Tune in Tomorrow, page 2
A hand clapped against Starr’s backside and she flinched. Mike shoved her away, fingers brushing against her chest and lingering there for an extended beat. “Pack up,” he hissed. “You are done here.” He turned to the table, apologizing and throwing a dirty rag over the water.
Panic spiraled. Her brio of a few minutes earlier had dissipated in the face of reality: she wouldn’t make rent without a job. She’d be kicked out of her apartment. She didn’t even have Gerry’s basement pit as a backup. There were student loans. And worst: she’d screwed up while acting, the one thing she thought she knew how to do well.
Cris and Emma slid around their seats. “Going back now,” he said. “Fiona was right, skipping this mess.”
“Hold on.” Valentine held up a hand. His gaze had remained steady. It was like he was waiting for something.
Every bit of Starr demanded that she flee. She wanted to throw her headscarf and cheap apron on the stove and set them ablaze. She wanted to run home, for as long as she had one, and settle in with a pint of Ample Hills ice cream and a bottle of wine and see where they took her.
But if she gave up, there was only one road to take—the one that ended in Mama’s home, with Mama’s claws.
Valentine raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. His hair shifted. Those were definitely horns.
Starr punted.
“Do not touch me, you pervert!” She jumped away from Mike, clutching at her chest. Or most of her chest.
Mike whirled, fists on hips. “Are you still here? Being crazy? I never touched you.”
“You saw that!” Starr cried, pointing at a nearby table’s customers, harnessing the panic and riding it like a wild horse. “And you saw it!” she turned to Valentine. “He grabbed my—my—” She burst into tears. “And then he fired me!”
The cigar fell from Cris’ mouth.
Valentine’s gemlike eyes lit up and he grinned. “Why, yes,” he nodded broadly. “Harassment! Maybe assault! Possibly other seasonings, too. Miss, you should call the constables. Also, a judge! At least an attorney.”
Starr turned on the waterworks, and they weren’t entirely invented. She needed a job, even this crappy one. She needed a life.
Take me with you, she thought at this total stranger named Valentine.
Mike blustered and flailed, sputtering denials while every table gawked and a few hissed. Then he read the room and glowered. “Fine!” He tossed his rag onto the tabletop. “Not fired. You get to stay and make utensil pyramids forever!”
Starr gulped air, dramatically batting her eyes. She rested the back of her hand on her forehead. “I… don’t know,” she stage-whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. She’d never fainted in her life, she wasn’t that type, but she could put it on when needed. “I might need to… lie down.”
“Then lie down!” said Mike. “Lie down forever and come back never. You’re crazy, completely nuts.”
Valentine picked up his fifty dollars and slipped around Mike, who suddenly became solicitous. “Sir, please, stay. This restaurant—she’s a little funny but this is a fine place to eat.”
Valentine ignored him, passing behind Starr. He leaned over her shoulder, and she caught a musky scent reminiscent of sweet hay and almost—but not quite—forgot her name again.
“Quite a performance, darling,” that sing-song voice crooned, and a business card slipped into her hand. Valentine raised his head and addressed the room. “Do phone sometime, Starr Weatherby. I know all kinds of great ‘lawyers’ who will help you advance your… case.”
With that, Valentine headed to the door where his friends waited. He half-turned and winked. Starr’s heart paused. A long, narrow tail tipped in fur darted out from his overcoat.
The weirdo trio from table five disappeared through the doorway.
Tail? Starr thought, head whirling. Horns? Seriously? She’d heard of the devil in the details—but never in the diner.
The corners of the business card bit into her hand and she turned her palm up.
JASON VALENTINE, it read, with a local phone number beneath in curiously pulsing, scripted numerals.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
TUNE IN TOMORROW
Chapter 2
Starr Gate
“Well, shit.”
