Tune in Tomorrow, page 6
“I see Jason has brought me another flower from the roadside,” Fiona interrupted. “Are you of the hothouse variety, or are you a weed, Starr Weatherby?”
Starr dug herself out of the cushions and perched on the edge of the couch as if prepared for flight. “I’m not a plant, Ms. Ballantine.” A small bead of sweat had appeared on her forehead. “But they say weeds are hardest to uproot.”
“Which is why one should be cautious to permit them in the garden in the first place.” Fiona raised an eyebrow.
“Foxglove is a weed.” Starr’s jaw was fixed, her eyes bright.
Fiona appreciated a good parry. “Foxglove is also poisonous.”
“But its extract saves people from heart attacks.”
The two women stared at each other for a moment. Fiona had to give Starr credit: she was quick. Time to go beneath the surface, like a scalpel.
“Jason, Cris, Emma—they bring me so-called actors rarely these days,” she began. “I am bored with the process. So much ineptitude, so many fragile egos. Why are you here?”
“I want to act.”
Fiona made a dismissive noise. “Acting isn’t something one does. An actor is something one becomes. Try again.”
“Well—I need a job and I got fired—”
Fiona waved her hand. Starr froze. “Bookender!” she cried. “Ms. Weatherby will be leaving now.”
Bookender jumped from the desk, holding the dressing room door wide. Harsh artificial light spilled in from the hallway.
Starr was on her feet. “Wait, I wasn’t done—”
Fiona snatched up her wrist, squeezing. “You never began, Ms. Weatherby. This must come from your heart, you simpering child. Clearly, you are unworthy of a position on my show.” She gave Starr a push toward the door. “Out with you. If you require a ‘job,’ perhaps Jason can have you dust old props. Or tote water to the cameras. We require one hundred percent devotion on this show. It is not a mere job. It is your life.” She glanced quickly at her watch: six minutes, eighteen seconds. Almost a new record. Now, to get this child out of the room.
Suddenly, Starr wrested her wrist from Fiona’s grip. She took in a deep breath and pulled a clip from her hair, unleashing curls that billowed out like sails. Her pink face was set and determined, her eyes now flashing an unnatural shade of blue.
“I am not finished,” she huffed and puffed like a small security dragon.
Good morning! a voice inside perked up. Valéncia’s voice, one hundred percent. Fiona’s heart thumped.
“There are things you don’t know about me,” Starr boomed, striding around the dressing room, filling the space with her presence. “I was born an orphan. I did unspeakable things to get this far in my career.”
Honey, she is like a runaway horse, Valéncia piped up again. Magnificent.
Fiona trembled, thrilled to have her alter ego speaking again.
“See, there was nobody in my whole life who gave a crap about me—except my grandpa.” Starr waved her arms around and nearly collided with the arc lamp. “He raised me on the greats: Shakespeare, Ibsen, Albee, Williams, Pinter. But I got sent to the School of Hard Knocks, ’cause we didn’t have any money. Summers, I pickpocketed people all over town and ran scams in the shopping mall so people’d give me stuff. I put out my dirty little hand and people responded, soon as I pretended I needed anything.”
The runaway horse took a deep breath and glanced around the room. “At school I ran long cons on my teachers. Blackmailed my principal once—he was stealing the milk money and I held it over his head so he’d let me graduate early. I faked my transcripts so I could get into acting school.” She paused, giving Fiona a long, steady stare.
Fiona stared right back. She didn’t even know what she was looking at.
Starr’s lip quivered. Everything she’d said was almost certainly a lie, but the sudden, stupendous nature of her overacting gave Fiona a new idea.
You must allow her in, whispered Valéncia. We can do so much with her. She’s like wet clay. So deliciously… unfettered.
And if I refuse? Fiona wondered.
I could always return to hibernation …
That was unthinkable. Fiona tapped her nails on the arm of her chair. She did have to placate Jason. Starr had always been a done deal. But as Valéncia so wisely noted, she didn’t have to use a blunt instrument to crowbar Starr out of here. She might create a situation where Starr would leave of her own accord.
