourself.”
The small, sharp-faced girl to Alex’s left said, “Well, I’m Lynn Demaris; I’m eighteen years old. I just graduated in December from a full-form high school, and I want a career in TV production. That’s why I’m here. And I’m grateful for the opportunity, Alex.” She smiled, eyes downcast as if overcome with gratitude.
The abrupt phantom in Amy’s mind astonished her: the same empty box that had appeared twice before. But about this girl—what did it mean? Lynn Demaris, dressed in undistinguished jeans and sweater, had nondescript features and brown hair that would frizz at the first hint of dampness. She looked completely ordinary.
Alex prompted, “And do you have any hobbies, Lynn?”
“Playing computer games. And I’m good.”
A few laughs and smiles around the table; everyone was relaxing except Amy. Alex said, “Waverly?”
The blonde who had thrown herself on the doll gave them a practiced smile. She wore clothes that Amy thought of as “punk socialite”—expensive jeans, silk top artfully sewn in ragged layers, and the Louboutin red-heeled sandals. Her spiked jewelry, including a nose ring, said trendy and her perfect teeth said money. “I’m Waverly Balter-Wells. I’m seventeen and I’m an actress. This is my first big break, but it won’t be my last. I hold a brown belt in karate and I enjoy golf and racing my parents’ sailboats.”
“La di da,” Violet whispered to A
my.
Amy had to lean forward and crane her neck to see the next speaker, mostly hidden by the huge bulk of another boy. The moment she glimpsed him she knew two things: that he was the one who had assaulted the fake criminal in the lobby, and that he was the most gorgeous person she had ever seen.
“I’m Cai Marsh,” he said.
His thick black hair fell over his forehead; instantly Amy wanted to run her hands through it. Pale brown skin like warm sand. Eyes like pieces of blue sky. Full red mouth. Amy felt her body grow taut and she crossed her arms across her chest. No no no. This job was complicated enough without any stupid yearning for a boy who would never look at her.
“I’m eighteen, half Hawaiian and half Welsh, which is where I get such a weird name. ‘Cai’ means ‘full of color’ in Chinese and ‘rejoice’ in Welsh. I surf, or at least I did when we lived in Hawaii. I have no idea what I want to do for a living eventually, and I didn’t know what I would be doing here until the dog-in-a-tree thing Thursday night. But I’m really glad to meet you all.”
Oh, God, he sounded as if he meant it. Nice as well as hot. Amy deliberately looked away from him.
“I’m Violet Sanderson, a dancer. I trained with the Caroline Mallard Company for six years. I’m eighteen, and with dance class every day and now this job, I don’t have time for any other hobbies. Although I do like shopping.”
Waverly rolled her eyes. She and Violet seemed to have taken a dislike to each other on sight.
Next to speak was the thin, brown-haired boy whom Amy had glimpsed at her callback audition. “Rafael Torres—Rafe,” he said flatly. “I’m here for the money.”
Amy looked at him more closely, both liking and surprised at his bald honesty. He said, “I’m sixteen. I work a crappy job, or I did until now, doesn’t matter what it was. I’m interested in politics and science. Someday I’m going to med school and becoming a doctor, and after that I’m going to solve the Riemann conjecture.”
Everyone looked puzzled. Apparently only Amy knew that the Riemann conjecture was math’s holy grail, a problem the best mathematical minds in the world had not been able to solve in over a hundred and fifty years. Rafael Torres was very smart, and either he was very arrogant or his brusqueness covered up massive insecurity. There was a little silence.
“Tommy?” Alex prompted.
The tall boy sitting next to Amy blinked twice. Slowly, as if dragging the words from memory, he said, “My name is Tommy Wimmer. I’m eighteen. My address is 643 Sycamore Lane Apartment 3B. I live with my uncle Sam. His phone number is—”
“That’s fine, Tommy,” Alex said as shock replaced the dregs of Amy’s anger. What was this boy doing here? Either his IQ was subnormal or he was mildly autistic. A girl like Tommy had lived next door to Amy pre-Collapse, before Gran’s investments tanked and she got sick and lost both her job and the house. Amy had tried to be extra kind to Elise, because most of the other kids were not.
Alex said, “What do you like to do, Tommy?”
“I like insects and spiders. I make plastic models of spiders. There are over thirty thousand species of spiders. The hairy mygalomorphs like—”
“Good, good. Amy?”
“I’m Amy Kent. I’m sixteen, and I like chess, math, and gymnastics.” Let them know right away how much of a nerd she was. “Anybody else here play chess?”
Nobody answered, unsurprisingly, although she’d thought that Rafe might play. Well, at least she had Paul O’Malley across the street. Waverly’s lip quirked with superior amusement.
Alex Everett opened a box on the table and pulled out papers. “Well, then, let’s fill out the paperwork that Human Resources demands. Now, these forms are W-2’s—”
Afterward, as they all left the conference room, Amy put a hand on Violet’s arm until they trailed behind the others, out of earshot. “Violet, you told me to ‘do something’ in that fake lobby attack, and you were going to take me with you when you leaped up for the cameras. Why are you helping me? Aren’t we supposed to be rivals?”
