The Famoux Read online

  If they’re trying to make me forget how rough that tea party was, they’re succeeding. As they lead me through the maze of hallways toward my room, they keep me distracted with lofty future plans of magazine covers and runway shows. Foster uses wild, redundant hand gestures to prove his points.

  “Picture it. The two of us on the side of the biggest building in Betnedoor, wearing absolute killer leather jackets. Don’t you see it?”

  Just the mere thought of a photo of Foster and me being pasted to the side of a building, like all the ones I’ve seen before, nearly sends me reeling.

  “What a bright future for style,” Kaytee chuckles.

  “Oh, no. It’s a dark future for style. Did you even hear a thing I just said?”

  Foster’s fun nature fills me with a sense of ease. Famoux fans think of him as candid and playful, which is exactly how he’s shown himself to be so far. It’s magnificent to see that most of their personalities have rung true, even without the cameras. I was a tad nervous they’d turn out to be something other than what the public thinks they are. But so far, they have it down pretty well: Foster, playful. Kaytee, sweet. Till, headstrong. Race, earnest. Chapter, mysterious.

  And what am I? I wonder.

  It’s too soon to say. I guess I’ll have to find out with the rest of the world.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You’re at an after-party for a movie premiere. Crowded club with an open bar—you know, the whole thing. Now, some hotshot singer you happen to recognize walks up to you. Say it’s … What singer do you really like?”

  I blanch. “I don’t know.”

  “Too many favorites?”

  “I don’t … listen to anyone.”

  Lennix Geddes pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s not the first time he’s done this today, and likely won’t be the last. He rises from his chair and paces the room, defeated.

  “Norax, sweetheart, there’s not much we can do here,” he calls out. “She barely passes as a regular member of society, much less a notable one.”

  The sting of his remark burns my cheeks. We’ve been in this sterile sitting room next door to the Analytix—the Control Room, they call it—all day, practicing etiquette. These lessons are going to be, as Lennix says, the first of many steps in doing damage control on me.

  From the end of the table, buried in a heap of magazines plastered with my face, Norax glances up, annoyed. “I already told you she didn’t follow other celebrities before joining,” she says to her father. “You’re just asking her that to make her feel bad.”

  “She should be doing her homework,” Lennix insists. “From now on, she studies celebrities.”

  When Norax was pulled out of the teatime by Lennix, I am told they discussed how he will be working closely with us for a few days to mend this rocky start. Normally, he doesn’t meddle with Norax’s Famoux, but he is only a month or so away from announcing his campaign for Delicatum’s sovereign, and if his life’s work looks as dysfunctional as it is now—a dead member, a new one leaked too soon—voters might speculate that he won’t run our country well. It is imperative to him that the Famoux is still seen as a well-managed, cohesive unit. It seems irrational to me, since he isn’t the manager anymore, but I wouldn’t admit it. When he explained it all to me this morning, I nodded, obedient.

  This is only our first day of lessons, but as far as I’ve gathered, Lennix Geddes is a man who looks proper, but speaks with a vulgar cynicism only a man who has spent years studying popular culture could have. He has a penchant for peppermint tea, and has had five cups of it already before noon. He’s paid me no compliments on anything but my appearance, which he credits to the Fissarex, his creation. Besides my newfound beauty, I’m certain he hates me. Despises me, really. As Norax told me before, he didn’t like the idea of making mutation glitches like me Famoux members, which leads me to believe he doesn’t share her belief that I’m a miracle. No, as far as Lennix is concerned, I am a mistake, especially now that he’s discovering just how socially inept I am. To Lennix, I’m ruining his chances of becoming sovereign.

  For our first lesson, Lennix wants to skip the basics and get an overview of what he’s dealing with. He’s drilling me on scenarios I might find myself in and judging my gut reactions. It’s clear by the way he phrases them that he doesn’t want me to answer correctly.

  “Okay. It doesn’t matter what singer,” Lennix says. He stirs his tea, the sixth cup now. “Picture any non-Famoux celebrity walking up. They start flirting. What do you do?”

