emeray
There's no time to waste. The Famoux get straight to formal greetings, each taking turns walking up to me, introducing themselves (as if they thought I actually wouldn't know their names), whispering some trick or tip or comment about fame and the new life being thrust upon me, and ambling out the foyer, on their merry way to someplace else. It is at this moment where I get to gather my own opinion on these people I've heard so much about. Essentially, it is at this moment where I finally get to genuinely hear these people I've heard so much about. I try my best not to ask for autographs and photos, which feels utterly tempting every time one approaches.
First comes Kaytee, who I already graciously like. She's all smiles and giggles--real, true, exuberant giggles, which I not even for a second find annoying.
"My name is Kaytee McKarrington," she says.
"Emeray," I say. "You're a singer, right?"
"I am." With a near boyish look on her face, she teases, "You better not become a recording artist though, Emeray, because I will without a doubt never sell another album again if I've you as my competition."
"I don't think that'd be the case," I laugh. A compliment from Kaytee feels something like the stars in the sky zipping about to rearrange themselves into my name: improbable, impossible, and immeasurably flattering.
"Oh, no. You wouldn't even have to sing well to sell records. Damn."
As I just grin and form some sort of head shake, I decide to ask Norax later about working on my reactions toward kind remarks. I don't even know how to react toward negative ones, and I've received much of those all my life. My go-to retort is no words, just fleeing the situation. Running. Taking after my mom, in the worst of ways.
This reminds me of how long it's been since I saw my family. Do they wonder where I am? They're always going to be looking for me, thinking of me with such disdain for running away like mother. They're never going to know why I've done what I've done; I don't even think I will know why, myself. But I've no time to luxuriate myself in my rash, selfish decisions in the last week before I notice Foster Farrand walking my way, which promptly captures all my attention--dissolves all worry or conscious notion into a fizzling, fading whisper in the back of my head.
"Why hello, babe," he says, extending out his arms. I've no free moment to respond before he wraps those arms around my waist, pulling me right against his chest.
And it all happens so quick. My heart isn't given enough warning before there's contact. Forehead against my forehead; nose against my nose; and then, suddenly, lips against my lips. Lips against lips.
The moment he pulls away to tell me his name, my head spirals like a top about to fall clean off my neck, and my lips burn from the impact, and my veins swoosh with a paralyzing burst of adrenaline to the crux of my chest.
"I'm Foster Farrand," he says. "It's nice to meet you."
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. What are words?
"I-I-hi."
The rest of the Famoux members burst into laughter, but it all sounds like echoes from the other side of a tunnel from here. My mind won't stop re-feeling it. I've never been kissed before this. Foster Farrand was my first kiss. This is the pipe dream of near every girl in the Edification Tower. I get the childish, fantastical sense that I must be the luckiest girl in the entire world right now, at this exact moment. What a feeling.
"Fos, don't be such a tease," Kaytee says, a twitter in her voice. "You'll only end up giving her the wrong idea."
He smirks. "Just wanted to express my acceptance that she's here."
"And got a little carried away, did you?"
"Kind of hard not to get a little carried away," Foster says, "when she's got better legs than me."
This calls for more laughter. For the first time since I've arrived, I feel my nervous, rigid exterior melt down a few layers, and I join in.
"Can't you just see it, though?" Foster continues, using wild, redundant hand gestures as if it will help to prove his point. "Picture it: The two of us on the cover of The X, both wearing the skinniest of black jeans and killer leather jackets. Headline reads Welcome, Emeray Essence. The debut of a celebrity and a fashion. I call it, famoux-punk. Whole new style era on the rise. Don't you see it?"
"Looks like a bright future for famoux style," Kaytee chuckles.
"Oh, no." He blinks like she's mad. "It's a dark future for famoux style. Did you even hear a thing I just said?"
Foster's playful nature fills me with a sense of happiness and satisfaction. To Famoux fans, he is the "fun" one of the bunch, and it's magnificent to see this is true, even when the cameras aren't rolling. I was a tad nervous they'd all turn out to be something other than what the general public thinks they are. So far, they have it down: Foster, boyish; Kaytee, sweet; Till, earnest; Calsifer, muscly; Chapter, aloof.
