emilee
When I get home, Brandyce is in the kitchen, and Dalton in his room. Father's where he always is: Sitting at the lumpy old couch in front of the fireplace, staring at our blank television set. I assume he's just loaded it with batteries, as batteries are the only power sources not affected by Darkenings. That's usually all he does to prepare--crams around thirty of the little things into the television and lays around for the rest of the night until it's time to get the chip and watch the Famoux. I'm almost positive he left work early; he always leaves work early. He's not much use in the lumber factory--all he does is press a button and monitor the wood as it's chopped by a machine.
I'm sure Brandyce would've appreciated his help in making our meal, or perhaps Dalton could've used an extra pair of hands to haul in the firewood. But all he does is sit on the couch and stare at the dusting picture frame resting on the mantel--the picture of my mother, his wife.
It doesn't take long before Brandyce calls us all to the table. The meal is our usual pre-Darkening one: Turkey sandwiches. Mother initiated it when the first Darkening came a few years after I was born. We'd make enough sandwiches to last us a week, so we wouldn't have to break through the emergency stashes every time the sun decided to check out. Darkenings aren't emergencies, either.
Dinner should go off without a hitch, but my dad has a particular quirk nowadays, in which he believes we're dirt poor. We don't know what makes him think that--us in our lavish ranch house. He looks at it as if it's a shack, falling slowly apart, piece by piece around our feet. Dalton thinks it must be because he makes no income, never has. Mother always made the income. Now that she's gone, he assumes we have nothing anymore, just like the kids at school do.
I mean, I guess it's half true. He doesn't really have anything anymore now that he doesn't have our mom. The love for a child, it seems, doesn't seem to matter as much as the love for a spouse.
Either way, just the slightest things can set him into another episode. Tonight, it's the mustard Brandyce bought for the sandwiches.
He clenches his teeth. "Brandyce, did you buy this?"
Brandyce looks up from her meal. I can already see the annoyance flickering in her age-twenty olive-green eyes.
"Buy what, father?" she questions.
He gestures to the platter, but a bit too generally. She pretends she doesn't know what he's aiming at.
"The turkey?"
"No," he says, firmly. Too firmly.
I look at Dalton. He frowns. We both know what's going to happen.
"The cheese?" Brandyce continues.
Our dad shakes his head. He strikes the air furiously, still pointing at the whole plate, angry that Brandyce can't see exactly how he sees.
"Brandyce, stop," Dalton says. "You know what he's pointing at."
She shakes her head, unconvincingly. "Oh no, I do not." She turns back to dad. "Is it the water, father?"
Across from me, Dalton snaps his eyes shut. He's probably the most disturbed by our father's behavior out of all of us. I think it's because he's the only other male in the house. Although we both may not get along, when our father acts this way I can't help but pity him. I mean, Dalton used to pity me when Carstan's bullying first started. I'm sure I'll stop feeling sorry sometime like he stopped feeling sorry for me. I guess there comes a time in a person's suffering when you just have to shrug and tell them to suck it up.
Brandyce tries to keep her voice steady. I know she's just testing his patience. She always does this. It's like a game to her.
"Do you mean the bread?" she tries.
"Not the bread. The-the-" He can't find the word for it. He keeps aiming his finger at the mustard's general vicinity, and Brandyce keeps asking him if it's a different food. I want to scream at her to cut it out, but it would only encourage her more.
"I really don't know what you're pointing at, father--"
He lets out a shattering screech, and slams a fist down into the mustard. The yellow substance splashes across the table, mostly onto Dalton's clothes. The impact of his hand causes the entire plate to break in half.
"That stuff!" he roars. "That-that-that yellow stuff! Did you buy it?"
Brandyce barely budges. In fact, there's a hint of a grin on her face. He's done exactly what she wanted him to.
"Yes I did, father," she answers.
Dalton opens his eyes, and looks down at the mustard all over his shirt. There's so much disappointment in his eyes that my heart aches a little at the sight of him.
He doesn't say a word, just takes a piece of sourdough bread, lays some turkey and cheese on it, and takes a bite with a quivering lip.
Our father has been having outbursts like this since the first night without our mother. Red's infirmaries have deemed him sane enough to go back to work, but the three of us know that's not the case. Almost every night he finds a way to ruin something. More often than not it's Brandyce egging him on.
