by J. T. Bock
A second later an error message appeared in her inbox. Address not valid.
Her cell phone rang. Kali answered it without looking at the caller ID. Big mistake.
“Kali, darling, are you on your way? I was worried about you.”
She slouched lower on the couch. “Hey, there, mom, what are you up to?”
“About two scotches.” There was a pause as a hair dryer turned on in the background.
“Sorry, Kali.” Deandra raised her voice over the whirling sound. “They’re trying to tame this great mane of mine. Be lucky you’ve got straight hair. My mass of curls simply takes hours to style. When are you getting here?”
“Remember, I have plans tonight? A friend—”
“Your plans are with me, love, or are your friends more important than your mother?”
Kali sprang up. “Are the cameras on you now? Is our conversation being recorded?”
“Cut!” A male voice cracked across the line. “You’re not supposed to mention the cameras. It’s in your contract.”
“I didn’t sign a contract,” Kali shot back.
“Yes, you did. The one from ten years ago when Deandra was on Real Women in Reality is still valid.”
“I thought there was a statute of limitations,” Kali replied.
“No, it clearly stated an indefinite term. Valid whenever you appear on any spinoffs of Real Women in Reality or affiliate productions of the Real Life Reality Channel. You’re also under contractual obligation to attend holiday specials,” he told her.
“No one has asked me to a taping in years,” Kali said.
“Sweetie, honey, we need you to round out the party. We had a few last minute cancellations,” her mother chimed in.
“And you’ve become desperate enough to ask me,” Kali added.
“You guessed it,” the director said.
Kali shot a middle finger to the phone, wishing she’d enabled the video screen so he could see.
“Kali, do you want to get sued?” her mom whispered, which was a fool’s errand since the director was listening.
Kali released an agonized breath. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Okay, let’s roll on three,” the director said.
“Your plans are with me, love, or are your friends more important than your mother?” Deandra repeated with more pout to her voice.
Kali folded her long torso over her legs and hung her head between her knees. She loved theatrics as much as the next person, but her mother sought it out every day. Couldn’t they have a normal holiday meal? Family life had enough drama without it being scripted and directed.
“No, mom, they aren’t.”
“That’s what I thought, my darling girl.”
“I love you.” And Kali did, even if her mother made it hard to say sometimes. Deandra was the closest family Kali had left.
“Did you get it? How did I sound? Not too Mommie Dearest, I hope?” Deandra’s voice became muffled, as she spoke away from the phone.
“Mom.”
“But channeling Crawford might work too. Give me an edge,” she continued talking to someone other than Kali.
“Mom, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sweetie,” she finally acknowledged her daughter. “I’ll see you soon. And wear something nice for a change. That 60s look is so 1990s.”
Kali glanced at her pink and red block printed dress. “Confidence will make any style the ‘it’ style. Isn’t that what you once told me?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t know what I’m saying half the time. I think my writers stole that bullshit from some hackneyed celebrity designer. I want you to dress your best for me. This night means a lot. If our ratings are good, then they may do an RWR reunion or a spinoff.”
“Oh, goodie.”
“I knew you’d be thrilled for me. Now don’t be late.” Deandra hung up as the hair dryer started once more.
Chapter 2
Later that evening Kali found herself wedged between a woman who glittered with more crystals than Liberace’s pianos and a man whose wealth could buy a designer suit, Lamborghini and a supermodel girlfriend but not an ounce of personality or manners.
Past a low hanging, baroque-style chandelier, Kali watched Sean chatting with her mother. Both sat across from Kali along the center of the table with Sean looking suave enough for a cologne ad. Dressed in a black Armani suit and a decent tie for once, Sean had caught the attention of the glammed-up women surrounding a dining table so heavily decorated that Kali couldn’t move a pinky without knocking over a gilded holiday adornment. Kali eyed the ladies sharpening their claws to snatch up Sean when her mother left to potty. They had no idea Deandra was part camel. Between the glare of set lights and the explosion of gold balls, constipated-looking angels and glittery faux trees stolen from Midas’s attic, Kali needed to squint to look around the room.
