Tune in Tomorrow, page 24
Starr jumped from the bed and pulled Dakota into a hug. Stiff at first, the reporter relaxed into the embrace, then pulled away.
“Can’t wait to see what you think,” said Dakota. “Your quotes were sheer gold, after all.” And with a flutter of her fingers, Dakota saw herself out.
Nora eyed the magazine cover. “Well, congrats, roomie. I’ll borrow that later. What’ll you have for dinner?”
Starr thought about what Dakota had said, how her eyes had glittered. “Sheer gold,” she’d said. The problem was, Starr still couldn’t remember much of their chat.
All at once, she was no longer hungry, and stared at the magazine as if it might explode. Something about it scared her more than the manic pixies.
Over dinner, Nora became civil. Friendly, even. First, they investigated the dimmer switch Dakota had pointed out, and discovered that pressing it put the room into Glamour Mode. “Ah,” noted Nora. “Jason’s ‘something special.’” A turn of the dial flipped the room through a number of illusions, and after spinning through a nebula galaxy (too dark, Nora insisted) and a crystal castle (too transparent, said Starr), they settled on a verdant mountainside with purple skies.
Once settled, Nora began talking, as though she hadn’t had a simmering distaste for Starr all this time. At first, Starr joined in cautiously between bites of salad, but once she decided Nora was genuine, she shared her own stories about Mama, Bill, trading one of the quieter parts of Maryland for one of the noisiest places in the world—and of being discovered in a diner by Jason.
I could talk to her about the scripts, Starr thought. She knows I went into the cave. No one had asked her about that particular escapade. She’d survived a dragon, thanks to some resourceful brownies, and now had her hands on old scripts by the mysterious Joseph—yet it was as if it hadn’t happened at all.
Maybe it had been eclipsed by Jason’s live show news. Maybe no one was asking her about it for a reason. The closer she got to the whole Joseph script issue, which then appeared to dovetail with the Amelia disappearance issue, the less anybody had to say on the topic. It was like a conspiracy of silence.
The scripts were something she wanted to talk about, though. Joseph Abernathy had been a revelation. She had only five of his episodes and had read each multiple times in her apartment. Each had been more fantastical, imaginative and weirder than anything she’d played so far on Tune in Tomorrow, and she wished she was in those stories, not Emma’s.
But after parsing them more closely, Starr had discovered problems. Two had taken place aboard the Supership Starprise, on which Roland had been a swaggering, smooth-talking captain who romanced the ladies and made planets more amenable to conquering. He’d had a key romance with Wilhelmina, played by Amelia. Two other scripts had featured a flying blue Toyota that dashed through space and time, with a trench coated, scarf-wearing Valéncia piloting the vehicle, which was larger on the inside than the outside. Maverick was often her co-pilot, helping her out of scrapes. The final script had sent the entire cast down a volcano to the core of the earth, where they found oversized lizards.
Having read all three, Starr had poured a big mug of wine and drank to the sheer audacity of it all: Joseph Abernathy had been a hack. A plagiarist. In the space of five scripts, he’d ripped off Star Trek, Doctor Who and Jules Verne. That said, was it plagiarism if no one on this side of the Veil had heard of Captain Kirk, the Doctor or Journey to the Center of the Earth? Did mythics care about copyright?
As promised, Starr had handed them back the next day to Phil, along with another jug of sriracha. But she’d kept their secrets to herself.
Was it time to share them yet? Well, Nora was on a roll, and she had quite a tale to tell. She’d grown up in rural North Carolina, playing in a forest behind their house. “Parents didn’t believe in TV—we didn’t have one and I barely even watch it today,” she said. “We ran wild all over the neighborhood, and in the forest nearby.”
That was where she’d seen Jason for the first time. Trying to get some peace away from her older brothers, Nora had taken to writing in her journals while in the forest, leaving them in a Tupperware, then tucking that container into the trunk of a tree. While she wrote, she occasionally looked up and saw a flash of hairy legs passing through the trees. They never spoke and she told no one—a man-goat in the forest was the sort of thing her religious mother would have labeled the devil’s work.