We don't know why she does it, but she must find some pleasure out of making our father unravel like that. It must be some kind of a punishment for having to be here, taking care of Dalton and I. If it's because of our mother that she has to stay in this house, then she'll make it very clear that he'll never get on without his wife.
But she will. When Dalton and I are the right age, she'll leave our father like our mother did and we'll be stuck with taking care of the mess she made out of him.
In its own right, it's an impressive scheme--when we graduate from school, Dalton and I will be so tied down on trying to find him a facility that will actually accept him (not many wish to deal with psychiatric patients), and if we find one, we'll be visiting him every day to make sure he doesn't go mad. We'll be so absorbed in taking care of dad that we'll never get the chance to try to find Brandyce.
She'll be able to escape the burden, but we won't. Out of the three of us, I think she's the one with the most of our mother's personality within her. This is the kind of decision only our mother would think of making. It's that flight instinct. Dalton's inclined to fighting, to confrontation. Me, well, I'm in a constant state of paralysis.
Father looks around at the table, and his mood takes a dip.
"I'm sorry," he says.
We say nothing.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
We ignore him, and serve ourselves. If we intervene, it'll only make it worse. Dalton and I decided that. If we tell him it's going to be okay, he'll have more outbursts, and will assume that they're accepted. We can't have that.
But the only thing that may be worse than his outbursts is their aftermaths.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, this one more agonized than the previous.
I try with everything I have to focus on the slice of bread I've taken, but I can never seem to eat before the Darkenings. I'm not nervous or anything, I just always feel a little sick, probably from the chemicals. It's hard to focus on nothing but my meal when I don't even want it, and even harder when my father is breaking down a few seats away.
"Please," he begs. "Please forgive me, Dalton. I didn't mean to. I won't do it again. I promise. I promise."
Dalton doesn't say anything. We all know he'll do it again. We know he'll say these same things afterward, like he always does. It's an awful process.
I can see the tears swimming up in his eyes. "Dalton?"
I give my brother a warning glance. If he so much as locks eyes with our father we could be facing a lifetime of dealing with this. This is a kind of situation our dad, and our dad alone, has to handle. By himself. It's the only way he can get over this. We can't be there to hold his hand through it every time because we don't plan on having to.
But Dalton, having had such a strong relationship with our parents, is definitely one to give in to his begging.
I'm not sure if we're handling this the right way, but it feels right to me. After all, our father told us all our lives not to take help from anyone. Whenever we tried to help him out of these situations during the past few years he's graciously accepted it at first, and then in a split second, he changes his mind and resents us for intervening.
So really, we're following his orders here.
Dalton gives me a reluctant nod, understanding. He looks back down at his food without a word to our dad.
A stern knock on the door pulls our attention to the door. I look to Brandyce, who stops her chewing for a second and looks at our father, as if he's mature enough to do anything about it. He's blubbering like a child, trying to get Dalton's attention.
"It's probably the camera chip," Dalton comments, grabbing another piece of meat to pile on his bread, shaking off dad's hand when he clamps it down on his.
The camera chip, my mind echoes. Oh, the camera chip.
I reflect back to the first Darkening, when we decided we didn't want to use it, because we didn't care about the Famoux and their whereabouts. We quickly realized if it wasn't good entertainment, then it was a vital source of light--light that could have been used rather than the last log of the small amount of firewood we had. And so for a week we had no light. None. No warmth either. It was the first time we realized how the rest of Eldae, the poor part, must feel on a daily basis.
I've never taken what I have for granted ever again. I may be hurt and made fun of every day of my life, but at least I have a warm bed and a meal to come home to.
Dad nods in agreement. His pupils dilate before shrinking to a normal size. "Yes. The camera chip. Because the Darkening is about to happen."
"Yes, dad," Dalton tells him. "And we always have turkey sandwiches before the Darkenings. With mustard. We always have mustard, right?"
He looks down at his food, as if just noticing it. "Oh, you're quite right son! Turkey sandwiches with mustard! Because then we'll have fresh leftovers!"
I feel relieved to see my father returning to normalcy. It's one of the quickest recoveries I've seen of his in a while.
He takes a cloth napkin and begins to wipe the mustard off of his shirt. "Oh my, how did this happen? I need to work on my table manners!" He laughs, so heartily that it almost scares me.
