by Nancy Kress
“Then I’ll be wrong. But I don’t think I am. What about the alliance?”
Amy said, “OK. Yes. Only I already promised Violet the same thing.”
“Violet? She said that things might get rough?”
“No. Only that we should be allies. We’re friends.”
Rafe chewed on his lip. Amy had never seen anyone actually do that, but Rafe did: the entire left side of his bottom lip disappeared between his teeth, reappearing red and slightly swollen. It looked painful, but Rafe didn’t seem to even notice. He said, “Do you think Violet could be another of Myra’s plants?”
“Violet? No.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I mean, you could be one too, and this whole conversation scripted. But I don’t think so.”
“How did you know about Lynn?”
“How did you know?” Amy countered. She wasn’t about to tell Rafe about her phantoms.
“She was acting out paranoid delusions, but some of her behavior didn’t fit the template. I’ve read up on this. I think I told you I want to be a doctor.”
“You did, yes. I just had a gut intuition about Lynn. And I do about Violet, too. She’s not a plant.”
“OK, I’ll accept that. See if she’ll accept a three-way alliance. What about Cai?”
“What about him?” Amy hoped that in the half-light of the cab Rafe couldn’t see the blood creep into her face at Cai’s name. God, she was pathetic.
“Do you think he’s a plant too?”
“No,” Amy said, “but I don’t know for sure.”
“Well, Tommy’s not, poor guy. Not bright enough. Waverly?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t think so. She’s just an ambitious rich bitch who desperately wants a TV career. So that’s six of us still in, all legitimate. With us three against the others, if necessary.”
Against Cai? Amy hadn’t realized that. But it didn’t matter, because she still thought Rafe was wrong. Myra’s scenarios might be frightening and/or humiliating—especially if Amy didn’t do well at them—but she didn’t believe they would be actually dangerous. It would just be playacting, as with Lynn. Rafe had a touch of paranoia himself.
The cab stopped at her apartment building and Amy got out. “Thank you, Rafe. I really appreciate this.”
“Get some rest over the weekend. Unless, of course, Myra decides to spring Lynn’s aliens on us.”
Amy laughed, but weakly. She almost hoped that Kaylie wouldn’t come home after All-City, that she would sleep wherever she had before. But Amy didn’t really believe that would happen.
She let herself into the building, heard Buddy snarl and bark behind Mrs. Raduski’s locked door, and trudged upstairs. Gran lay heavily asleep. Probably she had struggled to stay awake until she heard from Amy and then, worn out with tension for both her granddaughters, had slipped into this stone-like sleep. Well, most likely it was good for her.
Amy made herself a sandwich, cleaned up the kitchen, and changed into her old blue bathrobe, all the while tensed for Kaylie’s phone call or arrival. In the bathroom, brushing her teeth, she studied herself in the mirror. Exactly what a television star should look like:
Jaw swollen and bluish from being punched—check.
Temple scabbing over with dried blood—check.
Under-eye sag from worry and lack of sleep—check.
Hair wildly in need of washing and cutting—check.
She showered and shampooed. It didn’t help much. She pulled out the sofa bed. Then there was nothing to do but wait for Kaylie.
Twelve
SATURDAY
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT the door burst open and Kaylie exploded into the apartment. “You weren’t there!”
“Kaylie, let me explain what happened. It—”
“One fucking thing I want from you and you wouldn’t do it! The most important night of my life and you couldn’t bother to show up!”
“I couldn’t! I had to work late and—”
“Oh, right—they locked you in a room and cut off phone contact and made you stay at work!”
“Yes!” Amy shouted back. “They did!”
Kaylie went icy. In a low, dangerous voice she said, “You never lied to me before.”
Amy had, of course she had, and what kind of universe was it when she got away with lying but was punished for telling the truth? “Listen, Kaylie, it’s true. My job—I’m going to be in a TV show. It starts tomorrow night, in fact, on TLN. It’s a weird show, I never know when they’re going to film, and today they—”
“You are going to be on a TV show? What can you do? Is it some sort of nerdy chess show?”
“No, it’s more like . . . it’s hard to explain what it—”
“You can’t play or sing or dance or act! You’re still lying to me!”
