Tune in Tomorrow, page 10
Fiona was hanging upside down in her dressing room like a bat when Nico’s special signal brought her out of meditation.
Knock-knock. Knock.
“Cookie?” he called through the door. “It’s me.”
Years ago, Fiona had read in a magazine—or perhaps she’d written it for a magazine—that ten minutes of inversion daily, suspended by one’s ankles, was excellent for both skin and circulation.
“Entrez-vous,” she sang out. “Door’s unlocked.”
Nico closed the door behind him and tilted his head upside down. “What’s your poison?” he asked, offering a brilliant smile.
“Brownie tea, as per usual.” Fiona waved at Whatsisname, the brownie perched on a shelf who’d been gripping her ankles for the last eight minutes, to lower her. Bookender caught her shoulders and maneuvered her to the ground. She gestured at the service cart. “Humblebrag Masonry was our volunteer today, but the taste is a bit… sour.”
Nico flung himself lengthwise on the Chesterfield, folding his hands behind his head, and sighed. He seemed less than one hundred percent himself.
“Are you well, dear?”
“Unclear.” He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Were I still a drinking man, this’d be a reason to get blotto. Some things cannot be unseen.”
Rapt, Fiona looped a towel around her neck and relaxed into an easy chair. Nico had taken to his Starr surveillance like a selkie to water, and she’d so enjoyed hearing back every little detail of his observations. He had been instructed to keep the newcomer simultaneously on her toes and off-balance, an idea straight from the Valéncia side of Fiona. If the show would insist that this ridiculous new hire become part of their clan, Fiona would simply have to make sure that the hire was as short-lived as possible. Step one: gather intelligence. Step two: undermine.
“I am yours completely.”
Nico unraveled his morning to her in exquisite detail. All had gone well: Starr’s quarrel with Nora, her chastening at the vastness of the stages, her primal terror of the bottomless pit. There had been speed bumps, though: Fiona was less than pleased that Nico hadn’t contrived to ‘accidentally’ be in the rarely-seen character Duncan Grouse’s office when Dakota and Cris arrived for their usual tryst. Instead, Nico and Starr had arrived late, after the couple were already deep into their throes.
“Made the most of it, though,” he told her, smoothing down his hair. “And we now know Dakota calls him ‘Sugar Ears.’”
“It’ll have to do. And our little rookie?”
“Rattled like a snake.”
“You are a love.”
“That’s another one you owe me.”
“Nico, don’t be tiresome. The balance sheets between us will forever be in my favor, and it is gauche of you to suggest otherwise.” He knew full well that the prize she’d won all those decades ago—and then gifted to him—was what kept him from getting in trouble. She would never owe Nico anything.
He shrugged. “It has been a long time. Maybe I don’t need it anymore.”
This was alarming. Nico was usually so compliant. Nothing to do but call the bluff. “Any time you wish me to revoke it, you need only ask. It’s a matter of a brief declaration and you can start enjoying your tipples as much as you did back in the day. Though when I last checked, you weren’t really enjoying them at all anymore.”
Nico tapped his fingers against his chest and stared at the ceiling. “You win. I’ll keep it.”
Fiona didn’t need to say the words; her silence did it for her: I always win.
“There is one other thing,” he ventured after a moment.
Fiona crossed her legs and sipped tea. This was the other shoe.
“Well—Starr—she dropped her sides when we scampered away from the… Dakota and Cris event. I tried to stop her, but she went back and I… followed.”
Fiona leaned forward. This sounded delicious. “Please tell me she interrupted them.”
“She ran into Dakota—sort of. Cris had, um, departed and left his main squeeze caught under a sofa. Starr was helping her out when I arrived, so I hid. Then I heard Dakota promising Starr a feature story in WaterWorlds if she kept her mouth shut.”
Fiona bolted upright and frowned.
“Sorry, Cookie. Circumstances beyond control and all that.”
She considered this development, then fluttered her fingers. “What’s done is done.” Starr getting free publicity on that level for doing absolutely nothing might be a disaster. Or… it didn’t have to be. This would require a fresh pot of tea. “Bookender!”
