Grace and the Fever

by Zan Romanoff

  Grace is especially thrilled when they end up using one of her ideas: to have someone host a local meetup, sending Hannah undercover to handpick lucky fans. “You look young enough, I think,” Adria says to her. “Too bad they know your face, Grace. You would be even better.”

  “Would it get me on the payroll?” she asks.

  “Really, though,” Adria says. “You’re not bad at this. Call me if you ever want an internship.”

  “I—” Grace says. “I mean, I might. At some point. If you’re not kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  Down the table, a girl who Grace thinks is named Lola shakes her head. “Oh, so you’re not going to rap her knuckles about dating clients?”

  “No one said anything about dating,” Adria says. “We aren’t interested in someone’s speculated relationship, especially in terms of a speculative internship.”

  Lola huffs. “It’s Jes,” she says. “You know how it is with him: every girl who says she has probably has, and half the girls who say they haven’t have done it, too.”

  “Just because you did it doesn’t mean everyone has,” Hannah says.

  “Now I’m concerned about your willingness to discuss clients’ personal lives,” Adria says. “Both of you.”

  Hannah immediately backs down, but Lola narrows her eyes at Adria, and then at Grace, trying to figure out how to fire off one last shot without getting in trouble. “I don’t think it’s a secret that Jes likes company,” she says. “But you’re right: by next summer who knows what he’ll be up to.”

  Grace doesn’t know what to say. Her whole body feels hot with something that might be anger or shame. Either way she knows that if she opens her mouth, her voice will start to shake, so she keeps her lips pressed together and her eyes on the table. She doesn’t blame Lola for being angry; if it’s true that Jes has slept with half—maybe even a quarter—of the girls he’s been seen escorting into or out of hotels, he has to have gone through them quickly.

  She remembers how she felt the night after they met: how she grabbed at the idea of going to see him again, and how hard it’s been to accept that the shine he puts into her life might not be there forever. Of course Lola is annoyed at some other girl who’s managed to cling to the spotlight and claim even a sliver of it for her own.

  So she doesn’t blame Lola; instead, she’s angry at herself. Jes does like company. Who knows where else he’s seeking it? It’s a good reminder that just because she’s holding on to him now doesn’t mean she’ll be able to keep him.

  —

  Grace sits in her car after she leaves, embarrassed by how shaken she is. She wants…something. But she already texted Jes once today, and anyway, he’s busy at rehearsal. Or presumably he’s still there—he hasn’t posted anything on Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat since they texted. And it’s not like she could call him for reassurance under any circumstances. What would she say? We kissed yesterday, so, like, are we on a boyfriend-girlfriend track or are you still going to be seeing other girls? Just curious LOL!

  Instead, she texts Katy: ughhhhhh

  Girl what!

  BOY stuff!!! IT’S DUMB. I’M BEING DRAMATIC.

  I’M HERE FOR IT. WORK 2 BORING 4 WORDS. PLEASE SEND HELP IN THE FORM OF UPDATES.

  Grace turns her car on long enough to roll the windows down so that she can get some air. What blows in from the street is just exhaust and the mineral scent of melting tar: still breathlessly hot, but at least it’s moving. She types back:

  So I took a chance on the dude from before

  Who took me to the party and whatever

  Mmhmmm.

  I think I just met one of his exes?

  Anyway. It’s the same thing.

  Like what if he’s using me blah blah what does it all mean blahhhhhh.

  The little bubble that means Katy is typing pops up on the screen. It hovers for an improbably long time before disappearing, hovering, and then breaking again. Finally, Katy sends, tried to type you a novel and thumb cramped. Leaving work in a sec, have to walk home. Do you think we’re ready for a phone call?

  Sure, Grace says.

  It’s not like she hasn’t heard Katy’s voice before—she’s recorded voice memes, and videos of herself doing Drunk Fever Dream History Week. But it’s strange to think of talking to someone she usually has the safe distance of typing to.

