by Sarah Gagnon
I tuck my lips in again and hurry over to the woman.
“Put your phone and computer along with any other com devices in the bin here.” She points to a gray tray with a sticker with my number on it.
“I didn’t bring any of those with me.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me and might call for a strip search.
“You know the rain? It always voids warranties.”
She narrows her eyes. “Just so that you know, if you’re caught recording any portion of the proceedings, legal action will be brought against you.”
“I understand.” I follow her into another room where an older man in a tan suit lounges behind a desk. His nametag reads “Bill.” The top button of his shirt is open and his thinning blond hair flops forward. A chair, my chair, sits five feet away. Black one-way glass lines the wall behind the man and I feel people staring. Why did I think I could do this?
“Please, sit.”
I take the chair and stuff my backpack underneath. I’m so exposed, but I hold my head up regardless.
“You’re seventeen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still in school?”
“I graduated a few months ago.” As I answer the questions, I stare into the glass. Is Jeremy back there watching the proceedings?
Bill tips his head and I notice a tiny black ear bud. How many people are on the other side of that glass? He scratches the side of his face before continuing. “How do you feel about dating?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“Do you like dating, do it often, that type of thing?”
I bite the edge of my fingernail. I need a good lie. Um. Yes, no, I don’t know. I force my hands back into my lap. “No, sir.”
“No, you don’t like it, or no, you don’t do it?”
My mind is a befuddled mess. Why does he need to know this? Even if I wasn’t contagious, most of the guys at school are drugged-out losers. “I haven’t been on many dates, so I’m not sure I can judge how much I enjoy it yet.”
He nods. “Are you sexually active?”
I glare at him, then at the glass. He listens to his ear bud and then writes more. “Sorry, we’re just trying to cut out the overly eager girls. Jeremy doesn’t want to be mauled.”
He writes down more on his pad of paper and I want to leap up and read whatever the hell it is. My answers suck so far. I shuffle my feet together and try to sit up straighter. My socks are itchy wet. Come on, confidence. Don’t fail.
“How about personal upkeep?”
“What exactly are you asking me here?” I try to subtly wipe the smudge off my arm. Am I not clean enough for the show? Give me a shower and a hair dryer. I could look better tomorrow. I force my lips into a pleasant smile. Damn nosy questions, but since I’ve been in line for days, I suppose they have no way of knowing whether or not I normally bathe.
“Hobbies?”
I should’ve thought this out ahead of time. I have a hobby. I work for the Metal Preservation Society. I’m not high up. I’ve only met my one contact, but the society’s been around my whole life. The year I was born, China demanded our country pay back the debt we owed them and bam, the government came together to confiscate all the precious metals. I’m not sure how much they made, but China didn’t declare war. Since that moment, the Society has been hiding everything they can before the government melts it. They hide it, and me and a bunch of other artists make it into new jewelry. All highly illegal and not a hobby I can mention.
I smile and tuck my hair back, trying to think of a good lie. There is my rough-edged design on the back of the concrete foundation in the bank cafeteria. I had to dig my knife in so hard to make marks. I can’t think of any other hobby to make up. “Graffiti-style scratching…uh, but not anywhere illegal. Oh, and I draw.”
He raises his eyebrows and I shift nervously. When the state joined with private companies to install graffiti-proof panels ten years ago, most street artists turned to chiseling designs right into the walls, but it’s not exactly a socially acceptable hobby. His head tips, listening to something I can’t hear. He’s probably about to end the interview. I’m fairly sure he won’t bother to mention my name to the authorities.
“Are there any particular buildings where your work is displayed?”
“Not right now.” He looks slightly bored and I get the impression the question didn’t come from him.
“How about cancer?”
“Huh?”
He narrows his eyes in irritation. “You are aware that a quarter of the proceeds are being donated to the Global Skin Cancer Initiative, located right here in the heart of Boston.”
