The Famoux Read online

  The bolded logo fades out into a crisp and clear fly-on-the-wall view of a room I’ve seen so many times, it’s practically engraved in my mind. We all settle on the couch as bolded text comes over this view:

  WE USE THIS DARKENING TO REMEMBER THE LIFE OF BREE ARCH.

  MAY SHE REST IN PEACE

  “Until she shows up again,” Brandyce murmurs.

  Several cameras zoom in on objects within the room. I take in the sights—the scatter of velvet and leather couches, the spotless marble flooring, the huge ivory grand piano in the corner. Somehow, they transport all of this to different cities every month for our viewing. It is the stuff of dreams. At least, the fantasies I had as a kid.

  Suddenly, a girl saunters into the frame on massive high heels. She wears a powder blue dress, her dark hair twisted tight into an elegant knot. Kaytee McKarrington. I can almost feel the whole of Delicatum lean toward their screens, eager. She is one of their favorites. They’d love for her boyfriend Cartney to be here, surely. If they could, they’d make him an honorary member.

  Right on Kaytee’s heels, the lovely Till Amaris practically dances through the door. As they laugh together over something, the final three members enter: Foster Farrand, Calsifer Race, and Chapter Stones, all conversing calmly, as if no one is peering in on them.

  The cameras zoom in on Chapter, as he opens his mouth to say something.

  Then the screen goes black.

  I sit up straight. Is something going on? Another power outage?

  “What happened?” I ask.

  But then I notice Dalton setting the remote down and yawning. “This isn’t interesting,” he says. “I’m going to bed.”

  “What, you miss them?” Brandyce asks me, amused.

  “I—no,” I say. “I was just wondering.”

  As my siblings rise to leave, I sneak a longing glance at the screen. The first night of the first Darkening without Bree is definitely interesting. We haven’t even gotten to see them approach the stairs where the incident happened. The tension will certainly be unmatched. But I couldn’t insist we turn the television back on—Brandyce would never let me live it down.

  × × ×

  I wake up early as usual on the first day, but with no sunrise to catch, there’s no use sneaking off to the ruins. This hour is typically my only opportunity to watch The Fishbowl with the volume up, but since they’re in our time zone, the Famoux are all asleep, save for Chapter, who sips a cup of coffee and stares into space. By the time my siblings stir and emerge from their rooms, the action is just beginning, much to my dismay.

  Throughout the day, the Famoux members seem to have a thousand different arguments, which Brandyce and Dalton talk right over. They decide that this current one at the dinner table is stemming from the fact that Foster accidentally took Till’s spoon.

  “I can’t believe you’d do this!” Brandyce mocks for Till. On-screen, Till is crying, pointing her finger at him.

  Dalton plays Foster, who’s got his arms up, as if surrendering. “Look! We have fourteen different pieces of silverware! You had at least five other spoons to choose from!”

  While they get a kick out of this, I try to read the members’ mouths. They’re talking with such passion and conviction, it’s difficult to decipher. It must be something about Bree—it’s the only word I can make out, although it could be free or maybe breathe. I’ll have to catch up on it later, through my eavesdrops at school.

  “I don’t want those spoons!” Brandyce insists. “They’re too small!”

  “Well, too bad! I need two this size!”

  At some point the argument subsides, and dinner is over. We’re given various shots of them retiring to their sitting area, then one of a door on the ground floor opening, an array of maids coming in and scurrying to the dining room to clear the dishes.

  “The silverware thing really is ridiculous,” comments Brandyce. She shakes her head at the screen as Famoux employees pick up full plates of food, now cold. “And their tables are always full of food they barely touch, do you ever notice that? Why do they need all of it? The excess is sort of disgusting.”

  “But that’s just Betnedoor,” says Dalton. “Everything’s like that there.”

  “No it isn’t,” says Brandyce.

  “Oh, so you’ve visited?”

  His words were said with a teasing tone, but the moment draws stale immediately. Any lingering amusement in Brandyce’s face is flattened down as her lips purse into a fine line. She shifts her weight on the cushion, her hesitation filling the air.

