NOTE: I'm SO SO SORRY for being gone for so long!!
If you've checked my profile lately, you might know the reason why: I was just recently commissioned by 20th Century Fox to write a little something for their upcoming film A Cure For Wellness!!! I wrote a psychological thriller type thing, just for youuuu!!
Please check my profile and take a look at that story. It's called Not Too Well, and it's full of diary entires from a girl who visits the wellness center for a break from her job. Things obviously get creepy really fast. Also, the film itself looks genuinely awesome. If you're one of those people who likes eerie, suspenseful movies (aka the only type of scary movie I can handle) then I highly recommend you see it. We can talk about it together.
Other than that, I've just started getting into the hang of this double-major I've chosen. Your favorite Slytherin is currently making a silent film AND handling the social media for the school's story review magazine (which I'll give you more information about soon, since I'm pretty sure a few Wattpad people would perhaps like to submit their stories so I can shower my whole campus with printed copies).
Okay, let's get going, shall we?
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Emeray was bombarded by Norax, who had her go to the Analytix. As it turns out, everybody loves Emeray. Woo! The problem? Norax believes Kaytee might be trying to sabotage her with a similar jealousy that Till had for Bree. Chilly. Now, where to go from here but Wes Tegg's, am I right?
EMERAY
He swings our heavily-gloved hands in the space between us to a certain rhythm I've gotten used to these few months. It's the beat of the song in our headphones––something soft and chilling by Kaytee that's been a staple for for these brutal Colburn winter months.
I listen to the lyrics as they slip by:
Don't know why I bother,
'Cause I know you're so much farther . . .
I let the words sink in, feeling a sense of both sadness and relief. With everything that's happened these past few months, I've slowly begun to understand why Cartney listens to Kaytee's songs so much: It makes her feel closer again, even when she's ignoring the both of us. Just hearing her voice makes me think we're okay.
But apparently, we aren't okay. As Kaytee sings on, I can't ignore what Norax just told me back at the Metropolix. Your life looks exactly like the one she'd been complaining about months ago––the life she'd probably do anything now to get back. I don't want to believe Norax, but considering the way she's been treating me lately, it's difficult to give Kaytee the benefit of the doubt.
As we walk on, a mixture of rain and snow embellishes my coat, a new black one that once belonged to Chapter. Despite Norax's disapproval, there's no real risk to wearing it––any passerby who's brave enough to face the weather out here will assume it's Cartney's without a second thought. Paired with the glistering faux-leather pants I found in my closet, I am a dressed like a little dark onyx with bright blonde hair.
According to the tabloids, my usual dark clothes are quite respectful. It seems that without a new member popping out of the woodwork to distract them, the public likes to take things slow. Either way, I don't mind wearing black so often. I never got that punk photo shoot with Foster––the one he always wanted––so it's nice to have one happen everyday, in all the walks outside the Metropolix with Cartney.
It doesn't take much for these walks to become photo shoots in their own right. No matter how cold it is, or how brutal the snow gets, there is always a new picture of Cartney and I in the next magazine. Just as we pass by a barber shop, a man in a black parka slips out the door, walking backward so he can face us as he grabs something out of his backpack. The item turns out to be a massive, wide-lensed camera.
"That's casual," I mutter.
When we turn the corner at the end of the street, we're greeted by a hoard of more men, looking identical to the first in their cameras and ferocity. They start snapping pictures like an army surging toward the enemy.
"My," Cartney says, sardonic. "It's good to be home again."
The sound of camera shots make me flinch. Since that night in Fishbowl, with all of the gunshots that were going around, anything that resembles that night in the slightest does a number on me.
Feeling a little suffocated, I pull the wool collar of my coat closer to my face, hoping to catch the faint scent of something fruity and herbal––the remnants of the chamomile oil Melissa has been administering to Callan. She's been quite fixed on essential oils lately, from peppermint ("for sickness!") to lavender ("for headaches!") to rosemary ("for stress relief!"). Callan's favorite is the Roman chamomile, which Mel once told us has been used for centuries to give people clarity in tough times, such as preparing for battle. Of course, he's only using it for sleep, but I'll take all the clarity I can get.
