The Famoux Read online

  It’s a shame. I would’ve been lucky to have needed only the contacts—not some kind of special surgery to change the length of my arms or anything like that. It would’ve been so simple to make me fall in line. But even when my father suggested the contacts, my mother was headstrong. She claimed there had to be others like me who hadn’t gotten get the mutation. That flukes like this—no, miracles—happen often. She wanted me to be proud of myself. She didn’t think there was a reason for me to hide.

  Maybe she was right, and maybe there are others somewhere in Eldae who don’t fit the mold. But they certainly don’t go to my school. I am the only anomaly. When I was younger, the kids used to be so frightened of my eyes that they thought I was possessed—like I’d pass an evil spirit onto you if you met my gaze. A fun game they played was never looking me in the eye. It’s still a game now, come to think of it. Most people at school pretend I don’t exist, except Westin and his crew, although I wish they would.

  × × ×

  Turns out, Brandyce’s joke earlier doesn’t have much merit—even without actual friends, I’m still bombarded by talk of Bree Arch. People have already been discussing her all month, but after Norax’s statement this morning that The Fishbowl broadcast is in fact happening in a few days, I can’t walk two steps in school without hearing her name from every direction.

  It’s sinister to admit, but days like this, when the Famoux has stirred up new drama for the kids at school to gossip about, are some of the best for me. After my mother left, leaning into this fantastic and flummoxing world became the best way to keep distracted. But I can’t be a regular fan, like my classmates. I can’t go out of my way to buy their albums or see their movies. Brandyce and Dalton would never let me live it down. My only way to hear about the happenings of the Famoux is by watching newscasts in the morning or eavesdropping on their most avid devotees.

  Lucky for me, almost everyone at school is one.

  “What do you think Calsifer is going to do in that house?” a girl asks her friends at the locker next to mine. “The memory of her …”

  I’m fiddling with the combination on my lock, but in my peripheral view I catch one of them crossing her arms over her chest. “How many times do I have to tell you this?” she asks. “Bree wasn’t dating Calsifer. She wasn’t dating anyone.”

  “But they would’ve looked so beautiful together!”

  I nod absentmindedly. They would’ve. Any combination of the members would. But the Famoux usually dates outside the clique, like Foster Farrand and his string of models, or Kaytee McKarrington and her long-standing boyfriend, Cartney Kirk. The two of them are musicians, and the duets I’ve overheard are sappy enough to make me feel like I know what love is.

  A locker slams, and the girls head down the hall, out of my earshot. It’s no matter—all I have to do is step toward the water fountain to hear another group cooing over how handsome Chapter Stones looked this morning, in his all-black suit. They’re right, of course. He seemed especially gutted today, which, according to these fans, means he looked especially good.

  I catch more conversations like this on my way to class, and as the day progresses, I find that even those like my siblings who are too cynical to mourn Bree still have her name in their mouths, cooking up inventive theories as to how she died. Some believe it wasn’t an accident—that someone must’ve pushed her. But the rest of the Famoux were in the main room at the time, so it doesn’t make sense. Still, they insist it’s true. Teachers try in vain to get attention in class, but even they know it’s no use. The only topic worth any value today is Bree, and all lesson plans gravitate to her by the time everyone is in the room.

  By the end of the day I’m so preoccupied with the mourning and the musings that I nearly let myself believe Westin van Horne will take a day off. As if he ever has. It isn’t until a hand smacks down on my shoulder on the way to my final class that I realize just how conspicuously my guard had dropped.

  “Hey Westin! I found Sticks!”

  My flight instinct kicks in. I jerk my arm away, but I can’t shake the grip. From the end of the hallway, a pack of about a dozen boys in green vests comes forth, their identical Gen 4 gray eyes eager. Westin van Horne’s group. At some point they decided to call themselves the Greyhounds, as if a clique like the Famoux, although the Greyhounds aren’t nearly as exclusive—there seem to be more and more of them every week. All you need to join are Gen 4 gray eyes, as per their namesake, and a hatred of me. Which means most of our grade, the way Westin has them wrapped around his finger. He leads the pack with a cruel smile.