“I’m not!” Amy cried, finally losing her temper. “God, I’m only trying to take care of this family! I hate this TV show and I wanted to be at All-City and they literally locked us in to film! Why don’t you ever cut me any slack when I’m doing the best I can!”
“Saint Amy. Yeah, we all know about her. Amy the Angelic and Kaylie the Satanic—that’s always the way it’s been, isn’t it? And tonight I finally had a chance to shine in front of you and Gran, only you—”
“Kaylie,” Amy said, suddenly breathless, “did you win?”
The second she said it, Amy saw it was wrong. If Kaylie had won, she wouldn’t be so furious now. Amy’s question had only jabbed at the wound and, like any tormented creature, Kaylie bit back.
“We came in twenty-third! There, are you happy now? You’re going to be a TV star and your little sister failed again. Enjoy your victory!” She whirled toward the door.
Amy grabbed at Kaylie to stop her from leaving. Her hand closed on Kaylie’s shirt. Kaylie yanked herself free and the light material tore. With a curse so filthy that Amy’s eyes widened, Kaylie slammed out of the apartment.
Amy stood still a long moment, then threw open the window. “Wait! It’s too dangerous this late at—”
Kaylie appeared on the street two stories below. Without looking up, she yanked open the passenger door of a waiting car and jumped in. Light from Amy’s window gleamed briefly on the shoulder left bare where Amy had torn away Kaylie’s shirt. The car sped off.
Amy was left with the cloth in her hand, an exquisite gauzy silk, light as spiderwebs. The color shaded from green to blue, changing under the light as she turned it in her hands. A tiny label was sewn into the seam: Carolina Herrera. Amy had last seen this blouse in a window downtown, at one of the city’s most expensive boutiques.
She groaned and cracked open Gran’s door. Amazingly, she still lay asleep. Either that was good because she’d missed the fighting, or it was bad because she was so sick that noise couldn’t rouse her. Amy didn’t know; she was too tired to think about it anymore. As she staggered to the sleep sofa, a phantom came to her mind. No, not a phantom: a memory, one of the few she had of her mother. The memory was of a blurry, sweet-smelling presence leaning over Amy’s bed and saying, “It will all be better in the morning.”
Right, Ma. Good one.
* * *
But it was better.
Amy woke to sunlight streaming through the window, the smell of fresh toast, and Gran at the stove. “Good morning, sweetie. Kayla gone out already?”
“No, she—what time is it?! I was supposed to meet a friend at—”
“Your friend called on your cell and you didn’t even hear it, so I answered. She said she wants to meet you later than you’d planned and you should call her when you’re awake. Where’s Kaylie?”
“She came home last night and left again. With friends.”
“I see,” said Gran, who probably did. She sighed and buttered the toast.
Amy leaped up. “Let me do that.”
“I think I will.” Gran sat down heavily at the table, clearly worn out from getting herself up, dressed, and
into the kitchen. “What happened to your head?”
“Nothing important. Kaylie was mad because we didn’t make All-City.”
“I figured.” And then, in a rare lapse into the past, “Your father was a fiery, impulsive man. Kayla is like him, even though she looks like Carolyn. Genetics count for more than we like to think. Is she going to stay with these friends until she calms down?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know them very well—”
“You don’t know them at all.”
Amy gave up. “No.”
Gran sighed. Her lips trembled, but all she said was, “She’ll come home when she’s good and ready and not before, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Even in my day, the police were too busy to track a fifteen-year-old runaway, and now they’d just laugh if you called them. A sour laugh. Did you hear that three protestors died in that big march last night in DC?”
Amy shook her head. She hadn’t even known there’d been a march in DC last night. But then, there so often was. People were scared and angry. TIMES BE TOUGH MAN.
Gran said, “But what can we do except muddle on through? Oh—I made accidental verse. Amy, what’s on your agenda today? And don’t say stay with me. Because I feel pretty good.”
She didn’t look pretty good, but neither did she look as bad as she sometimes did. Before Amy could answer, Gran said in the tone that allowed no argument, “Go shopping with your friend. And buy a TV. Your show premieres tonight, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” A strange mixture of anticipation and dread settled into Amy’s mind, thick as fog. She didn’t even know which scenario would be first. Or how Myra would have edited it.