Set in front of Kali were perfectly placed portions of turkey, mashed potatoes and asparagus arranged in even wedges around the plate appearing too good to be real. The scent of buttered vegetables and creamy potatoes made her mouth water. Kali longed to tear into the delicious looking vittles. But the cameras weren’t in place yet, and the lights needed to be just so before the director allowed her to touch the utensils and cut into the props.
It took hours to make reality look real.
That meant the wine in front of her, another prop, was also off limits. Kali considered asking Miss Rattling Jewels sitting to her left, if she would share the whiskey she surreptitiously sipped from a flask strapped to her inner thigh in between flirting with a man Kali had first assumed was her son.
Kali’s mother let loose a loud laugh, causing every head in the room to swing in her direction. Sean wore a tight-lipped smile as he reached for his wine glass.
Son of a nutbugger. Sean was getting away with drinking his wine when five minutes ago a production assistant slapped Kali’s hand for doing the same. Nearly spilled wine onto Kali’s vintage Halston dress, too, and it was the one positive thing her mother had noted about her appearance. For some reason, she had not approved of Kali’s owlish eyeglasses and curly-blond wig that mimicked Deandra’s own locks.
But Kali wasn’t compromising her identity even if it meant her mother wouldn’t speak to her this evening. There was nothing in the contract to stop Kali, either. In fact, changing styles was encouraged for ensemble characters like her. The producers thought it added to viewer interest to mix things up.
Sean caught Kali’s eye over the rim of his wine glass. He nodded his head toward Mr. Lack of Manners.
Kali mouthed, “What?”
Sean jerked his head toward the man sitting to her right. His lips formed the letters, “C-E-O.”
Kali rolled her eyes. If only she could travel back in time in her universe and stop her trustful, youthful self from signing away her soul to those Hollywood devils.
The CEO of DERST Industries, Max Martin, stared down at the smartphone clutched in his hand. Every so often, he’d grumble or grunt at what was on the screen. Kali tried to converse with him when she took her seat, but he turned his head away and ignored her. He was more interested in the video game—or whatever it was—to acknowledge her.
With a wide grin on her face, Kali stuck out her hands and held them about twelve inches apart over her plate and mouthed back, “Big bonus.”
Sean’s lip curled. He shook his head.
Wait. Did he think she meant “big boner”? Sean’s cheeks flushed red. Yep, her boss thought she said big boner. Kali dropped her hands along with her grin.
“Excuse me, Mr. Martin.” Kali touched his arm.
Creasing his brow, the CEO lifted his eyes to meet hers. Surprised, she pulled back. Eyes a hazy shade of winter regarded her from a smooth face accented with a few endearing wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which had narrowed on her lips as if zoning in and locking on a target. Kali had assumed he was in his fifties when she saw his white hair from behind, but he was around Sean’s age, early to m
id-thirties. After Max ignored her when she sat down, she hadn’t paid him anymore mind. His stiff shoulders and posture communicated loud and clear he found his phone more interesting than Kali.
Mouth pulled tight into a grimace, Max gave her the barest of nods and then went back to what appeared to be a game with multicolored bars rising and lowering with each touch of his fingers.
Kali mentally awarded him one point for acknowledging her this time. A generous point in her book, given she was not in the mood to be dismissed twice in one night by a man who appeared to think his money, power and good looks (she had to admit he was attractive in a prep-school-old-money way) gave him the right to be rude to anyone who didn’t seem worth his time.
On the other side of Max, his girlfriend—ex-model, ex-singer, wanna-be-actress, and newest reality starlet, Mia Minx—lavished her attention on an ex-Olympian javelin thrower who looked like he sported his own stiff javelin for Mia judging by the way he draped his arm around her chair and leered down the plunging neckline of her dress.
