Note: I am sending all of my love and prayers to those who have been affected by the tragedies that have occurred in the world this past week, and all weeks for that matter. It is unsettling to me the way the world can be so unsettled, and I just want anybody who's been impacted by tragedy to know that I am always here for them. Always.
I'm sorry that this update took a while today. I've been embarking on the challenge of editing the 800 paged document that is Famoux book 1, and it's obviously gone as unsuccessful and daunting as you may expect.
Also, to make things light, guess what I got to see last week. A hint: I was talking about it endlessly in the author's notes of my last chapter and also on Twitter.
Could it be??
AH YES, FRIENDS. HAMILTON.
All I can really say is that I got very lucky and most certainly did not throw away my shot. The show was outstanding. I've never felt more compelled to make something beautiful and legendary than how I felt leaving this musical.
Did I make anything beautiful and legendary in this next chapter? Meh, probably not. I digress.
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: I honestly don't know. Did they show up for Ansel's interview? Yeah, that's it. Nothing happened. WOO!
emeray
Ansel on Eighteen, much to my surprise, has changed since my debut. I first notice the changes behind the scenes: Ansel's once modest crew with all of four members putting the show together, has grown exponentially. In fact, it looks more like a movie set now––a set dedicated to one hour reality television. There are eight workers manning cameras alone, a gaggle of directors and producers, a lighting team, caterers, and at least thirty people running around in STAFF t-shirts with jobs I can't quite figure out.
Another blaring difference is the overall dynamic. Mine was more old-fashioned, so to speak, with a couch and a few general questions about myself. According to the itinerary for today's show––it has an itinerary, there's so much we're scheduled to do––the members and I are going to do plenty more activities with Ansel than simply sitting and chatting with a cup of coffee. This is not an interview––it's an experience with the audience.
The Classix members and I are separated from the Fanatix, but I assume their situation must be similar to ours. We each have at least three people at our heels, powders and brushes in their hands to give us touch-ups. I recall a few months ago when Ansel, always one for comic relief, informed viewers that his talk show wasn't important enough for makeup artists. And now, from the looks of this set, it could very well be the most important talk show in the world.
As something sparkly is swept on the tip of my nose, which I'm told is supposed to look good in the spotlights, I ask questions about the makeup and only half-listen to the answers. It's much too hard to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach––Cartney just told me he thinks he might die because of a DEFED threat, and I can't help but feel partly responsible.
If there's one person constantly associated with the people outside the Famoux that DEFED has interacted with, it's me. They let us know in their note after Foster's death that they had machines just like the Fissarex. When Delicatum wanted Marlon York and I together, a carbon copy of Marlon started walking around, spurring his own rumors, as the real Marlon was inside all day. Though DEFED hasn't confirmed it, I don't suppose anyone else has Fissarex technology other than the them and the Famoux.
Back then, however, DEFED seemed to have liked me. Making their fake Marlon kiss me ended up propelling me to the top of the Volx in popularity, which was so swift and easy, it was almost unfair for the other members. But that's what DEFED had wanted for me––as they told me, I was their favorite member. But now that I'm with Cartney Kirk after all their work to get me with Marlon, and now that they've newly decided that I am no longer their favorite . . .
A hand on my shoulder interrupts my thoughts. I recoil with surprise at the touch, just as a voice goes, "Hey, Emeray! Are you okay?"
I turn toward the voice. It's Abby Anders, Ansel's wife and the reporter who composed my first spread for The X. I accept her hug, marveling at how much younger I feel with her in the room. So much happened after we finished the spread, from the contract to the Darkening to the aftermath, and I haven't seen her since. It's been months.
"How have you been?" I ask her.
"Busy," she admits. "I got promoted to one of the head writers for The X now, so there's always something new to be working on."
"That's wonderful, Abby."
She squeezes my arms. "And look at Ansel. His show is a hit! You're the one who made that possible."
"Oh, it wasn't all me," I say. "You guys are really good at what you do."