She’d decided to be a writer after her journals turned into wish-fulfillment, with stories about romances with some other girls in her school filling up the pages. But that made the need to hide them even greater. “Nobody ever talked about ‘coming out’ in my part of the world, not back then,” she said. “I don’t think Mama believed women like me existed.”
When she was nineteen and trying to figure out how to save enough money to move to the city, Jason showed up on the family doorstep. He’d been dressed in a funky bowler hat with a high red feather, rainbow suspenders and pinstriped pants, with shoes of purple crushed velvet. Nora hadn’t recognized him until he asked why she hadn’t been hanging around in the forest lately.
“I have a unique opportunity for a woman of your talents,” he’d said formally, handing her a card with a script that pulsed. “Your stories are delightful.”
“How—” But she knew. Once, she’d opened a journal to find a smear of berry juice on a page. “But I have no talent.”
“I firmly disagree,” he’d said. “Your stories are delicious and pair beautifully with blackberry wine. And you are a magnificent human specimen.”
Nora had been desperate, or she’d never have listened. But her world had been closing in on her—secretarial school was a slog, and it was getting harder to explain to her parents why she didn’t date. She had no money of her own, and no prospects. She’d left with Jason the next day.
“And I’m still here.” Nora licked the last dregs of ice cream from the spoon.
That was a lot to take in. “But you and Nico were married once. You told me that.”
She shrugged. “I was a kid and I experimented. Anyhow, nobody says it’s against the law to keep your options open. He is a handsome brute, you gotta give him that. For me, doin’ the wrong thing showed me just how right the real thing is.”
“So, you’ve got the real thing now… on the other side of the Gate?”
She nodded. “That’s why I go home every night. She’s my world, not this show.”
“Don’t you age then, every night?”
“Yup. Prizes don’t work on the other side of the Veil, not unless you’re in a protected place like this hotel. But it makes it kind of hard to tell how old I am now. I usually guess around thirty-two.”
“How do you do it?” Mav’s marriage had imploded over the long hours and show secrecy, but Nora seemed to have struck a balance. “You tell her you’re with the CIA?”
Nora chuckled. “She was on the show for a bit. She understands.”
“Her memories didn’t get erased when she quit?”
Nora took a long time to answer. “That one is a puzzler. We figure it has something to do with her seein’ me every night. Like, the thread never snapped. Or maybe it works if you love somebody.”
Numbers whirled in Starr’s head. Nico had told her once that they’d hired new actors once every five or ten years, usually—until Amelia came on board. She imagined how old Amelia would have been by now—Mama’s age, maybe a bit more. A child of… the television era. Born with the television on. That wouldn’t have been true of Mav or Nico or Fiona, and Nora was an exception—TV wasn’t part of her world.
But a child of television would know TV. Would have heard of Star Trek and Doctor Who.
The penny dropped. Starr got it, now. Joseph, the story thief, had met Amelia, the child of television, thirty years ago. And now she doubted they’d had a love affair.
Rather, Amelia had known he was a fraud.
Chapter 27
Rock Starr
Starr was being poked. Something pushed against her forehead. Her shoulder. Her back. She awoke with a start and sat up, a page from WaterWorlds plastered to her face, where she’d fallen asleep on it.
“Morning!” Oleander chirped, withdrawing her poking finger. “Convention time!”
Starr peeled the magazine from her face and dropped it on the bed. She had no memory of falling asleep, only starting to read the article about herself and then—darkness. She guessed she’d only managed to read a sentence before collapsing from the long day.
Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Starr noted that Quintuple was also doing the Brownie Wakeup Poke on her snoring roommate. “What time—” Starr muttered.
“There’s a seven and a three and a two on the clock,” Oleander reported.
Might be a good idea to teach them how to tell time, Starr thought. Last night they’d learned they were first on the call sheet for hair and makeup, which was certainly Fiona’s doing. Starr and Nora now had less than half an hour to get down the hall to the Hairies and Makeup Fairies Room, but what she wanted most right now was—
Oleander held up a mug. “For the waking.”