"You cold?" Cartney asks.
"Aren't you?"
He takes in a breath through his chattering teeth. "Hell yeah."
"That's probably has to do with your incredibly light jacket," I tease. "I don't get why you won't wear something a little more weather-appropriate."
Cartney shakes his head, glancing down at his moto-jacket with pride. "We both know this jacket is what really gives our pictures an edge."
Around two months ago he purchased it after he'd established the fact that my wardrobe had made a swift turn from little burgundy overcoats and brown ankle boots. Suddenly, gone were his own coats of tweed and various shades of blue, and in were the sneakers and beanies and black fingerless gloves––all black. All things I imagine Foster would've worn, had that photoshoot ever arisen.
I never asked Cartney to do any of it for me. I made that very clear to him the first time I saw him wearing the new getup in full. He'd been standing outside the Metropolix on a milder afternoon, grinning wide and childish with a single lily in his hands. The paparazzi was already there, just like they always were, waiting with their cameras poised for me to come out and begin our daily walk.
"You didn't have to buy that," I'd told him.
"Is that really how you greet your boyfriend, Ray?"
We kissed for the cameras. Pulling away, I gave him a quick, stern look. "Was it Buchan's idea? I don't want this to become some angle––"
"Please, I actually like these clothes," he insisted. "Buchan doesn't do all my thinking for me, you know. Plus, I noticed I've been looking like an absolute goober wearing trench coats around you lately. Now we'll be even in our cool factor."
With that, he held out the lily for me to take. Camera flashes popped like pins as I reached out for it. A picture with our hands in close proximity sells for thousands above a picture of us standing near each other.
"No roses at the store?" I asked.
"There were, but this one's a mourning flower."
My mouth dropped open, but Cartney didn't seem phased. His eyes swirled with a sort of sentiment, an understanding. He bent down to whisper in my ear, and I could only imagine how much of a kick the paparazzi got out of that.
"I get the black clothes," he said, voice low. "Chapter told me you and Foster were good friends. So, if you can listen to Kaytee's songs on repeat for me, I can wear this jacket for as long as you need me to."
"Chapter told you that?"
He shrugged. "If not friends, we are perfect allies."
The list of nice things Cartney Kirk has done for me is a short one, but it doesn't diminish how much those nice things mean. He's worn the jacket nearly everyday since.
By now, the weather has taken its toll on the poor thing. It might be durable, but it definitely wasn't built to outlast the sort of snow Colburn gets. From the corner of my eye, I peer at the leather: What was once glossy and dark has been gnarled to a faded grey. I believe I almost like it better this way.
"Aw, Ray, are you admiring your boyfriend?"
Cartney's grin makes me blush. "Oh, shut it."
The number of cameramen start to die down as fresh snow begins falling. It takes only a minute or two before the last trickle of them give up and duck into new storefronts. Without the pressure to pose for more pictures, I burrow my face further into the collar of my jacket, feeling the temperature dip significantly.
"Um, Ray?" Cartney says. His teeth are audibly chattering over the music. "Do you think it'd be possible for us to stop in someplace where warmth exists?"
"Why don't we get some coffee then?" I offer. "Wes Tegg's?"
This makes him chuckle. "What is with it with you and that coffee shop? Do they, like, pay you to go there?"
"I just like the staff," I say. "It's all young people."
"Probably the same young people who've been torturing your fellow Famoux members on all avenues of communication."
I give him a look. "Don't pretend like they don't torture us too."
"Oh, come on now. They work to our advantage, Ray."
"By posting all those horrible lies? It feels like they're only getting more brutal the more people like us."
"Which only makes our fans more ardent and defensive." He taps his head. "They know what they're doing with those headlines. They know how many devotees are going to purchase copy just to get it off the shelf. People like saving the heroes, and that's what we are right now. As for Kaytee and . . . well, you know . . ."