  Just the idea makes me flush. “Are they complimenting me?”

  “Sure.” He leans in close. “They’re telling you how gorgeous you are. Especially those eyes …”

  “You’re baiting her,” Norax calls out.

  “Will they not be baiting her?” he asks. When he sees her roll her eyes, he adds, “If I don’t go through these scenarios with Miss No-Human-Interaction over here, she’ll fall in love with the first loser who tells her she’s pretty. And then she’ll tell him all our secrets and burn this show down, would you like that?”

  “You’re paranoid,” Norax says.

  “You should be.”

  It’s hard to believe they’re even related, the way they process things so differently. While Norax has always approached me with such patience and kindness, Lennix opts for the opposite. It’s a wonder that his eras of the Famoux were known to be friendlier and more united than Norax’s. It doesn’t seem plausible.

  “Tell me, what do you do?” Lennix asks me again.

  “Well, I guess I’d thank them?”

  “Don’t ask me, tell me.”

  “I’d thank them,” I say, firmer. I wrack my brain for the right option. What would Lennix think is the right answer? “And then I would walk away, so they don’t think I’m overly interested.”

  “You’d walk away, just like that?” he asks. “No good-bye?”

  “No, I’d—”

  Lennix’s eyes narrow, challengingly. “Oh, my bad. I forgot that you don’t know how to say good-bye. You just up and left your family without a word—that must feel natural to you, right?”

  “That’s enough,” Norax snaps.

  I have to grip the edge of my chair to stop the tears from forming in my eyes. Still, a few spill out.

  “There we go,” Lennix says. He points to my tears, satisfied with his work. “Norax, she can’t control her emotions. What’ll she do when someone calls her ugly on the red carpet?”

  But Lennix doesn’t know the abuse thrown at me on a daily basis back in Eldae. Jabs about my appearance, I can mostly tune out. It’s the only part of me where I have a somewhat thick skin. But the comment about my family was too far. Anything that deals with the past is a fresh, tender bruise and no person on the red carpet would know to say something about it—that, I’m sure of. And even if they did, it’s not like they’d throw me in the creek afterward.

  When Lennix brings the lesson to its conclusion, I can’t get back to Bree’s bedroom fast enough. It’s a testament to his teaching style that I find myself longing to return here, though the fear in the air has all but diminished. I burrow my face into a pillow, thinking I might scream. But I don’t. I keep crying. Lennix isn’t throwing me into rivers, sure, but he’s playing Westin’s game all the same. Trying to make me feel small, inadequate. Only this time, it’s not on account of my eyes. It’s everything else.

  At some point in my crying, Norax wanders in and sits at my bedside. She says nothing but sorry and don’t listen to him while she plays with my hair, and it makes me feel like I’m eight years old again, being comforted after a long, hard day with Westin.

  And here I thought being in the Famoux would mark the end of that.

  The next day, I resolve to be better. Control my emotions. Lennix is one man, whereas Westin had a whole band of people behind him. And with Norax on my side, not his, the scale is already tipped in my favor. But breakfast throws me off when I run into Till and Foster. He’s kind and cordial to me as usual, showing me how to make his favorite oatmeal, but Till pointedly ignores me, only vaguely acknowledging my pink coffee mug: “Bree used that one. Hmm.” It takes a single small comment from Lennix on how I’ll never live up to Bree Arch to make me tear up. And then he leans back and grins. Another victory for him.

  Later that afternoon, we practice walking and posture. I’m a natural at the latter, thanks to the Fissarex. Whereas Emilee used to slouch into herself and hide, it’s as if my new shoulders couldn’t turn in that way if they wanted to. It’s the walking I struggle with. Too fast, and I’ll seem unfriendly. Too slow, and I’m awkward. Under Lennix’s gaze, of course, I never find the right balance.

  “You look like you’re running from something,” he critiques. To Norax, “Is that how she looked? When she ran away from her family?”

