This Is Not the Jess Show

by Anna Carey

  Kipps grabbed my hand and squeezed. Then, without a warning, he dropped it and rammed the guy with his shoulder, hitting him so hard he flew back into the brick wall. I heard the sharp sound of his breath leaving his body. He stumbled, trying to catch his balance.

  “Run, Jess—go!” Kipps yelled.

  But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t leave him. The man’s face was already fixed in a tight, angry expression. I thought he was going to punch Kipps but instead he pulled something from the back of his belt. He had a small silver gun. I’d only seen them in movies—it didn’t look real.

  Kipps didn’t notice it right away. He was still hunched forward, and he charged the guy again, jamming his shoulder into the man’s gut. “I swear I’ll shoot you,” the man said, and then Kipps realized what was happening. He turned and looked up, but the guy already had a handful of his shirt, holding him in place, and his other hand clutched the gun. Kipps tried to grab it from him, but the guy jerked back, maneuvering so it was out of reach.

  The gun went off.

  Everyone stopped. Elsbeth let out an animalistic shriek. Even the guy seemed stunned, and he studied the gun, turning it to the side, like he wasn’t quite sure it had really happened. The popping sound rang in my ears.

  Kipps stood and stared at his left bicep. His shirt was torn away at the side, and even though he pressed his palm against it, trying to stop the blood, a dark red stain spread out around his fingers. He winced, pressing harder, but after a minute he hunched over in pain.

  “You saw what Patrick did,” the woman said into the camera. “My husband was just acting in self-defense. He didn’t mean to.”

  I didn’t realize at first who she was talking to. She’d turned around and was now standing beside her husband. The camera on the device was filming both of them.

  “Everyone saw what happened,” he said. “That was not intentional. I only brought the gun to scare them, this was all a mistake.”

  He started rambling on about just wanting the gun as a prop, just in case, and the woman stood behind him arguing that Kipps was being aggressive, and they should still get the reward money because they told Like-Life Productions exactly where we were. They kept on, arguing their case into the camera.

  I don’t know what else they said. As soon as both their backs were turned Kipps and I took off down the alley, ignoring them when they yelled for us to stop, when they yelled for us to come back.

  36

  We found a fire escape on the back of the next building. I yanked down its metal ladder and made Kipps go first, but it was almost impossible for him to climb with his injured arm. I stood right under him, and for the first few rungs he used my hands as a stirrup, pushing off of me until he managed to drag himself onto the initial landing, groaning and wincing the whole time. Once we got up to the stairs he was slow and methodical, favoring his right arm as he took the narrow metal steps one by one. We didn’t stop until we reached the top floor.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” I said, pulling off my sweatshirt. He sat back against the wall and let out a long, slow breath. “Kipps, you shouldn’t have done that. Why did you do that?”

  But when he looked at me, his dark eyes serious, I knew why. He didn’t have to say it out loud. He did it for me—he wanted to give me a chance to get away.

  I rested my hand on his. “Let me see…”

  He winced as he picked the fabric away from his skin. The bullet had just grazed his arm, but it was enough to take out a chunk of flesh. The wound was still bleeding badly. I pulled off my sweatshirt and ripped at the cheap fabric, tearing off one sleeve. I wrapped the long strip tight around his arm, putting pressure on the wound, then tied it.

  “Let me guess.” He smirked as he watched me finish the knot. “Rescue 911?”

  “No, I learned that in my after-school first aid certification class.” I got right in his face. I wasn’t going to let him know-it-all a know-it-all. “It’s, like, first aid 101.”

  “Is that right?” he said, moving an inch closer.

  We stayed there, so close our noses almost touched, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I was the one who let my eyes fall to his lips, who closed the space between us. He brought his palm to my cheek and kissed me hard, just once, then rested his forehead against mine. He was cradling my face like it was a rare, precious thing.

  “This feels real,” I said. “This is good.”

  “This is very real.”

  There was no wishing or wondering in it—it was true. True in the way that all simple facts are: grass is green, 2+2=4, this is real.

  He leaned down and kissed me again, and this time we both gave into it, letting it take us somewhere else. I tried to remember his shoulder, but I wanted so badly to touch him. My hands were on his neck, running down his sides, my fingers combing through his hair. He pulled back and rested his thumb on my chin for a moment, staring at me. Then we started all over again, his tongue warm against mine.

  I don’t know how much time passed, but when I broke away, his cheeks were pink. His lips were red and swollen. At some point he’d unzipped the front of his fleece so I could slip my hands inside it.

  “I’m glad we established that,” Kipps smiled. “Now we need to get the hell out of here.”

  We looked down at the street below. The apartment building must’ve been five, six stories high. From where we stood, we could see people running past, their devices out, checking each street for signs of us. A giant billboard two buildings over was livestreaming the scene. Audience members swept through restaurants and stores, checking and double-checking back patios and aisles in search of us. Several groups had stopped by the courtyard of Rosewood Apartments, trying to find out from Elsbeth and her husband which direction we’d gone in. One guy pushed into a public restroom only to find a woman changing her baby’s diaper.