“Well, I’m going to take a long nap so that I’m awake for it. Bring me back a flimsie, will you, Amy?”
“Of course,” Violet said.
Amy called Violet. “Hey, One Two Three. Change of plan. Meet me at Fourth and Leland at two o’clock. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it. But why?”
“It’s a surprise,” Violet said. “Just don’t be late.”
“Violet—this isn’t another of Myra’s scenarios, is it?” Amy didn’t think she could take another one so soon.
“Of course not—this is me. Don’t get as paranoid as poor departed Lynn. Who’s probably in some loony asylum right now.”
No, she’s not. “Two o’clock on the corner of Fourth and Leland.”
“See you then.”
Amy walked through a glorious spring day to a branch of TLN’s bank and cashed her paycheck. She put the cash in her bra and scurried home, keeping to main thoroughfares, relying on the crowds of people out in the bright sunlight to deter muggers. Not that she looked like a person with anything to mug for. At home, Gran was asleep. Amy laid the flimsie she’d bought her on the nightstand, divided her money, and thought about a good place to hide the bulk of it. From burglars, from Mrs. Raduski, from Kaylie, if Kaylie ever came home again.
She would. Eventually, she must.
In the back of the low cupboard holding pots and pans was a chink out of the rotting wood. Feeling with her fingers, hoping it wasn’t a rat hole, Amy encountered a shallow depression. She put the bills in there and then wedged another piece of wood, ripped from a splintered floorboard, over the depression. Perfect. Gran couldn’t bend down that low, and Kaylie cooked an actual meal only once a century. That stew she’d made had been it for the next ninety-nine years.
With some of her remaining money, Amy bought a TV from the pawnshop three blocks over. Their own had been sold to somebody else when the ticket expired, but this one was cheaper. It was also small and ancient. Amy made the clerk turn it on to be sure it worked. The picture was slightly blurry but there. Good thing TLN wasn’t sub-stat, a subscription station, or Amy would miss her own show.
Although even thinking about watching it made her stomach churn.
She carried the TV home and set it up for Gran, who was delighted to once again get a news channel. Amy put a pot roast in the oven at a low temperature, left Gran sitting up in bed watching congressmen yell at each other, and went to meet Violet.
“Hey, One Two Three. Well, you look better than yesterday. Not that that would be hard.”
“I got some sleep,” Amy said. Violet looked wonderful. Her long black hair gleamed in the sunlight; her makeup was perfect. Amy envied the low-cut black top—not designer, but good quality—and tight white jeans on Violet’s long, long legs. “So tell me—what’s the big mystery?”
Violet pointed down the street. “See that café there? The one with the green awning?”
“Yeah, so? I already ate lunch.”
“We’re not going in there. We’re waiting for someone to come out.”
“Who?” Cai? Amy’s throat tightened.
“Mark Meyer.”
It took Amy a moment to remember who that was. “The tech guy on the show?”
“Bingo.”
“Why?”
“Don’t give me that sour face, One Two Three. Or that much innocence, either. Don’t you get it? Mark undoubtedly knows the next scenario. Probably he planned the next scenario. If we know too, we’ll have a leg up on everyone else.”
“And why should he tell us?”
Violet dropped her lashes, looked up at Amy through them, and moved her luscious body provocatively. Two men across the street immediately went on high alert.
“Violet,” Amy said, “you can’t mean it.”
“Just watch me.”
“But . . . you wouldn’t . . . I mean, if you’re planning on seducing Mark, you don’t want me along!”
“Two look less like a setup than one,” Violet said, abandoning her pose and scowling at the guys across the street. “Besides, I’m not positive I’m his type. He’s a tech nerd, after all. Probably plays chess. You might be more his style, although I do wish I’d arranged this so we buy you new clothes first instead of second.”
Amy said, “I am not going to—”
“Oh, no heavy stuff, just flirting. You can flirt, can’t you?”
“No.”
