The Famoux Read online

  As I make breakfast I click on the television. My siblings hate it when I watch the news too early and wake them, so I keep the volume low. Normally I’d mute it and just piece the stories together based on headlines, but the red borders around footage of a podium bear the caption Geddes to Make Statement on Upcoming Darkening and I know I have to watch. This is important news. This is news about the Famoux.

  There are plenty of celebrities in Delicatum, sure, and they do pretty well. But none quite hold a candle to the Famoux. They are an absolute force—the most beloved, most glamorous, and most entertaining clique in our world. Each member is gorgeous, the paragon of perfection in their own unique way. They’re at the top of their fields, too, be it music, or acting, or sports, and so on. They rule over everything.

  And then there are their broadcasts. The way their every step is documented and plastered on magazine covers, it’s safe to say that the Famoux members already live their lives in constant spotlight. But their Darkening broadcast, called The Fishbowl, take this to its extreme. It airs for the entire two days of the blackout without stopping, giving viewers an uninterrupted glimpse into the way they live. It’s watched by almost everyone. Even my family tunes in, though Brandyce thinks they’re overrated.

  As I settle onto the couch, the television screen dissolves into the view of a podium. There’s no caption to specify where this footage is coming from, but I know from the sky that it’s Waltmar, Betnedoor’s capital city. All the way across the ocean from Notness’s emissions, they are the least affected by smog, which means their sky is actually blue. Their sunrises have more color too. Not quite the vivid pinks from the old-world poem, but the photos I’ve seen show brighter oranges and bolder purples. It would be breathtaking to see a sunrise like that in person. Makes me wonder how many people over there sleep right through it, unaware of what they’re missing.

  Just beyond the podium, crowds of reporters and paparazzi stretch farther than the cameras can even catch, eager to hear the news. This is our second press conference this month from the Famoux’s trusted manager, Norax Geddes, but they’re usually a very rare occurrence. She only ever steps out to address scandals, debunk unavoidable rumors, or make big, status quo–changing announcements.

  The statement earlier this month was one of the latter. The Famoux’s status quo had certainly changed for the worse: one of their members had died.

  We’re lucky the cameras weren’t on Bree Arch when it happened. Just before the accident we had been watching an argument between the others at dinner on the second night—some half-baked betrayal over Kaytee McKarrington’s latest single. Bree had excused herself to go to the bathroom, uninterested in the drama, when the lights cut out. It wasn’t until a backup generator restored the power that Kaytee found Bree lying by the foot of the crystalline stairs and screamed. One of Bree’s limbs was twisted, a small pool of blood forming by her head. She’d tripped and fallen. She was dead.

  Days after, I recall the blue Betnedoor sky feeling entirely too cheery during Norax’s statement—insulting, even, given the way the Famoux was huddled together, crying by the podium. Norax tried her best to keep a brave face as she spoke, but even she faltered. She used that statement to assure the world that they would be taking the thirty days before the next Darkening to honor Bree with a memorial, make sense of what happened, and decide whether or not they’ll be ready to broadcast The Fishbowl again with the next blackout. With the Darkening happening next week, the anticipation for this next statement has been high. Will The Fishbowl air, after what happened last time? Or will we have to sit through the darkness for the first time without them? The world has been speculating.

  Today, Norax walks into view with her head held high. The five remaining Famoux members trail behind her, their eyes dry. They’re doing better today, although they’re all still wearing black, as I’ve seen in every paparazzi shot of them for weeks. As the cameras do a close-up on each of their faces, my breath catches in slight. They are impossibly beautiful, as always. Then the camera settles onto the other end of the podium, where an older man in a suit stands. Lennix Geddes, Norax’s father. The founder and creator of the Famoux.