  “So, okay,” Katy says when Grace picks up. “Is there anything, like, specifically, that’s making you worry? Is he being weird, or are you just weirding yourself out?”

  “It’s, like, the situation is weird,” Grace says. “For a lot of reasons. Mostly that he’s dated, like, a hundred zillion people, and I have dated none. No people. So maybe I don’t even know what weird is! Maybe things aren’t weird and I can’t recognize that!”

  Katy sighs gustily down the line. Grace can’t tell whether the traffic sounds in the background are coming from her end or New York.

  “It’s not like I’ve had a lot of boyfriends,” Katy says. “But I’ve dated enough dudes—and, my god, my friends have dated more than enough—so I feel like I can tell you with some confidence that romantic relationships aren’t, like, really all that different from the nonromantic kind. Or they shouldn’t be. Aside from the sex. Obviously.”

  They both giggle just a little bit, which is a relief: it’s definitely easier to talk about sex through a keyboard than like this.

  Katy continues, “I just mean, if this guy is making you feel like you don’t know how to interact with him, or anyone, that’s a bad sign. Otherwise, you’re probably in okay shape.”

  Grace’s keys are still in the ignition. She pokes at the charms attached to the chain and listens to them jangle against each other. “Do you ever feel like being in fandom has, I don’t know, warped you?”

  Katy’s laugh comes out choked. “What?”

  “Not permanently or anything. Not in a horrible way. We just spend so much time fantasizing about people we don’t even know. I guess I just wonder if, like, if I did fall in love with someone, I might not even know. I might not even be able to recognize it, because I’ve spent so long telling myself that perfection exists.”

  A siren blares by on Katy’s end of the line. They wait for it to pass.

  “I honestly hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Katy says when it’s quiet again. “But sometimes I forget how young you are, Geeg.”

  “I’m eighteen!”

  “Yeah, no, exactly. And it’s probably not helpful for me to be, like, Don’t worry, it will all totally work out.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “People always try to pretend like fandom is some freaky subculture, but honestly, I don’t think it’s that far off from what most people do with celebrities, or even, like, the people you don’t know well at school, you know? It’s so hard to understand that other people are people, so we create them for ourselves. We create whole worlds to live in, and that’s fine. That’s necessary, I think, sometimes—and sorry to sound like a textbook, but it’s especially necessary if you’re a teenage girl living in a patriarchal culture. Which you are, and I was, until recently. A teenager, I mean. The patriarchy is still alive and well.”

  “But it’s still an escape.”

  “And you’re still living in the real world, Gigi. If you called and said you were tracking down Jes Holloway because he was your one true love, or you were dumping this guy for not being Kendrick, I might be worried. But you’re not. You’ve got a foot in two worlds. As long as you know that, I really don’t think there’s any harm in it. People always want to pathologize stuff that’s just, like, a part of being alive.”

  “Thanks, Katy.”

  “You’re welcome. And I just got to my door—I’m gonna go in and pour myself an adult beverage and see what’s happened on the internet while we’ve been chatting. Then I’ll go out for more drinks with Nix and we’ll talk about our lives, and what’s happening on the internet. The IRL meets the digital! It can all work to
gether. I promise. You’ll see.”

  —

  Grace writes two emails before she goes to bed that night.

  Hey Allie,

  I love the blue curtains! I think you’re right that keeping it light will be nice in a small space like that. I honestly don’t even know what I’m bringing yet, but I’m coming from CA, so maybe it makes more sense to shop when we’re on the ground? Also once we see how much room we’re realistically working with.

  And as for the rest of it: I’m not more exciting than you or anyone, I don’t think. I met Jes by accident earlier this summer, and we’ve been hanging out ever since. He’s kind of great. Are you a Fever Dream fan at all? I know I’m, like, a little too old for this kind of thing, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love their music, honestly.

  Grace

  And

  C + L,

  Sorry I haven’t been around much this summer. It’s been a weird one. Fever Dream is playing a tiny (and SUPER SECRET) concert in a few weeks, and I’ve got +1’s if you want them. It would mean a lot if you would come with me.