"Being good doesn't mean much without good people helping. Ansel and I cannot thank you enough for giving the both of us our starts in the industry. We got to buy a really nice apartment, and that's all thanks to your help at the start."
My heart swells. Somehow, I played a roll in improving their lives. And all I had to do was sit down and answer a few questions for the both of them.
What a difference to the way I've improved Cartney's life. It appears I can cause bad just as swiftly and unknowingly as I can cause good.
"Good luck tonight," she tells me. "New Famoux members? Genius. The show's going to be amazing––I can't wait to meet them."
"You'll love them," I promise.
"The world will, too!"
With that, Abby excuses herself to the audience, and the makeup artists return to their work on my face. It appears they've acquired a whole box of creams and powders to make my skin look normal. On any regular day, they probably wouldn't have to put in this much work into making a Famoux member look flawless, but I haven't been regular for a long time. The artists seem surprised––disappointed, even––to see bags under my eyes, and darkness where there should be soft, porcelain light.
"I'm sorry," I say as one of them pulls out a massive brush. For some reason I feel the need to explain my imperfections. "I've been really restless for the past week."
"It's fine, Miss Essence. We understand," he says in a tone that sounds anything but understanding.
As they press powder on my cheeks, I wonder to myself if they believe I've been restless, or if they're going to release a rumor later with this discovery––some claim that because of my exhaustion, I must have the same drug problem they believe Chapter to have. Perish the thought that a Famoux member can have such a mundane problem as trouble getting to sleep.
Once I'm finally deemed presentable for the cameras, I move to one of the tables set out from the caterers. Just as I've started picking at fruit plate I notice Chapter approach in the corner of my eye, and I'm reminded of Lex's interrogation. We've given no indication of being a couple, but Lexington Bukow made me feel like she knew. If I can compel DEFED to make copies of Marlon, to send death threats to Cartney––I don't want to know what they'd do about Chapter if our relationship were to get out. My shoulders hunch, and I find myself turning away from him on instinct.
"They think you've got some sort of drug problem too, don't they?" he asks.
I keep my head down at the food, feeling sick all over again. I can't even look at Chapter when I talk to him. Somehow it's become impossible for me to look friendly with any male but Cartney without somebody taking a picture and making an accusation that goes viral.
"How'd you know?" I ask.
"The way they looked at you. They did the same to me. Apparently everyone believes it's not in Famoux genetics to be a little tired some days."
"Perhaps we shouldn't stand near each other, then," I suggest. "They're probably going to take pictures of this and call you the dealer."
He laughs, bitter. "We can always claim the dealer is actually Cartney. That would be a shocker for everyone."
"We can't ruin the contract."
"I'm only kidding."
When I don't respond, his head tilts, leaning closer to me. "Sticks, you seem off. Are you all right?"
I don't get to say anything before Kaytee appears at my other side, cutting straight into the conversation.
"Emeray," she blurts, "what's going on?"
"Pardon?"
She looks utterly stressed, her hair ruffled from running over to me. She rakes a hasty hand through it, glancing over her shoulder. I watch as the strands settle close to perfectly against her dress.
"Well––well, I mean––" She begins to stammer, partly hesitating. "Emeray, what was going on in the coat room? Did he say something to you about dying?"
"Oh. Um––" Now it's my turn to stammer and hesitate. Why is Kaytee asking me about this? "He didn't really tell me anything. But I'm sure it's nothing."
"Nothing? It didn't look like nothing."
"He's probably joking," I assure her, even though it's a lie. If Cartney didn't want me to be freaking out right before this global interview, I'll assume he wouldn't want Kaytee freaking out either.
"It's just . . . I mean, it didn't seem like he was joking around, you know? Cartney looked terrified today."
"You look terrified today," Chapter points out, sounding surprised.
I look to him and find his brow is raised at Kaytee, mouth splaying into a small grin despite the gravity of Cartney's situation. His eyes meet mind for a moment, a sense of understanding merging between us.
"Whatever, Chapter," she says, rolling her eyes. Any panic is put out like a flame, cooling over like wax. The unexpected switch in disposition is astonishing.
"It's not whatever. You're concerned about him."