  Poor Dalton doesn’t notice yet. He’s gesturing to the screen, at a close-up of crystal glasses being set in front of each chair. “I can’t wait until I have at least six knives in my table setting,” he declares. “I’ll give them all names.”

  Brandyce rises from the couch, moving to the kitchen area. Dalton watches her go, surprised by her abruptness.

  “What?” he asks.

  She distracts herself by opening the cupboard doors, looking for nothing and finding only a growing frustration. When she slams the last one shut, which holds our ceramic plates, I hear them rattle.

  Dalton’s caught on now. His nose scrunches up. “Brandyce …”

  “Do you even know how few jobs Betnedoor companies give to people out of state?” she spits out. “How much of an honor it was to be chosen?”

  “Of course I do,” he says quickly. Dalton splays his arms out, reminding me of the Famoux argument they just mocked, now real and their own. “Look, I was just making a joke. All my friends and I joke about Betnedoor, so I—”

  “Do you forget that you’re the reason why I had to turn my offers down? Do you really think I would like those jokes?”

  “It was stupid, I—”

  “You just want to rub it in my face how you get a life and I don’t!” She paces the floor, a hand on her forehead. “I worked so hard, studied so much for nothing! I should be in Betnedoor right now, working at a lab. Not making dinner for you ungrateful …”

  It fades as she lets out a shriek I’m sure she’s been holding back for two years. Brandyce has always thrown jabs at us about having to stay in Eldae, but she’s kept considerably calm. Beside me, Dalton sinks into his seat, helpless. Dalton is a peacekeeper. I think of all the times he’s come to my defense with her, and a moment of stupid bravery overcomes me. I stand.

  “It’s not Dalton’s fault,” I peep up.

  I’m about to point out that it’s our mother’s, for choosing to leave, but when Brandyce turns her heated gaze on me, my well of words dries up.

  She lets out something like a cackle. “That is rich coming from you, Emilee. You know what? You’re right. It’s not his fault. It’s yours!”

  “I—”

  “She wasn’t tired of anyone but you, you glitch! Because you make everything so difficult! Every single day you have some new problem to come home crying about. Nothing is ever just fine.” She storms back into the living room, getting in my face. It takes everything in me not to cower back down to the couch. “The more I have to take care of you, the more I understand why she’d run!”

  For a moment my face stings, and I think she might’ve slapped me, but her hands are at her sides balled up in fists. It’s her words that have hit.

  “That’s not fair,” Dalton says. “Emilee isn’t—”

  But Brandyce cuts him off. All she can focus on is me, her stare cold and unrelenting.

  “If it had just been Dalton and me, she would still be here. And all of our lives would be better.”

  “You don’t mean that,” says Dalton.

  “I do,” she says. “I should’ve said it a long time ago.”

  In my vision, the world doesn’t blur. I don’t feel dizzy or faint. Instead, the room looks clearer, and I feel unnervingly solid. The incredible conviction in her words has frozen me in place, my legs like rocks anchoring me to the ground. I’m not sure I have the strength to even open my mouth. I may never move—this moment may never end.

  For the first time in my life I truly feel as stuck as Brandyce probably does.

  I find it in me to move, but only my eyes. I look back to the screen, to the Famoux. Till and Foster, who had been yelling at one another all day, are sharing a laugh as they return to their rooms. The rift between them had only been a small fissure, easily mended with a smile and an apology. But I know the one between Brandyce and me is far more cavernous. As we walk toward our own rooms, there is no laughter shared.

  Lying on my bed, sleep is an impossible feat. For hours I toss and turn, my mind playing over Brandyce’s words until they burn a hole in me. I’ve always known that she resented me. I’ve always assumed alongside her that our mother left because of me. There is nothing I can do to take back what I’ve caused, so why does she keep reopening the wound? What does she expect me to do about it? I can’t apologize for existing in any way that would make Brandyce less upset that I do.