Wow. He sounds a little pissed about that. I wonder if that’s how they bribed Jeremy into doing the show. Skin cancer’s common with the depleted ozone, but I don’t think much about it. “I remember Jeremy speaking about his family’s struggle with melanoma, but I personally haven’t been affected.” Would I stand a better chance if I had a friend with cancer?
He shrugs a shoulder. “Uh, huh. Well, you sound pretty good and rate high in overall appearance. Let me get you a few more forms to sign.”
What does he mean? Am I in? I try to finger comb the snarls out of my hair. Maybe whoever’s behind the glass feels bad for me. Which is fine by me. Whatever it takes to get on the show.
“We’re going to start filming the interview now in case you’re selected later on. These papers are just your agreement to be filmed and other formalities.”
I nod. I’m doing well. Cameras are good. Even if they’re right in my face, exposing me to the entire world. I can do this. No big deal. I glance down. The word disease is written on the bottom of the sheet of paper right next to the line for my name. Shit. I’m signing a declaration that I’m disease free. Sweat coats the back of my neck. I sign and hand the papers back. I realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek and relax my jaw. A hiccup pops into the back of my throat, tasting like bile. Being nervous is normal and so what if I lied. A tripod on wheels rolls through the door.
“What would you do with the prize money?”
“I would use it to help fund my college education.” I knew they’d ask that. Lucky I was prepared for that one. I mean, donating to charity might be a better response, but that might sound more like a lie.
The interviewer nods along. “What do you like about Jeremy Bane’s music?”
“The quiet,” I answer without thinking. The desk guy frowns at my answer, likely wondering if he made a mistake putting me on camera. My hands tremble as I grip them together in my lap. You can do this. “I mean the mental quiet. When I listen, everything else in my life shuts off. I only hear the beat, the strange noises weaving with Jeremy’s voice. Nothing more. No worries, no desires. Just quiet.” I glance up and the cameraman wheels closer. The lens whirs as he zooms in on my face. How many people are behind the glass?
“How long have you liked Jeremy?”
The obvious answer is forever, but I don’t say that. Every girl will say a variation of that. “Well, I don’t know if I like him yet. I’ve never spent any time with him. So I only know that he’s attractive and talented.” Ha, I sound good.
“When you imagine kissing Jeremy Bane, what location do you envision?”
The swimsuit cover photo of Riffs and Reefs magazine pops into my head. Smooth and bare-chested Jeremy, kneeling in the water, holding a guitar over his head. Memorable. He’s definitely cute enough to kiss, but as soon as I imagine my lips on his perfect skin, I remember I’m contagious.
The interviewer clears his throat. “Um, a vacation spot.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears. The idea of kissing Jeremy Bane chokes me. Spreading my diseased saliva all over my favorite musician is a definite no. I fold my lips in. My heart beats in my ears. I’ve never kissed anyone, and unless I come up with a bunch of money, I never will. The guys in my social class can’t afford the vaccine any more than I can afford the cure. If I chance the results, I might mark the
m for life, or lead them to their death. Then I’d feel so guilty I’d have to try to come up with even more money for medical treatment for them. I couldn’t live with that guilt. Kissing’s not worth it. The whole thing makes me sick. Maybe Jeremy’s had the vaccine. But it isn’t one hundred percent effective, and how would I be able to ask if he’s gotten it without tipping him off to my diseased status?
“You do want to kiss him, don’t you?” The guy chuckles a little.
I can’t speak. What lie do I tell to make him stop asking me this question? The camera wheels closer. Please leave me alone. Another hiccup hits me. I try to swallow and say something, but I gag instead. Shit. I jump up and spots float in front of my face. “I’m going to be sick,” I try to mumble as I snatch up my bag and bury my face in it as I run to the door.