He was already at her elbow. “More hot water, miss. Right away.”
“And make them scrub that pot before the next batch. Better yet, get a fresh pot.”
Bookender bowed and slipped away.
Scrubbing. The answer came to her. “This… cover story,” Fiona mused. “I believe we can make it work for us.”
“Oh?” Nico turned on an elbow. “Do tell.”
“Indeed. I have friends in all the right places.”
He made a face. “Ugh, Helena. That scribbling harpy. Why you waste time on her I’ll never know.”
“Darling, one keeps one’s friends close—”
“And one’s enemies closer, I know. What does that make us?”
“Special.”
Nico sighed again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t told her everything, but she could be patient. It gave her a chance to admire his features in repose, something she didn’t get to do much. Fiona knew how fortunate she’d been to have stumbled upon Nicodemus Reddy at the lowest point in his life. Back then, he’d been a radio personality-turned-conscientious objector, and when the press turned on him for not being patriotic enough, he’d lost his job. Then the racists wriggled out from under their rocks—he’d been white enough for them while he had a famous name, but when his tanned features began appearing in the papers, suddenly he couldn’t get served in restaurants, couldn’t use drinking fountains or public toilets. Blacklisted from work and his community, he’d become a drinker. Enter Fiona: she’d paused in a random bar for a packet of matches and discovered him doing a poor job of balancing on a barstool, being poked in the forehead by men asking where his turban was.
Fiona had scowled at one man holding a roll of toilet paper and put on every ounce of Valéncia she could summon. “I believe you can relieve yourself in the rear.” She’d pointed at the men’s room sign in the back. Then she met every one of the others’ eyes. “Shame on you all. Your mothers should be embarrassed to call you sons.”
Her tone had scattered them, but the moment she left Fiona had known they would start up again, so she’d slid onto the stool next to Nico. “What’s your poison?”
“Abuse,” he’d slurred. “With a garnish of my life swirling the drain.”
Fiona had gotten a good look at him then. Her decision came faster than her drink. “I will fix both of those things,” she’d promised.
And in time, she had. Now, he was her one true friend in the world. She loved and trusted him as far as she could love or trust anyone—and she also knew, on a deep level, that she owned him. He could never leave her. Fiona reached over and caressed his curls. “We are a perfect team.”
Nico opened his eyes. “I gotta be honest with you, Fee. Doing this was not my favorite thing.”
“Doing what, darling?”
He waved a hand. “Surveillance. Scheming.”
Fiona silenced him with a haughty look. “Sacrifices are often painful, and necessary. It is for the good of the show.”
“Are you sure that’s what this is? I keep thinking it’s really for the good of Fiona.”
“Which is for the good of the show.”
He shook his head slowly. “This show has seen better days. The other series—they’ve evolved. Grown. They have casts of dozens. We’re trapped in some kind of amber.” He blinked. “It wasn’t always like this.”
Nico’s hesitations irritated her, and she set her jaw.
“Starr’s not Amelia,” he said.
Bringing up the thief! Fiona’s eyes widened. How dare he?
“And Joseph’s—he’s not a factor anymore. You know that.”
A poker of white-hot anger skewered Fiona, tears pricking at her eyes. For goddess’ sake, get a hold of yourself, she admonished. The mere mention of Joseph, after all this time, should not tug at her insides like this. “I am never frightened by mice, Nicodemus. I only want them eradicated.”
Nico sat up and patted her hand.
“I won’t lose you,” she muttered.
“I’m right here.”
“Then don’t betray me,” she growled. Trying to smooth things over, she gave a small shrug and sat up straight. “There wouldn’t happen to be a part three to this tale, would there?”
Nico half-smiled and recounted the actual blocking they’d done with Cris. Starr hadn’t been able to meet the director’s gaze: she kept blushing, stumbling over her lines, and swallowing unnecessarily. Nico hadn’t been able to tell if she was suppressing hysterical laughter or nerves and declared it was probably both. All in all, she’d been a disaster, with her head anywhere but in the game. “As intended,” he finished with a mumble, looking like he was developing a stomach ailment.