  Lennix formed the idea over thirty years ago. He had a background in managing acts for the popular music label Buchan, and while there he saw the value in bands over solo artists. More members meant a greater audience reach. The first iteration of the Famoux had been a curation of the most popular celebrities in every industry. They became a team, supporting each other’s work and creating great art together during the Darkening broadcasts. Ten years passed, and the members entered their later twenties, and the audience’s interest dwindled. Lennix retired the group, picking out new stars he saw were gaining traction for the second iteration. He did this for a third time before declaring that, with the fourth iteration, two years ago, he would be passing over the reins to his daughter Norax.

  The world had already been placing their bets as to which lucky celebrities would be asked to join next, but much to everyone’s surprise, Norax decided to shake things up. After a long audition process, screening countless options, she plucked six new members we knew nothing about, and encouraged us to get to know them and their talents as they unfolded before us. It was a total success. The kids at school have loved spending the last two years figuring them out.

  Since retiring, Lennix is rarely pictured at Famoux events. Having amassed quite some riches from the Famoux, he’s been known for investing in tech advancements all over Betnedoor, becoming quite the influential figure. There are rumors that next year, when it comes time to vote in Delicatum’s next sovereign, he’ll run. If true, I am sure he would win. He has a level of maturity to him that our current sovereign, a forgettable man named James Atlas, so blatantly lacks. And I could only imagine how much Delicatum would change for the better if he ran it like he ran the Famoux.

  He meets his daughter’s gaze soberly and nods, perhaps permitting her to begin. She turns to the cameras and clears her throat.

  Her voice is strong and clear. A true leader’s voice like her father’s. Perhaps she should run for sovereign some day too.

  “We first thank you for granting us the time to collect ourselves before making a follow-up statement,” Norax begins. She closes her eyes. For a moment I’m afraid she might break down like last time, but then she takes a breath, and her stoicism returns. “We know this has been a hard few weeks for our fans as well as our organization. Our Darkening show has always striven to be a source of entertainment and comfort for its viewers—a light to get them through the two days of darkness. But I am afraid that in our last broadcast, The Fishbowl was anything but a light. The horror we all had to witness, broadcasted across Delicatum, is something that I know will live with us for a long time. Nevertheless, I am so grateful for how we have all pulled through together in the last few weeks. We—”

  “This is pathetic!”

  I glance away from the television toward Brandyce, who’s chuckling from behind the couch. Dalton stands beside her eating a bowl of cereal, a stain of milk visible on his navy blue uniform vest. I didn’t hear them come in, and I’m surprised they haven’t walked out yet. If we’re not in the midst of the month-end Darkening, with few options for entertainment other than The Fishbowl, usually the topic of Delicatum’s favorite celebrity clique sends my siblings running in the other direction.

  Not this morning. Brandyce snorts, joining in on the fun. “You can tell she’s so done with having to talk about this. Look at her. No emotion.”

  On-screen, Norax’s expression is stern, but there’s a vulnerability to it. I admire her, but I wouldn’t say that out loud; it’d be a step short of murder in this house to defend the Famoux. Dalton has friends who are fans, so his dislike plays mostly for jokes, but Brandyce really despises them. For years she’s been rattling off how only mindless drones buy into their gimmicks. “It’s the people too stupid to live their own lives,” she’d say, “who want to sit and watch the Famoux live their lives the grandest.”

  A part of me wonders if maybe it’s just an excuse for how little is going on for her nowadays. After all, it was only after Mom left that Brandyce started hating them with such fervor.

  She isn’t really wrong, though. For Eldae and Notness, where conditions are a far cry from grand, the Famoux is like a portal to another world. Beauty, riches, and opulence beyond belief. Their show might air only during Darkenings, but every day the magazines have new photos of them wearing the best clothes, eating at the best places, partying at the best clubs in Betnedoor. Even just the paparazzi pictures or grainy fan-filmed videos are thrilling to watch. There is a constant bustle with them—a sense of never-ending excitement for what’ll come next. For most, following their lives is the only way to get that feeling. I know that’s the case for me.