  Love!

  G

  Tumblr text post

  Jadeonfire.tumblr.com

  July 16, 11:37 pm PDT

  Went to a Fever Dream fan meetup tonight. Decided to play it cool on the Lolly thing, which is always interesting, to hear what people say when they don’t know who’s listening. Sometimes it’s good to get out of the echo chamber for a minute. Made friends with a girl named Hannah. Who wants to put money on whether I can turn her to the dark side?

  Tags: #YOU KNOW I CAN #IT IS MY ONE SUPERPOWER #IT IS MY ONLY TALENT #I AM A PROPHETESS OF LOLLY #A PROPHET AND A PRIEST

  Cara replies to Grace’s email first, of course. Looks like you’ll need someone to style you again.

  Grace is so thrilled to hear from her that she writes back right away: I am 100% at your mercy. And then, because it’s a peace offering, and because she can: I don’t know what’s going on with us yet but I am excited for you guys to meet Jes. And for him to meet you.

  It’s true, she realizes: this whole time she’s been immersing herself in his life, and it’s startling and cool to think that maybe he might be interested in—might eventually be a part of—hers.

  You’re going to live to regret all of this, Lianne’s email says, which is Lianne for okay.

  Grace doesn’t expect it to change much of anything—certainly not right away—but when she gets invited to Pilar Weston’s precollege going-away party a few days later, the email is almost immediately followed by texts from Cara and Lianne about carpooling to her house in Tarzana. Things are still a little awkward between the three of them, but for once, Grace doesn’t feel like she’s the only one who’s trying to figure out how to make the whole thing work, which is nice. Plus, anyway, she and Katy are still talking all the time, and Jes texts—little things, stray observations that keep her on edge because she can never quite figure out if they mean he’s thinking of her, or just that he wants someone to talk to—and she does have to start packing for school. Somehow the hours in her days find a way to fill themselves almost all the way up.

  The day before the show, Cara and Lianne pull together one of their specials: a slate of self-indulgence that starts with cheapie pedicures and expensive cold-pressed juices and then takes them on a scavenger hunt through the Valley for dresses to wear to the show, starting at Neiman’s Last Call and moving on to Nordstrom Rack, finally landing at a strip mall thrift store somewhere out in Calabasas that’s so filled with the castoffs of rich women that it may as well be a department store, too.

  They play their favorite game, where each of them gets to pick out outfits for the group to try on. Cara goes for skirt suits in polyester and pastel, and they take selfies in the dressing room. She puts it on Snapchat with the caption Fever Dreams of Business Casual. Grace is quietly grateful that her friends’ accounts are private—that this is something they can keep, to some small extent, to themselves.

  Lianne’s array involves glitter and sequins and shoulder pads. “Fever Dreams of Blinding You with Bling,” she says.

  “It’s supposed to be casual,” Grace reminds them as Cara zips her into an itchy silver gown.

  “Maybe for you,” Lianne says. “You made your debut in your pj’s, Grace. But Cara and I are going to make an entrance.”

  “Oh god.” Grace buries her face in her hands. They did this before junior prom last year, and Lianne actually did buy one of Grace’s joke dresses, a pale pink thing covered in rosettes. It looked like a Laura Ashley monstrosity on the rack, but she kind of pulled it off.

  That’s the thing about her friends: they can get away with looking a little ridiculous, mostly just by liking it. Grace has never figured out how to do that for herself.

  Cara butts her chin against Grace’s right shoulder, and Lianne leans against her from the left. “Gracie,” Cara says. “You know we’re not going to embarrass you, right? I mean, like, by accident, maybe. But we wouldn’t do it on purpose.”

  The idea honestly hadn’t occurred to Grace. She’s mostly been feeling grateful that they aren’t too embarrassed to hang out with her, to come along. But maybe, she realizes, they worry about not being enough or being way too much the same way she does. She doesn’t say any of that, though. She says, “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  Grace looks up at the three of them in the mirror. Cara’s halfway through changing out of her suit, so she’s wearing the baby-blue skirt and a neon-yellow bra. Lianne is already in her dress, a beaded navy number that’s hanging, unzipped, from her shoulders. Their hair is staticky from pulling clothes on and off, and most of their careful no-makeup makeup has sweated away in the day’s heat.