  “Hold on,” I said, turning to the narrow ladder that led to the roof. The vertigo hit me as soon as I stood up. We were so high above the city I felt its spinning pull, and I gripped the railing with both hands, thinking I might fall. I was slow as I climbed the extra story, then crossed to the far end of the building and looked around. There was water on both sides of us, and a giant patch of green was visible to the north. We were on the east edge of the city toward the south, but knowing where we were didn’t do us any good. Every sidewalk was packed. It was as if every single building had been evacuated. People spilled into the streets, horns blaring as cars skidded to a stop. The traffic on Third Avenue was barely moving.

  “We might be able to get to the eastern shore, by the river,” I said, climbing back down. “It’s a possible escape route. It’s not too far off.”

  Kipps stared at me, waiting for me to continue. “…but?”

  “But every single street is packed. Crowds everywhere. It’s a huge risk,” I said. “They know we’re in the area. They’re looking for us.”

  “I would give anything to have my phone right now,” Kipps said.

  “Sara must’ve seen the broadcast. She must know we’re here.”

  “Yeah, but we could be anywhere. And even if she wanted to come get us, she couldn’t. She’d have to fight off half of New York.”

  I knew that, but didn’t need to say it out loud. Our situation was starting to feel desperate, and I had to remind myself to keep breathing, to think good thoughts and stay positive and all that other BS people say to make themselves feel better when things are really, really bad. I told myself we could wait out the crowds, but I knew Kipps was in bad shape. His color had changed in the last half hour. His complexion was dull. Every few minutes he’d tense up, steeling himself against the pain.

  The broadcast cut away from the livestreams to go to another talk show. Sound was being piped in from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where. A tall, slim woman with intense eye makeup sat cross-legged in an armchair. She wore a bright purple leather
jacket with a high collar and was almost expressionless as she spoke.

  “That’s Chrysalis Remington, the creator and executive producer. The one I was telling you about, who Tyler was trying to suck up to.”

  I recognized the host from another talk show. The rail-thin girl leaned forward, peppering Chrysalis with questions. The volume was just loud enough that we could hear.

  “Is it true that the audience in New York has lost track of Jessica and Patrick, that they don’t currently know their location? How do you expect the Like-Life Productions team to bring Jess back to the set if they don’t know where she is anymore?”

  “Well, we do know where she is,” Chrysalis said. “Not precisely, but we have narrowed it down. And as you saw from that one disturbing livestream, Patrick is now injured. Which is one of our immediate concerns, getting him the help he needs. This is a very serious situation.”

  “Absolutely. No matter how you feel about Patrick Kramer, we can all agree that we don’t want anyone getting hurt.” The host glanced at a card in her hand. “What would you say to Jess, if she’s listening?”

  Chrysalis stared into the camera. She had sharp features, high cheekbones and a small beak-like nose. She cleared her throat before speaking.

  “Jess…you might not know me, but I know you so well. I’ve been with you every moment of every day of your life. It’s really that simple. And I have always allowed your parents to make decisions for you.” She took a deep breath and continued. “I understand how jarring it must’ve been to discover what was outside the set. To realize that there was a lot more to life, to society, than what you knew. But the choices your parents made for you were theirs to make. And I think if you talked to them, if you really gave them a chance, you’d learn more about the hows and the whys. Look. The world isn’t a perfect place, and this isn’t some perfect story about perfect people. Part of growing up is realizing the adults around you have faults and flaws. They’re not infallible. And no matter what they did, your parents miss you, they’re distraught. Your friends miss you, your community misses you. It’s time to come back.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” the host asked. “Are you okay if she chooses to live outside the set? That seems to be what her actions are saying, right?”

  “Well, she’s a minor. A runaway, technically. Jess’s parents are deeply concerned, and we’ll do whatever it takes to bring her back to them. Right now we’re focused on getting Patrick the medical attention he so desperately needs. We hope Jess realizes the gravity of the situation and doesn’t try to handle this on her own. That would be a huge mistake.”

  The host thanked her, and Chrysalis stared into the camera one last time. She smiled, just a cold, tight little smirk of the lips. Somehow I knew it was meant for me.

  37

  We hope Jess doesn’t try to handle this on her own.

  That would be a huge mistake.

  “Maybe she’s right,” I said, staring down at my hands. The blood had dried under my fingernails. “Maybe this is where it ends for us and I just need to accept it. I’m going back to the set. We’re going back. What if I just turned myself in, then you could see a doctor? Go to a hospital?”

  Kipps stared straight ahead. “I’m not letting you turn yourself in, not for me.”

  “Come on, Kipps, you’re hurt,” I said, pointing to the makeshift bandage. “We can’t go on pretending like this is going to be okay. We haven’t even been able to find a phone to call Sara. I’m not going to let you bleed to death here, on some rando fire escape.”

  “I don’t feel like I’m going to bleed to death?” Kipps said it as a question, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was true.

  “Kipps!” I squeezed his knee. “See? This is bad.”