Starr stood on a footpath just below the Verrazzano Bridge, facing a loosely locked set of bent, rusting gates abutting low concrete walls. Paint had long ago flaked from these nominal barriers, and tufts of weedy green pushed through the neglected, cracked path beyond. And what was beyond? Nothing. The asphalt continued to the other side, leading to a broader green patch and then—water. Either Upper Bay or Gravesend Bay, Starr couldn’t be sure. But very definitely water. Over it all, the bridge towered above her and sang with the music of morning traffic just starting to jam.
The gates all but telegraphed: Keep moving. Nothing to see here, folks.
She checked the scrap of paper with coordinates scrawled on it—she’d never have found it without her phone’s GPS—then paced back and forth on the path, dodging a lone jogger with a dog and a single cyclist. Could she have gotten it wrong? She probably wrote it down wrong. Everything had happened so fast. And now, here she was—alone, at five in the morning on a quiet cycle path in Brooklyn, nowhere near a studio, staring at the wrong location.
Starr swore again, louder this time.
Loser, Mama’s voice groused again. Can’t even write down some numbers. Who would want you on their show? What makes you so special, missy?
Her watch was accurate. She was on time.
On time to be the butt of someone’s joke, that was.
Yesterday, she’d collapsed at home after being fired from Mike’s. After waking, she’d confirmed the bad news with her bank account: $287.25, then decanted wine from a bottle in the refrigerator into a mug. None of her roommates would be home at this hour, so she could get drunk in silence. It was five o’clock somewhere.
After a few swigs, she’d dialed the number on the business card.
“Starr!” Jason Valentine had shouted into the phone after barely half a ring. He sounded fuzzy and distant, as if she’d reached him all the way around the world.
“Aah!” she’d cried, spilling wine down her blouse. “You scared me.”
Crackle, fizz. “You’re the one who called me.”
“Can’t argue with that.” She’d swiped at the wet patch, then began tugging the shirt off, trying to maneuver the phone and her sleeves at the same time.
“Delightful,” he’d said. “One sec.”
His voice had muffled, and the bubbling white noise surged. She heard him scolding someone, which gave her time to pull the blouse up over her head. She’d forgotten to unbutton it, though, and it stuck over her eyes.
“Starr?”
“Mmph.” She’d pasted the phone to her ear, wearing her shirt like a hat. One arm remained trapped.
Jason had begun giving her a series of numbers, and she used a free hand to blindly scribble them down. “Is this a math test?” she garbled beneath the fabric.
“A location. I understand it helps fix humans onto a point on the map on your side of the Veil.”
They were words, and they were in English, but she had no idea what some of them meant. But Starr couldn’t focus on that: she was starting to get claustrophobic from the blouse.
“Be there tomorrow at 5:02.”
“In the morning?”
Zzzzt crackle bsss. “Gate appears at 5:03.”
“But—” She gave the blouse a great yank. A button went flying into her mug and sank to the bottom.
“No need to thank me. You’ll love it here—hold on.”
Starr had twisted the blouse from her head with one final jerk, hearing it tear. With a quick switch of hands, she wriggled the sleeve until it fell to the ground. The air in the apartment had been cool and goosebumps prickled her skin.
“Everything will be made clear tomorrow,” Jason said when he returned. “Well, most things. OK, some things.”
“Should I bring—”
“Only yourself. Maybe a change of clothes. You could be here for some time.”
“How long—”
“Fine, you dragged it out of me: sometimes the Gate is persnickety.” Again, faint noises distracted him, and Starr heard the tick-tick of heels nearing. “It’s only open for a few seconds, so be on time.”
The noises had resolved into a robust, insistent female voice. “There is a watercooler outside my dressing room, Mr. Valentine!”
“I know, Fiona—” Jason’s voice muffled, as if he’d put a hand over the receiver. “Wait just one moment—”
“The last one spilled molten maple syrup everywhere and I will not ruin my wardrobe again!” The voice continued to rise in volume.
Starr had raised her eyebrows. Was someone particularly into pancakes at the studio? Also, this Fiona sounded like a nightmare.
Jason made a nervous laugh, then coughed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Hmph,” said Fiona. “I hear that a lot from you these days. In any case, you may place this new watercooler anywhere you like—including up your mythic little ass—but not outside my dressing room! Are we clear?”
