The Famoux Read online

  “Westin,” I beg, “you can’t—”

  “We can and will,” Westin says.

  “But I can’t—”

  I’m cut off by a foreign voice. It’s like a clatter of spare change—melodic without any sort of melody.

  “Excuse me, dears?”

  The other Greyhounds tense up, thinking they’ve been caught, but Westin simply loosens his grip on my arm, his face transformed into a well-practiced look of innocence. Beside him, the others can’t help but gasp. I get it—something like an electric shock is sending currents down my spine. Considering the thought that she might be an apparition, I blink.

  Her long black trench coat and gray cap tell me she must be purposefully disguising herself. With her head down, she could be anybody.

  But this isn’t just anybody.

  It’s Norax Geddes.

  “I—what?” one of the Greyhounds stutters, dazed. Norax might not be a member herself, but there’s something about her—some ephemeral glow that makes anyone starstruck. I blink a few times. She’s still there. She’s here. How is this happening?

  Norax smirks at our reaction. It’s the most perfect smirk I’ve ever seen, but it quickly evaporates into a stern, almost disappointed look when she settles on Westin. “I was taking a stroll,” she says casually, “and I saw this little scene.”

  She was taking a stroll? Shouldn’t she be somewhere behind the scenes, controlling the broadcast? Beside me, the Greyhounds look like they could faint. The kind of trouble someone of Norax’s stature and power could get them in, I can only imagine.

  When it’s clear no one is going to say anything, Westin speaks up. “What … do you want?”

  “You see, I saw this young lady you boys are fighting over.” When Norax looks at me, the sharpness in her face softens. “I was wondering, could I steal her for a moment? Or is this a bad time?”

  “You want to what?” one of the Greyhounds scoffs.

  “I wish to speak with her,” Norax say, firmly.

  She wants to talk to me? I step back in disbelief and accidentally lean into Westin. He shoves me away.

  “Fine, take her,” he barks. “We were done with her anyway.”

  Westin suddenly lacks his usual bravado. His eyes are glued to the ground. She grabs his chin and brings it up, willing him to look at her. “Thank you, honey,” she says. That term is one of endearment, but her voice is devoid of any. “And don’t shove her,” she adds. “She could bruise.”

  Norax wraps her arm around my shoulder. She radiates this unbelievable warmth, even in the midst of the cold weather. I don’t know how it’s possible. She starts walking us into the darkness without another word to the Greyhounds, in a hurry to get me away from them. This direction seemed dismal a few seconds ago, but her glow makes the journey feel like daytime. I sneak a glance over my shoulder at them, but they’re already gone, ducked down the corner toward the Fishbowl.

  Norax leads me down the street. Every piece of me seems numb, like I’m in the middle of a dream I could wake up from any moment. She carefully looks around us, and when she’s sure the street is vacant, she stops, settles her eyes on me, and smiles.

  “I’m sorry about pulling you away,” she says in a much lighter tone than she was using on Westin. “I didn’t like the way they were treating you.”

  “It’s okay.” My own tone is excruciatingly meek. Talking to Norax Geddes feels like I’m talking to some kind of higher power. It feels wrong to say too much too loudly.

  “The way they were shoving you along, like you weren’t even a person …” She furrows her brow, then straightens it out again, taking a breath. I watch in awe as she gathers her composure like I saw her do just days ago on TV during the press conference. “What’s your name, dear?” she asks, like she’s just remembering that I’m a stranger.

  “Emilee.”

  “Just Emilee?”

  “Laurence.”

  “Emilee Laurence,” Norax parrots. “Hmm.” She surveys me again, then asks the obvious question. “How old are you, Emilee Laurence?”

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but these are not the eyes a sixteen-year-old from Eldae is supposed to have, correct?”

  I hesitate. “They are not,” I admit.

  A part of me expects her to turn up her nose in disgust. But she doesn’t. “Do you know why you look like this, and not like the others?”

  “No one does.”

