“See,” Violet said triumphantly, “I told you I had great taste.”
“I already knew that. Thank you, Violet.”
“Now all you need is a plastic hair stick to replace that pencil, although I’d hoped we could find an old tortoiseshell one. Still, you can’t have everything. However, you cannot wear those ratty sneakers with these clothes. Here, these are a gift from me.” She handed Amy a pair of the new stretchable flats, black with tiny mirrors sewn in the sides, last year’s runway sensation that now appeared in knockoffs all over the city.
“Violet, I can’t—”
“Sure you can. They’re as flexible as sneakers, see—you can still do backflips or pole-vaulting or whatever comes up next.”
“You told me you don’t have any money and—”
“And I can’t bear to see anyone wear those jeans with holey sneakers. It completely offends my sensibilities. Which, I know, nobody believes I even have. Take the shoes. And now don’t you have to get home to that grandmother you told me about?”
“Yes. I can’t thank you enough for—”
“Sure you can. Take me home with you.”
Amy blinked. “What?”
“You have a TV, right? My little dancers’ hellhole doesn’t. I was going to watch the show tonight at some bar, but I’d rather watch it with you. Can I do that?”
Amy grinned. “Of course!”
“And will you give me dinner? I don’t eat much.”
“Pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”
“I take it back. I eat like a horse.”
They walked home, Violet’s bargain hunting having brought them within ten or twelve blocks of Amy’s apartment. Twilight had turned the air colder. Still, Amy was warmed by the admiring glances she got in her new outfit and hairdo. The glances were worth the gooseflesh. Violet chattered away, making Amy laugh with more outrageous stories of a dancer’s life. Mrs. Raduski must be out walking Buddy, because no snarling or growling greeted them in the vestibule. The delicious smell of pot roast drifted from the apartment. Life was good.
Except for Kaylie, and the TV show starting in less than two hours.
Thirteen
SATURDAY
MUSIC STARTED LOW, gradually becoming more audible: rap set to keyboards performing atonal music. The rap words were indistinguishable and stayed so, but the strange music sounded both energizing and slightly menacing. “Catchy,” Violet said, “but hardly danceable.”
Amy, Gran, and Violet sat on the sofa, facing the small television. Reception had improved after Gran fiddled with the TV. Amy’s palms were slick with nervous sweat. Gran looked tired but interested, and she seemed to like Violet.
On screen two teenage actors described the show and how audience voting worked, finishing with “Each week: seven participants, five possible responses, seventy-eight thousand one hundred twenty-five chances to get it completely right. Way better odds than the lottery! And if you’re one of those that do, within the first two hours after the show ends, you split five million dollars with the other winner!” The music rose to deafening levels, eerie and menacing and the title came up in scarlet:
WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?
Abruptly the music ceased. Total quiet. Brick-or-concrete walls narrowly set apart from each other, lined with blue Dumpsters. Myra wasn’t going to use any of the four scenarios since Amy had been hired; she was going to use the audition in the alley.
“Huh,” Violet said. “Maybe that’s the only one they had time to edit so far.”
That made sense. Amy’s hands twisted together so hard that the tips of her fingers went bloodless.
Waverly was thrust out of a door into the alley lined with blue Dumpsters and encountered the “dying” actor bleeding and gasping on the ground.
“Well, well,” Violet said, “look who’s first. Our little rich bitch. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Whitcomb.”
Gran merely shot Violet an amused glance; Gran wasn’t that easy to shock. Amy decided that Myra and Alex had put Waverly out there first because she was the best dressed. The contrast with the “homeless” guy in the alley would be all the greater. Waverly strolled along, scowling at where she found herself—obviously she didn’t know she was being filmed any more than Amy had known.
Waverly reached the homeless man gasping and bleeding on the ground. She didn’t even slow down. Her path altered to move as far away from him as possible, and she kept on going.
“Such a sweetheart,” Violet said.
“A heart soft as butter,” Amy said. “Didn’t even call for help.”