“Pan’s pipes,” Jason had sworn. “Gotta gallop. See you tomorrow.” The connection severed.
Starr had stared at the phone so long it went to sleep. Her head rang. She needed a drink.
Taking a fresh swig from the wine, she’d nearly choked on her errant button.
So here she was: 5:01. The map insisted she was in the right place. And there was a gate, though not one she saw any way to pass through. It was the first weekday morning in years where she didn’t smell like grease or coffee. Today, she smelled more like Dove soap, Herbal Essences Lily of the Valley shampoo and Grape-Nuts cereal. She felt game and ready for anything.
Anything except a trick. Was this a trick? Table five had been full of weirdos. And she still couldn’t understand how the coffee had become water. Still, much of the business of show was comprised of odd folks—and the oddest ones were often in charge. They could wield dagger thrusts to the ego. This might be the latest in a long line of missteps in her life.
But—Jason hadn’t laughed at her. He hadn’t asked for her measurements. He hadn’t even wanted a resume. He’d appeared like a light in the darkness, a life preserver thrown to a woman treading water. He’d also been a man walking around the city with horns glued to his head and a tail tied to his waist.
Nobody Starr had consulted had heard of casting for a show called Tune in Tomorrow. The name Jason Valentine was agreed to be fantastical by all accounts, but there was no known producer who called himself that. She had briefly considered not showing up; the whole situation reeked of bad news. The industry was rife with people who had no sense of boundaries, in part because the industry thrived on crafting worlds that had no boundaries, often featuring the most physically striking specimens that humanity had to offer. There was always someone there to exploit that beauty and the fragile ego that usually came with it. She had crossed paths with more than one so-called industry mogul who glided through the world as if they were starring in their own personal movie, and Starr was merely a bit player.
She thought of Jason again. He was incredibly handsome. What if he wanted her to sit on his casting couch? To ‘massage’ him? Her palms felt sweaty at the thought and her brain felt as fuzzy as the connection on their call. She didn’t want to think he was that kind of producer. He’d seen her. Seen something in her.
Starr could wait. But for how long?
“Shit!” she shouted for a third time, kicking the low concrete wall. It thudded against the toe of her sensible pump. The impact rippled up her leg.
“Hey!” shouted a high, clear voice. “What’d that fence ever do to you?”
Starr whirled. A young man with long, twisting hair—neither braids nor locks—slouched against a tree a few feet away, holding a book. He was thin and intense, dark eyes like ink spots. A fat backpack festooned with iron-on patches rested on the ground in front of his Doc Martens. One patch read: ‘Impeach Everybody.’ Another featured a rose in a circle and the words, ‘Do no harm but take no shit.’ A third: ‘Respect Pronouns.’
“I was supposed to meet somebody.”
“Sure ’bout that?” He shifted the book under one arm of a long, leather duster. His twisting hair seemed alive, bouncing despite his stillness. “Just us chickens here.”
“I might be in the wrong place.”
“We might all be in the wrong place, metaphorically speaking.”
A long silence. Starr thought about leaving. “I’m not actually meeting someone,” she admitted. “I was told there would be—gates.”
“I see,” he nodded. “Well, there are gates.”
“Gates to somewhere.” She gestured. “I’m not planning to swim.”
“Well, I might’ve seen some beautiful gates about a quarter mile thataway.” He pointed west, toward Bay Ridge. “Big black things. Glorious iron scrollwork. Popped out of nowhere.”
Starr gulped. She had gotten the address wrong. Could she still get there in time? Hefting up her overnight bag, she nearly ran off as his mouth curled into a smirk.
“You lie like a rug,” she snapped.
He glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ll know for sure in a few more seconds.” Leaning down, he slipped the book into his pack—The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara. Gerry had owned it but tossed it away in disgust after learning it had nothing to do with fixing bikes.
“A little light reading?”
“When not assisting the writer’s room, sure.” He held up a fist. “Power to the people, my friend. Power to the mythics.”
