Flash Point

  Put the messes on the tresses.

  Her brows were waxed, her legs were waxed, and only because she adamantly refused was she spared a bikini wax. Her teeth were whitened. A facial mask was troweled onto her skin and the greenish stuff, which smelled of some sort of vegetable, hardened and tightened until it was ripped off.

  Pull all trace from the face.

  “Aaahhh,” breathed Enrique. “See how much better!”

  To Amy her skin didn’t look all that different from before, but she smiled obligingly at Enrique.

  He said, “You begin to look presentable. Now, makeup. Clothilde!”

  A woman rushed over. Heavyset and dressed in shapeless black, she had the most penetrating gaze that Amy had ever seen. Clothilde took Amy’s face in her hand, forcefully turned it this way and that, and said doubtfully, “Well . . .”

  What did that mean? Amy said, “I don’t really wear very much makeup except maybe a little—”

  Clothilde ignored her. She and Enrique launched into a product discussion, most of which sounded unintelligible. Amy resigned herself anew, except for the occasional frown when Clothilde applied yet another layer of something.

  “Face still!” Clothilde said. “Did the ceiling twist around like that while Michelangelo was painting? No, don’t you laugh, either! You are a marble statue—you hear me? You are the Venus de Milo!”

  Who didn’t wear makeup, Amy thought. She kept her face still.

  When Clothilde was done, Amy was allowed to stand up. Enrique rushed over—nobody here seemed capable of moving at less than a run—and he and Clothilde walked around Amy, regarding their results from every angle while she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

  She both was and was not herself. Prettier, yes—that couldn’t be questioned. Her heavy, honey-colored hair now waved in artful, tousled layers to her shoulders, with side-swept bangs and more volume on the top. Her skin, which was not flawless, appeared to be so, and her eyes looked much larger, framed by twice as many lashes as before. The lids shaded from taupe to a subtle blue, deepening the color of her irises. Her teeth gleamed between lips colored rose. Prettier—but a little like a doll.

  “I—” she began, not sure what she was going to say. It didn’t matter; Enrique interrupted her.

  “Now wash it all off.”

  “Wash it off?”

  “Yes, of course. For the lessons. You must learn to do this yourself, my dear. I cannot attend to you every morning. I have everyone to do!” His arm swept grandly to encompass the rest of the room, in which no one else remained. Violet and Waverly had left long ago, apparently needing less correction than Amy.

  She took off her makeup, put it on, took it off, put it on, while Enrique despaired and Clothilde told her to be Georges Seurat, not Jackson Pollock. “Small brush strokes! Small! Do not just pour the product on!”

  When they were satisfied—or possibly just exhausted—Amy was released. She got up from the makeup chair with profound relief.

  “Now, do it that way every morning,” Enrique said. “Here is your tote of product and tools. And here comes Serena.”

  Serena was a six-foot-tall black woman, the most elegant creature that Amy had ever seen. Amy’s eyes went hungrily over the Prada skirt, top by a designer so “now” that Amy couldn’t even name him, and Christian Louboutin gladiator sandals whose heels added another two inches to Serena’s height. Thin as a model but several decades older, Serena studied Amy and then said, “Size six petite, thirty-four B, twenty-nine inseam, five and a half shoe?”

  Amy stood speechless.

  “What you’re wearing isn’t too bad”—the jeans and sweater that Violet had picked out—“but we can do better. Follow me.”

  For the next two hours Serena had Amy try on clothes in what looked like a vast department store on the eighth floor. Each time anything was pulled over her head, Amy’s entire face was swaddled like a mummy to avoid getting makeup stains on any cloth. Serena did not permit talking, so Amy longed in silence as one gorgeous, expensive outfit succeeded another on her body. Serena sat in a chair and made notes on a tablet as assistants sprang forward to swaddle Amy, clothe Amy, reswaddle Amy, unclothe Amy, rush to and fro with thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing in their arms. The labels went by like a parade of fireworks: Dolce & Gabbana, Zac Posen, Gary Graham, Isabel Marant, Christopher Kane, Ludie Barzak.

