Date With A Rockstar

by Sarah Gagnon

  The Metal Society has an entrance on the bottom floor of the old public library. I walk the few blocks, trying not to draw attention to myself. The old library is wedged in between taller buildings. I start down the alleyway to the side entrance, but there’s a street cleaner machine in the way and I have to wait.

  The metal in my pocket has me shifting on my feet. I could be attacked, robbed, arrested. Would the show producers inquire about my disappearance or just pick another girl? Finally, the cleaner moves down the road. A guy across the road throws a plastic beer bottle against the front steps. When nothing happens he staggers forward and gives the brushes a kick.

  A dumpster blocks a door with a scan panel. I palm the metal disk in my hand and run it underneath. The Society does something to the metal to make it traceable, which also works to open the door. I have a coin at home that works the same way. A few years ago a guy caught me doing scratch graffiti and gave me the first invite to work for the Society. So far I haven’t seen the guy again, but if I do, I’ll thank him.

  I glance down at my work. It’s a little sad not to be able to keep what I make. If I had a chain, my carving would be a complete and beautiful necklace. I love making jewelry, even knowing it’s going to wealthy patrons. With the plastic knock-offs so convincing, they can get away with wearing the real thing. The door releases and I slip in. Horizontal strips of sun filter in from the barred windows far above. My feet leave prints in the dust as I cross the room to the metal cage of lockers. Mine is twenty boxes from the left and five up.

  I punch in a long string of numbers and digits. The cage pops open. I reach around inside and pull out a finger-sized bit of silver. I push the intercom button at the top of my locker.

  “Excuse me, there are no instructions with this piece.”

  There’s a long pause. “Number 8723M1, no instructions on file. Let me check the system.”

  I squint at the back of my locker. The person on the intercom might be behind the wall or on the other side of the country.

  “There’s an accommodation for your last necklace, but nothing else.”

  I rub my sneaker through the dust. “How about payment? Any tips?”

  “Not yet.”

  I didn’t really expect anything, but it would’ve been nice. “Thank you.” I leave both the gold and silver pieces behind and hurry out.

  The air outside the old library has taken on a slightly sulfurous tinge as the wind shifts in my direction. I walk back out to the main street. Mall entrances are located all over the city. In some areas the mall is underground, and in others it stretches up above the street.

  Heavy plastic doors flashing with advertisements welcome me to the mall. The corridors are enforced by remote security. I stop and wait while a couple in front of me is scanned for weapons. Two double green lights indicate that they are clean. I’m next.

  The mall is one of the safest places to be. I wish they’d apply the same defenses in the subways. I tuck that thought away. There’s no point in worrying about tomorrow morning. I thought about asking Shelley Anne for a ride, or seeing if the studio could send a car to pick me up, but I don’t want special treatment.

  As I enter the mall, I press my money deeper into my pocket. Macy’s flashes sales and product advertisements at me. A small perfume-spraying robot waits just inside to ambush shoppers. From the outside the white floors and walls give the store a brightness I envy.

  Macy’s isn’t a store I can afford, but I go in anyway. The robot wheels up. “No. Thank. You.” I announce the words slowly so that the voice software recognizes them. The damn thing sprays my leg anyway.

  I stroll around the fountain and stare up at the fake sky ceiling. I’m wasting time. Maybe I shouldn’t buy a dress. It’s a stupid idea to spend money to stand out from the other contestants. Before I got Fluxem I was too young to have money of my own and by the time I actually started to earn a little from the Society, I needed to give it to Mom for the cure. I get it. I know what’s important. I just occasionally wish I could shop. Maybe go on one of those sprees like you can win for signing up for all those magazines.

  I drag my hand over the clothes. I pull a black dress out. Beautiful. I feel awkward walking into the mirrored dressing room. God, do people actually have closets like this? I pull off my pants and shirt, straightening up in front of the mirror. My legs look stronger. The dress slides easily over my head, pooling around my thighs. Such a pretty cut. Flattering.

  I walk out and sit on the couch. The luxurious fabric matches the fake room. I’m like a different person. I’m about to get up when I hear a slightly familiar voice.

  “No. No. This one won’t work, either.” Claire walks through the rows of formal dresses. She’s changed out of her salsa outfit for a suit. I freeze. Shit. I quietly stand up and try to slip back to the dressing room to get my clothes.

  “Monet.”

  I turn back around.

  “Shopping for the trip, I see.”

  I shrug. “They, uh, didn’t give me much time to pull together a suitable wardrobe.”

  “Exactly what I said. Can you imagine all of my clothes trapped in my closet a thousand miles away, and they expect us to leave in the morning like we have everything we need already? Ridiculous.”

  “Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t know anything about me. I could have money. I walk back through the closet to the dressing room and quickly change back into my clothes. I put the dress back on the hanger, letting the gorgeous fabric run over my fingers one last time. I gulp and take a deep breath before putting it back in its spot.