Precisely, Valéncia murmured. The death of a thousand cuts. So much more satisfying.
A snake smile wound its way onto Fiona’s face. Valéncia, I have missed you.
Of course you have. Without me, you are nothing.
It was true: after one hundred and eighteen years, Fiona and her character were virtually indistinguishable. When Fiona had first begun with Tune in Tomorrow as part of a radio broadcast, she hadn’t quite been a soft, naïve innocent like Starr—but she’d had scruples. She believed the world was still, at heart, good. But associating with Valéncia for all these years had given her a different worldview. The steely Lady Marlborough, who’d been adored by dozens of husbands (including multiple Loves of Her Life), run business empires, won and lost fortunes, went on adventures, experienced near deaths and actual deaths (plus resurrections) and at least one entombment—was, for all intents and purposes, a more interesting version of Fiona Ballantine. The merge had happened dozens of years ago and fit perfectly with this so-called ‘reality show’ they were making every day. She didn’t really have to act anymore. She just had to dial in to Valéncia.
Valéncia, who had been woken by a little nobody called Starr Weatherby.
Starr was still emoting but had calmed down. “That was when I learned the truth.” Her face shone. Were those tears? “At acting school. Acting made me feel like a whole person. Like I mattered and had a right to be. When I get on stage, with those people in the audience, that is my whole world. Anything that lets me feel that way is worth whatever price I have to pay. I would kill for a job at Tune in Tomorrow.” She took a long, deep breath. “I would kill… you.”
Brava, thought Fiona and Valéncia together. She’s perfect. And perfectly disposable.
Fiona had not considered this tack before. The newcomers they sent her had never seemed so malleable. Starr seemed clownish on the exterior, but she had sharp edges beneath the greasepaint. Fiona could hardly make out the lies from the truths in her tall tale declarations. She could do so much with her, yet still come out as the hero in the end.
I will be the one to save the show, she thought. And Starr Weatherby will be my instrument.
Out of steam, chest heaving, Starr planted her fists on her hips like an avenging superhero.
“Well, then,” said Fiona as Valéncia retreated. “How much of that was complete bull hockey?”
Starr toed the ground. Without fire pouring from her, she was diminished and girlish. “I did have a grandpa who taught me about acting. We did read Shakespeare and some of those other guys. I did go to acting school.” She folded her arms. “Also, everything about the way acting makes me feel.”
“You invented the rest.”
“I’m pretty good on the fly, or so I’m told.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’m sure how much any of it matters on a reality show.”
“Oh,” said Fiona, “you would be surprised how much acting we all do here, in the end. I’m just not sure how I feel about someone who lies to my face.”
Starr threw up her hands. “That’s what we do, Ms. Ballantine!”
Bingo. Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Bookender!”
“Ms. Ballantine, I wish you’d reconsider—”
“Shut up, Starr.” Fiona clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Tea,” she told her brownie. Gesturing with her cane, she pointed to the sofa. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”
I hope we know what we’re doing, Fiona mused, but Valéncia was long gone.
Chapter 7
Starr Struck
Head whirling, muscles aching, nerves mere spaghetti, Starr wondered if she’d blown a gasket. She gripped the edge of the largest, most plush couch she’d ever seen so hard she risked ripping out its insides. Flight crossed her mind, as it had in the diner. And as in the diner, she stayed.
Starr felt like she’d passed some sort of test, but wasn’t sure whether it was a pop quiz or a final exam.
Why act? It was a simple question, yet not something she’d been asked since her Gilliard days. Why do this thing you’ll risk everything for?
The complicated answer involved her mother, her sense of self-worth, the joy of finding something she truly loved and could disappear into, and—if she was being honest—the applause. The simple answer was: because I have to.
None of which had come out in her over-the-top explanation to Fiona just now. When the diva had seemed on the verge of dismissing her from the dressing room a few minutes ago, Starr’s brain had gone into overdrive. Her bones had screamed no and she’d turned on the same vigor that had captivated Jason in the diner. Go big or go home, and all that. And it had worked, damnit. For now.