Then, he notices Dalton's shirt. "Son, you too? What happened?"
Dalton swallows. It's not uncommon for dad to forget about his outbursts after they happen, but it never ceases to frighten us all a bit.
"I spilt it," he replies.
"Well, you should clean up immediately!"
As Dalton gets up to go to the sink, there's another knock on the door, this one a bit more impatient.
Father smiles. "Emilee, would you like to get that for us?"
"Of course," I say, slow and polite. As if I was speaking to a stranger rather than my own father. In a way, it feels like that after his flare-ups.
Either way, I always have to be careful when I speak to my father, because I'm the only one in my family who got her voice. I have to avoid any contact with him at all to prevent him from unraveling all over again. It's happened too many times to count.
I push back my chair and retreat to the foyer. A gust of night air greets me when I push the door open.
The first thing I see is a man in an ugly hue of orange--the official color of the Establishment. He holds a tiny silver rectangle, paper-thin, small enough to fit in his palm. A navy blue stripe of paint borders the edges, and in the center of either side is a big X, its tips hitting each curve of the circle that encloses it. The X that marks the spot. That marks the Famoux.
The chip.
"Good evening--" he pauses to look at his massive clipboard "--Parvenu family. Are you interested in using the Famoux chip for your Darkening Entertainment?"
"Yes, we are," I answer.
"And you have a working television to operate with?"
"We do."
He scribbles something in the clipboard. "Good. You're all set, then." He's about to hand me the chip when he pauses and squints his eyes at me. His next words make my stomach drop: "May I ask you your age, ma'am?"
Just about a thousand curses flash through my mind. Oh, no. My appearance. I've had trouble with a lot of adults, but no one in the Establishment has ever asked me about it, and that's because I've done a pretty good job at hiding myself whenever they come by. I can only imagine what experiments they'd do on me if they knew I didn't purposefully look different.
"I'm sixteen," I answer.
Which is the truth.
"But I dye my hair," I add.
Which is a lie.
He considers this. It's hard to tell if he's convinced or not, because all I can concentrate on is how slacks, a dress shirt, a tie, a coat, shoes, and socks all in a matching hue of bright orange looks awful on a person.
"And you wear colored contacts, I presume?"
"Of course," I say. Too quickly?
When he doesn't say anything, I fill the silence.
"I'm a big fan of the Famoux," I tell him. That's not exactly a fib, although I'm not as obsessed as others are. "If they can look different, why can't I, right?"
He nods, warily. "You're not exactly allowed to change your appearance. It's a Famoux privilege. You're fine for the Darkening, just remember to wash that hair and take out the contacts before you go back to school."
"Oh, of course," I say. I'm well aware of the fact that you're not allowed to change your appearance. I have the detention record to prove it. "I'm just doing it for the Darkening. Makes me feel a part of their group, you know?"
"I'm sure you're not the only one," he says, bored. He hands me the chip. "Have a nice Darkening."
"You too," I say.
I close the door quickly, thankful that the Establishment man wasn't as interrogative as he should've been. The amount of times I've had to pretend I dye my hair like Cora is appalling.
I look down at the chip, and it still takes my breath away, after all these years. When I was younger, I used to wonder how it was possible that six dazzling, dramatic lives could be stuffed in this small, flimsy, fragment of a metal as fragile as glass. Small and easily breakable. Kind of like life. We're all capable of being shattered into pieces--even the bright and beautiful ones. Bree is the proof.
When I reach the table again, I hand Dalton the chip, taking a small square of cheese and nibbling on its edge. He squints his eyes, examining the Famoux sign, tracing the X with his fingers. When he looks up at me, a grin spreads across his face.
"Ready to watch some quality television?" he asks.
"Definitely," I reply.
We decide dinner is over, and migrate to the living room, where the large screen of a television hangs from a wall. It doesn't get much use, since my siblings don't have a desire for movies or shows. All the ones they show star the Famoux, anyway.
I've always heard about them from people at school. I've always known when they're out in the cinemas. I've always wanted to go and see them.
I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt up and over my hand, swiping it across the dusted black screen. Dalton turns the chip front side up and pushes it into the slot on the DVD player on the mantle.
I give him a nod, and he takes in a breath.
"Here goes nothing," he says, pressing a button on our remote.
