Tune in Tomorrow, page 8
The bulb was currently dark.
“World entrance,” she murmured, thinking of the finicky Gates, which over the past five days had scooped her up and deposited her at the stages every morning. Some days it was more like 6:10, once it had been 4:59 and she’d missed the entrance and had to stand around until they returned at 9:12.
“These doors work fine,” Jason said now, clearly reading Starr’s mind. “Nothing to fear.”
“Please, Jason. Don’t give her false reassurances.” Fiona turned to Starr and gave her a final scan. She twisted Starr’s face this way and that. “Well,” she said in that knife-edge voice Starr had come to equate with nails on a chalkboard, “it’ll have to do. We have run out of time.”
Starr’s eyes widened as Jason opened the doors. There was a rush of air not unlike when the Gates arrived, but it immediately subsided. Faint sounds drifted her way, like a party in the distance. Several parties, in fact. But soundstages were usually cool, silent chambers, cavernous and packed with sets—not soirees.
Jason cocked an eyebrow. “Time to jump in, Starr. Or should I say—Sam?”
“Wait!” said Starr, scanning Jason’s face, hoping for some last-minute advice. Something tugged at her, drawing her into the stage. She pulled back but felt a tear beginning on her dress. She stumbled backward, unable to keep her balance. “What don’t I know?”
Fiona cackled. “Everything!”
And the doors slammed shut behind Starr.
Five days earlier, Starr had walked—not flown—back through the Gate at precisely 7:03 p.m. Studio time. It had been a day of miracles and wonders: she’d been hired, she’d met a dragon, she had a crush on a man with horns and a tail.
Then she’d wondered: why was it so darn dark for 7:03? In July?
Walking to the subway, Starr had pulled out her phone for the first time since arriving through the Gates. She’d had no coverage while on the other side of the Veil. The screen flashed at her—and she realized it wasn’t even Friday anymore. It was Saturday, 3:32 a.m. Somehow, she’d lost about eight hours.
“Time runs differently on this side of things,” Jason had said airily while leading her through the studio’s key departments. It was an explanation that hadn’t really landed at the time—Starr was too busy being dazzled by the Hairies and Makeup Fairies Room, the Leprecostumer’s Den, an incongruously mundane kitchenette, and then to her own tiny dressing room, which had been a tenth of the size of Fiona’s and had the same bland appeal of Jason’s dull, non-glamoured office.
Back through the Gate that evening, Starr had struggled to understand everything as messages flooded in on her newly connected phone: Where are you? Is he cute? Rent due NOW! Plus, a note from her dentist saying she owed twenty-five dollars for missing an appointment.
It had all been too much: Starr’s stomach lurched and she’d vomited brownie tea into the street.
That night, she’d been unable to sleep, her brain both fried and electrified by her experiences. She’d tried writing some of it down for her roommates so they would understand if she vanished for an extended break but discovered the words on the paper instead told the history of the New York Knicks. She erased all that and tried again, ending up with a recipe for Apple Brown Betty.
“Today, I met a faun named Jason,” she spoke aloud, and what came out was, “The new Ryan Reynolds movie looks hilarious.”
The message came in clear: no talking, no explaining, no telling.
Again, it had been too much crazy for her. She’d brought the heavy Guide Jason had sent her home with to her windowsill, reasoning that a lifetime of wrapping utensils was tolerable, because it was understandable. Starr was game for a lot of shenanigans, but her day at the Tune in Tomorrow set had been like all of the shenanigans piled on top of each other and bound into a sandwich she had to eat in one bite.
But with each step, the Guide in her hands had grown heavier and heavier. As she tried to set the book on the ledge—she couldn’t. And magic had nothing to do with it: it was because her heart refused to allow her to let go.
This is a weird situation, she’d thought inside. But it’s a special weird thing. It’s your special weird thing. Be… the… mango.
She’d taken the Guide from the windowsill, and it weighed almost nothing. Starr had slept with it under her pillow that night, and each night ever since.
Then there’d been the real hitch.