  Dalton points at the screen, engrossed but hiding it. “And look at them!” he agrees. “They really don’t care about someone who actually died, huh? It’s so fake.”

  As if on cue, the camera shifts, zooming in on the members. Specifically, Till Amaris, who appears to be having the hardest time staying dry-eyed today. I try to remember if Till was especially close with the girl who died, but it’s hard to say. Their show churns out a new feud between the members each month, so it’s not easy to tell who’s on good terms. As we watch them, Norax’s speech continues.

  “The death of our beloved member, Bree Arch, was a tragic accident, and it is our job to make sure nothing like this happens again. Since my last statement, I have learned that the cause of this accident was a statewide power outage in Notness caused by the accidental activation of an abandoned manufacturing plant. For our next broadcast, at the week’s end, which will be happening”—murmurs of excitement fill the crowd here—“we assure our viewers that new safety measures have been implemented and adequate backup power facilities are already in place.”

  “New safety measures? What are they going to do?” Dalton asks. “Childproof the place?”

  “Well, the Famoux are children,” says Brandyce. “At least, they sure act like it.”

  I can’t help but notice how my sister pronounces Famoux so harshly. Fame-ox. Some of the aristocratic kind say fame-oh or fame-ooh, as if the X is silent. But when Norax Geddes says the name, the X is always included. She says it so smoothly: fame-ecks. Because sharing the word famous with every other notable person isn’t enough, no; this group deserves a whole other adjective to describe their grandeur.

  “With a special tribute gala to come soon,” Norax continues, “we hope to properly honor Bree Arch’s life and celebrate the good she did for Delicatum. We hope that you, the fans, stay with us as we navigate this unprecedented time, and much later, embark on the search for a suitable new member. Thank you.”

  With that, her speech is concluded. Dalton and Brandyce take turns critiquing each Famoux members’ walk offscreen. Earlier this month, when the members were really mourning, they got a real kick out of watching them stumble through their tears. Even today, their harsh judgment makes me sick. If there’s anyone who should know the feeling of unbalance after losing somebody, it’s this family. But then I notice the way Dalton fidgets with his hands, and the way Brandyce’s leg bounces in her seat. Nervous ticks. Maybe they’re replaying the accident back in their heads, too, more affected than they’re letting on.

  I shudder as the image of Bree Arch at the bottom of the Fishbowl stairs fills my head. Horrific. For the last few weeks, it’s been all the kids at school can talk about. And that image—it’s still plastered on every magazine stand. I have to keep my head down when I pass storefronts.

  “You know, maybe this girl isn’t even dead,” Brandyce says, as if she hadn’t seen Bree’s body too. She clicks the television off decisively. “What if she up and returns during this Fishbowl broadcast like nothing happened?”

  “Oh, no,” Dalton groans. “My friends would never stop talking about a Famoux member who eluded death.”

  “Doesn’t it make you wish you were like Emilee?” she asks. “You know, so you wouldn’t have any friends to listen to in the first place?”

  Stinging singes through my chest, even though I expect this from her. Between Brandyce inside and Westin van Horne outside, I rarely get through an entire day without at least a few jabs on my behalf.

  As if reading my mind, Dalton says, “Hey, come on, she already gets enough from the guys at school.” Brandyce rolls her eyes but relents.

  I’m thankful for it. Dalton might not defend my honor in front of people like Westin anymore, but he always does his best to keep the peace at home. It makes me shudder at the thought of how hard things will be when he leaves next year. The plans aren’t set in stone yet, but I know he’s already looking for opportunities in Waltmar, just like Brandyce had before our mother left. It’s every kid in Eldae’s dream to someday work in a lab in Betnedoor. And he’s smart enough to get there too.

  Dalton slings his backpack over his shoulder and gives our older sister a salute. “See you after school.”

  She groans. “I’ll be here. As always.”