Fiona planted a kiss on Nico’s forehead. “Darling, you do know how to make my day better.”
“I’m well-trained.” Having reported in, Nico made his goodbyes and left.
Moments later, Bookender returned with her teapot. “Phil sterilized it,” he promised. “We started with a fresh volunteer, too. Enjoy Allsop Nattering.”
The new tea had notes of peach, sage and leather that tingled in Fiona’s nose as she sipped and thought about Nico. He hated conflict, so she supposed she might have given him the wrong task in her Starr project. In truth, she was startled he hadn’t already bedded the newcomer. It had been almost a full week. Such actions were often the most direct way to deal with difficulties: get the heart involved—then break it. Fiona knew what that felt like, and how easily it could cripple even the most talented.
She wondered if Nico might be losing his touch.
Or that perhaps Starr required more knocking back. Even knocking down. She would have to explore fresh options.
“Bookender!” the Grand Dame shouted, but he was right at her elbow, awaiting instruction. “Fetch your notepad. I wish to brainstorm.”
Chapter 12
Starr Studded
Starr stumbled from the stages, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. She held it together until she reached her dressing room. Once there, she flopped face-first into the ancient sofa in her un-glamoured, bare-walled, windowless cube. Stuffing a pillow under her mouth, she screamed.
Loud. Long. Fierce. It was a tantrum Mama would have watched appreciatively, sitting at the kitchen table without emotion, smoking down her latest Marlboro. Just like a six-year-old, she’d have said. Like I always toldya, y’aint no good at this. Knockin’ your head against a brick wall, Samantha.
After this morning’s blocking fiasco in front of Cris, Starr wondered if Mama didn’t have a point.
“You totally tanked it,” she told the fiber weaves of her pillow. “Cris thinks you’re a moron.”
Throat raw and aching, she lifted her head from the pillow to discover an unfamiliar wizened face lingering at her knees, smiling helpfully and blinking wide dark eyes.
“Eek!” she shrieked and hurled the pillow at it, startled.
The brownie caught the soft projectile with ease. It stood perhaps three feet high and wore a uniform of grey shirt and black jeans. “Starr Weatherby?” Its voice was thin and reedy. “I am Oleander Pinebough. Reporting for duties!” The creature held out a manila envelope. “Revisions.”
Fingers shaking, Starr took it. Her heart began to calm. Her abject mood faded by twenty percent: They assigned me a brownie! I’m not getting fired… today! She swiped at her eyes. “So sorry, Oleander. I didn’t know anyone was here. And I’m a little… broken at the moment.”
Oleander set the envelope on the sofa and produced a box of tissues. “Does Ms. Weatherby require bandages? Needle and thread? Duct tape? Uisce beatha potion? Nail and hammer? Source code?”
Starr shook her head. “I’ll self-repair, thanks. And call me Starr, please.”
Oleander’s smile warmed her heart. “As Ms. Starr wishes.”
It would have to do for now. The Guide had explained that the brownie workforce at the show was a critical element to its survival, and that over the years, they’d become relied upon. The first brownie arrived when Fiona Ballantine had been awarded the indefinite, if paid, services of Bookender Riverbend. Once Bookender’s happy fortune had leaked to his fellow brownies, they’d flooded the show in the hopes of also finding ways to be helpful. The Guide indicated that there was a long, involved process in finding the best possible brownie assistance, with emphasis on the ability to keep a secret: that while they were to work on the show, they were to share nothing about it outside the walls of Tune in Tomorrow—most especially the dubious nature of ‘reality’ that was going on. A small spell woven by Bookender kept them in line: should they try to reveal anything about the unreality of Tune’s makeup, they would begin to disintegrate. But it was an over-precaution. The brownies loved the show, even though they knew everything about it. And the actors loved them, or at least loved being waited upon by passionate fans. As many as a hundred brownies lived in the walls of the show at any given time; the most trustworthy and efficient ones received actor assignments.