A strong breeze swirled up the path and Starr’s carefully arranged, lily of the valley scented curls whipped at her face. “Mythics?”
His smirk morphed into a slow, lazy smile as the wind increased in velocity. “I love the smell of newbies in the morning!” he shouted over the increasing din. “I’m Janus. Call me Jan. They. Them.”
“Oh!” Starr nodded. She’d been making assumptions. “Right. Got it!” But her voice disappeared in the cyclonic spin of wind that seemed to be touching down in the middle of the path. She grabbed at Jan’s coat to keep from being blown away. The wind whistled a high, signaling whine as if coming to a climax—then cut out.
Starr’s ears rang.
She turned to the rusting old gates and wondered if she’d been hit in the head with a flying branch. The lock on the gates had swung open. Dark swirling mist covered the water on the other side, a vortex roiling at its center. A puff of cool, moist air brushed against her ankles. Jan advanced toward the mist, but Starr had a death grip on their coat.
“Hey!” they cried. “Don’t make me late. Emma’ll scratch my eyes out.”
Emma. That was the tissue-shredder from table five. That meant they were going where Starr was headed. “You—you know her? And Jason? And Cris? And—”
“’Course I know them! We work together!”
Terror locked Starr’s legs. She could no more let go of Jan than take a single step. This was not happening. Then again, if it was happening, the job might be real. And if the job was real—she had a chance.
If I don’t screw it up.
“Stay or go, lady, but release the threads!” Jan shouted.
She’d run out of time. Go big. No going home. Be the mango.
In that instant, Jan darted forward, yanking with godlike strength on the coat. Starr’s hands opened wide as her feet lifted from the ground and she flew into the center of the deep, misty vortex, her bag sailing along behind her.
Then the gates clanked shut.
Chapter 3
Catch a Falling Starr
Jason Valentine checked his watch again, then tapped one custom-fit boot on the linoleum. From inside the hollowed-out, clear plastic heel came a soft sloshing sound.
Only a few minutes more.
His name wasn’t actually ‘Jason’ or ‘Valentine,’ but his True Name could turn a mortal’s nostrils inside out. Over millennia he’d learned to be a polite faun among humans, respectful of their frailties. He’d shared those sensitivities with the rest of the show’s crew, insisting everyone wear some form of clothing, use pseudonyms while in the presence of actors, and comprehend the concept of time.
Over those same millennia, Jason had come to very much like bespoke clothes and footwear (hoofwear in his case), watches and hats, earrings and sashes, belts and cravats, waistcoats and cummerbunds and all the other accoutrements mortals regularly decorated themselves with. His sequoia wood wardrobe was packed with items culled from the leprecostumers’ department, and he spent an hour every night determining what combination of items he would wear the following day. His outfit always needed to fit the occasion.
Last night, he’d spent three hours picking out his clothes for today.
Starr’s arrival today was the culmination of six years of patience, observation and—yes, fine, maybe some gentle tinkering. Certain mythics cultivated mortals the way humans worked with bonsai trees, but Jason’s touch on Starr’s life had always been light. A gentle nudge here, and there, to position her correctly.
Starr had been his personal project from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. One evening, while roaming the city on the human side of the Veil, Jason had caught her mid-performance in a comedy club’s basement. A poster indicated the performers were all about-to-graduate seniors at some educational institution or other. As Jason settled on a stool against the wall, Starr had dazzled the room while pretending to be a karaoke-singing mango.
“Mango mango, mango mango,” she’d sung with gusto, her eyes lighting up. Her body seemed electrified.
Jason had never seen spark lit before in a human. It was breathtaking—so much so that he did, in fact, stop breathing for several minutes. That night, he’d hunkered under a subway overpass and consumed a box of mangoes, seeds and all. Then he’d put Starr at the top of his observation list, attending every audition and performance she was involved in. Part of him wanted her to succeed; another part wanted her to fail—fail so that eventually he could bring her into the fold. And fail she had. She met rejection upon rejection, only to redouble her efforts each time.