Kali glanced at Max who had to work hard not to notice his girlfriend competing in an unofficial loudest giggler contest with Deandra across the table. Mia kissed the jock’s cheek as Kali and half the production crew watched.
“What brings you to this Real Life Reality dinner? Aren’t you the CEO of DERST? Seems odd for you to be on this show,” Kali asked.
No response.
Screw it. She was having that wine.
“Your girlfriend’s getting lucky tonight and not with you,” Kali spoke into her glass.
Max mumbled a curse at his phone.
Kali leaned her elbow on the table’s edge and shifted her body to face Max, who continued to gaze at the phone’s screen as if it held the secrets to the universe.
“See that man across from us.” She tipped her wine glass at Sean who mouthed his thanks as he shifted away from Deandra’s hands wandering over his chest.
“He’s Sean Vivas, one of the owners of U-Sec, he must have a bromance going on with you because he won’t stop staring.”
Again, nothing. This is ridiculous.
“I think he wants to know more about your large, powerful rockets and—”
Max’s head swung around to her, and he demanded in a booming voice, “Are you talking to me?”
Kali gulped down her wine to cover the fact that everyone was now gaping at them.
Max scowled and rubbed a palm over his left ear. He slid a finger across the bars on his phone and they disappeared off the screen.
“Hold on. I can’t—” Max began before the director clapped his hands for their attention.
“Okay, we’re ready to roll. Places everyone.” The director, Krispian Kore, walked around the room’s perimeter in between the light stands disguised as decorative lamps and holiday props placed at optimal locations for guests to trip over. Small cameras were positioned in the corners of the room and painted to blend in with the ceiling. On the marble fireplace mantel, lenses poked out from under gold-painted pine branches. Two cameras hovered above the table blowing cool air down onto Kali’s shoulders. These were the new Dragonfly models, which could swoop, rotate, float, or zoom in to catch any Real Life Reality Channel’s expected fights, hookups or drunken tantrums—in which Kali would be happy to oblige when they refilled her wine.
“And you.” Over Sean’s shoulder, Krispian jabbed a finger toward Kali. “Put down that glass. Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t I tell you not to drink yet? Can’t anyone follow simple directions? Someone refill that glass to match the others.”
The jingle of her neighbor’s jewelry and the hurried footsteps of a production assistant were the only sounds in the room. Sucking on her bottom lip, Kali forced her mouth closed so she wouldn’t say anything to draw more attention to herself. She focused on the dim lights on the chandelier and squared her shoulders against the weight of every eye in the room while a nervous production assistant refilled her glass.
Across from Kali, Deandra wagged her head in disappointment. Sean’s lips twitched against a smile and eventually lost. If only the table were narrower, because she longed to give him a good, swift kick to the shins and knock that condescending smirk off his face. To hell with her Christmas bonus—or lack thereof. She itched to pop out of this situation and to a better, simpler 1960s holiday, where reality television had yet to infect the masses, and Christmas wasn’t manufactured by TV-land idiots. But making an alt-jump now would announce to her mom and the show’s audience her secret. The terms of attendance, given to Kali when she entered the house, stated that cameras were in the hallways, bedrooms and bathrooms. She’d checked her privacy and shame, along with her coat, at the door.
“When I yell action, I want all of you to begin eating, drinking, engaging with each other or the partners assigned to you.” The willowy director didn’t need a bullhorn to project his grating voice.
“Some of you were given conversational topics or cues to direct your dialogue. A few key players like Deandra and Mia,” Krispian gestured to the two women, who graced one another with smiles as sincere as a crocodile’s, “have ear pieces so the production team can offer suggestions to keep the scene moving. Follow their leads. Don’t let the conversation lull or drag. Keep this exciting, people. The more emotional and interesting you are, the more screen time you get.”