Starr loved the concept but had raised an eyebrow about the whole idea of a creature being awarded indefinitely to anyone—especially Fiona. And she definitely had mixed feelings about the fact that they were paid in glitter. It sounded a lot like being paid in ‘exposure,’ something she’d been offered more than once while searching for her big break. Yet it seemed to work for all concerned.
“This is my best day!” cried the brownie. “So many years since my last actor.”
Starr tilted her head. Wonder if it’s thirty years. “How long?”
Oleander counted her fingers and toes and tapped her head once. “Years.”
“Who was it?”
The hiss of a large cat and a deeper voice streamed through Starr’s open door. She craned over the edge of her sofa and peered out. Down the hallway stood a man in jeans and a white T-shirt, arms crossed in annoyance. Pressed against the wall across from him, Emma stood with teeth bared, her fluffed-out tail swishing like a metronome.
Oleander peeked out, too. “That is Mr. Charles Forrest and Ms. Emma Crawley,” said the brownie. “They are arguing.”
“So helpful.” Charles Forrest—she’d heard he was on vacation. He played the town sheriff and also Valéncia’s son, Maverick. They called him ‘Mav’ on the show and in real life—but until now he’d only been a name in a script to her.
“I will ask about the substance of their disagreement!”
Starr caught the brownie by her collar and coaxed her back into the dressing room. “Maybe later. Where were we?”
“You asked Oleander who Oleander worked for last and—”
“And Oleander hasn’t told me yet.”
A long pause.
“Oleander? Are you not allowed to tell me who you worked for? Is this some kind of”—the word sounded odd on her tongue still—“spell?”
Oleander shook her head.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said a laconic, friendly voice. Starr glanced up to find Charles—Mav—leaning on her doorjamb, resting a hand on the half-opened door. “Didn’t mean to butt in. But you’ll never get a straight answer from a bro. Howdy.”
“Mr. Forrest!” Oleander sounded scandalized.
“Howd—wait, what did you call her?”
“A bro. Collectively, they’re bros. I’m Charlie, but I go by ‘Mav.’ Keeps things easy ’round here.”
The laughter surprised Starr, bubbling up from a deep place in her. She had already been on an emotional edge from the episode with Cris a few minutes earlier; now, learning the collective noun for brownies sent her right over the edge. She started to titter, then giggle, then cackle and finally, out it came, a balloon burst of laughter that made her clutch her sides and roll against the sofa. Then she was crying a bit. Then she was laughing. Then she slid from the sofa right to the floor.
“I’m missin’ something.” Mav hadn’t moved.
Starr sat up, legs splayed out, and hiccupped.
“Tea!” Oleander cried. “Mr. Forrest and Ms. Starr are missing tea!”
“Sure, I’ll swig some.” He shrugged his way into the room. “Assuming Madame Funnypants calms down for a second.”
Sliding back onto the sofa, Starr dabbed at her eyes and shook his hand. His grip was as soft and warm as his nut-brown eyes. An image of him as a cowboy astride a horse named Ol’ Paint, a Stetson cocked back on his head with a swatch of bark-colored hair dangling over one eye as he rode into the sunset, came to her like a scene from an old movie.
“Reckon I haven’t made a lady laugh that hard from doin’ nothing in some time,” he gestured at the sofa. “Mind?”
“Go ahead.” She sniffed once, a trickle of laughter escaping briefly. “It’s just—well, ‘bro’ means something a little different where I come from. But anything’s apt to make me laugh or cry today.”
Mav rubbed the back of his neck. “Heard there was talk of bonfires during blocking today.”
Starr sighed, the hiccups gone. So many things had been unsettling this morning that the discovery of a bottomless pit wasn’t even number one on the list. But she’d always been certain of her ability to do the job, especially to do something as basic and simple as blocking. All you had to do was listen to the director explain where he wanted you to stand. To walk. To turn. All things an actual reality show wouldn’t require, not really, but she was trying to go with the flow here.
But when it had been Starr’s turn to show Cris she was competent and a good hire, all she could hear was Dakota’s breathy ‘Sugar Ears.’ She’d bit her tongue so hard to avoid laughing that she nearly gnawed it off. The whole time he’d been directing her she’d been slow to respond and couldn’t get her act together.
