Note: I'm so so sorry for missing Friday!! I'm gonna make it up to you, I promise. It's 2:58 AM where I am right now. Soooooo.
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: The Famoux members moved to their new house. Cartney showed up. And now, what else would they be doing other than getting coffee and filling pages with meaningless dialogue!?
emeray
In all my times leaving the Metropolix, Norax has never once been as fixed on my whereabouts as she is today. In a place as big as the our new house, slipping out for a while without anyone noticing wouldn't be a difficult task at all for somebody with a low profile. I can picture Emilee Parvenu in a house that big––there are so many hiding places that my family could assume me to be in different rooms for hours without actually knowing where I was. If it wasn't for the ever constant broadcasting of my whereabouts from the press, there's a good chance Norax might not have noticed my absence at all.
But of course, Cartney and I are not low profile people. Our entrance today at Wes Tegg's caused a global uproar. There was a calamity of shouting and cameras, and a booming applause broke out from everybody––employees and patrons alike. It went on for so long that Cartney felt inclined to bow.
Normally, Norax has never been the kind of manager to worry about what we're doing, since she can usually keep up with it by the minute on a gossip site. I remember when Foster was once able to slip out for a few days to establish a public relationship with Marilyn Majo. Norax didn't have a fit once. And yet, within the mere hour we've been out of the Hideaway I've had to ask Angad to decline five separate, very terse-sounding phone calls, all from her.
Apparently our the Hideaway, unlike the Metropolix, has rules––the first being that all Classix members need permission from Norax before leaving the premises.
"Norax wants me to stress to you that this rule is a safety precaution," said Angad on the ride to Cartney's studio. "Only a safety precaution––not a needless effort to oppress your freedom."
Either way, any unannounced departure is, as he tells me, punishable. Punishable by what, exactly, I'll find out about when I get back.
"Emeray, she is getting very irritated with you." Angad holds up the device in his hands, his face delirious. We barely made it two steps into Cartney's studio with our coffees before his loud, special-alert phone started ringing once again with vigor. "This is an intense breach of the rules on the first day they've been issued. We don't even have the extra two guards she's assigned us!"
"But I'm just going to listen to some of Cartney's new material," I fib. "We don't need three guards stationed around me for that."
"In the words of the new rulebook, it's always when you think you don't need them that you need them the most."
I give him a look. "She's never been bothered by me perpetuating this relationship before."
"Sure, but seems really especially bothered about it now. I'm starting to think my job is on the line." He stares down at his phone as the last ring cuts off short. "Emeray, you got your coffee. We should really consider going back to the Hideaway now."
"We just got here," Cartney says. "Why don't you tell Norax we'll get her favorite daughter back to that pretty little castle in one hour, tops."
The Famoux members have been referred to as Norax's children plenty of times, but a bad taste forms my mouth when he says it now. The insinuation of being siblings with Carstan makes me feel sick to my stomach.
"She wants Emeray back right now," says Angad. "Not in one hour."
Cartney grabs my arm tightly. He swallows hard, glancing at the door like a monster's standing in front of it. "Well, there are a lot of things I want that aren't gonna happen. Tell her to wait a bit. "
"But that's––"
Angad's words cut off short––we've already run too far down the hallway to hear the rest of his rebuttal.
I've been to Cartney Kirk's lavish production studio only one time before today. It was months ago, back when he, Kaytee, and I were recording "Seashore" for their now nonexistent duet album. As I glance at the walls, which covered top to bottom in platinum records and an array of musical instruments, my eyes scan the place for Cartney's powder blue banjo. It turns out that it's been separated from the other multi-colored selection of banjos and is now situated off the wall completely. I find it propped up in its own stand beside a stool and table. Easy to reach.
My mind flutters back that day––to Kaytee and him bickering over their contract renewal when I left the room. When their fight dwindled down, I watched from the door as he picked up the banjo and plucked out a few chords of a song for her. He'd almost dropped it on the hardwood floor as he took it down from the wall. It made her laugh.
"I guess it's not like you only have one banjo," she'd said.
He then looked at her carefully. "Only one in your favorite color."
"Let's definitely not talk about that," Cartney says, his voice breaking through my thoughts. When I turn to him, he's looking at the banjo too.
"About what?" I ask.
"That time I tried to serenade her and you eavesdropped outside the door."
"I . . . I don't know what you're talking about," I say, playing dumb.
He shakes his head, not convinced. "I don't think you would've pitied me so much afterward if you hadn't watched me quite pathetically try to win her over. Little did I know she was already won by someone else, but hey, you did."