The wizened little person named Bookender wheeled a tea cart from a darkened back corner. “Please see that Jason Valentine joins us. Promptly.” Fiona spoke in a lofty tone that reminded Starr of the great actors of the twentieth century—Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis. As if they’d all gone to finishing school in the same New England town. Fiona fluttered her long, thin fingers at her assistant. “Hurry along.”
Bookender vanished into the back of the room, and a door closed.
Starr took a long, slow breath and faced Fiona. She’d met types like her over her years in theater, actors who never took off the mask. Fiona wore hers well; she was poised and regal, with cheekbones that could cut glass and burgundy lips that echoed the Snow White queen. When Starr shook her hand, the touch had been as chilly as the inside of a refrigerator.
But what Starr had learned about Fiona types was this: beneath the bark wasn’t often bite, but insecurity and fear—two things Starr understood without any experience as a diva. She could work with that. Fiona maybe just needed someone to listen to her.
The Grand Dame lifted the lid from the teapot and breathed deeply. A dark scent of earth and pepper filled the room. She decanted the liquid into two delicate, rose-shaped porcelain cups, then gestured at four small bowls filled with cream, sugar, cinnamon sticks and—improbably—sprinkles.
“Aah,” Fiona sighed, taking a delicate first sip. “Nothing like the taste of freshly embered brownie first thing in the morning.”
The tea didn’t look much like chocolate. Starr took a tentative drink. “I’ve never heard of brownie tea before, Ms. Ballantine.”
“Fiona, please. Now that we are to be colleagues.”
Starr flushed with happiness. She’d done it. She was in.
“Brownies volunteer for the service,” she said. “They are rendered into tea and steeped; tomorrow, they reconstitute without any ill effects. It is considered an honor.”
The words were English, but they didn’t compute for Starr. Most of what she’d seen this morning hadn’t fully snapped into place. Everything was happening so fast. “Well, it sure is different.”
“Of course, silly girl. It’s a brownie.”
A bell went off distantly in Starr’s memory. Brownies were, of course, desserts, and neophyte Girl Scouts. But before all that, they were small, helpful, mythical creatures. She cast a glance at Bookender sitting at the desk and the bell began jangling.
Mythics.
Couldn’t be.
Starr shook her head. “Ms. Ball—Fiona? Why do you get to choose who is hired?”
Fiona laughed. “You haven’t been informed about the award system?” She gestured at her crowded, illuminated cabinet. Thousands of multicolored filaments waved gently despite the lack of breeze in the room. “I have over a hundred in there. They are lovely, no?”
Starr sipped and nodded.
“Each comes with a ‘prize’ along with the statue. It is a small piece of magic. My first—everyone’s first—freezes your age at the time you win it, for so long as you are employed by the show.” She gestured to a center shelf. “This one permits me to vanish smallish spaces for short periods of time.” She raised her arm another level, bracelets clanging like chains. “This one is quite unusual: it is a special award given to me for my service to the show, after I helped rid it of an undesirable element. Thanks to that award, I am permitted final say on any new long-term hire. I’ve had it for nearly thirty years, and I earned it the hard way.”
Fiona might be a little off-the-beam, but she wasn’t crazy. She’d used the word ‘magic.’ The jangle was growing louder inside Starr. “I see,” she said. “Freeze your age. Vanish small spaces. Do you also saw ladies in half in your spare time?”
More laughter from Fiona. “Spare time? I barely know what that is, child.” She caught herself mid-cackle and tilted her head. “I must say, you are very reasonable about all of this.”
“No—I’m excited.” And trying not to embarrass myself anymore.
“What I mean is, most… aspirants who make it to my doorway are more… rattled. But here you are, acting as if I’m the most frightening creature you’ve come across today. While I am laden with more awards than I can ever know what to do with, I promise you I am still only human.”
“Aren’t we all?” Starr was trying to match Fiona’s airiness, but the alarm was starting to shriek. Jason had used that word, too. Mythics. Humans. So had Phil. Mortal. Mythics. Her eye twitched.