Knock-knock. Knock.
“Cookie?” he called through the door. “It’s me.”
Years ago, Fiona had read in a magazine—or perhaps she’d written it for a magazine—that ten minutes of inversion daily, suspended by one’s ankles, was excellent for both skin and circulation.
“Entrez-vous,” she sang out. “Door’s unlocked.”
Nico closed the door behind him and tilted his head upside down. “What’s your poison?” he asked, offering a brilliant smile.
“Brownie tea, as per usual.” Fiona waved at Whatsisname, the brownie perched on a shelf who’d been gripping her ankles for the last eight minutes, to lower her. Bookender caught her shoulders and maneuvered her to the ground. She gestured at the service cart. “Humblebrag Masonry was our volunteer today, but the taste is a bit… sour.”
Nico flung himself lengthwise on the Chesterfield, folding his hands behind his head, and sighed. He seemed less than one hundred percent himself.
“Are you well, dear?”
“Unclear.” He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Were I still a drinking man, this’d be a reason to get blotto. Some things cannot be unseen.”
Rapt, Fiona looped a towel around her neck and relaxed into an easy chair. Nico had taken to his Starr surveillance like a selkie to water, and she’d so enjoyed hearing back every little detail of his observations. He had been instructed to keep the newcomer simultaneously on her toes and off-balance, an idea straight from the Valéncia side of Fiona. If the show would insist that this ridiculous new hire become part of their clan, Fiona would simply have to make sure that the hire was as short-lived as possible. Step one: gather intelligence. Step two: undermine.
“I am yours completely.”
Nico unraveled his morning to her in exquisite detail. All had gone well: Starr’s quarrel with Nora, her chastening at the vastness of the stages, her primal terror of the bottomless pit. There had been speed bumps, though: Fiona was less than pleased that Nico hadn’t contrived to ‘accidentally’ be in the rarely-seen character Duncan Grouse’s office when Dakota and Cris arrived for their usual tryst. Instead, Nico and Starr had arrived late, after the couple were already deep into their throes.
“Made the most of it, though,” he told her, smoothing down his hair. “And we now know Dakota calls him ‘Sugar Ears.’”
“It’ll have to do. And our little rookie?”
“Rattled like a snake.”
“You are a love.”
“That’s another one you owe me.”
“Nico, don’t be tiresome. The balance sheets between us will forever be in my favor, and it is gauche of you to suggest otherwise.” He knew full well that the prize she’d won all those decades ago—and then gifted to him—was what kept him from getting in trouble. She would never owe Nico anything.
He shrugged. “It has been a long time. Maybe I don’t need it anymore.”
This was alarming. Nico was usually so compliant. Nothing to do but call the bluff. “Any time you wish me to revoke it, you need only ask. It’s a matter of a brief declaration and you can start enjoying your tipples as much as you did back in the day. Though when I last checked, you weren’t really enjoying them at all anymore.”
Nico tapped his fingers against his chest and stared at the ceiling. “You win. I’ll keep it.”
Fiona didn’t need to say the words; her silence did it for her: I always win.
“There is one other thing,” he ventured after a moment.
Fiona crossed her legs and sipped tea. This was the other shoe.
“Well—Starr—she dropped her sides when we scampered away from the… Dakota and Cris event. I tried to stop her, but she went back and I… followed.”
Fiona leaned forward. This sounded delicious. “Please tell me she interrupted them.”
“She ran into Dakota—sort of. Cris had, um, departed and left his main squeeze caught under a sofa. Starr was helping her out when I arrived, so I hid. Then I heard Dakota promising Starr a feature story in WaterWorlds if she kept her mouth shut.”
Fiona bolted upright and frowned.
“Sorry, Cookie. Circumstances beyond control and all that.”
She considered this development, then fluttered her fingers. “What’s done is done.” Starr getting free publicity on that level for doing absolutely nothing might be a disaster. Or… it didn’t have to be. This would require a fresh pot of tea. “Bookender!”
He was already at her elbow. “More hot water, miss. Right away.”