“Down the hall to the right!” the interviewer yells as the door closes behind me. I bang into the bathroom and barely make it into one of the stalls. My stomach empties and tears plop down into the mess. It takes a minute for the disaster my interview just became to sink in. I flush away the evidence of my failure and sit back on my heels in front of the disgusting toilet. I ruined my one chance. After all that waiting in line, I blow it in front of the camera. Minutes pass as I weep in disbelief. I suck. I dig in my bag for breath mints or some reminder of my real life. The stale crust of my vitamin spread sandwich makes me feel worse. Nice reminder.
There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, are you all right in there?” Oh, great. They’ve sent someone to make sure I’m not dying.
“Yeah, I’ll just be another minute.”
The door opens and I see sneakers coming toward me from where I’m crouched by the toilet. “Do you want me to get you a glass of water?”
Wow, nice intern. “No, I’ll be okay. I’m sorry I wasted everyone’s time. I’ll be out of here shortly.” I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and swallow repeatedly to try and make the tears stop. I push the stall door open and smack Jeremy Bane.
My whole world freezes.
Jeremy Bane is in the bathroom. Jeremy Bane just asked if he could get me water. He’s standing next to me. He heard me puke, and wow, he’s just as pretty as the documentary said he was. Even better in person. But I just puked. I need to just rewind this section of my life and clean up. His hand brushes my arm.
Holy crap, Jeremy Bane is in the ladies room because of me.
Dizziness hits me hard and the spots turn into a black wave. I stagger forward and his hand grips my arm to keep me from toppling over. My backpack drops to the floor and my stuff scatters.
“Whoa, you don’t look so good.” The blackness fringing my vision recedes when his hand touches me. I straighten up and cover my mouth in case I have puke breath or saliva on my face.
“You’re fine,” he says, taking in my self-conscious gestures. He’s wearing a worn black T-shirt and jeans. We’re standing so close together, and I look like shit, and I just threw up. My brain is malfunctioning.
“Thanks for catching me.” I motion to the porcelain edge of the sink that I would’ve cracked my head on if he hadn’t been standing in the way. We both crouch down and start picking up my things. I’m mortified when he hands me the crust from my vitamin spread sandwich that I ate in line days ago.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask.
“I, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes and glances at me. Whoa. The perfect angle of his cheek leads down to full lips. He blinks once and long lashes brush that gorgeous cheek. Dazzle effect. That’s what the scientists named the hypnotic effect of his presence in the documentary I watched.
I shuffle my feet together and bite my lip. What do I say? We’re both wearing black T-shirts. I’m crouching next to Jeremy Bane. I smell his shampoo. He’s so close. I could just grab him. “Why would you check on me after I messed up my audition?”
“Who said you messed up? I liked everything you said.”
“Really?” I pick my head up a few inches and watch him through the veil of my hair. The lines on his forehead show concern and he has a small, reassuring smile. He sweeps more of my stuff toward me and the open backpack. His long fingers are inches from me.
“Yeah. I’m glad my music means so much to someone.”
If he only knew how much I counted on his songs to take me away after I found out I had Fluxem. “Well, this is only the beginning of the auditions. If you’re watching them all, I’m sure you’ll get to hear plenty of compliments.”
“Eh, I hate all the gushing. It sounds so fake.”
Right. Check. Don’t sound fake. Should I ask about his music now? I want all the details that weren’t in the specials. There has to be more. I’m about to ask a non-stop stream of questions, but I force my thoughts to slow. I need to win him over. Prize money first, indulging inner fangirl last.
I pick up my sports bottle and quickly slide it out of sight. It’s then I notice the Metal Society’s tiny piece of soon-to-be jewelry in his hand. How the hell did I forget that was in my bag? It’s about the diameter of a golf ball and a fingernail thick. Small enough to slip under all the other junk I have with me. Jeremy turns it over in his hand. I’ve already scraped away enough of the black paint to reveal the gold. I freeze. I need an excuse. No way can I afford to get busted. Plus, if the authorities confiscate it, I’ll owe the Society.
Jeremy flips the small chunk of metal over in his hand and raises his eyebrows. My illegal scratch-work covers the front. A crime punishable by a very heavy fine. How could I have forgotten to return it? I was so focused on the line and the audition. I clench my teeth, waiting for Jeremy’s inevitable accusations.