  “How utterly remarkable,” she murmurs to herself. “Just like them.”

  “Them?”

  Her perfect smirk returns again. Just then, a big black car pulls up on the curb in front of us. I get the urge to duck away from it, but Norax tugs me toward the door, giving my shoulder a few fast squeezes. “Quick, come in,” she whispers. “Before those boys return and I have to be less kind.”

  There’s not much I can do but follow her lead. I assume she’ll be driving me back toward civilization, but the car goes right past the main square—past the view of the Fishbowl and the surrounding tents—without slowing a second. My stomach instinctively flips.

  The car lights cut through the darkness, and the sight of her face makes me fuzzy all over again. I grip the leather of the chair beneath me, hoping for stability.

  “Do you need anything?” she asks. “I’m sure we have some water somewhere in here.”

  I tell her I’m fine. One of the bodyguards sitting in the front seat passes back a glass bottle anyway. As I fiddle with the cork, my hands shake.

  “Is that water all right for you?” she asks, watchful. “I’m sure we have sparkling water, if you’d prefer it.”

  “Really,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  But she motions to the front, and another bottle comes my way. Now I have two. One still, one fizzing through the glass. I probably identify most with the latter at the moment.

  Out the window, I don’t recognize the buildings anymore. We’re far from the familiar sectors of Trulivent, now nearing the outskirts. In the flare of the headlights I can see large brick buildings come into view. Old factories, most abandoned, from the old world.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Someplace a little more private,” Norax says innocently.

  “Why?”

  The way Norax looks at me somehow dissolves all my concerns about the safety of getting in this car. Her look gives me warmth. The comfort I was craving.

  “I want to get to know you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The car pulls up in front of a large brick factory and parks. When I ask Norax what this place is, she flicks her wrist, like it’s obvious.

  “One of our many control centers, of course,” she tells me.

  “But you guys live in Betnedoor,” I say.

  She smiles. “This one is for Eldae specifically.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but two surly bodyguards usher us inside before I can inquire further. The inside of the place is surprisingly modern. Not what I expected at all from the almost old-world exterior. The lobby floor is made of a sleek black marble, and in the center of it all is a long ebony reception desk where a woman greets us with a bow of her head.

  Norax nudges me toward her. “Zoya, I have somebody for you to meet. This is Em.”

  Em. The word is thermal enough to settle my nerves instantly. Any nickname I’ve ever had has always been at my expense. Not this one.

  The woman, Zoya, repeats the nickname a couple times, as if to test it out. “Pretty,” she decides. “Wherever did you find her?”

  “Around the Fishbowl, being tormented by fleas.”

  Zoya studies me carefully. “Would you look at those eyes. Spectacular. Shall I keep them?”

  “Keep them?” I ask.

  Norax blushes like she’s been caught in the middle of something. She tells Zoya, “I’ve just brought Emilee out here to have a talk, that’s all.”

  “You brought her here to talk?” Zoya shakes her head. “Take the sitting room. I’ll be drafting up a few models.”

  Before I can ask what she means, I’m being pulled into a small room off the main lobby that houses a table and a bright white couch. No normal person could so much as breathe near this room without the fear of making some kind of stain, but Norax sits us down on the cushions like it’s nothing.

  “Can I get either of you anything?” Zoya asks.

  I’m granted not even a moment to decline before I’m being served five different selections of hot tea from employees in nondescript uniforms. They set down cream and various condiments, a tray of sandwiches, then a massive array of pastries—far too many for just the two of us. It reminds me of what Brandyce said last night about the Famoux’s excess.

  Brandyce. Have she and Dalton woken up yet? Are they wondering where I am? I try to picture myself turning up at our concrete house in an hour or so with this tale of how Norax Geddes picked me up and gave me tea. They’ll never believe it.

  “Try the lemon first,” Norax insists, stirring me from my thoughts. As I pour myself a cup, she offers a pot of what looks to be honey. “With a hint of the nectar too. It’s all the rage in Betnedoor.”