"I am not," Kaytee snaps.
"Kaytee." I hold an arm out to her. "He doesn't mean––"
"I know what he means." She backs up from the table, suddenly angry. Even though there are plenty crew members around, possibly eavesdropping, the anger clouds her. She speaks to Chapter without thinking: "If you think I'm concerned, you should really consider the way your girlfriend over here was reacting earlier with him."
"Be careful, Kaytee," he reminds her.
She doesn't respond, but instead storms off toward Race. Chapter turns to me, looking both amused and alarmed.
"So, what's going on with Cartney?" he asks.
"It might be something with DEFED," I say.
"DEFED? Oh, great."
"He didn't tell me anything in specific yet, but he's going to later. I'll let you know when he tells me."
Chapter nods at that, taking in a deep breath. "Well, Kaytee seemed awfully tense about it."
"She got so accusatory when you brought that up," I say. "You . . . you know I'm not in love with Cartney, right?"
"You're not, but she is."
I can't even imagine how Cartney would respond if he were to hear that from Chapter. We've been listening to Kaytee's old songs about him on our walks everyday for as long as I can remember. It's no secret that he's always been in love with Kaytee. As far as I'm considered, he's been looking for a chance that could feel the same way ever since he found out about her and Race.
"Do you think she could just be worried about him as a friend?" I ask. But I already know that's not the case. She wouldn't have accused me of being in love with him if she wasn't trying to hide something about herself. The way she ran up to me, and the way she wanted to know exactly what was going on with him––it can't mean nothing.
"Remember that list of weaknesses we found?" Chapter asks me. "The one from Bree's gala?"
I nod, thinking back to the list. For Kaytee, her weakness was Race.
And Cartney.
xxx
After a few minutes of downtime, The Classix and I are lead behind the set, which has been crafted especially for our interview. Five steel doors of different colors line the wall, likely leading right into the show where Ansel is waiting for us. I glance over at the other members, who seem to be comprehending the set up for themselves as well. Five doors, five members of the Classix. Where the Fanatix will be entering, I can't tell.
One by one, crew members escort the members to their respective doors. Chapter gets the red one. Till takes the green. Kaytee's is the lighter blue, and Race, the darker, navy shade. I'm reminded of my first interview again, when Chapter explained to me that every Famoux member has a designated color that the public associates with them. Ansel probably chose these doors subconsciously, which all the more proves his theory.
"Miss Essence, the orange door," a crew member informs me. I walk up to it, placing a hand on the cool metal. The tint makes it look almost copper.
I've worn this shade plenty times in the past before my wardrobe mostly turned black. It was the color of the dress Teah helped me pick for my first interview, and I even wore something copper into the Fishbowl. Staring at the door, I get a wave of uneasiness. I barely noticed I had a color of my own––I didn't even get to choose it, really. I was just putting on the clothes I've been given.
"We're almost ready to go," the crew member says. "Only a few––"
Just then, the lights dim. The studio audience––another new addition to Ansel's show; before, not enough people watched to form an audience––spark up with shouts and hollers with excitement.
On a speaker I can't see, a countdown starts.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
I straighten my shoulders as the numbers drop, six, five, four. If the new Fanatix members are anything like how I was before my first interview, they must be nearly exploding with nerves in these passing seconds.
Three.
Two.
I take a deep breath.
The copper door swings open.
xxx
Wow. The interview didn't even happen. Truly riveting literature. Ahsdhfj I promise this will get better soon. Cheers to reading a draft!!
In the meantime, tell me your thoughts.
As you might know, the Once Upon Now contest is happening and literally all of your faves have an entry. I do not have an entry (but I'm probably not your fave so it's all good.) I would really love it if you checked out my friend MissWildRoses's entry THEY CALL HIM WOLF. I helped her plan that over Starbucks for weeks now, and I'm so proud of what she's written. Please give it a read!
I hope you're doing well. If anybody lives in Nashville, I'm going to be there for two days next week. And if anybody is going to VIDCON, let me know!
All right, that's all. Remember:
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.