  Finally, just as Amy didn’t think her legs could support her motionless posture any longer, Serena stood. “All right,” she said in the cool voice that Amy had hardly heard for three hours. “You can dress and go home.”

  “And the clothes—”

  “Will be delivered to your home tomorrow morning, of course. Here is the list I’ve chosen for you, with the combinations you are to wear to work for the rest of the week. Do not soil them; dry-cleaning is picked up only on Fridays, delivered back Sunday afternoon. Make sure your doorman expects all deliveries and gets them to you promptly, unless your bodyguard has that duty. Good-bye. It would be well if you lost four pounds.” Serena walked out, leaving Amy openmouthed.

  Doorman? Bodyguard? What universe did Serena live in?

  On the bus home she studied the list. She was apparently receiving eight pieces, which could be mixed and matched. Amy could hardly read Serena’s spidery handwriting without being swamped by disbelief:

  Layered silk top (Gary Graham)

  Basic white tee (Alexander Wang)

  Shirred top (Escada)

  Sweater in dull bronze (Vince)

  Mosaic-print miniskirt (D&G)

  Black denim jeans (7 For All Mankind)

  Silk charmeuse pleated pants (Chloé)

  Cropped leather jacket (Fendi)

  Calfskin sandals (Miu Miu), Manolo B. heels, Prada boots

  Could this be true? Would she get to keep the clothes? What if she tore or otherwise damaged any of them? Who would receive the package—Mrs. Raduski hardly qualified as a “doorman.” Had Violet and Waverly received outfits, too? And the boys?

  In the midst of all her questions, Amy had only one sure answer: Myra Townsend must expect the show tonight to be a success. And if it wasn’t?

  Well, the clothes weren’t here yet.

  * * *

  At eight p.m. Amy, Violet, and Kaylie lined up on the sofa. Gran sat in the old easy chair. Amy had made popcorn, which no one was eating.

  “Well,” Violet said, “here goes nothing.”

  Kaylie shot Violet a look of dislike. The two had not hit it off well. Kaylie, however, had behaved herself, which seemed to Amy almost as ominous as her refusal to explain where she had spent last night, or with whom, or how she had gotten involved with the anti-merger protestors in the first place. Neither had she said anything about Amy’s makeover beyond a single “Wow.” Violet, to Amy’s eyes, looked exactly the same; either she had resisted being transformed or else had washed everything off her strong-featured face.

  Gran, looking drawn but bright-eyed, said, “I hardly know what to expect.”

  Neither did Amy. Her chest tightened around her lungs. The show’s atonal music began, strange and menacing, building to the title:

  WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?

  The teenage hosts appeared, briefly reexplained the show’s setup, and then reran the clips of the seven encountering the “homeless” predator in the alley. The girl kept up a running patter that mostly came down to “What did she do?” “What did he do?”

  “Annoying,” Violet said.

  The list of possible actions flashed onto the screen:

  Fights—and wins!

  Tries to run—and escapes!

  Tries to run—and is caught!

  Strikes a bargain with the attacker!

  Freezes and cries!

  “So,” the girl said, somehow making it sound like a threat, “who knows people? You, baby? Let’s see how each of these people really behaved.”

  Waverly, in a body-hugging silk dress, was thrust out of a door into the alley lined with blu
e Dumpsters and encountered the “dying” actor bleeding and gasping on the ground. She took a path as far away from him as possible and kept on going. When he leaped up and caught her, she screamed and struggled. Amy felt her breath come faster, remembering her own terror in the alley. But then Waverly stopped fighting and said levelly, “Let me go and I can get you money. A lot of money. A very lot—my father is a rich man!”

  The actor paused. “How much?”

  Kaylie laughed sourly. “She’s going to buy her way out!”

  And she did. Deftly Waverly negotiated an amount and a “safe” way to convey the money. The man negotiated guarantees that she would not call the police: “I know your name, your address, your schedule, and I have friends—screw me now and you’ll never be safe again.” They came to an agreement, and Waverly ran from the alley, graceful even in her Ferragamo heels. The screen flashed: “WAVERLY: Strikes a bargain with the attacker!”

  Violet said, “Good thing she’s got such a rich daddy.”

