The Famoux

Chapter 4

I listen intently to the noises in my mind, staring off to the end of the room, wherever it is hidden in this thick darkness. The music is beautiful. Calming. It makes me wish I had some means to get my fingers on a keyboard. I'm almost positive Carstan has one--he has everything, Felix claims. It's too bad they'd sooner smash my face on the keys than let me take a stab at playing it.

I don't know when the melody stops, or when exactly I fall asleep. It's not restful, like I've craved sleep to be. I don't dream; I rarely do. But I do sleep for quite a long while, and it's refreshing.

When I wake, the piano has ceased. To my surprise, my siblings are already downstairs in the living room. I must've slept longer than I thought.

"Emilee? Coming down last?" Dalton gives me a faux shocked face, and looks over at Brandyce. "Has this ever happened before? This is unheard of!"

"Whatever," I mutter.

"This is not whatever!" he exclaims. He always likes to make little things like me sleeping in seem like I've woken up with brown hair and brown eyes. "What could have occurred to make this happen?"

Brandyce grins at me. "Sweet dreams, huh, little sis?"

I don't answer, and take my seat on the floor. I try my best to focus my attention on the television screen, where Chapter Stones is talking to Till Amaris. Usually when I don't show interest in taking their conversations any further, they stop.

Alas, Dalton continues.

"Ah, d'you have sweet dreams about the Famoux?" he asks.

I quickly shift my gaze to the floor, so I'm not watching anymore. Also, I'd like to avoid whatever look Dalton's got on his face.

I reply, "No, I wasn't."

He hums, like I'm lying. "No, no, you were dreaming about . . . " he pauses to look at the screen, for an aid ". . . Chapter Stones, weren't you?"

"No," I answer.

"That was a quick decline," says Brandyce. "I think you were."

"I wasn't."

"Oh, but you were," Dalton says.

"I wasn't."

He smirks. "You were."

"I wasn't."

Dalton opens his mouth, most likely to say you were another time, but it's Brandyce who cuts him off.

"Let's just let it be, Dal." There's a shadow of amusement in her voice. "If Emilee wants to keep her little Famoux fantasies to herself, we better let her relish in them alone."

"Oh come on. I want to know all the little details."

I give him my best scowl. His smile is triumphant.

"Do we have any idea of the time?" It's father, walking in with puffy eyes. I notice the whites are all reddish pink.

"Not at all," Dalton answers. "I'm guessing it's around lunchtime."

"Oh, good," he says. "I'm starving."

Brandyce gets up from the couch. "I'll go get something for you, then." She sounds annoyed. Yet again, she always does.

A couple cans of tuna are pulled out, one of dad's favorites. Brandyce doesn't favor the texture of it much, and Dalton's actually a bit allergic. I can't stand the smell. We all try our best to stomach it for our father's sake.

"So," he starts through a mouthful, "how did we all sleep?"

"Oh, just wonderful, dad." Dalton flicks me a teasing look.

"That's great. Always good to get a good night's sleep."

"Did you sleep well, father?" asks Brandyce.

He stares down into his tuna can for a moment before looking back up at us with wide, honest eyes.

"No, I didn't."

It's predictable at this point--a given. Sometimes, he screams at the top of his lungs our mother's name, and both Dalton and Brandyce pretend they're such heavy sleepers that they don't hear it. I'm always the one who has to walk in there and try to calm him down with the exact voice he shouldn't be hearing.

In spite of my completely differing appearance, he's confused me with his wife many times over the years. Having to convince him that it's me, Emilee, is the worst part. Most mornings that follow, he won't talk all day. Brandyce chalks it up to a lost voice from all the yelling. Father's inability to look me in the eye on those days, Dalton explains must be because he remembers all the trouble I've caused for looking different.

I reckon they must hear father's reactions when he thinks I'm mom. I'm grateful for the fact that they don't ever try to bring it up.

"So, everybody." Father claps his hands together, forcing excitement to his face. "It's going to be a very wonderful day today."

"A wonderful day?" asks Brandyce. "During a Darkening?"

"Yes," he replies. "It will be very eventful, very sociable, and very fun."

"Uh, how?" Dalton asks. "We can't really do anything in the house, dad--"

"Oh no, we aren't going to be in the house, son."

"We . . . we aren't?"

"Yes, indeed."

Dalton glances at me, with a look that asks: What's he up to? I don't know either, so I shrug in reply.

"What are we doing, exactly?"

He looks so happy he could burst. "We are going to see the Famoux today!"

I whip my gaze to him. "Excuse me?"

"Yes!" he replies. "It's so cold in here, Emilee, and the Fishbowl radiates warmth. Also, dozens of people are already there, making a bit of a campout with hot food. I thought it would be a wonderful day trip."

I can't tell if this is one of the crazy things my father says, or if he's actually being serious. He knows my siblings hate the Famoux, and especially hate the Famoux whenever they come to Trulivent.

"We wouldn't be actually watching the Famoux, of course, right?" Brandyce asks, tone laced with disgust. "We're only going for the warm food?"

"We're going for food, yes. We'll stay for dinner."

I look out at the window next to me. There, like a little flicker of light, a little dot within the trees, is the Fishbowl, too small to barely identify.

For years and years I've debated whether or not I'd actually want to join the other fans who gather around it. I could never pluck up the courage to even throw it out there for my family's consideration. They would accuse me of actually liking the Famoux, which I still wasn't quite sure of. Maybe I like the idea of them, but I don't really know enough about them to like who they are.

I pretend to be irked alongside Dalton, just so they believe I'm as angry to be going towards the Famoux too.

"If we must," I say with a sigh. I glance towards the television. Kaytee McKarrington and Foster Farrand are now sitting on a couch, talking. I continue, "As if having to watch them here isn't enough. But if there's food there, sure."

"Who're you kidding, Emilee?" says Dalton. "You're probably thrilled to go."

"It's better than staying in this ice box all day," I say, ignoring him.

"Then we'll go," father confirms. "It's decided."

I feel a stirring in my stomach. Something like excitement.

Perhaps I do like the Famoux, after all.