  I grit my teeth and slow my pace.

  The next morning we focus on fan interactions. Making celebrity friends, Lennix claims, is easy. As far as he’s observed, no one actually likes one another, but pretends to for the sake of looking good. It’s the fans who will be the most genuine relationships I’ll have.

  “Any celebrity who’s lasted more than a month are the ones who made friends with their fans,” he tells me. “Musicians, actors, they’re a dime a dozen. Fans find new ones. But if they like you, they stay.” He looks me up and down with distaste. “And now, we have the task of making you likable.”

  It’d feel more like an insult if I didn’t fully agree that this will be difficult. I’ve never made a friend in my life. Kaytee, Foster, and Chapter were all friendly, but I didn’t do anything to warrant their friendliness. I don’t know how it goes—how you approach someone and hold small talk and leave feeling enriched by it. As we go through scenarios like my first lesson, I’m lost.

  “You’re on your way into an interview that starts in five minutes, but a fan outside the studio yells for you to come back. You didn’t give her a hug,” Lennix starts. “Do you go back?”

  Does the Famoux stop for everyone? I swear I remember seeing videos where they breezed right past the crowds. But did I only see those videos because their fans were angry about it?

  “Yes,” I decide. “I’d go back.”

  “Okay. And now, thirty more fans are saying the same thing. They’re forming a line. Are you going to hug them all? You’re already running late.”

  “I—Is that going to happen?”

  Lennix looks at his wristwatch. “Oh, the interview is starting. You’ll never be booked for this show again.”

  “But won’t they be mad—” I start.

  “You’re exiting the same way,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Your fans already know that if they wait, they’ll see you again.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re not your little siblings, Emeray,” Lennix sneers. “They’re not going to sit around and wonder why you’ve abandoned them.”

  “I don’t have little siblings,” I say.

  “Well, that explains a lot. Maybe if you did, you’d know how to take care of something.”

  “Father,” Norax warns. “Enough. Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

  He does. Lucky for me, today is the last of our lessons for a while. Lennix will be leaving the mansion for sometime on business in Notness—sorting out deals with company owners for endorsements on his sovereign campaign. After this one-on-one time with him I am less certain I would ever want him to run Delicatum one day, but if this trip means he’s gone for a while, I’ll happily take it.

  “I expect these lessons to continue in my absence,” Lennix tells his daughter. “Unless you want to throw an actress in your little box and make her look like this. Save us a load of time …”

  This last comment sends me off to my room fuming. I pass Till on the way there, who addresses me coldly. I don’t understand her problem with me. She doesn’t need to remind me that I’m here too early—the entire world is already doing that for her. I’ve been checking the Analytix every day, and it’s only getting worse.

  Norax brings lunch up to my room. I wish she’d leave it by the door and walk away, but she stays, settling down on my bed beside me, ready to comfort me again. Embarrassment burns in me like a fire. Perhaps I start crying in hopes it’ll snuff it out, but it only makes me more embarrassed. All I’ve shown Norax this week is that I don’t know how to carry myself in social situations and can cry at the drop of a hat. If she didn’t believe Lennix in the beginning when he said I was a bad choice, she almost certainly does now. As she pats my head, I know she must be regretting this. Like my mother, she must be planning an escape.

  “Lumerpa,” she says. “I’m so sorry. He’s only being harsh on you to punish me.”

  But I know Lennix wouldn’t be this harsh if I excelled in his training. If I had the easy kindness I saw in Kaytee at the tea party, or Till’s iron resolve, or the magnetism Chapter seems to command on instinct. If I was witty and fun to be around like Foster, or quiet in a brooding, important way like Race. Then, Lennix would be chastising Norax only for the fact that my name leaked early. That would be the mistake, not me.

  But I am awkward and unsure of myself. I don’t have what comes to them so easily.

  “Did you watch Lennix’s eras of the Famoux?” Norax asks.

  “Not closely,” I admit.