She showed up for work on Monday ready to rock and roll—only to find no one was ready for her, at least not in front of the camera. There were… preliminaries. First Jan, who worked as Emma’s assistant, dropped Starr off at the werepanther’s pillow-strewn office, which led to Starr’s morning hours being co-opted by brainstorming her character. Also, arguing about why they needed to give her a ‘character’ in the first place.
“I can be myself,” said Starr. “You already told me the show’s this workplace drama in a small town called Shadow Oak that centers around a detective agency that’s secretly run by the town rich lady but fronted by Nico-Romeo and Nico-Romeo’s girlfriend Beatrice but whose real name off the show is Nora. And they butt heads all the time with the town detective played by—”
“Maverick,” Emma had nodded. “Played by Charlie. You’ll meet him eventually.”
“So just let me show up and be what I am, this newcomer in town who wants to help out.” Starr grinned. “Easy as pie.”
“What sort of pie?” Emma raised an eyebrow.
Starr had opened her mouth, then closed it. “Cherry pie?”
“I like that!” Emma had started writing. “So we will call you ‘Jo.’”
“I can just be Starr.”
“Starr is too …” Emma had waved a handpaw. “Flashy. Extravagant. Over the top. Mythics prefer the things that are not flashy about humans. Your ordinariness is what makes you… exotic.”
Starr began to think she was, at last, beginning to understand. “My real name’s Samantha,” she’d admitted in a small voice. “Sam, mostly.”
All of Emma’s fur had stood up at once. She’d reached for the catnip in the corner of her office and bit off a stem. “Spec-tacular, my pet!” All four hand- and feetpaws and her tail went flailing. “You shall be Sam!”
Starr wilted. “Really?”
“You wanted to be yourself, did you not?”
And so, after years of fighting to be called Starr she was back to being Sam. “Just—just don’t tell anyone it’s my real name,” she said. “I want to be Starr… when we’re not, um, filming.”
Emma was too excited to inquire further. “Not a problem.”
After a few hours of Emma drilling Shadow Oak history into Starr’s head while fleshing out this ‘Sam’ person she was expected to play, Bookender picked up Starr and brought her to Fiona’s dressing room. They’d sipped more brownie tea, and the diva tested the newcomer in the finer points of ‘reality’ acting for the mythic audience. “We are foreign to them, even to the ones who live among us in our world,” Fiona had explained. “Think of Anglophiles, who sit up at the sound of an Anglo-Celtic or even Antipodean voice. Think of Europeans who believe America is one big parade or movie. Human nature has that kind of musicality to mythics. When we try to be like them, we sound—we seem—wrong. Be human. But be more human than human.”
“I’m not sure I get it,” Starr had admitted.
“Go over the top, as needed,” Fiona said. “Embellish. These are big, melodramatic stories we are telling, even if they are ostensibly ‘real.’”
“Reali-soap acting.”
“That word gives me hives, but you have put your finger on it.”
Starr left Fiona’s dressing room with a roaring headache every day.
Meanwhile, Nico always found a way to be available to her for lunch. She found him at her dressing room door with extravagant offer upon offer to ‘marble’ someplace wonderful. She didn’t know what that meant, and despite being flattered as hell that someone who looked like him was interested in her—she kept putting him off. He always wore those dang sunglasses, had his shirt half-open and acted like a combination of a 1970s swinger and his Roland character, which made him more sleazy than sweet. Yet the more she told him to buzz off, the more intent he seemed to be to win her over.
But after five days of this, she’d had enough and told Jason, Emma and Fiona—using different tones for each—“I don’t know if you say this on your side of the Veil, but on my side we like this phrase: ‘Shit or get off the pot.’” It was time to get her on that stage, to see if she could make this ‘Sam’ character work. The comment had produced a scandalized gasp from Fiona, a grin from Jason and a character description from Emma.
SAMANTHA ‘SAM’ DRAPER is a sweet, unschooled girl loaded with street smarts. She’s fulsome and eager and new in town. She’s taken a job she desperately needs as a maid in Valéncia Marlborough’s mansion, but she keeps getting involved in the Eye 2 Eye Detective Agency. Sam may not be as wholesome or as unschooled as she appears, however. There’s a stubborn, self-sufficient spark in her eye that says she will not be presumed upon.