“And make them scrub that pot before the next batch. Better yet, get a fresh pot.”
Bookender bowed and slipped away.
Scrubbing. The answer came to her. “This… cover story,” Fiona mused. “I believe we can make it work for us.”
“Oh?” Nico turned on an elbow. “Do tell.”
“Indeed. I have friends in all the right places.”
He made a face. “Ugh, Helena. That scribbling harpy. Why you waste time on her I’ll never know.”
“Darling, one keeps one’s friends close—”
“And one’s enemies closer, I know. What does that make us?”
“Special.”
Nico sighed again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t told her everything, but she could be patient. It gave her a chance to admire his features in repose, something she didn’t get to do much. Fiona knew how fortunate she’d been to have stumbled upon Nicodemus Reddy at the lowest point in his life. Back then, he’d been a radio personality-turned-conscientious objector, and when the press turned on him for not being patriotic enough, he’d lost his job. Then the racists wriggled out from under their rocks—he’d been white enough for them while he had a famous name, but when his tanned features began appearing in the papers, suddenly he couldn’t get served in restaurants, couldn’t use drinking fountains or public toilets. Blacklisted from work and his community, he’d become a drinker. Enter Fiona: she’d paused in a random bar for a packet of matches and discovered him doing a poor job of balancing on a barstool, being poked in the forehead by men asking where his turban was.
Fiona had scowled at one man holding a roll of toilet paper and put on every ounce of Valéncia she could summon. “I believe you can relieve yourself in the rear.” She’d pointed at the men’s room sign in the back. Then she met every one of the others’ eyes. “Shame on you all. Your mothers should be embarrassed to call you sons.”
Her tone had scattered them, but the moment she left Fiona had known they would start up again, so she’d slid onto the stool next to Nico. “What’s your poison?”
“Abuse,” he’d slurred. “With a garnish of my life swirling the drain.”
Fiona had gotten a good look at him then. Her decision came faster than her drink. “I will fix both of those things,” she’d promised.
And in time, she had. Now, he was her one true friend in the world. She loved and trusted him as far as she could love or trust anyone—and she also knew, on a deep level, that she owned him. He could never leave her. Fiona reached over and caressed his curls. “We are a perfect team.”
Nico opened his eyes. “I gotta be honest with you, Fee. Doing this was not my favorite thing.”
“Doing what, darling?”
He waved a hand. “Surveillance. Scheming.”
Fiona silenced him with a haughty look. “Sacrifices are often painful, and necessary. It is for the good of the show.”
“Are you sure that’s what this is? I keep thinking it’s really for the good of Fiona.”
“Which is for the good of the show.”
He shook his head slowly. “This show has seen better days. The other series—they’ve evolved. Grown. They have casts of dozens. We’re trapped in some kind of amber.” He blinked. “It wasn’t always like this.”
Nico’s hesitations irritated her, and she set her jaw.
“Starr’s not Amelia,” he said.
Bringing up the thief! Fiona’s eyes widened. How dare he?
“And Joseph’s—he’s not a factor anymore. You know that.”
A poker of white-hot anger skewered Fiona, tears pricking at her eyes. For goddess’ sake, get a hold of yourself, she admonished. The mere mention of Joseph, after all this time, should not tug at her insides like this. “I am never frightened by mice, Nicodemus. I only want them eradicated.”
Nico sat up and patted her hand.
“I won’t lose you,” she muttered.
“I’m right here.”
“Then don’t betray me,” she growled. Trying to smooth things over, she gave a small shrug and sat up straight. “There wouldn’t happen to be a part three to this tale, would there?”
Nico half-smiled and recounted the actual blocking they’d done with Cris. Starr hadn’t been able to meet the director’s gaze: she kept blushing, stumbling over her lines, and swallowing unnecessarily. Nico hadn’t been able to tell if she was suppressing hysterical laughter or nerves and declared it was probably both. All in all, she’d been a disaster, with her head anywhere but in the game. “As intended,” he finished with a mumble, looking like he was developing a stomach ailment.
Fiona planted a kiss on Nico’s forehead. “Darling, you do know how to make my day better.”