The television comes to life, the screen turning from a dead black to stark white immediately. I hear Dalton's sigh of relief. We will have free light this Darkening.
The Famoux's X logo promptly appears, big, black, and bolded. And then it's gone, replaced by a grainy fly-on-the-wall view of a room that I've seen so many times, it's practically engraved in my mind.
We all take seats on the couch as the X disappears, and is replaced with bolded text:
WE USE THIS DARKENING TO REMEMBER THE LIFE OF BREE ARCH
MAY SHE REST IN PEACE
"Yeah, until she shows up again," Brandyce says.
She and Dalton give each other a high five.
I roll my eyes, hoping they don't notice.
The view evaporates, and several cameras pan in on certain objects in the room. The image is not grainy anymore, no, they only do that in the beginning to show how far they've come. Past broadcasts were low quality, but now they have a large production group in charge of cameras, lighting, makeup, and everything in between. It's all run by a woman named Norax, whose brother was a previous member of the Famoux, named Bendix. I don't remember him much. He was in the first generation. There have only been two.
A glamorous-looking man named Lennix Dax designed the entire institution of the Famoux single-handedly. It seems so simple: he gathered a group of willing teenagers, slapped an X on the word famous to give them a title, and thus, the Famoux was born. The group of celebrities rose fifteen years after Eldae's first year of genetic mutation took wind, and was an instant hit, not only in Eldae, but for the rest of Delicatum. Suddenly you could be famous, but you could never be famoux. It was a whole new adjective, a whole new word to describe the top tier of the celebrity food chain.
The Famoux switched to their current cast around two, maybe three years ago when the original members, who had started at around my age, were venturing deep into their thirties and weren't bringing in a young audience. Lennix called for their retirements, as well as his own, and put his also glamorous-looking daughter Norax in charge.
She's a spitting image of Bendix, and would have flourished as a member, but in her statement to The X--the magazine made especially for the Famoux--she explained how she'd rather work behind the scenes, and how she wanted to make sure her father had a trustworthy heir to the job.
And a trustworthy heir she is: This current Famoux group is wildly popular, almost more than the first generation. Now, Delicatum's young people have a Famoux group to idolize--before, it was mainly just parents admiring the celebrities they grew up with.
Out of the corner of my eye, I peer at Dalton, who's staring intently at the screen, at the scatter of velvet and leather couches, the spotless marble flooring, and the huge ivory grand piano that rests in the corner. I've never seen anyone play that piano, and it doesn't surprise me. Most of the furniture, appliances, and instruments in the Fishbowl are there solely for show.
We don't have a piano, and I'm surprised by it. It's such a luxury I could see us having. I've always wanted to play one.
Suddenly, a girl saunters in on black high heels. She wears a dark skirt that's as thin as a pencil, paired with this white blouse made of a fabric that shines under the lights. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled and twisted into an elegant knot on top of her head.
Her name is Kaytee McKarrington. I can almost feel the whole of Betnedoor, Notness, and Eldae, leaning into their television sets, suddenly eager, smiles broadening on their faces.
It is starting again. Finally.
Kaytee turns toward the entryway that she just walked from, grinning and gesturing for someone not viewable by this camera to come in.
And the lovely Till Amaris practically dances through the door. She's quite the fan favorite among the people at the Edification Tower--they're always talking about where to buy the things she wore, or what she said in her latest interview, or what her next movie role is going to be like. She's the resident actress; Kaytee, a singer.
Bree was the triple threat: a singer, an actress, and a model. Nobody could find any reason to hate Bree Arch--she was even the most charitable of the Famoux members, according to The X's End Of The Year Famoux Census.
We watch as Till brushes her immaculate golden hair with the ends of her fingers, like it needs to be perfected, as if it isn't perfect already. She's talking to Kaytee, laughing about something she said. I can't hear it, since we never watch the Famoux with the sound on. Dalton and Brandyce both agreed the broadcast would be a source of light for them to do more important things that didn't include actually watching.
My mother always told me that when my siblings moved out, and I was the last one in the house, she would turn the sound on for me.
Coming in next is Foster Farrand, Chapter Stones, and Calsifer Race, the three men of the Famoux. If there was any contest of who were the three most handsome men in all of Delicatum, they would win, without a doubt.
The cameras zoom in on Chapter, as he opens his mouth to say something.