“No, it’s not a direct competition, One Two Three—weren’t you listening? But if it becomes one, and I wouldn’t put it past that bitch Myra Townsend, I want an ally. Together we can come up with more camera-pleasing ploys than one person alone. You in with me?”
Amy didn’t want to “come up with camera-pleasing” anything. Nor was she ambitious to succeed at this show. But she didn’t want to be fired, and she liked Violet. “Yes, I’m in.”
“Great!” Violet said. “Now look at that Cai! Too bad I already have a boyfriend. Did you ever see anything so hunky in your life?”
“I didn’t notice,” Amy said.
Violet laughed. “Sure you didn’t. You’re not exactly a poker face, One Two Three. But don’t worry, nobody else was watching you.”
“Actually,” Amy said, desperately hoping to deflect Violet, “I already have a boyfriend, too. His name is Paul. He plays chess.”
“Ah,” Violet said, which could have meant anything. “I see.”
Violet saw too much. Myra and Alex staged too much. And Amy—“You feel too much, Amy,” Gran always said. Well, not this time. Amy had a job to concentrate on—even if she still, after three scenarios, two holographic species, and one gallon of fake blood, wasn’t exactly sure what it was going to demand of her. Or when.
Eight
MONDAY
ON THE LONG WALK home, every time someone passed Amy on the sidewalk, every time a car slowed for a stop sign, every time a window opened in a building beside her, Amy expected the start of another of TLN’s “scenarios.” Anything could happen at any minute; she had to be ready, she had to respond—
A squirrel ran down a tree and darted across her path, and she cried out.
“Hey, relax, kid, it’s just a squirrel,” a man said, smiling at her.
Was he part of a scenario? No, he just kept walking. The squirrel ran away, just a squirrel. The children running past were just children—but why was that one girl looking back over her shoulder, directly at Amy?
No reason. Just children.
Calm down!
It was with enormous relief that she finally unlocked the door to the apartment, her refuge from Taunton Life Network. The delicious smell of stew wafted toward her. Kaylie stood at the stove, stirring. The table was set, the apartment clean. Gran sat in the easy chair by the window, a blanket across her knees.
“Kaylie,” Amy said, “that smells so good—wait, stew? I didn’t buy any stew meat.”
“I did,” Kaylie said.
“With what?” Amy couldn’t imagine her sister shoplifting a package of cubed beef, but with Kaylie, anything was possible.
“With your money,” Kaylie said serenely. “I told Mr. Fu you got a really good job and so he let me have some things on credit until Friday. You get paid every Friday.”
“How did you know that?” Amy said. She herself hadn’t known that.
“I called the TV station and said I was doing a research paper on the economy and had hard times changed how often they paid their employees? And the woman said no, they’d always paid weekly instead of biweekly, for a lot of boring reasons I didn’t listen to.”
Gran rolled her eyes. To Amy she said, “How was the first day on the job?”
“Boring but easy,” Amy said. Gran looked at her more closely and frowned.
Kaylie was enormously pleased with herself. She pushed Gran’s easy chair to the table, served the stew, and informed Amy that she had attended school that day: “The whole lame thing, even math,” so that she could turn in all the back assignments she and Amy had done over the weekend. “So I’m cleared for All-City on Friday night, as long as I go to school every single day this week. That’ll be hell, but it’s worth it. Orange Decision is going to kill at that show. And I’ll bet that talent scouts show up from the big music companies and everything, and they’ll see us play.”
“Talent scouts?” Gran said. “At a youth show?”
“Why not? Kids
are where the talent is.”
Amy and Gran exchanged looks. Gran said, “Kayla, I don’t want you to get your expectations up too high and then the—”
Kaylie scowled. “Why are you always knocking me down?”
“I’m not, I only—”
“If it was Amy doing something, you’d be telling her how she could conquer the world! But me you just put down!”
“I do not,” Gran said with a touch of the steady, level-tone authority she’d lost ever since she got sick. “I just want you to be realistic, Kayla. I’m sure your band is good, but there are so—”
“You’re not sure we’re good,” Kaylie said. “You’ve never even heard us. And now I don’t want you to. Either of you. Stay away Friday night!”
Amy said, “Kaylie, of course we’re coming, or at least I am and if Gran feels well enough to—”
“I said stay away! I don’t want you there, bringing us down!” Kaylie stood up so fast that her stew sloshed over the rim of her bowl. She grabbed her jacket off the peg by the door. “I’m going to practice! Saint Amy can clean up!” She slammed out.
“That was my fault,” Gran said. “She’s all on edge about this band performance. I’m going to be there Friday night, Amy, no matter what.”
“Let’s see how you feel then.”
“Don’t talk to me like a child,” Gran said sharply. “I’m ill but I’m not five.”
It was too much. The weird job, money, Kaylie, now Gran—Amy put her head in her hands and let the tears come.
She felt Gran’s hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t speak to you like that. You’re holding it all together here and you’re only sixteen. . . . Please forgive me.”
The words were like all the lollipops, all the kisses on all the booboos that Gran had given over the years. Amy raised her head, leaned back, and let her grandmother massage her shoulders.
“God, your muscles are knotted as macramé. Let me knead them.”
“Mmmm, that feels good.”
But after just a few moments the old hands faltered. Amy got up. “Gran?”