“I’m well-trained.” Having reported in, Nico made his goodbyes and left.
Moments later, Bookender returned with her teapot. “Phil sterilized it,” he promised. “We started with a fresh volunteer, too. Enjoy Allsop Nattering.”
The new tea had notes of peach, sage and leather that tingled in Fiona’s nose as she sipped and thought about Nico. He hated conflict, so she supposed she might have given him the wrong task in her Starr project. In truth, she was startled he hadn’t already bedded the newcomer. It had been almost a full week. Such actions were often the most direct way to deal with difficulties: get the heart involved—then break it. Fiona knew what that felt like, and how easily it could cripple even the most talented.
She wondered if Nico might be losing his touch.
Or that perhaps Starr required more knocking back. Even knocking down. She would have to explore fresh options.
“Bookender!” the Grand Dame shouted, but he was right at her elbow, awaiting instruction. “Fetch your notepad. I wish to brainstorm.”
Chapter 12
Starr Studded
Starr stumbled from the stages, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead. She held it together until she reached her dressing room. Once there, she flopped face-first into the ancient sofa in her un-glamoured, bare-walled, windowless cube. Stuffing a pillow under her mouth, she screamed.
Loud. Long. Fierce. It was a tantrum Mama would have watched appreciatively, sitting at the kitchen table without emotion, smoking down her latest Marlboro. Just like a six-year-old, she’d have said. Like I always toldya, y’aint no good at this. Knockin’ your head against a brick wall, Samantha.
After this morning’s blocking fiasco in front of Cris, Starr wondered if Mama didn’t have a point.
“You totally tanked it,” she told the fiber weaves of her pillow. “Cris thinks you’re a moron.”
Throat raw and aching, she lifted her head from the pillow to discover an unfamiliar wizened face lingering at her knees, smiling helpfully and blinking wide dark eyes.
“Eek!” she shrieked and hurled the pillow at it, startled.
The brownie caught the soft projectile with ease. It stood perhaps three feet high and wore a uniform of grey shirt and black jeans. “Starr Weatherby?” Its voice was thin and reedy. “I am Oleander Pinebough. Reporting for duties!” The creature held out a manila envelope. “Revisions.”
Fingers shaking, Starr took it. Her heart began to calm. Her abject mood faded by twenty percent: They assigned me a brownie! I’m not getting fired… today! She swiped at her eyes. “So sorry, Oleander. I didn’t know anyone was here. And I’m a little… broken at the moment.”
Oleander set the envelope on the sofa and produced a box of tissues. “Does Ms. Weatherby require bandages? Needle and thread? Duct tape? Uisce beatha potion? Nail and hammer? Source code?”
Starr shook her head. “I’ll self-repair, thanks. And call me Starr, please.”
Oleander’s smile warmed her heart. “As Ms. Starr wishes.”
It would have to do for now. The Guide had explained that the brownie workforce at the show was a critical element to its survival, and that over the years, they’d become relied upon. The first brownie arrived when Fiona Ballantine had been awarded the indefinite, if paid, services of Bookender Riverbend. Once Bookender’s happy fortune had leaked to his fellow brownies, they’d flooded the show in the hopes of also finding ways to be helpful. The Guide indicated that there was a long, involved process in finding the best possible brownie assistance, with emphasis on the ability to keep a secret: that while they were to work on the show, they were to share nothing about it outside the walls of Tune in Tomorrow—most especially the dubious nature of ‘reality’ that was going on. A small spell woven by Bookender kept them in line: should they try to reveal anything about the unreality of Tune’s makeup, they would begin to disintegrate. But it was an over-precaution. The brownies loved the show, even though they knew everything about it. And the actors loved them, or at least loved being waited upon by passionate fans. As many as a hundred brownies lived in the walls of the show at any given time; the most trustworthy and efficient ones received actor assignments.
Starr loved the concept but had raised an eyebrow about the whole idea of a creature being awarded indefinitely to anyone—especially Fiona. And she definitely had mixed feelings about the fact that they were paid in glitter. It sounded a lot like being paid in ‘exposure,’ something she’d been offered more than once while searching for her big break. Yet it seemed to work for all concerned.