  They don’t care about Fever Dream, but they respect that she does enough to come along, to get dressed up, to treat it like something that matters.

  For all of the hours Grace has spent talking to Katy—for all that she feels like Katy probably knows her best out of anyone, at this point—there’s something to be said for the years she’s spent in rooms like this one, fastening her friends’ bracelets and zipping their dresses, doing their nails, watching them tug and twist their hair into place. There’s a level of physical comfort with these girls and their bodies that Grace doesn’t know anywhere else and might never get to know again. It’s not better. It’s just different.

  “When it’s my turn, I’m going to put you in maternity wear,” she says.

  “Fever Dreams of Teen Moms,” Cara says. “Sounds like it’ll be a hit on the internet.”

  Everyone at the venue is either working or a girl. Even the guy with the list, who’s technically the one with the power here, looks vaguely glassy-eyed at the array before him: a sea of smooth-skinned faces, flushed with thrill and late-summer heat. It’s a world of girls, of women.

  Premiering the new single and video was the official cover story for the event, but Grace can hear rumors bubbling up as she and her friends walk along the line, heading straight for the front.

  Just come in when you get here, Jes texted her earlier. Someone will bring you backstage. It’s been two weeks since she saw him last, and it feels like all she’s done in the days since is kill time aggressively, going for long runs just to watch the miles wipe seconds away from the minutes left between them. Now that she’s finally here, her legs don’t seem to want to work quite right.

  When they get to the man with the clipboard, she sees why people are speculating, and why this is taking so long: no one is allowed to bring a phone into the venue. They’re being granted access to this world, but only as long as they don’t try to keep any of it for themselves when they leave.

  Grace thinks of Persephone and the pomegranate seeds. She took something for herself when Jes offered her that first cigarette, and again with her photographs at Holy Communion. And look at her: she’s ended up staying so much longer than she ever thought she’d be allowed to.

  She’s hoping that her backstage access wil
l exempt them from the phone thing, but it doesn’t: the security guard takes hers, Cara’s, and Lianne’s and hands her a receipt for them, and tells her to stand to the side while he radios for someone to come collect them.

  Their escort leads them through the mostly empty venue, which is older, a classic Hollywood space with dark wood and a red velvet curtain that crosses the front of the stage. It’s a little more elegant than the boys usually skew—but then, they’ve been playing sold-out football stadiums for most of their careers. Grace likes to think that they chose it for its elegance, its solidity, the way it says, We’re not just pop nymphs who will come and then go again. This is a serious space for a serious night.

  Backstage, though, it’s all industrial and anonymous, painted a black that’s turning unevenly gray under the harsh fluorescents overhead. Their guide takes them to a greenroom and leaves without saying goodbye.

  I’m supposed to belong here, Grace reminds herself.

  The band isn’t around, so she doesn’t know anyone. There are a handful of record exec dads with teenage daughters and some guys Grace recognizes as friends of the band. She almost misses the two girls huddled up in a corner together, laughing, bright and easy: Row and Cricket. The girlfriends.

  Grace has been drifting toward the table of drinks and snacks—and she stops walking so abruptly that Lianne stumbles behind her.

  “Whoa,” she says. “You okay?”

  Grace turns around to her friends. Shame runs through her, hot and sharp. “His ex is here,” she says. “Jes. He— I—”

  “Do you need to go?”

  She shakes her head. Jes doesn’t owe her anything. It will look worse if she flees, like she thought what happened meant something, when it clearly didn’t, not really. All of her shiny hope, her new dress, suddenly feels foolish and young. Jes’s life is so much bigger and more complicated than hers. Just because he likes her sometimes, in private, doesn’t mean she matters. Not the way she wants to, anyway.