Starr eyed the brownish-mauve swirling mixture and took a tentative sip. It went down buttery and kicked every cell she had into high alert. “Whoa,” she gasped, shaking her head and glancing at the magazine.
Samantha Draper is a most unusual young woman, the article began. When I sat down—
“Ms. Starr!” The brownie beckoned, and she slid to the floor so they could be on the same eye level, tossing the magazine behind her. She desperately wanted to read it and also to have read it already, so she’d know what those ‘sheer gold’ quotes were. It was probably nothing more than a glowing puff piece, but if there was anything inside that might make her cringe, maybe she should wait until she didn’t have a full day of fan interaction ahead of her.
She finished the drink and raised her eyebrows at Oleander.
The brownie took a deep breath. “You know we bros like you. You taught us letters so we could read books.”
“And you read a lot, if I understand right.”
“Yes! Mx. Jan gives us good books! And Mx. Jan meets with us.”
“Like a book club?” Starr had a vague recollection of signing something Jan had put under her nose, some kind of permission slip for a gathering.
“There was a petition Mx. Jan helped us write up, with many asks,” Oleander continued. “Many brownies agreed and signed, too. But—TPTB turned the pages to cinders.”
Nora’s snoring cut out abruptly. “Quintuple, get your finger out of my nose!” she barked.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Oleander.” Starr wondered what this had to do with her.
“So, bros need plan Bs. But brownies have small ideas. Jan has big ones. Ideas. Should we use big or small plan Bs, Starr Weatherby?”
Starr shook her head. Even with the drink this line of questioning was coming too early in the morning. “What kind of plan?”
“A plan to be heard! To make changes!”
Petitions. Jan. The Jungle. Their Impeach Everybody pin. It was all starting to come together. “Well, do you know what you really want?”
Oleander nodded with enthusiasm.
“There’s this phrase I like: ‘Go big or go home.’ I once had to sing a song while pretending to be a mango. I thought it was my low point, but Jason saw me—and that’s what made him want me on the show. So, sometimes I think about being the mango again. You know, going for it.”
“Be the mango,” Oleander committed the concept to memory. “Go be a big mango.”
“Something like that.” Starr grinned. “Mango it up, girl.”
Oleander gestured at the small door near the vent. “Come, Starr Weatherby. Tell others.”
It was a ridiculous notion. “Oleander, even if I had time I wouldn’t fit.”
The brownie opened the door, pressing her hands around the frame, and pushed. The frame gave way as if the wall was made of rubber. The door grew taller and wider. Starr marveled at the elastic qualities of magic drywall. “Come!”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
Oleander touched the side of her nose. “Surprise.”
Most of Starr wanted to dive right in. Adventure ahead! But then Nora turned on the shower. “I’m not even dressed, Oleander. I have some appointments. Maybe later?”
The brownie thought a moment. “Later!” She ducked through the doorframe, which slowly returned to its original dimensions. “Yes, very much later!”
And she was gone.
The crowd goes wild was a hoary cliché Starr had heard dozens of times, perhaps nowhere more often than when her brother Bill was doing basketball layups in the driveway.
Witnessing it was a whole other thing.
Starr peered around the curtain that divided the backstage wings from the packed ballroom, bouncing on her toes as each of the actors went out onto the stage. Cris gave a short introduction, the announced actor walked out and waved, then took a seat in a director’s chair. This was the combination opening ceremony and Q&A session that kicked off the convention.
“Next up, she’s the loveable scamp who stumbled into our hearts with a serving tray—but now works to dig up all the mysteries of Shadow Oak at the Eye 2 Eye agency… it’s Samantha Draper!” Cris turned and held out one of his arms.
Everything moved in slow motion as Starr crossed the stage. Feet, claws, hooves all thumped on the carpeted floor; wings, antennae, arms and mandibles waved, clicked, shook and flapped; howls, screeches, whistles, moans and cries of excitement filled the room. More than one member of the audience was dressed up in human garb—some in Sam’s bomber jacket replicas, some with boas to emulate Valéncia.