“Pretend he’s Cai.” Violet grabbed Amy’s arm and dragged her down the street. “Come on, we don’t have much time. He’s at some tech group that meets here every Saturday.”
“How do you know that—let me go! I’m not doing this!”
“I know because I made it my business to know; no I won’t; and yes you are.”
Violet’s grip was a vise. Amy was outside the café door before she wrenched herself free. The memory of Kaylie tearing herself from Amy’s grip last night flooded her mind. At least her own shirt didn’t tear.
“Violet, I am not doing this. It’s pathetic and sneaky. And—”
“Hello, Mark,” Violet said.
He had just emerged from the café, blinking in the sudden sunshine, and then blinking in surprise at finding them there. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket too warm for the day, he was shorter than Violet, taller than Amy. She felt herself flush in embarrassment.
Violet went into seductive mode. “What are you doing here? Amy and I are going shopping for clothes.”
Mark said nothing. But his eyes flickered to Violet’s perfect, half-exposed breasts in the low-cut top. She smiled.
“We’re going to look at shirts and shoes and maybe night things. But can we buy you a cup of coffee first? I promise not to ask anything about the show, if you’re not allowed to talk about it.”
Mark said flatly, “Waverly already tried this.”
“I don’t know what you—”
“Yes, you do. You think if you play girly with me, I’ll tell you about upcoming scenarios. Not going to work.”
Violet snapped, “Are you gay, then? Should Cai try?”
Mark looked at Amy, who was scarlet with embarrassment. He said, “I thought you would be above this. But you are, aren’t you? This wasn’t your idea.”
Amy stayed mute. She would not throw Violet
under the bus.
Mark smiled faintly and strode away.
Amy turned on Violet. “Well, that certainly went well!”
Violet shrugged. “You win some, you lose some, sometimes the avalanche rolls right over you. Stop glaring at me, One Two Three, it was worth a shot. Besides, you’re not the type that stays mad long. Let’s go shopping.”
“Violet, that was really embarrassing!”
“Like being on this whole show isn’t embarrassing?”
She had a point.
Violet continued, for once dropping her wise-guy persona. “Do you know what a dancer’s life is like in this economy? I live in a crappy one-room apartment with two other girls. We sleep on air mattresses and do pick-up waitressing at night—when we can get it—so we can have money to take class every day and buy practice clothes. When there’s an audition, over a thousand girls show up, and they take maybe two. Some days I didn’t eat. My family back in Tulsa can’t help me, they’re sinking, themselves. This job is the rainbow pot of gold for me, and I’ll do anything to keep it. And don’t tell me you’re not the same, you standing there with your jaw bashed and your head bashed and your willingness to risk your life to take on a gun-waving psychotic standing on her producer’s desk.”
Honesty spawned honesty. Amy, no longer angry, said, “She was a plant.”
“What?”
“Lynn. I guessed that she was a plant, an actor hired to create some pretend danger. I wasn’t really risking much.”
Violet stared, then broke into a raucous laugh. “Amy, I’m glad we’re friends. And allies on the show.”
“With Rafe,” Amy said. She explained the new three-way alliance, and Violet nodded.
“OK. He’s really smart. Now—can we please go shopping? Maybe if you looked better, you could have gotten to Mark.”
Violet was Violet. For the next three hours Amy let herself be led to stores she never knew existed. Tiny vintage shops, upscale consignment shops on deep clearance, wholesale irregulars—Violet knew them all, and she could haggle on prices in a way that never would have occurred to Amy. By evening, Amy, who had been firm about buying only three items although she lusted after a dozen more, hardly knew herself. She stood in front of a scratched dressing-room mirror in a blue (“Definitely your color as long as you don’t go pastel”) Marc Jacobs top with a small tear in a mostly unnoticeable place, and perfectly fitting dark-wash jeans (“Your waist is good but you might want to play down that swell of hips just a little”). Violet had just finished snipping wispy bangs into Amy’s unmanageable hair, plus long side layers that framed her face. The rest she’d twisted into a high chignon, held with a pencil borrowed from the clerk. In a plastic bag at Amy’s feet was a secondhand charcoal Zac Posen sweater that somehow made her skin look like cream.