  Suddenly the room has no air. I wish my ceiling would crack open, like the roof of my mother’s favorite house. I sit up, gasping for breath, but there’s no relief. I need to get out, if only just for a minute. I rise from the bed and don a pair of shoes. My hands reach for the corduroy jacket, but I hesitate, my stomach twisting up.

  My mother gave me this on the day she left us. When she fastened the buttons, she was smiling. I can’t help but wonder if, in that moment, she had already decided she would be leaving. Did her smile mean she knew this would be her last time ever comforting me—a smile of relief? She should have told me I was exhausting. If I had realized how much of a burden I was, I could have changed, finally stood up to the Greyhounds. Everything could be different. But it’s not.

  I let the jacket drop to the floor and run.

  Stepping outside with only my sweater feels like jumping back into Clarus Creek. My cheeks sting instantly, but I ignore it, starting toward the ruined houses. But then I falter. Do I even want to be there right now? Somehow I know the solace I’ve always felt will be gone today. It might even be gone forever.

  Where am I supposed to go? The only two places that ever offered me comfort no longer feel like home.

  Somewhere in my haze of my emotion, my feet start moving on their own. Not toward the ruins. Not to my house. I walk right into the forest in the direction of Clarus Creek, as if I was going to school. It’s so dark I can barely see what’s in front of me, but I’ve taken this path so many times I could do it blindfolded. When I reach my school, I keep going. The destination is clear now.

  I’m going to the Fishbowl. Maybe they can give me the sense of belonging I so desperately crave. Brandyce would think I am acting ridiculous. I don’t even know the Famoux members, she’d say. But I am drawn toward the glow of the Fishbowl like a moth to a flame. And in all this darkness, I could use some light.

  Even in early morning, the town square is lively. People in tents mill around in clusters, talking and singing. A dozen fires lay scattered, providing heat and delicious scents. A thick crowd of fans gathers around the perimeter of the massive Fishbowl in the center of it all, their faces pushed up to the glass that reveals the dining area. Prime seating for potential arguments, since most of the conflicts happen during meals. The Famoux isn’t seated yet, but breakfast could begin at any minute.

  I head straight toward the glass and weave through the people, searching for a member—any member. It’s not a difficult feat. I round a curve, and there is Foster Farrand, wiping sleep from his eyes as he gets out of bed. He can’t see out of the glass, since it only goes one way, but he looks over in our direction and winks just the same. The fans around me grab onto each other and screech, and he smiles big. Foster doesn’t have to see them or hear them to know the effect he’s having.

  Foster Farrand is the friendliest, most playful of the members, always with a witty remark up his sleeve. And he is gorgeous, too, with his deep brown eyes and olive skin. They’re all models in their own right, but that world is Foster’s specialty. He is in every runway show, every magazine, on the side of every building advertising clothes and products. His photos are ubiquitous—that smile, that wink. Seeing it in person makes me dizzy. I wish I could walk through that glass and talk to him. Something tells me he would know how to make me feel better.

  When Foster exits, a large chunk of the crowd migrates with him. I follow the flow of the crowd, now outside Calsifer Race’s room. He’s just looking through tie options, but crowds are loving it, hooting encouragingly though Calsifer can’t hear it. Quite notably, the interior glass walls in his room are covered in paintings. All his own. He’s the artist of the group, and his works are lauded as some of the freshest concepts in the last few years. He’s soft-spoken and humble, too, providing juxtaposition to Foster’s high-spirited energy.

  As Calsifer fiddles unsuccessfully with a blue necktie, Kaytee McKarrington struts in. I watch her mouth move in the motion of a laugh, and she helps him knot it correctly. All of Kaytee’s motions are fluid, as if her limbs are made of silk. She dances as well as sings in her performances, and it’s hypnotic to behold.

  She tightens the tie to his neck, and I read Calsifer’s lips: Thanks, Kay.

  The two of them leave together, and the crowd migrates again to watch Till twirl in myriad dresses. She changes in the bathroom, the only portion of the glass house that’s opaque, for privacy. Each time she surfaces, she shows off the fabric and sparkles to the window, a makeshift fashion show.