I raise my head enough to meet his questioning stare. Please don’t turn me in. The design on the piece is one of my best, and if I can get it back, the Society will make a lot of money from its sale. I might even get a small commission. I hold my breath, tabulating the fines and debt I’ll incur if Jeremy follows the law. I don’t want to have to beg him. He runs his thumb over the piece.
Then, without a word, he hands the evidence back. I slide it to the bottom of my bag. He continues to stare at me, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“Here, I’ll lead you back.” He offers me his hand. His long fingers wrap around mine as he pulls me to my feet. Prickles shoot up my arm. There’s seeing him on TV and then there’s this. He’s not putting on a performance. He’s just helping me up, and the gesture is so real and so sweet. The prickles hit the center of my chest and whoosh to my head. He lets go of my hand and opens the bathroom door for me. A bodyguard nods at us as we step out. “This way,” Jeremy says.
He walks a few paces, but I don’t follow. “I can’t answer any more questions on camera. At least, not right now.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that I was taking you back to be interviewed. There’s another waiting room that’s more comfortable.”
Good. I’ll go anywhere as long as I don’t have to be on camera again. I follow him down the hall, sneaking a glance over my shoulder at the guard following us.
“That’s my friend, Derek,” Jeremy says.
“Hey.” I turn slightly and wave at the big military guy. How weird to be constantly shadowed. Does Jeremy like being famous? He opens the door at the end of the hall for me and I check out the new room. There are sandwiches arranged on platters. Fresh fruit. Holy crap, they have fresh fruit! I mean, I know people have fruit at home, but since Mom and I have been saving all our money for the cure, I haven’t really had fresh produce for years. For a moment I forget even Jeremy and take a few quick steps toward the buffet. When I turn back to thank him, he’s smiling at me.
The smile. His famous crooked smile. I melt.
“I’ll talk to you later.” He waves and softly closes the door.
There’s no one else in the room. A camera sits in the corner, but I’m pretty sure it’s off. I slam a strawberry in my mouth. The queasiness is gone. I grab a piece of watermelon, savoring the sweetness. Is this where the winner
s go?
I gorge on all the fruit and collapse into a fluffy armchair. Is this what it’s like to be rich? I imagine Jeremy in the bathroom again. Play over every detail. The shine of his brown eyes, the one wave in his auburn hair. Up close he seems younger than I expected. Kinder. I concentrate on the way his hand felt on my arm, willing the sensation to exist again. This time, when he catches me, I lean into him and we kiss.
I’m still happily daydreaming when the door opens and the competition strolls in.
FOUR
I STRAIGHTEN UP from my slouch in the armchair. The girl steps into the room and swivels her head back and forth. She’s a shark. Her black hair, sleek and dry, shows zero signs of suffering in line for days. Her subtle makeup highlights perfect features. With her light tan skin and slightly slanted eyes, she’s gorgeous. Ugh. I feel like crap. I can’t control the other girls Jeremy has picked to compete against me and I don’t know how to stand out against someone like this. If I want to win, I need that control.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” She looks me over. “Why didn’t you change your clothes before the interview?”
I clench my teeth. I could lie and say my backpack isn’t waterproof. But why frigging bother? I dealt with enough of these girls in school.
“Do you know anything about why we’re here or what’s going to happen next?” Maybe she has something useful to offer. I swear I see sharp eyeteeth as she opens her mouth to answer.
“We wait.” She brushes her nails along her arm, straightening the tiny hairs. “They keep us around the rest of the day and if they don’t find too many of us that are cute enough for TV,” she pauses and flicks imaginary dirt in my direction, “we move on. Not until they’re done interviewing the rest of the first group, though. So we may still be cut.”
“Oh.” I drop my head. I’m so frustrated and so sick of being contagious. I cannot spend another year watching Mom work herself to death for me.