  I’ve never once tasted a thing like this, but some foreign nostalgia creeps up anyway as I take my first sip. The concoction tastes like home, somehow. I look at Norax, who smiles like she’s just shared a secret with me, and I feel eerily peaceful.

  “Do you like it?” she asks.

  “I love it.”

  She’s satisfied with this answer. As she pours herself a black tea, she launches off into her questions. “Now, tell me. Do those gnats do it often?”

  “Who?” I ask. “And what?”

  “The boys back there. Do they pick on you a lot?”

  It feels somewhat embarrassing to be admitting my grave unpopularity to one of the most popular people in the world, but I do. “Yes.”

  Norax gives me an apologetic, knowing look. “They can’t even begin to fathom your beauty, can they?”

  This almost makes me laugh. “No, it’s not … I’m not …” I try to let it fade off, hoping she’ll understand, but she doesn’t seem to.

  “You don’t think you’re beautiful?” she asks.

  “Well, no,” I say.

  Her face is suddenly filled with genuine surprise. Her surprise surprises me. “How can you not think that?” Norax exclaims. “Have you ever looked at yourself?”

  My blush is immediate. “I just …”

  “You know that’s why they do what they do, right? They’re jealous.”

  “Jealous?” She’s really on a roll now. “No, they’re not.”

  “They are. They were all a part of the fourth generation, no? Blandest eye color of the lot of them. But yours … Jealousy makes people do things that don’t make sense, dear. Things that aren’t justified,” she tells me. “They wish they were you, so they punish you.”

  I sip my tea, unsure of what to say. She has it all wrong. The Greyhounds call themselves that for a reason. They’re proud of their Gen 4 eyes—not envious of mine. But Norax is so sure of herself that I know there’s no use explaining this. I say, “Maybe.”

  “Trust me,” she says. “You are beautiful, Em. Beautiful enough to be a part of all this.”

  A gasp escapes me. “Of what?”

  Norax breaks our eye contact to examine her perfectly crafted nails, a grin splaying on her face. Then she glances back at me, eager. “Tell me. Are you a fan of the Famoux?”

  “Of course,” I say, my pulse racing.

  “You must then be aware of our current predicament,” she says. “We’re in need of a new addition to our group.”

  “I guess, sure.”

  “And you know what I think, Em? I think that person should be you.”

  “What?” I ask. The word comes out of my mouth involuntarily, before I can even register the weight of what Norax has just said. As my eyes stare into the golden Betnedoor nectar for stability, the whole world sways, and the teacup I’m holding is suddenly far too hot, and I have to set it down.

  She just asked me if I wanted to join the Famoux.

  Norax lets out a little laugh. “You heard me correctly, dear. I was thinking it over on the drive, and I’m certain now that I want you to join us.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. We know she plucked the newest era of the Famoux’s members out of obscurity, sure, but it wasn’t random. They have actual, established talent. She doesn’t know a thing about whether or not I can act, or sing, or paint, or swing a tennis racket, or anything the Famoux seems to do so easily. “Isn’t there an audition process?”

  “Oh, that was just an excuse, dear,” she tells me. “To make people think it was fair. On the contrary, I perused smaller towns in Eldae until I found each of them. Handpicked.”

  “Eldae? I thought the members were from Betnedoor.” Every article about them said so. I remember at school, when the new era was first announced, how some of the kids who’d auditioned really wailed over how unfair it was that the new members all hailed from the golden state already. It had to be rigged, they said. I guess they were right, but not in the ways they thought.

  Norax’s grin returns. “That’s also an excuse. A little lie we tell so no one wonders about their looks. Can you guess why?”

  The members are all close to my age, each one a year or two older. I go through images of them in my head. If they are really from Eldae, none of them have the right eyes for their generations. It all comes together.

  “They don’t fit the mutations,” I say.

  “Yes, dear,” confirms Norax. “They are all anomalies like yourself.”