Ahead of Starr’s entrance, Mav had given the room an ‘aw, shucks’ shrug, wave and smile before sitting down, but the tumult transfixed Starr on her way to the chair. Deer, meet headlights, she thought. It was like staring across the ocean and hearing the waves call to you. Some mythics covered their eyes, others blew what might have been kisses. A sign covered in glittery letters caught her eye: No Wardrobe Malfunctions!
Eyes pricking with tears, Starr clasped her hands over her heart. She could have stood there forever, drinking in the glow of this form of love. It washed over and through her, an embrace from the entire room. It was better than kissing Nico.
It was a drug.
I’d do anything to have this forever.
Just like Fiona, she realized.
That made many things clearer. Starr had never thought of acting in this way, but it had been a long search for this moment, when a roomful of very strange strangers declared that she mattered. That she’d moved them. No one else cared like they did.
“STARR!” someone shouted from the audience, followed by a muffled thud of hooves on the carpet. From far back in the room, a man’s hand waved, and a whiff of Axe body spray filtered forward.
Starr froze, then squinted. Kyle? A second centaur swatted Kyle on the hindquarters, and they conferred. Kyle glanced up again, abashed.
“I MEAN, A STAR—IS ON THE STAGE!” shouted Kyle, then sat down, giving her a wink. “THAT IS ALL I MEANT.”
Starr sent back a weak thumbs-up, until a tap on her shoulder reminded her she was still in the middle of the stage. “OK, Ms. America,” Mav whispered in her ear. “We’ve got a whole weekend to be the most important people in the world.” He took her hand and Starr stumbled behind him, drunk from all the affection.
“Holy moly.” She slid into her seat, clipping a lavalier microphone to her dress.
“It was beautiful to watch you take it in,” he said, covering his own microphone. “But don’t love it back. It’s fickle stuff, the love of the crowd.”
Starr held his gaze, thinking of all the times they’d stared at one another in front of the camera, then quickly looked away, face heating up.
Mav patted her hand.
Then it began.
Fans asked everything; no detail was too small. Beatrice’s shoe size? Sam’s preference on fresh-killed meat for breakfast, or scrambled eggs? Had Mav ever slept in a cave, instead of on top of a mattress? Would Valéncia consider sanctifying a harpy mating ritual?
Dakota was in charge of the two-hour Q&A, interviewing actors from her own chair at far stage left. About half of the session was curated with special questions pre-approved by Jason and Cris—and the other was devoted to fielding questions from the audience. This part was the trickier bit, and Starr—despite now having most of a year under her belt with the show—was still trying to parse out the exact level of knowledge mythics had about the series. On the one hand, they knew they weren’t watching the adventures of Shadow Oak 24/7. They were only seeing a small wedge of the story, which meant there were hours and hours of things the Shadow Oakians, in theory, were doing outside of the viewers’ knowledge.
Yet the range of understanding about this ‘reality’ show covered a broad spectrum. The centaurs were very wink-wink, nudge-nudge about the whole thing, yet instantly knew how to jump into the game of it all. Trolls, on the other hand, were incredibly serious about every aspect of the production, down to an accounting of the shoes Valéncia owned. (They kept spreadsheets.) Elves seemed to believe it was one hundred percent real, and the only reason the actors were on stage now is they had been whisked away by mythic powers for this brief weekend. Still others—usually flying beasts like hippogriffs, zizes and winged fairies—who had a lot of questions about writing fanfic—yearned to believe it was true, even if logically they knew otherwise. All of which meant answering questions wasn’t as easy as either telling the truth or improvising.
“Yes, you can embellish, gild, enhance your answers,” Emma had told them all before they’d MARBLEd to the hotel. She’d fixed a narrow gaze on Starr. “But don’t get too fancy. Having to back fill anything in my scripts with ‘story’ you add on is a pain in my whiskers.”