  “Look who it is!” Westin’s voice brims with mock surprise. He pats my cheek. “Sticks. Lovely to see you, as always.”

  They’ve been calling me Sticks since we were young. They think it’s funny, equating me to something so weak and breakable. As much as I hate it, I can’t quite say it’s inaccurate. The Greyhounds have been snapping me in half for longer than I can remember.

  “Westin,” I start. “Please—”

  “What do you say, boys?” He turns to his friends. “What should we do today?”

  In comes the choir of suggestions, most of which they’ve already done a hundred times over. Rip up my books, lock me in a room, tie me up to the school flagpole. A few of the boys carry notebooks, reading off a list of newer options, eager to be picked. These attacks are planned. A daily reminder that my very existence is a mistake. I don’t know how many times I have to tell them they’ve convinced me already and can stop.

  Felix, Westin’s second-in-command and ever competitive to please him, speaks up above the others with wicked vigor. “I know. Why don’t we throw Sticks into Clarus Creek? Haven’t done that in months.”

  I grimace. The last time they threw me into the Clarus was horrible enough, and that was summertime. I could’ve sworn I saw frost on the surface on my way to school this morning.

  “Oh, good call, man!” he says, pleased with the suggestion as the others ring in their agreements. He and Felix share a smile, and for a moment they look completely the same. Felix has a dedication to Westin that surpasses mere admiration. He moved to our city, Trulivent, only a few years ago, just around when my mother left, but he quickly cemented himself at his leader’s right hand. They both have brown hair, and Felix cuts and styles his hair the same way, and even buys the same belts and shoes. Anything to look more like Westin.

  It was hard enough growing up with one Westin—now I have to deal with two.

  Four of the Greyhound boys grab hold of my arms, dragging me down the hall like a doll. I plant my feet firmly into the ground, but I’m no match for this many of them. My shoes leave marks on the linoleum floor as we go. I push and pull and protest all I can but decide there’s no use. I’ve never been able to shake them, not once. Why would today be different? There have been much worse days than this, anyway. And I’ve survived it all so far.

  Through the loudspeakers, the late bell for my last class rings. I guess I’ll be missing Eldae History today. It’s no surprise; I usually do. More often than not I fail whatever class falls last on my schedule, since Westin loves to drag me out of it. But Westin’s parents are wealthy, perhaps one of the wealthiest in Trulivent, so they pay the school good money to assure he never fails, even if he misses all his tests. Maybe he promises the same to the Greyhound members, as extra incentive to join. Although they hardly need any.

  Once outside, a brisk gust of air greets the back of my neck, and I perish the thought of how much colder the water will be when they throw me in.

  Clarus Creek is a narrow strip of water that snakes through Trulivent, all the way to my neighborhood at the edge of the city. It serves as my main pathway to and from school. Until Westin decided the river was a great place to torment me, it had been a safe haven of sorts. Even after the worst of days, reaching the Clarus meant I was on my way home—that no one could hurt me anymore. All I’d have to do was follow the streams of colorful fish. Then Westin realized its value around the time we turned twelve, after he started following me home. The Greyhounds have been throwing me in at least once a year ever since.

  Our school rests on one of the creek’s banks, so it’s only a few steps before they let me go, tossing me brusquely to the marshy grass. On my knees I get a good look at the water, at the clean sheet of ice on its surface. I shudder, which makes Felix laugh.

  “Nervous, Sticks?” he sneers.

  I swallow hard, trying to be clear and grounded, like how I saw Norax be this morning. She spoke with such confidence, even when it was clear she was breaking. If she managed to show strength in her own trying time, it could be worth a shot.

  “This isn’t necessary,” I say, voice struggling to keep level. “I’m the worst. You don’t have to prove it.”

  “Oh, but we like proving it,” insists Felix. “If we’re not consistent, you might forget.”