Emma had handed her the blurb in her dressing room, then strolled away; Starr read it through and ran into the hallway. “It’s me!” she burst out at the first person she saw—who happened to be Nico. “Read it!”
He peeled off the sunglasses and hung them on his open shirt, scanning the page. A small smile lifted, and his eyes sparkled. It was the first time she’d seen him look, well, like a normal person. Not Roland. “Well captured,” he said. “I think she’s done you justice.”
“Oh,” said Starr, her cheeks warming. “Well. I mean, not that my name’s Sam or Draper. And I’m not too sure what ‘fulsome’ means—it kind of sounds—” Fat, she wanted to say, but bit it off.
“Generous.” The word was a cool breath against her overheated skin. “It’s lovely.” He held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, ‘Sam.’”
Starr hesitated, then joined her fingers against his. His touch was warm and welcoming. It was not Roland. This was Nico she was seeing, at long last. “Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.
All systems were go.
Now, Starr stumbled into a deep darkness that fell over her like a cowl. The stage doors had shut behind her, and though she reached out she couldn’t even see where they were anymore. She’d asked for this. She was ready. She’d gotten them to get off the pot and send her in. But send her in—where?
The party noises in the distance seemed no louder than before. But there did seem to be more of them now. Then, cutting through that persistent buzz came an audible, comprehensible set of words: “Thiswaythiswaythiswaythiswaythisway …”
The voices were a tiny chorus, accompanied by small lights that illuminated her feet and created a walkway that curved around a corner. In the near distance, a glow beckoned.
“Who are you?” she asked the darkness.
“We the Wills!” the chorus chorused.
Wills?
“Hark! Who goes there?” a voice boomed, seeming to surround her. “Be that—Starr Weatherby?”
“No!” she cried. “It be Sam Draper!”
“Then step forward and be counted,” the piratical voice continued. “Never tarry! Time’s a’wastin’! Also, we’re bored and need company.”
“Who are you?” Starr slowed to a halt, folding her arms.
“Come forward… and find out!”
Starr put one foot in front of the other and followed the sparkling, lit pathway. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and she began to make out squared-off structures filling the vast, dark soundstage. In a usual studio, these permanent sets—darkened rooms, patios, chambers, city streets, groceries, cafés and the like—would be held in stasis until needed for a script. She’d toured many TV show sets before and understood that when not in use it was like being in a ghost town.
But as she trod down the pathway, her heels making faint echoing sounds against the paved floor—something seemed off. For one thing, she couldn’t make out the ceiling. The darkness above her head climbed and climbed into further darkness, so deep she expected to see the Milky Way… but there was nothing. For another, that soft buzzing, a gentle cacophony just beneath her ability to make out voices, persisted. Rounding a corner past an empty living room set, she approached a café that positively hummed. The coffee shop was lit from within and sounded as if it had been filled with bees. Starr neared an exterior window, blinking: there was movement inside. Too much movement. Too much, too fast—a blur of bodies and objects and sounds, as if someone was playing a movie on fast-forward. Voices inside all blended and looped together in a swooping mishmash that made her heart flutter. Queasy, she reached out a hand to touch the door frame and—zap.
Starr stumbled backward, cradling her hand. The frame of the set had sent out an electric shock. Her hand was unmarred, but the chill of the sharp jolt thrummed through her. She stood on the path again, shaking.
“Thiswaythiswaythisway”—the lights on the path flickered, the chorus urging her along.
“Don’t be touching anything!” the piratical voice reached out again.
“I won’t!” she shouted back. “Again,” she added more quietly.
She hurried now, past more quiet, empty sets and strangely alive, thrumming ones. Inside each of the lit ones, figures raced around, some busier than others, each with their own song of voices within. She stayed true to the light-lined path and at last a new glow appeared, revealing a lit set with no unnatural movement or voices. A kitchen, in fact. Not like Mama’s, strewn with mouse traps and unwashed dishes, but a throwback 1950s dream kitchen of streamlined, pastel appliances and chrome-rimmed Formica furniture. It was a classic three-walled set, the fourth sliced away and set off to one side so cameras—rather, cameradryads—could shoot from a variety of angles. It was both homey and alien and relief flooded through her to find something that felt normal.