And what am I, I wonder.
"It'd be a good way to put her apart from Bree," Till considers. "I mean, she was all modest necklines and stark prints and classic collars."
"See what I mean? Wouldn't be a bad idea to make her punk."
When I go to clarify that I'm not quite sure what style I am, I'm cut off. Calsifer, from across the room teases, "If we're making her punk with you tagging along, why don't you make her your girlfriend while you're at it?"
With laughter spilling from his wide grin, Foster shakes his head. It's so delightful to watch that I'm not even phased by the rejection--I'm too focused on being happy because he is being happy. So far, my completely wonderstruck reactions to meeting the Famoux members are taking me by surprise, though I'm not quite sure how I expected to be, if not completely wonderstruck.
"I hope you find yourself a better kisser than me, babe," Foster says with a theatrical sigh and frown. "Apologies, but I've got myself a strict no-girlfriends policy."
"Why so?" It comes out before I can stop it. Instantly the color rises to my cheeks. Kaytee, Calsifer, and Till all laugh like they know something, and the curiosity kills me.
"Got somebody back home," he explains.
I just nod, internally speculating how it's possible Foster could be dating someone from his home. If he changed his name and appearance like everybody else, how would it ever be possible? I didn't think we were allowed to communicate with people from our past. Not like I'd particularly desire to do that sort of thing, anyway.
"Well, I've got to go now, but I hope you have a good first night in our humble Metropolix," Foster tells me. "I'm ready to be punk whenever you are."
He bends down to give me a peck on the cheek, which makes my whole face tingle; literally, embarrassingly tickled pink.
With Kaytee by his side he leaves the room, and immediately the two launch into excited jabber about what sounds to be her next single. In his place comes Till and Calsifer, together.
Till extends out her hand for me to shake. "Well welcome, Emeray. I'm Till Amaris. This is Calsifer Race. I'd like to just apologize now for how Race and I acted initially to your arrival."
"You don't have to be sorry," I say, giving her hand the meekest shake I've ever mustered in my entire life. Foster must've took all my strength with him.
"No, we need to. It's barely been a week since what happened to Bree, and everyone here has had scattered reactions. Some of us are going to take longer to heal than others. Either way, we'd hate for you to think we won't be accepting of you because of your timing, because it won't be the case."
"There's really no need to apologize," I assure her. "Really, it's fine. I understand your hesitation completely."
"You do?" Calsifer Race raises his eyebrows.
"I was pretty skeptical about arriving here as early as I have. I didn't want you all to think I was trying to get my big break replacing Bree Arch or something like that. None of that is or ever has been a goal of mine."
"I'm glad," Till says. She grips ahold my fingers in a way I'd imagine a friend would when something exciting happens. "I know I wasn't on good terms with Bree, and I don't want that to end up being the same with you. I'd like to put in the effort to be a friend of yours, not a rival."
My heart feels like it could explode. Till Amaris wants to be my friend. My mind is slapping itself, trying to stay composed.
"I really, really appreciate that, Till. Thank you. And by the way, I won't be an actress, so we won't have any competition."
"Oh, good." Relief is visible on her face. The entire chilled atmosphere around her seems to start thawing away almost immediately. "That's really good."
She repeats that, mindlessly walking out the foyer toward the staircase, leaving Race to grin, shaking his head.
"Don't mind her jazzed reaction to your promise of not being an actress," he says, pointing in the direction she went. "She's a fan of singular spotlight. Was a beauty queen in her former life, that one was."
"Really?"
"She was so different--everybody wanted to look like her."
"That's funny," I say. "Complete opposite for my situation."
He nods. "Same with just about all of us. She must've been from a different part of Eldae. Most places don't give the kind of reaction Till got. But since then, she's always expected to be better than everybody. You can see why Bree's talent was threatening."
"That makes sense," I say. "I wouldn't want to be seen as a threat to her."
"So you're really not acting, then?"
"I never really got any chance to try it back home, and it's not really a career I'm dying to obtain at the moment. Maybe sometime down the road, but I'm not sure." My head whirls around the thought of sometime down the road. Any other day, that would've meant Brandyce leaving, me taking care of dad, Dalton throwing his life away to help me out because he's guilty, or maybe just pursuing a solid career to make a name for himself while visiting dad and me on weekends. All of that, and now I'm thinking about acting?