And then the screen goes black.
"What?" I'm stunned, by the abrupt ending (and Chapter's close-up).
Dalton shrugs, getting up. "I turned it off."
"Why?" I ask, biting my lip for sounding disappointed.
"This isn't interesting," he says. "And we need to preserve the television's battery life. I'm going to bed."
"I will too," Brandyce says. "You should also, Emilee."
I sneak a longing glance at the newly black screen. I actually wanted to see what Chapter had to say--maybe I'd be able to read his lips . . .
But Dalton is right. Five Famoux members standing in a room isn't exactly riveting television. And, it's the first night of the Darkening. They're bound to be heading to bed like the rest of us, right about now.
We dissolve to our separate ways when the four of us reach the top of the stairs. Our floor plan is custom-made to do just that. Four hallways snake along the second floor, with our rooms at the end of them. Mother thought it would be a perfect way to show off our lives--if we all had our own hallway to coat with every picture, every accomplishment, and that's exactly what we got.
Dalton's hallway walls boast pictures with friends, prize certificates from educational or sport competitions at the Edification Tower, and plenty of glamour shots from the little family photo shoots we'd do annually and send to everyone we knew at the holidays. There aren't any updated ones--the most recent features a young, freckled Dalton with white eyes filled with happiness. The only kind of happy I see in Dalton now is one soured by having to pretend he's fine to a hundred people who need him to be so. He's the life of the party among his friends, and they didn't expect him to stop being that, even after mom.
Brandyce's hallway displays the same selection as Dalton, except the certificates. She put those down the moment she realized they wouldn't be of use to her anymore. They are now replaced with abstract paintings and photos of scenery. At least, they were the last time I checked. I don't go down Brandyce's hall often.
Mine is vastly underdeveloped in comparison to my siblings. The white walls bare no certificates, no candid moments with friends, and even a smaller number of family photos, since the man taking them felt a prejudice against me. I imagine if I lived in a more optimistic household, or if I had the brown hair and brown eyes I'm supposed to, I'd be coating my walls with posters of Famoux members, and the lyrics to my favorite songs, and the little mementos of joyful moments with my currently nonexistent friends.
Sometimes, when I need a reminder about how much more my life could be, I look at my hall. There's so much white space left--even a whole wall untouched. Years back, in a bleak moment of knowing, I decided that if I was going to do anything with my life, it would have to be worthy of being pinned up there, among the memories of my sadder years, so I could see how far I'd come.
I barely give my walls a glance when I shuffle down the hallway to my bedroom. The power's already gone out, and the moon doesn't reach far enough for me to be able to see anything brightly. I have to trip over the clothes and books scattered along my floors to find my bed, and even when I'm all tucked in and ready to lie awake forever I still have no window to glimpse out of, no source of light to allow me to do anything.
We once had an old house of the more appropriate Red standard. It was a quaint two-storied thing, furnished with antique couches from a time now obliterated by means of nuclear war. My mother always told me the type of home was called Victorian, and how she loved the sound of that so much that she made it my middle name; Emilee Victoria Parvenu. It was full of grace, full of poise, she told me. The fact that it had lasted, despite the vicious attacks of the world before us, was the very thing that solidified her love for the name. This Victorian house was a fighter, she said, and she wanted me to be a fighter too.
Our stay in the Victorian did not last long. It was around the time I was nine or ten when Carstan and his group followed me home from Clarus and found where I lived. For seven nights of the most shaming week of my life they snuck to my side of the house in the middle of the night and threw things at it. Eggs, tomatoes, rocks. They stained our little Victorian home and damaged all the windows.
When it was apparent they wouldn't stop, my father had us move to our current mansion on the opposite edge of Red. My mother wore a blank face as she packed up our things and told the furniture and the now tainted trimmings a sorrowful goodbye. She was disappointed, no doubt. Disappointed in my inability to make anything other than enemies. I was mortified--completely embarrassed and angered by the fact that it was me who made us have to relocate from the house that just couldn't fight the bad guys hard enough.
So the Victorian wasn't a fighter, and neither was I. My mother had been wrong about the both of us.
When my father custom made the house, he made sure the bedrooms had no windows, and that the paint could withstand any stain thrown at it. Thus, I have no window to the moonlight. Thus, the room is pitch dark.