  “Please, I swear—”

  He digs one of his long, dirty nails into the back of my neck, right where the skin is exposed. My wince is long and involuntary, which the rest of the Greyhound seems to enjoy.

  “No, Sticks,” he hisses. “It’s quite necessary.”

  Beyond us, Westin brings a hand up. Felix stops what he’s doing, alert and attentive. His leader gestures to the water. He is the one clear and grounded like Norax as he asks me, “Are you going to do it yourself, or are you going to make us?”

  I hesitate.

  A mistake. Westin takes this second to give his group a small, yet godlike nod. Before I can so much as open my mouth to say I’ll jump, Felix is pushing me in.

  First, I hear the crackle of the ice as I break through it. Then, I feel it. The chill slices through me like a knife. I involuntarily gasp, water filling my mouth, and I gag, which only makes it worse. Clarus’s water is a murky green that’s impossible to see through, but I manage to get my feet on the edge of the bank and push, propelling me farther to the center. That’s crucial if I want to surface and breathe. The first time the Greyhounds did this, I came up immediately, and Westin was already crouched on the ground waiting to grab my head and hold it underwater.

  When I tear through more thin ice several feet from the edge, they’re booing. “Come on, Sticks,” taunts Felix. “We promise we won’t bite.”

  It’s hard to focus on anything other than the agony of the cold. A numbness is already stretching over my legs, making it harder to tread water. I muster a small bit of strength and resubmerge, hoping they’ll be gone the next time I come up. The last few times, this has worked, but it was warmer and easier to stay under then.

  I surface again, too quickly. They’re still here.

  “Sticks,” Westin warns. “Don’t make me come in there—”

  But I’m already going under again before he can finish. I’ve known Westin long enough to recognize when his threats are just bluffs. There is so much dirt and algae in the Clarus, I’m positive he wouldn’t risk ruining an expensive school uniform for this. He never has in the past. Plus, he sees the ice I smashed through coming in the water. No one in their right mind would willingly join me.

  I force myself to stay put, holding my breath until my lungs burn. I count thirty seconds. A minute. Maybe it’s my imagination mixed with the numbness, but I feel myself sinking, as if there won’t be enough time for me to get back to the surface before I absolutely need to breathe.

  When something breaks the surface beside me, I writhe, jerking sideways. Did Westin actually jump in? I push myself as far away as I can get until my head hits the other end of the creek with a thud, and I come up.

  To my relief, it’s just my backpack. My work for the semester is ruined, but not beyond repair. My mother taught me how to clip the papers up on a string and air dry them in the sun after the first time they threw me in. When I come back to the surface, Westin and the Greyhounds are gone, running back toward the school to catch the rest of class. Another few minutes and they’re through the doors, and I’m safe. I clamor out, my skin burning with what I hope doesn’t turn into frostbite. I’ve lost a boot in the mud, but I don’t care. I run the whole mile-long distance alongside Clarus back to my house without stopping once, shivering and shaking with the cold.

  Long gone is the comfort I once got as a child, returning home to my mother. I’m sopping wet and still gasping for breath when I open the front door and rush inside, but Brandyce doesn’t bat an eye. She only regards me with annoyance.

  “Em, come on,” she says. “What are you doing?”

  “I—Westin—”

  “Don’t ruin the floors.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the beginning years of Delicatum, people thought the first-ever Darkening was a sign of the end of the world. It’s not hard to see why. A few days before one occurs, small black particles begin to pepper the sky, growing thicker with each morning. And then, when there isn’t any more sky left for them to block—darkness. Two whole days of it.

  But these first survivors in Delicatum didn’t know it would only be two days, then. For all they knew, it could’ve been forever.

  They panicked. These were people who had survived mass floods and atomic bombs to get through the End. But this? This didn’t have the same kind of easy scientific explanation. It felt divine, like a punishment for the way the world had ended up. The two days of that first Darkening were filled with absolute chaos. One of the reasons Betnedoor is the most prosperous state today, with high-tech buildings and freshly paved streets, is because its citizens set fire to nearly all of their ruins then, desperately trying to create their own sunlight. They had to build from the ground up when the sun returned.