The injured man stopped being injured. He leaped up, ran after Waverly, and caught her easily. The camera zoomed in to her face, outraged and terrified, and then to his, predatory and evil. Waverly screamed and started to struggle. The screen went black. A voice-over said, “How did Waverly react? Do you know?” Then a list appeared, accompanied by pulsing music, with Waverly’s picture above it:
WAVERLY:
Fights—and wins!
Tries to run—and escapes!
Tries to run—and is caught!
Strikes a bargain with the attacker!
Freezes and cries!
Violet said, “Well, we know her and the viewers don’t. I’m guessing she freezes and cries, hoping for his sympathy ’cause she’s so hot.”
“No,” Amy said, “don’t underestimate her. She’s not stupid. She’ll try to strike a bargain, buying her way out. She—oh my God, Violet, we’re sucked into playing!”
Gran said quietly, “This is going to be a very successful show, girls. You both need to be prepared for that.”
Amy said nothing. She stared at the screen as the show ran through the other six participants grabbed by the predator. The same list appeared after each name. Then the hosts were back, hyping up the need to vote and the promise that on Wednesday night the show would reveal exactly how Waverly, Cai, Rafe, Amy, Lynn, Tommy, and Violet reacted! The actual film! You’ll be amazed and amused and affected! And someone will win a share of five million dollars—maybe you! So vote now! The whole list and all the names, identified by small head shots, stayed on the screen while the music pulsed and, presumably, watchers texted their predictions.
Violet snorted. “Well, that’s helpful—like they can tell from a head shot who will do what.”
Amy said, “Each week they’ll learn more about us.”
“Too bad we can’t vote. I could make a fortune.”
“Amy,” Gran said, “which of those five behaviors was yours?”
Amy said, “I jumped onto the Dumpsters and evaded that guy as long as I could, but eventually he cornered me. So I guess I’m ‘tries to run and gets caught.’”
Violet said, “I bet you put up a good show, though. I’m ‘strikes a bargain with the attacker.’ But I’m not saying what I offered him.”
After Violet’s performance with Mark Meyer that afternoon, Amy could guess. “Good thing it was only an actor and not—Gran!”
“I’m all right, just tired. Will you excuse me, Violet?”
She had slumped sideways against Amy. Amy helped Gran sit upright, then pulled her to her feet and walked her into the bedroom. Gran kept reassuring her, but fear squeezed Amy’s chest; Gran ’s attack of weakness had come over her all at once, in a way Amy hadn’t seen before. She could barely stand. Amy said, even though she already knew the answer, “When are your test results due back?”
“Next week.”
Amy helped her into her nightdress, to the bathroom, back to bed. Violet tactfully kept her eyes on the TV, now airing some stupid show she couldn’t possibly be interested in. When Amy had Gran settled, Gran fell asleep almost immediately. Amy sat beside her for a few minutes, remembering so much: Gran singing Amy and Kaylie asleep every night after Mommy died. Gran already old but not yet infirm, explaining Mendelian inheritance diagrams to Amy’s sixth-grade class. Gran creating elaborate birthday cakes in any shape Amy or Kaylie chose. Only in the last few years had Amy really apprec
iated how much sacrifice must have been involved for a woman nearing seventy to take on two small girls to raise. Kaylie still didn’t appreciate it.
Amy left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. Violet had turned off the TV. She said, “Well, One Two Three, I think I’ll take off now. Thanks for dinner and the show preview, I think it—”
The apartment door burst open. Kaylie barreled in.
She stopped short when she saw Violet, and her eyes widened. She blurted, “You’re one of the other people on the show!”
Amy’s stomach churned. If Kaylie was going to throw a nasty tantrum in front of Violet—
She didn’t. Kaylie flashed an enchanting smile, dark curls bobbing, and held out her hand. “I’m Kaylie Kent, Amy’s sister. I’m so glad to meet you! I’m sure you’ll be great on TV—although not as great as Amy, of course!”