Kali slid her hand into the clutch purse on her lap. When she arrived, they had given her an envelope with the part she was supposed to play and suggested topics to discuss with her assigned guest. Reality on TV was a glorified improv—a workshop Deandra had enrolled Kali in and which she’d failed at miserably. When her mom was a regular on the Real Women in Reality Baltimore edition, they cut Kali’s scenes whenever she came home from college, much to her relief. She wanted to be known for her real work, not her fake life.
The envelope fell from Kali’s clutch onto the floor under the voluminous silver and gold tablecloth. There was no way to grab it without putting her head on the lap of one of the guests sitting next to her.
For a moment, Kali considered doing just that. It would make the cut.
The production crew cleared out of the dining area to the control room set up in the library on the other side of the house. A few minutes later a hidden speaker crackled in the room.
“Action!”
Kali placed the linen napkin on her lap, giving up on the envelope and the entire evening. As she suspected, the food was now room temperature, the gravy turning to gel. Kali gulped down the wine to wash down the lukewarm potatoes.
A Dragonfly camera buzzed over her shoulder and flew along the table where it hovered between her mom and Mia, whose fake conversation had escalated into a full blown argument about ... Kali wasn’t sure what, because she didn’t care. With food barely palatable, Kali debated whether to splurge on a decent dinner at an upscale steakhouse or sneak out early and alt-jump to 1969 and enjoy a real holiday meal.
Then Sean with his face awash in embarrassment—he couldn’t say Kali didn’t warn him—stood up and told Deandra and Mia to calm down.
That went over like a fart in a windstorm, as Kali’s dear, departed Pop-Pop would’ve said.
“Calm down?” Deandra and Mia squealed in unison and turned their amped up ire on Sean.
As he inched away from the table with his hands up, Sean looked to Kali for help. She smiled, batted her eyes and bit into a forkful of tepid asparagus.
Then the chandelier exploded.
Screams and yells filled the room. Dropping her fork, Kali ducked to the right and onto Max’s lap. Max curled forward over her, blocking out the room and flying debris until the danger seemed to be over.
Max’s hand rested on Kali’s back and slid away as she eased up into her seat.
But the danger was still present. Charged ions pricked against Kali’s skin like small static shocks. The same sensation caused by a dimensional portal.
Kali blinked against the dust fog hanging in the room. She removed her smudged and scratched ey
eglasses. Bits of metal and glass coated the food and the guests sitting closest to the chandelier, including her and Max.
“What happened?” Kali asked him.
Max didn’t answer, because his attention lay squarely on a man standing in the center of the table where the chandelier had been. His green camouflage, button-up shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and matching pants were suited for a military expedition, a marked contrast to the guests’ posh evening attire.
“No one leaves this room,” the man ordered. Worn combat boots knocked into Kali’s glass causing a red spill through the thick dust coating the tablecloth.
Kali detected an accent. British? Australian? Gah, she was horrible with accents. Of course, it didn’t help that she was shaking down to her slingback pumps.
The intruder stomped from one end of the table to the other. Heedless of the centerpieces, platters and elegant china, he kicked them out of his way. Guests ducked. Dinner rolls flew over their heads. Sweet potatoes exploded into a Rorschach blotch over the ceiling-high windows. Food and drink spilled and stained the gold embroidered cloth. One of the Dragonfly cameras whirled over the table to follow him. He slapped it away and into a set light, which busted on impact.
A woman sitting on the far end screamed. Whimpers and muffled cries formed a disjointed chorus around the long rectangular room.
Kali remained frozen in her seat. The energized air continued to tingle against her skin. Wires and the chandelier’s chain dangled above her, no longer with a purpose. If she squinted and focused and stared up at the newly cleared area in front of her, she could make it out. A hole poked through dimensions leading to another universe. A doorway—growing smaller by the second—that the soldier opened to her universe and time and this room. It pulled at her power like an invisible fishing line. She dug her fingers into the underside of her chair to tether herself.
Sean rose from under the table where he’d taken cover from exploding light fixtures and flying food. He brushed debris off his suit. Dust covered his black hair, peppering it with a gray sheen.