  My head tries to wrap around this concept, but it feels impossible. They’re like me. The Famoux members are like me. My mother always used to tell me there were others, and I didn’t believe her. I thought it to be another one of her many lies.

  “But of course, as you may have gathered now, their true hometowns don’t know who they are,” Norax says, “and that is because the members have had to shed their old selves to become a part of this. If you choose to join us, Em, you will have to do the same.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?” I ask. “Their old selves?”

  She reaches out and touches my hair, wistful. “When my father Lennix ran the Famoux, it was merely a group comprised of the best of the best. Celebrities used to work for years in hopes that Lennix would consider them for the next era. In the end, it turned into a clique of people so high up at the top, that joining the Famoux was a mere next step. They barely even realized how blessed they were to have been given that opportunity.” Norax shakes her head. “I always knew that when I inherited the Famoux institution, I would give that chance to people who deserved it. People who are never given any reason to believe they are worthy of the world’s love. People like you. But every member has a group of boys in their past just like yours. It breaks my heart. So we change your name, conceal your past … it’s the only way. By joining the Famoux, you would be giving yourself a new life. A new chance in the world. This building is here in Eldae for that reason—I wouldn’t whisk any of you off across the ocean until I was absolutely sure you were going to accept that new chance. If you go to Betnedoor with us, you go as one of us.”

  Now my head is spinning. Suddenly, the taste of nectar in my mouth makes me nauseated. “But how will my family …”

  Then I see the sad look on her face, and I know exactly what she’s going to say before she even says it.

  “They can’t know. No one here can. This is a secret that only the other members, myself, and special staff like Zoya can be privy to.”

  Just then, Zoya emerges at the door. “Did she say yes yet?”

  “She’s deliberating.”

  As they watch me carefully, the reality of the offer sets in. Joining Norax means leaving forever. Slipping out of the house without a word, just like my mother.

  What would they say?

  Roaringly overwhelmed, tears perk up in my eyes before I can stop them. Norax consoles me with a hand on my cheek.

  “Oh, dear,” she says. “Have I misread the situation? I presumed, from the boys, that you would want out of your life. But if your family … If you already feel the love I am seeking to give you, Em, by all means we will drive you back home.”

  My sister’s words from last night flash through my brain. If it had just been Dalton and me, our mother would still be here. And all of our lives would be better.

  Do I feel that love Norax is offering from them?

  I force myself to think rationally. If I were to leave right now, Brandyce would be free of taking care of me for my final year of schooling. She would be able to leave as soon as Dalton graduates. They could head off to Betnedoor together, too, if he gets a job there. They could bring our father. All he would need is a room to himself, and they’d never see him, like now.

  It could work for them. It could be even better than it is today. But what would they say? Would they look for me?

  Beyond us, Zoya notes that, technically, I know too much already about the Famoux to back out now. Staying this long in itself is tantamount to saying yes.

  This should trouble me, but it doesn’t. With Norax’s gentle arms wrapped around me, the overwhelming feelings subside. Even with a dull ache in the shape of my family thrumming in my chest, there is a stronger ache everywhere else that feels a lot like relief.

  Sickening, freeing relief.

  “Okay,” I say, and the sound of acceptance in my voice surprises me. This is the way it has to be. This is what saves my family. This is what saves me. “I’ll join.”

  × × ×

  Upon my acceptance, Norax declares that we need not waste any time, and I am swiftly whisked into another room and told to change into a white gown. As Norax leaves me to make a few calls regarding my new-member status, I am taken by Zoya to a sterile room in the back to a machine she refers to as the Fissarex.

  Maybe it’s the dark chrome finish or the intimidatingly thin width, but my palms get sweaty just at the sight of this thing. It’s like a trap Westin and Felix would’ve loved to lock me in. I look to the door, a wave of strategies to escape flushing over my mind like they had earlier outside the Fishbowl. I wish Norax hadn’t left me alone in here with only Zoya.