  Claire looks up from the couch.

  “Not going to buy the dress?” she asks.

  “Eh, I’m still shopping. It didn’t fit that well, anyway.”

  She raises her eyebrows and then her lip tilts up like she knows I’m lying.

  “Good luck finding what you need,” I say as I hurry away.

  “Likewise,” she says with a slight edge to her voice.

  The robot sprays me again on my way out of the store. My jeans are going to stink for a week.

  I don’t have enough money to buy anything. It was silly to even come here.

  Humidity coats me as I exit the mall and jog home. There’s something so freeing about running, like I could escape my own limited future if I move fast enough. I tip my head up, letting the air blow my hair back from my face.

  Mom’s at home when I get back. I wonder what she would say about my plan to win the prize money. It’s a bit manipulative on my part, even if it is for a good reason. Money, that’s important. Most of the time I feel like if I can’t buy opportunities I won’t have any, and Jeremy is the key to the prize.

  “I went to the mall,” I say, slumping back on the couch. “All the clothes are too expensive.”

  She sighs. “I wish I had more money to give you.”

  Shit, now I feel guilty again. “You do more than enough for me.”

  She frowns and I know she’s thinking about the cure she hasn’t been able to provide. “How about you grab dinner out of the oven for me?”

  I stand in front of the stove. “Mom, you forgot to turn it on again. What were you trying to make, anyway?” I open up the oven door. Oh! There’s a package. A wrapped gift. I grab up the box and run to the other room.

  “I got ya, didn’t I? You thought I messed up another vitamin spread a’ la casserole.”

  “Oh, Mom, you didn’t have to.” I tear into the paper. My hand meets green cloth. A dress. The leafy green fabric unfolds in my hands and I’m holding up a simple wrap dress. “I can’t believe you got me this! Can we afford it?” How much harder will you have to work because of this?

  She swats my words away with her hand. “Now, what else do you need to pack?”

  At the end of the night, we catch the commercial for the dating show. I point to where I am in line and Mom oohs and ahs over the close-up of Jeremy. We read over the Key West pamphlet, marveling at the photos. On the cover in between high-rises, a swath
of aquamarine beach surrounds a palm tree and a bar.

  I wonder if the water really is that blue. I know the skies can’t be that clear. They must have pumped up the images for print. Nowhere I’ve ever been is clean like that, not that I’ve ever been out of the city. In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be there, at the hotel on the brochure. I squeal in delight.

  SIX

  MY BELONGINGS ARE packed in a tote bag, cinched tight with string and looped over my shoulders. I’m ready to run. Mom lifts her head up off the pillow and waves goodbye. Two hours should be more than enough to get to the airport by seven.

  I pause at the exit of our building and take time to stretch my hamstrings. I flex onto the balls of my feet and lean over the front of my legs. Next I slide out a small metal cylinder from where I’ve hidden it in my waistband so Mom wouldn’t notice. I grip it tight in one hand and then the other. Its weight in my fist comforts me as I do a few test punches. I don’t have enough body mass to make my hits count without the added weight.

  I’m as ready as I’m going to get. The stairs down to the subway station are covered in pigeon feces. I fold my hands close to my body, not touching the railings. Clean air is pumped down into the tunnels, but that doesn’t keep disease off the surfaces. A man slumps over on the stairs. He opens his hand weakly as I pass. His shoe is on a step a few feet down, leaving his dry, cracked foot exposed.

  At the bottom of the stairs the murmurs of pain crescendo. Why do the miserable always crawl down into the subways? They rest up against the walls, begging and moaning. Flies land on the face of an elderly woman who’s spread out on her back. She might be dead. I pick up my pace. Smells of decay and vomit creep into my nose even though I breathe through my mouth. There’s a map painted on the main wall by the platform. I check for the number car I need.

  Eight.

  I hope to hell it arrives soon. Trains come in fifteen-minute increments, but I have no way of knowing when the last one left. I don’t want to spend a single second in this place.

  “’Scuse me. Pretty lady? What’s in the bag?”

  I ignore the words and move along the platform. I’ll run back to the yellow mark when I see the eight train.

  “Come back here!” the voice commands in suddenly clear words. I glance back at the man curled on the ground. The sleeves are torn off his shirt, showing wiry muscles. There’s a red, scabby mark on his face, probably Fluxem. I shudder. He stares, but makes no move to get up. What’s wrong with his legs? They’re bent at odd angles. Can Fluxem do that?

  I bounce from foot to foot. Ready for anything. The number six arrives and leaves. A single person exits and no one boards. The trains continue along their circuit whether anyone uses them or not. The thought sends a shiver through my spine. I crack my knuckles around the steel in my fist and refuse to let the fear settle in.