  “No, I mean…” Kipps said. “I think she was just messing with you. Trying to get inside your head. If she can convince you I’m about to die, then she has some serious leverage. You’ll have to take me to the hospital, expose yourself. You’ll have to call her and beg for help. It’s all about control.”

  Kipps had been shot, though. He was bleeding, and even if it did look like a surface-level wound, I wasn’t a doctor. I didn’t know for sure. But it was a more convenient story, the one where Kipps was gravely injured and we had to turn ourselves in. In that version I was small and helpless.

  Then there was the thing she’d said about my parents. They miss you. They’re distraught. Chrysalis didn’t need to tell me the world wasn’t perfect, that much was apparent. It wasn’t beyond my ability to understand how it could happen, how the show might’ve started as one thing and turned into something else entirely, and my parents had just kept on every day, making hundreds of these small concessions that had destroyed us. They could be distraught, they could miss me. They could be human. It didn’t change how much it hurt.

  The truth was, I didn’t want to go back. How could we stop now?

  “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you,” I said, my voice unsteady. “All these people have been hurt because of me, and I—”

  “All these people? Who?” Kipps asked.

  “You said they killed that guy Arthur.”

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure?”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I said. “I don’t want to be responsible if you…”

  “Okay, seriously, that’s just dramatic. Besides, I don’t want to go back. I might have a chunk of my arm missing, and we might be broke and on the run, but I don’t want to. I bet my parents already sold me out. They were probably all, Chrysalis, what do we have to do to stay in this sick-ass house? Just say the word and we’ll disown him.”

  “Come on. Your parents aren’t sociopaths.”

  “Ehhhh…” Kipps tilted his head, like he had to really consider it.

  The screen across the way had changed over to the same Couch Commentators show that had been playing earlier in the café. Now the two girls with pink wine started hypothesizing that Patrick was actually a “creep” with a “smarmy smile,” and why had they ever thought he’d be a good boyfriend?

  “I’m not going back, Jess,” he repeated. He stared up at me, his hazel eyes catching the sun. “Seriously. So let’s figure out what’s next. Because we don’t have much time.”

  “Please, please don’t die,” I finally said, and I let out a long, rattling breath. “I cannot handle that, on top of everything else.”

  “I’ll try my very best.”

  I peered down into the alley below. The height was dizzying, that heady, uneasy feeling taking hold of me.

  “I’m going to get us out of here.” I said it out loud and it felt more certain, like I could will it to be true. I turned to the window next to the fire escape and peered through the curtains. I couldn’t see any movement inside, but it was hard to be sure. We waited for a few minutes and still didn’t hear anything. I pressed both palms on the glass, then pushed against the frame, but it was locked. I took my wallet out of my bag and grabbed my Swickley High ID card, slipping it along the frame to try and unhook the latch. It didn’t work.

  “One of these has to be open,” I said. “Just wait a sec.”

  Kipps leaned back against the wall as I squeezed past.

  “I’m happy to sit right here,” he said. “Trust me.”

  There was another window one story below. This one had sheer curtains, and it looked like there was a bedroom beyond it, but it was empty. When I pressed my hands against the frame, it slid up an inch. I waited, listening for voices, but it was quiet.

  “Come on,” I called to Kipps. “It’s empty.”

  He held on to the railing with his good hand as he came down the stairs. I climbed in first, intending to turn and help him. But the sight of the room sent my head spinning, and I had the strange, immediate sensation of coming home. It was a teenage girl’s bedroom, only the walls were painted the same pale pu
rple that mine had been. She had the same comforter with tiny lavender flowers, and she’d found a similar desk, the corkboard over it lined with pictures and a vintage Seventeen spread of Scott Wolf in White Squall. The glow-in-the-dark stars were in almost the same exact arrangement as mine, and the Christmas lights were tacked onto the wall right above a guitar.

  Kipps bypassed the bedroom completely and went straight to the door, exploring the rest of the apartment. When he came back he was still holding his left arm.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home.”

  “She has YM magazines, Seventeen, Delia’s catalogs. Where’d she get all of this?” I asked, examining a stack on her nightstand. Some of the issues dated back to 1997, 1998. Her dresser wasn’t the same wooden one I had, but she’d positioned it in the same exact place—right next to the door. She even had a lava lamp on it, except it was blue instead of purple like mine.

  Kipps spun around, checking the guitar beside the corkboard to see if it was real.

  “This is the best re-created set I’ve ever seen. They used to do contests for this type of thing. She could’ve easily won.” He came beside me, studying the magazines I’d found. “You can buy some of these vintage. There are a bunch of sites out there that sell them. I always loved the vintage baseball cards—and the Pogs. Do you think anyone actually played with those?”

  “I never did.”

  “Anything from inside the set goes for a lot more than the replicas,” he said.

  I spotted the piggy bank across the room. It was the same kind my dad had won for me at the Swickley carnival—a blue plastic thing with a rubber plug in the bottom. It was perched on a shelf above the bed.