  Nevertheless, the sun did return. The world rejoiced. They’d survived. They were apprehensive when the particles returned weeks later, but they survived it again. They began to piece it together. This wasn’t an unpredictable attack, but a reliable weather pattern. There was nothing to fear at all.

  Today, Darkenings are a calm affair. A welcome one, even. The last two days of every month are considered holidays now, for everyone to stay home and decompress after a long month of working. Some people use the time to rest, to read, to start something new. Nowadays, however, most people spend it watching the Famoux.

  Over the week, the sky has slowly gotten grayer than our usual smog coverage in anticipation of this month’s blackout. I’ve endured a whole array of torment from the Greyhounds, as they try to inflict as much pain as they can before they have to take two days off. It’s not favorable, but the promise of a break at the end of the week, filled with only the Famoux, makes me grit my teeth and bear it.

  Today is the day before the Darkening, and the streets of Trulivent are bustling. The news about the Fishbowl coming to town was all anyone could talk about at school. Usually I run right home after class to avoid Westin sniffing me out around town, but I can’t help myself from following the hordes of students rushing to the main square to catch a peek.

  Even in the soot-covered sunlight, it glitters. Three times larger than my own house, this one is made entirely of glass. The aptly named Fishbowl, where The Fishbowl broadcast will happen. The Famoux will roam about this house like rare, alluring fish for our Darkening entertainment. Since Eldae and Notness don’t get to see the Famoux roam their streets every day like Betnedoor does, the Fishbowl house moves to different cities over here every blackout, giving fans all over Delicatum their fair chance to see it in person. This is a high honor for us to get the Fishbowl for a Darkening that promises to be eventful. The first one without Bree Arch.

  There is an incredible number of tents pitched up around the glass house, with fans milling about to find a good viewing spot. Though there’s technically a country-wide curfew during the Darkenings to reduce any potential crime, the Fishbowl comes here so infrequently that when it does, authorities don’t get too mad about people camping out in the square. It becomes somewhat of a festival, even. My family doesn’t join in on this, of course. We opt for watching inside, usually muted so Brandyce and Dalton can dub ridiculous conversations over whatever is happening on-screen.

  On nights before the Darkening, our house may as well be as muted as our television set. When I arrive home, stillness has already set in the air, thick and impenetrable. My family eats dinner, the clink of silverware serving as sporadic background music. Every so often I’ll meet Dalton’s gaze, but then he turns away to our father, for whom Darkenings are impossible reminders. The day after my mother disappeared we entered into one, and he kept pacing the floors and murmuring about how wherever she was, she likely couldn’t find her way home without any light. Even when the sun came up two days later, it may as well have never surfaced again for him. He picks at his food and even thanks Brandyce for making it, and she lets the comment hang. Silence pervades over us all, a gash gone untreated for years.

  Full from the meal, my father retires to his bedroom, while my siblings and I migrate to the living room area a few feet beyond us to catch the opening of the broadcast. With a click of the remote, our ancient television sputters to life. Dalton takes it to channel eight—the Famoux’s special channel—and their logo appears big, black, and bolded on-screen. The waiting screen.

  “Here we go again,” Brandyce complains.

  Staring at the logo, a strange elation stirs in me. When I was younger, watching the third iteration of the Famoux with which I grew up, I used to wonder how it was possible that six lives could be stuffed within the confines of this television. They seemed unreal.

  I barely remember any of their names, though. All past eras of the Famoux pale in comparison to this one. The older Fishbowl broadcasts were a much more literal interpretation of the show’s idea, with the world getting a glimpse into their actual everyday lives, mundane as they might be in the confinements of a house. But this current era brings all kinds of story lines to the Darkenings—drama over what’s been going on in the month leading up aired out in front of our eyes. Most of the fights seem almost scripted, but the fans don’t mind. They love the never-ending threads of narratives being spun. I do too.