  I take my time grabbing my things. My brother needs the head start rather than me walking fiendishly slow to keep the distance between us. Dalton stopped walking with me to school when we were much younger, after his entire class shunned him for almost a whole year when they discovered we were related. It was hard work convincing everyone that he wasn’t secretly a glitch like me. Luckily he’s a year older, which corroborated his claims. Had he been younger, people would’ve assumed our parents realized their error and were trying to cover their tracks with colored contacts.

  If only they’d done that in the first place with me—bought gray ones and forced me to wear them growing up. Dalton says our father once suggested it, but our mother refused. She didn’t think anyone would care what color eyes I had. But she grew up in a version of Eldae much different than mine and my siblings’. Hers wasn’t in the midst of a genetic phenomenon, where things as simple as eye color carry actual weight.

  It’s been this way for the last nineteen years. Since then, whenever a child in Eldae has been born, they are born with key identifying traits identical to every other child born within that year. The traits change every January, now known as Changing Month.

  But they didn’t know that at first, of course. Initially there were only outcries of confusion, of marital infidelity. Scientists weren’t sure what to make of it. Known now as Gen 1, every infant born within the year had yellowish gold eyes. They kept the hair color, skin color, and so on passed down from family, but the eyes were all the same unreal color, like the children had been painted this way in an assembly line.

  Brandyce was among these Gen 1 kids, much to my parent’s surprise, as neither of them had an eye color close to that shimmery gold. Born in February, she was at the beginning of the wave too. Doctors ran tests on her and countless others—she has small scars all over her body to show for it—but they were inconclusive. Every gene chart somehow showed the same dominance for golden eyes, as if it was hereditary. They were ready to write it off as a fluke, but then the next January rolled around, and every baby born had plum purple eyes. Then came Gen 3—Dalton’s generation—with emerald green.

  These mutations were unique to Eldae—no similar phenomenon was occurring in Notness or Betnedoor. For a while, no one knew how to explain it, until a few scientists in Betnedoor theorized nuclear radiation. After all, radiation affects our weather patterns already, and Eldae’s geographical location is said to have been a central point of conflict during the war. Notness to the west was hit badly, too, but nowhere near the devastation in Eldae. So if any of the three states in Delicatum were to feel delayed effects of radiation—the kind that could permanently mess with genetics—it doesn’t take a qualified scientist with a measuring device to guess it would be Eldae.

  And so it was accepted. For the first few years of the mutation, each Changing Month brought only new eye colors. After a decade, the mutation evolved, adding small, yet noticeable physical attributes. Some of these second-decade generations reach only five feet tall, while others are steadily growing, with pointed noses or clubbed thumbs or one arm shorter than the other. We’re nearing the end of our nineteenth year, so there is much talk about what could be added next year as we enter the third decade of the mutations. Most guess hair color will be affected next. But what color first? Something natural like brown? Or something more interesting, like pink or green? I hear people in Betnedoor are already placing bets on it, like sports. To them, our mutation is a bit of a joke.

  In any case, Changing Month is one of the biggest events Eldae has, with media coverage that rivals the kind of attention the Famoux gets. The more inventive the eye colors and attributes, the more coverage.

  After three years of exciting eye colors, my Gen 4 was the first disappointment. The least exciting color of the first decade, eyes-only generations. Gray. Not even shimmery silver, like Gen 1’s gold, but a flat pewter color with no flare or dimension. Unfortunately for me, being a part of the blandest generation makes my differences all the more blaring. I have my mother’s eyes: icy blue, almost white. No generation has had anything close to this except Gen 17, with a shade of white-lilac. But they’re two years old. Anyone who sees me knows right away that I’m an outlier.

  But of course, my mother thought I was a miracle. When the mutations affected both Brandyce and Dalton, she rued the thought that none of her offspring would get her striking eyes. She had been the only one in her family to get them since her grandfather, since the color is so recessive and easily overtaken by newcomers with darker shades. My father has brown eyes, too, so even before mutations began she was worried none of her children would get them. So when I was born, she rejoiced. She never once tried to cover them up.