I nod. "Do you think we'll ever be the villains?"
"If we stop doing our jobs right," he says. "That's why we're out here, walking in below freezing temperatures like this."
There are very few patrons to meet inside Wes Tegg's due to the cold weather, so we get our drinks quickly and continue on our way. As I greet a few of the staff members I've come to know well over these months, Cartney takes the liberty of ordering us two vanilla lattes––his favorite drink.
Gerald insists it's too cold for the walk back, so a car is waiting for us outside the cafe. There's a very small turnout of paparazzi waiting for us to exit––only the ones most dedicated to their craft. The other cameramen who aren't waiting here are probably busy getting their incomes instead. They work at a near frightening pace––by the time our car turned the street, in fact, they've already sent off most of their pictures from our little afternoon walk to over a dozen tabloid sites.
I look at a few of them now as we wait for the heaters to kick in inside the car. Cartney shows them to me from a device, remarking on the headlines that grasp for any wow factor they can think of. Nobody wants to report a somber, terribly regular day.
"Oh hey, look at this one––it claims we weren't in Notness for Onward Train." Cartney presses the screen of his device with his index finger. His face contorts in a second. "Oh man. This one is really something, Ray."
"You sound thrilled."
"There's a lot to be thrilled about."
I lean back against my seat cushion, rubbing my forehead. "What do they think we were doing instead?"
He clears his throat, reading the article out loud. "As these pictures show, today Emeray Essence and Cartney Kirk stepped out for the first time since a month-long trip to Brennan, Notness. But could it be that our charming couple, going on four months now, was in Brennan for much more than Emeray's movie? A source reports that they stopped stopped at many fertility doctors when they weren't on set. Readers, what do you make of this? Could this mean what we think it does?"
"How splendid," I say. "We're having a child."
"Trying to have a child," he corrects, pointing to something on his screen that I can't see. He looks to Gerald. "Apparently you told them all about it."
From the front seat, Gerald laughs. "But earlier this week they were saying I stole Emeray away from you."
"And last week it was all about me and Kaytee's totally miraculous comeback." Cartney shakes his head at me. "What's the truth here?"
"The truth doesn't concern anybody."
"You're very right." He laughs again, shifting in his seat so I can get a better view of his device. The multitude of bolded words against a white backdrop give me a headache almost immediately, and I turn away to the window. "Ray, you've really got to see the other things they're saying."
"I'll look later."
"This is a gallery of fine art, Ray."
"I hear all about the headlines in the Metropolix," I tell him. "We Famoux members have the worst tools to hear all the bad things people are saying about us."
"Oh? I'm intrigued," he says. "You Famoux members and your tools. Is it something like that gadget that gave you your makeover? The Fissa-whatever?"
For whatever reason, my stomach drops. Ever since Chapter and I revealed Cartney about how we used to be different people, Roman and Emilee, he's been perplexed by the way we work––the roaring underground life of the Famoux, and all its gritty details. I don't blame him for being so curious––even though I'm a part of it, I still am.
If DEFED hadn't gifted him with the final clue before they took out Foster, I probably wouldn't be so open with things like the Fissarex. Since they chose to get him involved, I think it's only fair he's not completely in the dark about everything. I've had more than enough of my fair share in the dark to know it's not the best place to be.
"It's sort of like the Fissarex, I guess," I answer, my voice suddenly small. "But it doesn't change you. You just hear things."
"Hear things?"
"People talking about you."
"That sounds . . . nice." I watch him grimace at the thought of it. "I don't know about you, but I've got enough voices in my head to go around."
The radio finally kicks in through the static of the storm, so Cartney and I are silent for a while. We look out the windows at the buildings––some tall, some glass, some brick. In a few turns we pass Buchan's main office, which doesn't look much like anything other than a huge apartment complex. I recall Marlon explaining it to me once, how the studios were connected to his place. That way, he could run and record anything the moment he got inspiration.
Just thinking about Marlon gives me a wave of nostalgia. How long has it been since I last saw him? Before the Darkening? Things were so complex when he was around, and yet so much simpler at the same time.