  The dresses look gorgeous on her; she has a much more muscular figure than Kaytee’s, as a result of all her tournaments and championships. Till is a sports star, excellent in a variety of them—individual ones like tennis and golf, and even snowboarding in winter. Just recently she’s ventured into film, starring in a series of superhero movies called Riot! that put many of her athletic skills on display.

  Though her productions have seen plenty of success, the film industry, as I’ve heard far and wide, belongs to Chapter Stones. He’s the group’s movie star. There isn’t a scenario he hasn’t played out at least once before. I’ve never seen these films fully, but I’ve looked over shoulders at classmates’ devices as they’ve played clips of them in class. In some he’s a spy, or a doctor, or creature from another world. Always a hero.

  He isn’t in his bedroom, but when I make it around the Fishbowl, I see him seated at the dining table as the rest of the Famoux mills in. The other boys are formal enough in dress shirts and ties, but Chapter wears a full gray suit, fiddling with a pair of silver cufflinks. Maybe it’s just because the fans at school talk about him the most, or because I typically see him sipping coffee in the morning, but I’ve always been partial to Chapter. I guess I’m sort of jealous, too, that he gets to live so many different lives while I only have the one, and mine is nothing special.

  Foster says something that makes them all laugh, and though we can’t hear it out here, I laugh too. Whatever it is, I know it’s funny, if Foster has said it. I realize in this moment that I might know more about the Famoux members than my own family. I couldn’t say what Dalton’s favorite subject in school is these days or what Brandyce dreams about at night, but I know each and every Famoux member as if I shared a house with them instead. Most people around Delicatum see the Darkenings as welcome breaks from their normal lives, but for me, they might be the only time I actually feel normal anymore.

  “What do you think they’ll do about Key?” a kid asks their friend near me, interrupting my thoughts. “Cancel it?”

  Oh, right, Key. Till isn’t the only one of them who’s made a recent jump to film. This was going to be Bree’s first role. Now, her last. People were buzzing about it ever since photos of her and Chapter on set leaked. Bree was no stranger to smaller screens—as her Famoux career, she hosted a variety show that aired weekly on The Fishbowl broadcast channel—but fans were thrilled to see her branching out. And alongside Chapter too. It’s the first time two members have been in a film together.

  “They won’t cancel it,” says the other kid. “They’ll release it. In her memory.”

  What a grand occasion that will be. I’m sure it’ll break all the records.

  In the dining room, the members regard one another with what looks to be kind formalities. The three men sit on one side, the two women on the other. And then, at the end of that row, next to Kaytee, an empty chair.

  Now that they’re all seated, servers and maids scurry about, setting the table with a whole spread of breakfast foods. Usually, this is the time when I have to press mute on the broadcast before Dalton or Brandyce enter. I wonder if they even notice that I’m not at home.

  But then two rough hands seize my shoulders and pull me back with a gleeful refrain:

  “Sticks!”

  I yelp, but it’s drowned out by a cheer from the crowd. The Famoux must be doing something exciting. Westin turns me around, shoving me tersely.

  “I can’t believe we’ve run into you during a Darkening!” he exclaims. “What a fine time for us!”

  Next to him, three other Greyhounds chuckle. I writhe as he grabs hold of my wrists and nods to the others to grab me too.

  “Why don’t we take her somewhere less public?” asks Westin.

  A team effort, they each take one side of my body, dragging me toward the darker, emptier streets of town. I assess the situation. It’s just the four of them, not the entire Greyhound group. No Felix either. My chances have never been higher to break free and make a run for it.

  As I’m planning my escape, they plot what to do with me.

  “How about the creek?” asks one.

  “We just did that,” another says.

  “I’ve got it,” Westin states. “Felix’s mom has a storefront on Eighth Street. We could lock her in the cellar, come back after the Darkening.”

  This gets encouraging hoots from the group. They yank me toward Eighth Street, and I screech. It’s no use; no one hears me. We’re far enough away from the Fishbowl now that the lights are a faint yellow glow at the corner of the street. Once we turn, there will be no more glow. Just darkness.