"I'm sorry, Cartney."
"I'm over it," he lies. "I mean, now I've got you to serenade with DEFED's merciless death threats. Let's get to it, shall we?"
We walk to the end of the room where the recording area stands proudly, control panels gleaming as bright as the records on the his walls. Unlike my last visit, there's no furniture in the soundproof booth, so we resort to sitting on the floor and sipping our vanilla lattes in silence for a minute before either of us dares to speak. The quiet inside is potent, like humidity in the air. I'm reminded of how it feels to be in the Analytix before all the voices pick up and evade the peace.
"Well, here we are," he says.
"Here we are," I echo.
He props his legs up like mine, pushing his right leg against my left. "They told me I'm a target now. That's what was freaking me out at your interview."
"A target?"
"Crowds full of people, and one of them's aiming a gun at me. They told me it doesn't matter where I go, Ray, somebody will always be ready to kill me."
My mouth drops open. "What?"
"All they told me was that I'm expendable, that I can be easily replaced. They won't hesitate to shoot. They're following me around, somewhere among the fans and the paparazzi, watching to make sure I help their cause."
"Their cause?"
"Making people hate us," he says. "Being extra-affectionate. Looking as fake as we are. They'll take me down if I don't take us down first." He puts his hands out in front of him, making quotations with his fingers. "As they said, game on."
The hair on the back of my neck rises.
Game on.
"They told you that?"
"In their letter, yeah. Why?"
I tell him about the pajamas from last night, the nursery rhyme attached. Cartney's expression goes from grave to even graver––a sick, ashen pale.
"Jack fell down and broke his crown," he says. "So they're saying they're gonna kill me first. And then . . ."
"And Jill came tumbling after."
He rests his head slowly against the wall. Looking anywhere but his somber face, I watch his hair get static from the soundproofing foam. It's bright, whiter than the color of my eyes. The way it sticks up when he leans back reminds me of the freshly fallen snow that sticks to the roofs of buildings.
I take a sip of my latte.
He takes a sip of his.
We exhale at once.
"D'you think this how Foster Farrand felt?" he asks softly.
"Huh?"
"Well, DEFED sorta attacked him before the Darkening, you know?" He taps the lid of his cup. "You told me about how they broke up his relationship with Marilyn and everything."
"They're not breaking us up."
"That's not the point. The thing is, DEFED was treating everyone fairly in general before then. And then, they suddenly started specifically targeting him, and messing up his life. You can't ignore how direct that attack was to decrease his likability. Don't you think a part of him had to know it was coming?"
I fight off a twisting feeling in my stomach. "Everything fell apart with you and Kaytee right then too, though," I point out. "At the time it felt like either she or Race would be the ones they'd go for in the Fishbowl. Even if Foster assumed it was going to be him, he probably thought it couldn't possibly be him anymore after that."
"Just think about you and I right now, Ray. DEFED deciding they don't like us anymore––trying to sabotage us. It feels a lot like what Foster must've been feeling. We can't forget that they can still spring an engagement ring on us at any given moment."
There is so much I want to say without knowing what to say at all. I grab his hand, but it does little to slow my pulse. "What do we do, Cartney?"
"Fight back?"
"They said they'd kill you."
"You're right. I doubt they're bluffing there."
We exhale together again, exasperated. Through the glass window of the booth I see Angad moving across the studio, phone in hand. The look on his face tells me it is far past our time to go.
Cartney sees him coming toward us too. Without a word, he shifts his legs, preparing himself to rise to his feet. As my bodyguard closes the distance, he turns to me, eyes suddenly electric.
"They told us game on," he says. "Game on."
I nod. "So what do we do in a game like DEFED's?"
"We play along."
xxx
Tell me your thoughts about the weather. What's it like where you are? Oh, you can also talk about your thoughts on this chapter.
I want you to know that your comments on my birthday post this week have made me so happy. I love seeing what resolutions people are making for themselves. Bold, confidence, consistency, brave, kindness . . . It goes on. Honestly, nothing makes me happier than seeing your goals and aspirations. I hope you hold onto your resolution with me!
Now, some wisdom from my main man:
[If I'm gonna use GIFs in excess, they shall be (as the kids say) HELLA motivational.]
I'll be back soon. Probably at a more normal hour than almost 3 in the morning. Just expect another update soon and tweet me if I'm being lazy. My resolution is nonstop, so I really should be writing like a true founding father and all that jazz. But what I have that Alexander Hamilton didn't is the endless distractions of the Internet.
I digress. See you soon. Remember:
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.