At the kitchen table sat a slender, cream-colored blonde with a severe bob haircut, a jaw that could slice bread and too much makeup covering a suspicious expression. “Ugh,” she said. “I guess you made it.”
This was Nora D’Arbanville, whom Starr had seen in this very kitchen flinging plates on her first day, when Jason had explained to her in a steamy bathroom what “streaming” meant to them. She’d learned further from Emma’s discussions and Fiona’s training that Nora played the airheaded, flighty, Beatrice—Roland’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. “She’s possibly even less excited that you’re here than Fiona is,” Emma had warned. “But we’ll warm her up.”
Starr ignored the non-greeting and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you! I’m—yikes!”
Nico’s face had appeared abruptly in a false window above the sink, and her heart leaped into her throat. He waved. Starr rolled her eyes. She’d never met someone so effortlessly handsome who could also be as effortlessly obnoxious.
Nora leaned to one side, suppressing laughter.
“Ha and ha,” said Starr, trying to be a good sport. “Way to put the new girl in her place.”
“Aww,” said Nico. “Well, ye be no coward, I see.”
Starr narrowed her eyes. “That was you calling at me from all the way back there?”
He made a grandiose bow.
“Showing off, as per usual.” Nora’s tone was sultry and Southern. That put Starr on guard; some Southern belles were both honey and bee simultaneously.
“Just one of my little talents.” He lifted Starr’s hand to kiss the back of it. She jerked away, but not before feeling another shiver run up her—a lot like the jolt she’d received from the moving set. “Oh, right,” he nodded. “You don’t like me… yet.”
“Take it down a notch, Nico, eh?” Nora finished filing a nail down and took a sip of water from a nearby glass. “Y’all are making me positively ill.”
“That’s a habit with you these days, doll face,” he shot back. “Toilet’s right through those doors, down the hall—”
Nora held up the flat of her hand.
Starr sighed. She knew she should turn up the charm and make nice with her new colleagues, but they weren’t making it easy. She missed Jason.
Sure, go walk out, she heard Mama hiss inside. Knew you couldn’t hack it.
Swallowing her annoyance, Starr settled into the description Emma had given her of ‘Sam.’ Of her old self. Who was now her new self. “Let’s start over,” she said. “I’m S—”
“I know who you are.” Nora looked her up and down. “And I’m darned sure you know who I am. You should leave now. I don’t know how much you paid Fiona to give you the go-ahead but take my word for it and scram.”
Starr’s hackles rose. She had a brother; she knew what goading felt like. But this was more complex than mere hazing. Fight? Flight? Was there a third option? She looked at Nico for help. He had on a half-smile of encouragement but said nothing. Finesse, she thought. That’s another good F-word. Starr leaned across the table, close—but not too close—to Nora. “Sorry, darlin’,” she drawled, imitating Nora. “Can’t do that. I’m here for the long run. You’re stuck with me.”
Nora chuckled, her hazel eyes sharp and deadly. She rested a hand on Starr’s forearm. “Aw, she thinks she’s clever, Nico.” Her hard, steady glance bored into Starr.
Without warning, the ground softened beneath Starr’s feet. Every doubt she’d ever had about this job, about acting, about herself, about her future all boiled to the surface and washed through her. Failure. Loser. No-talent. Hopeless. Starr couldn’t breathe. The words choked her. She pulled away from Nora’s grip, her elbow knocking the glass of water right into her co-star’s lap.
“Mother trucker!” Nora leaped up, the lower half of her white Capris soaked through. “You did that on purpose, you—”
“Stop it.” Nico came between them. “Nora, put the claws back in. Starr, grab a dish towel.”
Mechanically, Starr stumbled to the sink and returned with the cloth hanging next to it. Her head and neck cleared, the doubts ebbing like ocean waves, though their ripples lingered. She grabbed a director’s chair and sat, grateful for Nico’s intervention.