Amy blinked. Kaylie turned and hugged her. “I’m so proud of you! The show will be a big success, I just know it!”
A phantom in Amy’s mind: a tiny furious figure beating on a closed door, trying to get in. Like Amy needed that to understand Kaylie’s sudden sweetness! But it didn’t matter where the sweetness came from, as long as it defanged her sister.
“Thanks,” Amy said.
Kaylie said, “I want to hear all about it!”
Violet left, raising one eyebrow at Kaylie and whispering to Amy, “Your little sis is gorgeous.” Then Kaylie questioned Amy relentlessly about the show: what Amy had done, what the others had done, what they were like, what happened after that, and then what? If Amy hadn’t suspected Kaylie’s motives, she would have been delighted; the talk almost felt like the ones they used to have, years ago. But when Amy tried to ask Kaylie what was going on in her life, Kaylie yawned.
“I’m really tired. Late night last night. Let’s sleep now and talk tomorrow, OK?”
“OK,” Amy said, because she didn’t see any other choice. And at least Kaylie was safe at home.
For now, anyway.
* * *
Late evening, and lights still burned in the Taunton Life Network building downtown. James Taunton sat in a deep chair, facing a bank of computers where two techs monitored incoming data. Myra Townsend and Alex Everett stood beside the chair. Myra’s temple pulsed with tension. Alex slouched, too relaxed.
A tech said, “We have a winner. In Raleigh, North Carolina.”
“Great!” Alex said. “We get to give away five million dollars.”
The tech said, “The data is still coming in. There might be more than one winner.”
The second tech said, “Here comes the West Coast now. . . . Hey, that’s really good for a pilot! A two point six rating and eight percent share!”
The first tech said, “Another winner. In Des Moines.”
Alex straightened, underscoring how fake his relaxation had been.
James Taunton rose, walked over to the screens, studied them. The techs leaned respectfully aside. Everyone held their breath. Finally Taunton turned to the two producers.
“It’s a go. Nice work, Myra, Alex. Keep it up.” He left the room.
Everyone breathed again.
Myra said, “Alex—tomorrow. For the next scenario.”
Alex looked doubtful. “Tomorrow? They just had the Lynn thing last night.”
“That’s why they won’t be expecting it tomorrow. And we’ve got to do it before everyone starts recognizing them on the street and we have to move them. All six of them could go viral on the Internet.” Then, more sharply, “You’re not going to tell me it’s not ready?”
“Of course it’s ready,” Alex said, offended. “It’s just that doing another scenario so soon is being a little rough on them, don’t you think?”
“That’s not really the point, is it? They signed up for it. The real point is to keep Taunton impressed. Mark has everything in place?”
“Yes.”
“Then call him. Now.” Her eyes went back to the screens.
Not until after Alex left the room did Myra permit herself to sit down. She had been clenching her butt cheeks to keep her legs from trembling, an old trick. No one understood how important the success of this show was to her—not Alex, not Taunton, not Mark, and certainly not the talent. Those kids thought they understood economic hardship. But they had barely reached adolescence when the Collapse happened. They didn’t know what it was like to see the future you’d so carefully built crumble overnight into so much rubble.
Myra had lost well over a million dollars in the stock market. Her previous job had disappeared during a panicky corporate reorganization, and she’d lost her beautiful house. Nor was Amy Kent the only person with relatives dependent on her salary.
Myra Townsend was going to make this TV show work no matter what that took.
“Looking good,” a tech said, gazing at the screens.
“Yes,” Myra answered, unsmiling, as she watched the numbers climb and climb.
Fourteen
SUNDAY
AMY WOKE ON Sunday morning to knocking at the front door. She sat up on the sofa bed as Gran rose from the little table.
“Good morning, Amy.” Gran, dressed in slacks and a sweater that both hung too loosely on her, hobbled painfully toward the door. “I’ll get it.”
“No, let me! Sit down again, Gran. Where’s Kaylie?”