“This is my best day!” cried the brownie. “So many years since my last actor.”
Starr tilted her head. Wonder if it’s thirty years. “How long?”
Oleander counted her fingers and toes and tapped her head once. “Years.”
“Who was it?”
The hiss of a large cat and a deeper voice streamed through Starr’s open door. She craned over the edge of her sofa and peered out. Down the hallway stood a man in jeans and a white T-shirt, arms crossed in annoyance. Pressed against the wall across from him, Emma stood with teeth bared, her fluffed-out tail swishing like a metronome.
Oleander peeked out, too. “That is Mr. Charles Forrest and Ms. Emma Crawley,” said the brownie. “They are arguing.”
“So helpful.” Charles Forrest—she’d heard he was on vacation. He played the town sheriff and also Valéncia’s son, Maverick. They called him ‘Mav’ on the show and in real life—but until now he’d only been a name in a script to her.
“I will ask about the substance of their disagreement!”
Starr caught the brownie by her collar and coaxed her back into the dressing room. “Maybe later. Where were we?”
“You asked Oleander who Oleander worked for last and—”
“And Oleander hasn’t told me yet.”
A long pause.
“Oleander? Are you not allowed to tell me who you worked for? Is this some kind of”—the word sounded odd on her tongue still—“spell?”
Oleander shook her head.
“I wouldn’t bother,” said a laconic, friendly voice. Starr glanced up to find Charles—Mav—leaning on her doorjamb, resting a hand on the half-opened door. “Didn’t mean to butt in. But you’ll never get a straight answer from a bro. Howdy.”
“Mr. Forrest!” Oleander sounded scandalized.
“Howd—wait, what did you call her?”
“A bro. Collectively, they’re bros. I’m Charlie, but I go by ‘Mav.’ Keeps things easy ’round here.”
The laughter surprised Starr, bubbling up from a deep place in her. She had already been on an emotional edge from the episode with Cris a few minutes earlier; now, learning the collective noun for brownies sent her right over the edge. She started to titter, then giggle, then cackle and finally, out it came, a balloon burst of laughter that made her clutch her sides and roll against the sofa. Then she was crying a bit. Then she was laughing. Then she slid from the sofa right to the floor.
“I’m missin’ something.” Mav hadn’t moved.
Starr sat up, legs splayed out, and hiccupped.
“Tea!” Oleander cried. “Mr. Forrest and Ms. Starr are missing tea!”
“Sure, I’ll swig some.” He shrugged his way into the room. “Assuming Madame Funnypants calms down for a second.”
Sliding back onto the sofa, Starr dabbed at her eyes and shook his hand. His grip was as soft and warm as his nut-brown eyes. An image of him as a cowboy astride a horse named Ol’ Paint, a Stetson cocked back on his head with a swatch of bark-colored hair dangling over one eye as he rode into the sunset, came to her like a scene from an old movie.
“Reckon I haven’t made a lady laugh that hard from doin’ nothing in some time,” he gestured at the sofa. “Mind?”
“Go ahead.” She sniffed once, a trickle of laughter escaping briefly. “It’s just—well, ‘bro’ means something a little different where I come from. But anything’s apt to make me laugh or cry today.”
Mav rubbed the back of his neck. “Heard there was talk of bonfires during blocking today.”
Starr sighed, the hiccups gone. So many things had been unsettling this morning that the discovery of a bottomless pit wasn’t even number one on the list. But she’d always been certain of her ability to do the job, especially to do something as basic and simple as blocking. All you had to do was listen to the director explain where he wanted you to stand. To walk. To turn. All things an actual reality show wouldn’t require, not really, but she was trying to go with the flow here.
But when it had been Starr’s turn to show Cris she was competent and a good hire, all she could hear was Dakota’s breathy ‘Sugar Ears.’ She’d bit her tongue so hard to avoid laughing that she nearly gnawed it off. The whole time he’d been directing her she’d been slow to respond and couldn’t get her act together.