He nods, considering it. "You don't want to be an actress, and you told Kaytee you wouldn't sing either?"
"Performing in front of a lot of people like that doesn't exactly seem like a thing I'd be good at," I concede. "I don't want Kaytee to feel like I'm trying to overshadow her by doing her specialty, either."
"Then, what would your specialty be?"
"I . . . I modeled a little, during the Darkening, so I guess that."
"During the Darkening? How'd you manage that?"
"Well, Norax used this thing that could take them. I don't really remember what she called it, though."
"Polaroid camera," pipes Norax from her spot by the door.
"What's that?"
"Remember when we visited the Prohibited Areas of Eldae?" she asks him. "It's that object I picked up before we left. Takes pictures instantly, prints them out right there without having to be plugged into anything."
"Oh, that's really cool," Race says. "You'll have to show it off to the rest of us sometime. It's been a while since we've all posed together at the same shoot."
Norax gives him a knowing look. "Maybe once our little schedules get all situated. It's been a bloody two weeks since what . . . happened to Bree, and the press is demanding interviews, statements, plans for the new member, everything."
"At least you don't have the member to worry about." Race bobs his head to me, a ghost of a smile on his face. My lips twitch into an identical look, though mentioning Bree still makes my stomach churn.
"Right you are," Norax says. "One less thing I can cross off the list."
"Speaking of things to cross off lists," Race starts, "I think I need to go and apologize to Kaytee for not initially taking her side on this whole new member situation. Bad boyfriend, I am, huh?"
My eyes widen. "You're dating Kaytee?" As far as I'm concerned, Kaytee's been in a relationship with some non-Famoux singer for as long as I can remember. The girls at school are always talking about their duets, and how beautiful her songs are for him--they were mentioning a new one that just released not a month ago.
"Oh, I forgot you don't know all our little secrets. Well, Kaytee's never been with that Cartney fellow." Race glints saying it out loud.
"So all the songs, then . . ." I pause, thinking about the lyrics I'd hear the girls singing out on their way down the halls or in the lunch room. Such honest, poetic little words plucked into honest, poetic little melodies. ". . . then, they've always been . . ." It fades off; once again I cannot find the words.
"All about me?" Race guesses. When I nod earnestly, he confirms, "Yeah, they have been."
Just the thought of it stirs an odd, floating feeling in my chest and stomach. For some strange reason I feel so irrationally happy for them, these people I have just officially met and heard, as if I've always secretly been rooting for them, somewhere deep down within me. Where did this come from?
I'm starting just now to understand why the girls would always squeal when they saw new photos of Kaytee and Cartney together--there's this certain, unmatchable satisfaction in watching two people you admire be happy together. Sort of makes you go, "Oh, of course they should be in love. Who would be better for them than each other?" as if you possibly qualify as knowing best.
I'm all caught up in thinking about this that I don't even register Race giving me a tip about privacy in the spotlight, saying goodbye, and leaving the room.
"Well." Norax claps her hands together, clacking over toward me. "I think you did marvelous for your first time meeting them."
"I acted like . . ." I pause to think it very clearly. ". . . a fan."
"That's expected," she says. "When they all came together, they were all a bunch of nobodies with no idea what I was going to have them become. We've never done a thing like this before--you coming in so late isn't regular for any of us. Unlike them, you've just been a part of the general public exposed to the current Famoux. Nobody can expect you to treat them normally when we've done such a good job in making sure they don't seem normal to, well, the public."
"How am I ever supposed to see them normally?"
Her eyes crinkle. "Why would you ever want to?"
"I, uh--If I'm supposed to get used to them and be not like a fan, shouldn't I find a way to find them normal?" I stutter.
"Why, of course not," Norax says, like it's simple as that. "You're never supposed to find them normal. I didn't make the Famoux to be normal."
I feel myself growing frustrated, pressure rising in the bridge of my nose. "Norax, that's not answering any of my questions."
"If I'm not answering you, then you must not be asking the right ones, Em."
"Then I don't get it," I state. "What's the question?"