“Gone out. It’s nearly noon.”
Noon! Amy had slept as if she were part of the bed. Gran peered through the peephole. “It’s a boy on crutches.”
Paul. How had he managed two flights of stairs? Amy said, “That’s my chess partner!” Gran unlocked the door and Amy, heedless of her pajamas, leaped from bed and flew over.
Paul leaned against the wall, panting and scowling. At the sight of Amy, he scowled harder. “Well, at least you’re alive.”
“Why wouldn’t I be alive? How did you get upstairs?”
“I managed.” His face had gone so pale that Amy darted forward to put an arm under his, and was even more alarmed when he didn’t protest. She got him inside and seated at the table.
Gran said quietly, “Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes,” Paul gasped.
The hot coffee seemed to revive him. He said coldly to Amy, “You didn’t come over. You don’t have a phone. We were supposed to play chess yesterday afternoon. I thought maybe you were sick, or moved away, or dead.”
Chess. Now Amy remembered the tentative date, lost in Violet’s reshuffling of the shopping schedule and in everything that had happened since. She said, “I’m sorry, Paul. Stuff happened. Did you . . . did you happen to watch TV last night?”
“I never watch TV,” he said scornfully. His gaze fell on Amy’s cell, recharging by the sofa bed. “So you do have a phone. Could have saved me the trip over. But since I’m—”
Amy said, exasperated, “Why didn’t you just send your mother?”
“She’s gone on Sundays.” He didn’t explain where, or why. “But as I was saying, since I’m here, let’s play some chess.”
It didn’t seem to register with Paul that Amy was still in her pajamas, that Gran sat with her eyes closed in the easy chair, or that Amy might have other things to do. On the other hand, chess suddenly sounded soothing. Normal. Paul, too, sounded soothing, in that he had no idea of yesterday’s events, and wouldn’t have cared anyway.
OK, Kaylie was right—Amy was nerdy. So what? She got out the chess set.
“Here, set this up while I get Gran to bed and I get dressed.”
They played two games and Amy won both. She felt curiously sharp and focused. Paul kept looking at his watch, but he was a good loser; after the second game he looked at her with admiration. “Nice play. I’m going home now. Will you help me down the stairs? Going down is trickier than coming up. Just go first to stop me if I slip.”
“Sure.” Gran was still asleep. Kaylie had called to say, with suspicious sweetness, that she was practicing with the band but would be home to fix dinner. If she really did it, that wou
ld make twice in the same century.
Amy and Paul left the apartment. He seemed to move even more slowly than usual, but when she asked him if anything hurt, he scowled and waved away her question. Well, some people were prickly about anything that looked like pity. Slowly they made their way downstairs. There were two flights, each with a turn halfway down, at a cramped landing no more than a yard square.
At the first landing Paul gasped, “Wait here a minute. Let me . . . just wait.”
“OK,” Amy said. The wait seemed long. Amy began to feel very strange.
All her sharp focus drained away, as if someone had turned on a vacuum cleaner and gently, silently, sucked it all out of her. A dreamy lassitude took her. Paul, a step above her, had turned his face to the wall and seemed to be breathing into his shirt collar. Amy had to fight a powerful urge to sink bonelessly to her knees.
“Let’s go,” Paul said after a timeless pause, and she forced herself to move.
Another step, then another. Seven steps to the tiny landing next to the Chans’ second-floor apartment. Paul’s face was still turned away from her.
Amy felt so disoriented, so strange. . . . The feeling was even stronger here than on the landing above.
Mist began to form before her eyes.
“Amy?” Paul’s voice said, as if from a great distance. “Are you all right?”
No words would form. How odd, thought the last part of her brain that still seemed to work, I always have words. But not now. Language slipped away. Amy didn’t miss it. It was pleasant, so pleasant, to stand there dreamily in the mist, her mind empty, the mist so pretty as it swirled and then took on pale colors and then came together somehow . . . why, it was coming together, into something, into a form, a person . . .