A knock came at the door, and Starr jumped, spilling some tea.
“Jason?” Fiona asked, but a woman peered inside. She was wholesomely beautiful, like the ad for a bar of soap, with an oval-shaped face and perfectly straight, auburn hair. Her lipstick was smudged, and the top of her cream-colored blouse was misbuttoned.
“Heading back to the office,” she began, then spotted Starr. “Oh, hello there.”
“Dakota Gardener, meet Starr Weatherby.” Fiona rose to search her desk. “Starr, Ms. Gardener is our liaison with WaterWorlds magazine.”
That was a new one to Starr. “Do you cover the pool industry?”
“We only publish on this side of the Gate,” explained Dakota.
“Indeed,” said Fiona. “And Dakota is extremely… hands-on with her reportage. Have you been keeping our Cris busy this morning?”
Dakota flushed to her neckline but held her gaze on Starr. “Are you good news?”
“Starr’s presence is off the record, Ms. Gardener; you have seen and heard nothing today. Things are still in flux.” Fiona returned from her desk with a manila envelope and handed it over. “Give Helena my best. I hope she enjoys this month’s column—it’s about how to incorporate bees into your wardrobe—and of course the same rules as always apply.”
Dakota sighed. “Her eyes only. I know. I never look, but you remind me every month.” She gave Starr a quick grin. “Hope to see you again soon.” And she slipped away.
Starr offered a half-wave, but the door had closed. Her thoughts raced. They had been talking about tea a moment ago—and humans, and missing rooms—and then Dakota had interrupted. “You… write?” she managed, nodding at the desk.
Fiona waved her hand. “A bit. A minor column each month. WaterWorlds, like the show, is geared for mythics, but they seem to find my bits of advice amusing. Dear Dakota is happy to messenger my scribblings to her editor. There are faster ways, I’m told, but I prefer a personal touch.”
You can’t email them? Starr wondered, but immediately knew the answer, because she’d checked her phone shortly after arriving. There was no internet service here; it was a total dead zone. “And WaterWorlds has something to do with your awards?”
“Indeed. They choose the winners, though the prizes are assigned by The Powers That Be. As you see, we are all cozy here—though some are cozier than others.”
“Are there other shows like this one? I never heard of it until yesterday.”
“Of course you haven’t, Starr. There are three of these so-called reality shows in all. Mythics do not require as much variety as humans in their entertainment. After all, we are their entertainment, even when not being filmed.” She set down her teacup, the sound rattling in Starr’s bones. There was something she was still not getting about being here, and it was winding her up tighter and tighter.
“All right,” said Fiona, and the warmth drained from her voice, revealing the knife blade again. “I did enjoy your little performance earlier. You seem to have a special spark. However, there is something you should understand.”
Starr’s blood sank into her toes. Fiona leaned closer like a cobra about to strike, or a dragon ready to unleash hell—
And suddenly, Starr got it.
Boy, did she get it.
A knock came at the door. “It’s me,” said Jason, turning the knob. And Starr understood at long last that what was about to walk into Fiona’s dressing room was not a man who wore horns and a tail for kicks, or who liked devilish cosplay. On the other side of that door was a mythical being. Only, not a myth after all. A living, breathing impossibility.
Fiona clamped the talons of one hand around Starr’s cheeks and squeezed hard. Starr couldn’t move. “Listen well to me now,” she said. “I am the star of this show. I am the sun and the moon, and you are but a distant gaseous blob whose light will take generations to reach us. You should do well here. I will assist with your weaker areas. But mind that you never do too well. Never upstage me. Never contradict me. Do I make myself clear?”
Jason’s voice filtered through the door. “Fiona? Mind if I come in? I’m looking for Starr.”
“Fisadgn,” Starr gasped through her squashed cheeks and lips.
Fiona blinked and withdrew. “What did you just babble?”
“Phil’s a dragon!” Starr burst out. Oh, she’d heard Fiona. But now, having fully grasped where she was and what she’d been seeing, she had a different priority. “A real live fire-breathing dragon!”