"Emeray." She reaches for a lock of my hair, running a dainty finger through its blanching gold strands. "You're reacting like a fan only because you are looking at this all through a very fan-like perspective. I can't say I blame you, because that's all Emilee Parvenus has ever known. But I must remind you that you are Emeray Essence, and Emeray Essence only knows what it is like to be a member of the Famoux, because that is what she has always been, since the moment we let her to the surface of your skin. You keep asking the questions a fan would ask upon meeting her favorite celebrities. You seek to know how to bring them down to your level, how to dial them down to your own place on the mortal gauge. You want to make extraordinary people as normal as you believe you are, but you've neglected a few questions, starting with, Are you normal?"
"But I already know I'm not," I say.
She gives me that knowing look. "Of course you know that. You have never been normal, Em. Since you've grown up in a world which tries to squeeze you into a mold of which you'll never fit, your mind has rejected its extraordinary notions. You must remember that you are not normal, you are famoux. Thus, the question is not, How do I make these people normal? but rather, How do I realize not being normal is a good thing? The moment you answer this for yourself is the moment the Famoux members will stop looking like deities and more like your equals, as they always have been."
With that, Norax gives my shoulder a squeeze, clacking out of the foyer without another word. I'm left to mull over her new proposition: How?
It seems so easy, accepting your differences after they've been presented to be so truly magnificent. But so many other questions come to mind before I can ask myself Norax's. How many years have I suffered? How many days have I come home crying about Carstan van Horne? How many times did it take for my mom to grow tired of it all and run away from us?
How am I ever supposed to call my differences a good thing after all that time being shown they weren't?
Pressing a hand to my forehead, I amble to the window, leaning against the glass. It's cool, slightly damp, and it reminds me of Clarus Creek; the feeling of being underwater. I felt I was drowning then, and my body did not fight it off.
I remember the pain in realizing that, coming up with the epiphany in the late hours of the following night. Drowning had not been a grave concern in my mind, living had. Breathing again another moment was breathing in again another second closer to the newest threat, the freshest agony, the impending embarrassment. Floating in the water, just I and the fishes, just I and the freezing creek, I felt comfortable. And though I knew Carstan, Felix, and their whole gang were watching me, this was not a troubling idea. I was floating, floating in a place where I didn't have to breathe, and I didn't have to worry, and I didn't have to wound myself any longer.
When I thought about this that night, I imagined this was a bad thing--that I'd been wishing death upon myself, attempting to give up. When I think about this now, however, everything is painted in a brighter shade. It is not my initial question nor Norax's question which comes to mind--it is something greater, grander, guised no longer:
How did I never comprehend that being underwater was being in the Fishbowl? Every bit of it was a grander symbol for the life I was always destined to find. My different appearance--the promise of being famoux. That creek--my Fishbowl. Carstan, Cora, and my family--the people who would dislike me, who will likely dislike me. And my strange comfort within it all, within drowning and freezing and feeling light as air--a sign that this was where I was meant to be, despite the bumps that are bound to occur, despite the threats of how hard a life like this can become. Victoria is still in my name, I am sure of it. Emeray Victoria Essence. I am still a fighter.
How had I never seen that until right now?
The conclusion flows from my lips hushed, like a secret, just a breath.
"The reason," I whisper, "why it seems no one understands you or likes you is because you've . . . because you've never shown them any hint that you understand or like who you are."
This happened with me. All my life I never knew why, and I never once looked in the mirror and didn't detest what I saw. The world wanted me to be the proper Emilee Victoria Parvenu, to have the brown hair and the brown eyes I was supposed to have, and I never knew why I couldn't just be that for them. But I was never meant to conform for people, was I? There was always Emeray beneath it all, me beneath it all, and it turns out that piece of me never made sense to anybody.
Sure, no one liked me because of it. Sure, I didn't like me because of it. But it gets to the point where you have to understand yourself, and you have to love yourself, and you can't worry about what anybody else is going to think of you.
It might take a while for me to get used to thinking of the Famoux as my equals, I gather, but at least I will have the peace of mind that this isn't some fluke, and this isn't a mistake, and that I know myself, and I love myself, and nothing else matters.