  “They were members who always said and did the right things. Who got along perfectly. Flawless.” She shakes her head. “He claims he retired them because they were getting older, but the truth is, the world kept getting bored of flawless. They want flaws.”

  “But Famoux members are perfect,” I say.

  “They’re perfect in their own, unique ways,” Norax says. “Not the same boring shade. And you will be perfect in your way too.”

  But how?

  As Norax plays with my hair, she explains how she thinks newness could be my defining quality. “You were brought onto the scene so suddenly, it should be natural that you don’t know how to handle yourself in every situation. You might slip up sometimes. You’re not perfect. People will like that. They’ll see themselves in you as you figure it out. And when you’re not new anymore, you’ll still have your youth. Your naivety, as the youngest.”

  “I’m only two years younger,” I say.

  “A couple of years can make a difference.”

  I have to admit, I like her idea. If there was a Famoux member like the one Norax thinks I can be, I’m sure that member would be my favorite. Someone empathetic. Approachable within the unapproachable Famoux way.

  I tell her this, and she agrees. “Of course, my father won’t listen,” she says. “He’s so backward in his methods.”

  “Who is?” asks a soft, familiar voice.

  I sit up straight. There’s Kaytee McKarrington, skipping toward me in a bright, blue dress. And while I’m still sort of crying. Great.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages!” she exclaims. “Are those tears? Here, come here.” When she reaches us, she hugs me, and just like at the tea party I see a line of lyrics scrawled across one of her forearms. Something for one of her love songs. “This has to be so stressful for you. I heard what they’ve been saying in the tabloids.” She notices me wince at this and changes course with ease, gesturing to the room around us. I can almost see Lennix applauding her expertise in my head. “Have you been cooped up in here every day?”

  I sputter through a poor explanation of my last three days of etiquette classes, which I’m sure only further proves their necessity. All the while, Kaytee listens, visibly engrossed. Did she ever need lessons to be this way? It slightly frustrates me just watching her.

  “That sounds dreadful,” Kaytee says. “Norax, do you think she could take a break? Grab a coffee at Wes Tegg’s with me?” She notices the tray Norax has set on my nightstand. “Or maybe another time?”

  I know Wes Tegg’s. Everyone does. The Famoux’s favorite place to stop by on their walks around Waltmar. When classmates used to muse about weekend trips to Betnedoor, half the plans involved camping out there. A sure way to see them.

  “Kaytee, Emeray really shouldn’t—” but then Norax stops herself. I see the wheels turning in her head. Lennix isn’t here anymore; his car was waiting for him before we left the Control Room, and for all we know, he could be already in the air on the way to Notness. If there was ever a time to prove this new, youthful angle, it would be now. “You know what? Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Don’t talk to paparazzi. Don’t leave Kaytee’s side. Be in and out quickly. It should work.”

  I’m reminded of the chaos I encountered when I stepped out of the car last time. All the lights and screaming …

  Kaytee nudges my arm. “It’s not nearly as scary with a friend by your side. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  They leave me in my room to get ready. At first I’m stressed, thinking about the lights and the cameras, but after a while of searching through racks and racks, my stress transforms into excitement. I’m picking out an outfit to wear to go to coffee with Kaytee McKarrington. Somehow this is a realistic situation in my life.

  It is unmistakably Emeray Essence who smiles back at me in the tight black pants and burgundy sweater I’ve fished from a drawer of cashmere things. Emeray’s body, but Emilee’s brain. Somehow, this combination is going to work.

  It has to.

  As I’m picking out a pair of umber boots, which have the lowest heel of my whole selection, I’m interrupted by a low voice. Chapter’s voice.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  I look up from the laces. He’s leaning against the door frame, clad in black slacks and a dark gray coat, like he’s just been out. Everything I heard at the tea party about him and Bree comes back to me. A million apologies brim up on my tongue, but all that comes out is, “I—um—is it cold out there?”

  “A bit,” Chapter says. He looks down at his hand, where a black winter hat looks to be dusted in snow. “I mean, quite a bit, actually.”