  Gran said, “She’s smart but heartless,” which seemed to Amy dead accurate.

  Cai was next. Kaylie leaned forward, absorbed, her full lips parted a little. Cai tried to call for help on his cell, which of course had its signal jammed. When the man attacked, Cai, bigger and stronger, easily fought him off, got him in a headlock, dragged him from the alley, and started to call the police as the clip ended. The screen showed “CAI: Fights—and wins!”

  “Our do-good hero,” Violet said.

  Lynn was up. While the actor still pretended to lie helpless and bleeding on the ground, Lynn went through his pockets and stole his wallet and keys. When he grabbed her, she used her keys on his face and the clip ended with “LYNN: Fights—and wins!”

  Kaylie said, “That clip was short. I bet she really maimed him.”

  Rafe first tried to assess the man’s medical condition, asking questions and taking vital signs. When the man attacked, Rafe reacted instantly. He was shorter and lighter than the attacker, but much faster. Slipping out from his grasp, he dodged and feinted until he escaped the alley. “RAFE: Tries to run—and escapes!”

  Amy watched herself appear on-screen. It was excruciating. She jumped on the Dumpsters, ran over them, almost got away but chose a wrong turn and ended up trapped against the building. “AMY: Tries to run—and is caught!”

  Kaylie said, “Well—maybe not your most shining hour, sis. Although that Dumpster trick was pretty good.”

  “Shut up,” Violet said sweetly.

  Amy glanced at Gran. She lay still, her mouth open. For a horrifying second Amy thought she was dead, but of course she had only fallen into the unpredictable sleep of the sick and old. Just as well. She didn’t need to see Amy make a fool of herself. So far, Amy had been the only one to not escape.

  Tommy didn’t either. He spied the bleeding man, looked confused, walked toward him, backed away, rushed forward again, and knelt helplessly beside the man. When the actor grabbed him, Tommy let out a howl of anguish and curled into a fetal position, tears running down his face. The camera lingered on the sight before giving way to “TOMMY: Freezes and cries!”

  “The bastards,” Amy said softly.

  Kaylie said, “What’s wrong with him? He’s as big as Cai, he could have taken that guy easy!”

  “He’s mentally challenged,” Violet said, “and Myra’s even more of a bitch than I thought.”

  Violet was the last participant, and hers was the longest segment, with the most close-ups and dialogue. When she was grabbed, Violet pretended she was panting for sex with this “hunky thug, the kind that have always turned me on,” until he released his grip in bewilderment and she ran on those long, long legs. “VIOLET: Strikes a bargain with the attacker!”

  “Huh,” Kaylie said, a complex syllable carrying satisfaction, envy, and scorn.

  Amy didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t look at Violet, for whom she felt a deep embarrassment that Violet apparently didn’t feel for herself. Amy was doubly glad that Gran was asleep.

  The rest of the show consisted of identifying the winners who had voted correctly: “Against odds of 78,125 to one!” There were three winners, each of whom was brought onto the show and presented with a check for $3,333,333.333. The payout was one penny short.

  “How did they know how to vote?” Kaylie said. “They didn’t know yet what you guys are each like.”

  “Random chance,” Amy said, but she didn’t bother to explain the math. All at once she felt exhausted and dispirited. What had she gotten herself into?

  The feeling didn’t go away after Violet left, Amy woke Gran, and she and Kaylie helped her to bed. Kaylie looked thoughtful and said little until they had opened the sofa bed. Then Kaylie looked straight at Amy and demanded, “Why you and not me?”

  “Random chance,” Amy said, aware that she was echoing herself. She expected more argument from Kaylie, or more something, anyway, but it didn’t happen. Kaylie slipped out of the apartment while Amy was in the bathroom, and Amy went to sleep.

  Only to wake to chaos.

  Eighteen

  THURSDAY

  “AMY!” BELLOWED MRS. RADUSKI outside the apartment door. “Get your ass out here!”

  Amy woke from vague, unpleasant dreams. Daylight streamed in the window. Mrs. Raduski pounded on the door and Buddy snarled. Amy bolted upright. Gran called feebly from the bedroom, “Amy? What is it?” and Amy jumped out of bed and unlocked the apartment door.