"Haven't heard much from that Marlon York guy lately," Cartney says, as if reading my thoughts. As we make another slow turn, he gestures to the door at the corner of the street. "That door lead to his apartment. You know, back when he was signed to Buchan."
"Yeah," I say. "I used to visit him sometimes in there, for tea. Before this whole dating contract thing happened."
He laughs. "Back when everyone thought you two were gonna be together. Man, those were the days. Buchan was really gunning for it at the beginning."
"They were?"
"Well, I assume so. I mean, remember that time when he ran up and kissed you? Classic Buchan move."
I shift in my seat. "Well, Marlon wasn't exactly himself that day."
"Yes, because he was acting the hell out of that underdog-gets-the-girl role somebody was giving him."
"No, I mean that he actually wasn't himself."
"And what do you mean by that?"
Cartney is looking at me now with a hint of unease and excitement. It's like he already knows what I mean, even though he's still asking.
Since we're in the car, there's no real fear in discussing this out loud. But even so, I get anxious just thinking about saying these words.
"It was someone else," I tell him, my voice low.
"Someone else?"
"You know what I mean."
Cartney goes to run a hand through his hair, forgetting that he's still wearing his beanie. The hat falls into his lap, momentarily distracting us both. As he puts it back on his head, he gives me that look again, only he seems a little more outraged than excited.
"Do you think Norax did it?"
My mouth drops open. "What?"
"She could've thrown one of her little workers into the Fissarex for a day and told them exactly what to do. It makes sense."
"She only uses the Fissarex to make new members, Cartney."
"Yeah, as far as you know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I mean––" Cartney pauses, thinking of how to word himself. "Maybe I don't know because I don't live around her all the time, but Norax seems like a really secretive person. You didn't even know she was planning our relationship until she had the contract in front of you and a pen in your hand."
"It was a last minute decision," I say.
"Right."
My eyes narrow. "Are you saying it wasn't?"
"Well, I obviously didn't plan finding out that Kaytee was cheating on me, if that's what you're saying. But Norax and Buchan . . . they're creators, of sorts. They've got different plans down the line for those kinds of disaster scenarios. If Marlon kissing you was going to be a tactical move for both of your images, and if it's what people were hoping would happen, well, Norax doesn't seem like the kind of person who wouldn't seize that opportunity to give everyone what they want."
"Look," I say. "DEFED did it. They made that Marlon York who kissed me."
Just then, Gerald pokes his head out from the front of the car, making us both jump. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he says, "but we've been advised to drop Cartney off here."
I look out the window, getting confused. "At Buchan?" I ask. "Why isn't he coming back to the Metropolix?"
"Because have a meeting, Emeray."
"What kind of meeting?"
He shakes his head. "Not sure. Apparently it's classified."
I look to Cartney, and he just shrugs, zipping up his jacket. "I guess we'll have to continue this conversation later, then."
He opens the door, a gust of cool air greeting him at once. I'm immediately thankful that there aren't any paparazzi outside. Now, I don't have to leave the warmth of the car and kiss him for another photo.
"See you tomorrow," I say.
Cartney taps my nose. "Take care of the baby."
And then he steps out to brave the blizzard.
xxx
All right! Tell me your thoughts.
Did you like those lyrics from "Kaytee's" song? They're actually from my twin sister Kalina's EP! The song is called Caffeine, and it's literally genius.
Are you happy that I FINALLY brought up Marlon again? There I was, barely realizing the fact that he'd dropped off the face of the earth, and suddenly everyone started commenting WHERE DID THE MARLON FISH GO???? when I asked for critiques on book 1. I was obviously stunned and just as confused as you were.
Anyway, expect some new updates soon. I'm so excited about the changes coming up.
Now, I bid you farewell with some really cool and dramatic Taylor Swift GIFs. Take it away, dramatic Taylor:
Have a wonderful Friday, Wattpad. Remember:
but...
Stay classy, stay classix.