  “Mrs. Raduski! What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Little Miss Trouble. All them vans blocking the street and banging on my door and upsetting my tenants! Nobody can’t even go out on the public sidewalk without being set on! You just go down there and make them move!”

  Buddy lunged and tried to bite Amy. She eluded him with the deftness of long practice. She went to the window, calling over her shoulder, “It’s all right, Gran, it’s just Mrs. Raduski.”

  “No, it ain’t just me!” Mrs. Raduski said. “See down there?”

  Five vans crowded the street, each with the bright logo of a TV station or Internet news link. Around them pressed a crowd of people, mostly young, some of whom certainly should have been in school. One looked up and cried, “There she is!” Cameras and cell phones clicked as Amy closed the curtain, but not before she heard someone else scream, “How do you feel about the attack on Tommy?”

  Attack? On Tommy? What was— Her cell rang. Mrs. Raduski snapped, “I mean get them people out now!” and slammed the door. Gran called again, “Amy?”

  “Coming, Gran! It’s all right, Mrs. Raduski is just upset about— Hello?”

  “Amy,” said Myra’s cool voice, “TLN will move you in one hour. Please be ready with just what you can carry. A car will arrive and the driver will have TLN identification.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you seen the news? By the bye, in the normal way you would have needed to be at work in fifteen minutes, which means you’ve overslept. One hour, dear.”

  It was the “dear” that did it. Myra Townsend’s condescension, her calm assumption that she could reorder Amy’s life whenever and however she wanted—Amy might even have put up with those as part of the price she’d decided to pay for Gran’s medical help. She had made that bargain, and she would keep it. But Myra’s pretense that she was motherly and kind, acting in dear Amy’s best interests—it was no part of the bargain to accept that. Cold fury, so much more useful than the hot variety, infused her voice.

  “We’re not moving, Myra. Here is where I live and here is where I intend to go on living. Nothing in my contract allows you to shuffle me around like a pawn on a chessboard.”

  “Turn on the news, dear,” was all Myra said, and clicked off.

  Amy didn’t care if the news showed earthquakes and supernovas. She wasn’t going. Myra did not control her private life. There were limits!

  She turned on the news.

  “. . . wildfire under c
ontrol in Colorado after aid from local smoke jumpers and the combined resources of three states’ firefighters. Meanwhile, in local news, one of Taunton Life Network’s newest stars was attacked this morning as he walked in Lincoln Park. Thomas ‘Tommy’ Wimmer, eighteen, was gathering spiders as part of his hobby when he was hit with a tire iron by an unknown assailant. Wimmer appeared last night on the new TLN show Who Knows People, Baby—You? and unconfirmed reports from eyewitnesses to the incident say that the attacker was a viewer who would have won over a million dollars except for guessing wrong about Wimmer’s show participation. Stay with us as we cover this breaking story. Also this morning, the mayor’s Budget Advisory Committee—”

  Tommy. A tire iron. How badly was he hurt?

  Gran stood in the bedroom doorway, leaning heavily against the jamb. One look and Amy knew it was one of Gran’s bad days. She rushed to support her to the table even as her cell rang again.

  Gran managed a weak smile. “Grand Central Station around here.”

  “I—just let me get this.”

  She eased Gran into the upholstered chair and grabbed for her cell. Violet.

  “Did you see the news?”

  “I just did. Violet, what’s happening?”

  “A bunch of different things. First, we’re a success, or rather the show is. Second, the crazies are coming out. Myra announced that the prize money is being upped to ten million dollars. Third, we’re all being moved to ‘a secure location.’ Don’t you love it? I feel like the president.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Of course I’m going! Weren’t you listening when I told you about the hellhole I share with two other out-of-work dancers? It makes your place look like the Taj Mahal. My roommates are teal with jealousy—that’s a shade deeper than green. You don’t mean to say you’re not—Amy! What is it?”

  Amy screamed. From where she stood in the living room, she could see past the pulled-out sofa bed and into the dimly lit kitchen. A rat stood on the counter, eating last night’s popcorn that, in the rush of television and emotion, no one had put away.