  The man with Fluxem crawls toward me. At least he’s slow. When he’s ten feet away I dart around behind him to the other end of the platform. Scratchy music starts playing over the intercom system. The number four pulls up and leaves. Screams echo off the tile walls. God, I hate the subway.

  The number eight arrives from the other direction and the Fluxem guy blocks the door as it slides open. I have to make the train. The door starts to close. I dart around the reaching guy. His hand swipes at my foot, but I jump through the train door before he can latch on. I release my breath as he’s shut out.

  The car rocks back and forth, speeding toward the airport. A shrunken man with beady eyes follows my movements. I stand in the center of the aisle, trying not to touch the seats or handholds. Minutes pass slowly. I feel like the guy is staring at my bag. Brakes screech as we stop at another station. A middle-aged woman climbs on. She’s normal and clean. Her presence makes me relax a bit. We watch each other balance as the train jerks back to speed.

  One more stop, then it’s me on my way to Key West. I let out a deep breath. Suddenly the train lurches. I stumble against a seat and fall to one knee. “Damn train,” I mutter as I feel a pull on my shoulder.

  I know the sensation and my elbow flies back fast and hard. I catch my assailant in the arm. I spin around, shocked to find the woman gripping my bag. I hesitate a second, then swing. My fist connects with her jaw, hard. She cries out and crab walks away from me. When I glance up, she cowers while the man smiles at me and claps his hands. His cackle sounds insane. The woman rubs her face and grinds her teeth, but the door opens and I leap out before she can move.

  Ha! I made it. The modern airport terminal feels like a different world compared to the subway. I open my sack enough to slide the metal cylinder away. I check my hands. Elbowing attackers is safer, less chance of busting open a knuckle and catching whatever they might have.

  As I walk through the sliding glass doors, my security scan is welcoming. My metal cylinder shows up as an exercise device. People stride by me with purpose, and I cut through them to find a bench to wait on. I’m more than an hour early. I use the time to replace the images of the subway with composed business people. I dig for my ear buds and tap on Jeremy’s latest release. The player was a gift from Mom the year before we had to start saving, and the song I borrowed from the library. I wait for the music to erase the stress.

  The song starts with a moan that sounds more like trapped wind than a human. The title is “Ocean 65.” I can pick out the sound of water crashing even though I’ve never been to a real sea. Boston Harbor, with its coal black tides, hardly qualifies. Wind and waves intersperse at the beginning of the song. Then the rhythm starts, matching the beat of my heart, then faster, bringing me with it. I tip my head back, close my eyes. I disappear into the spray of waves and thumping bass.

  I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder. Praline stands next to my bench. Not my first choice, but I motion for her to sit down.

  “You’re early, too!” She’s quivering with nerves and clearly not as shy as I first thought. “Tell me your name one more time.”

  “Monet O’Neal.”

  She has two magenta suitcases propped up against our bench. “I was a little excited, you know? So I came early.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” Excited and trying not to get killed.

  “I’ve been thinking all night and I’m pretty sure Jeremy will be on the plane with us.”

  She fans her face with her hand. Jeremy on the plane. I hadn’t considered the possibility. I guess I need to be ready to stand out. Maybe just being real will be enough. “Even if he is on the plane, he’ll probably be in a separate section.”

  “Oh, I thought of that, too, but I might get a glimpse.” She raises her eyebrows, and I again wonder what Jeremy saw in this girl. “Hey, it’s Eleanor.” Praline hops off the bench and launches through the crowd to intercept her. After that, Praline stands on the bench to make it easier for the others to find us.

  Eleanor sighs as she sits down next to me. “That girl has too much energy,” she whispers. I nod. Praline seems like a different person from the shy girl in the back of the room.

  The security sensor over the entrance sweeps a green light over the single file stream of people entering. I watch for the other contestants, surprised the studio didn’t have a better system for gathering us up this morning. One of us could easily go in a different entrance and get lost. Hmm, would that mean a better chance at the prize money?

  “Mel.” Praline waves frantically. “Crystal.” Then, unfortunately, the rest of the girls find us, and as a group we’re lead through the airport to a private runway. Bill drives up to us in a luggage cart. The girls struggle to lift bursting suitcases onto the vehicle. Jasmine has a third bag on her back, but no one reprimands her. I opt to keep my tote bag with me. It’s not heavy and since it contains every article of clothing I own, I’m not letting it out of my sight. I don’t see Jeremy, but I don’t think he’ll be able to just walk through the airport without getting mobbed.

  The big steel plane waiting for us intimidates me. My hands tremble as we cross the tarmac to the staircase. Ha
zy air sticks to my face and arms. I pull the strap of my bag tight and climb up. The aisles are smaller than they look on TV. We pass through a cabin of white leather couches, and then through a curtain to the back of the plane. I want to ask a ton of questions, but I don’t want anyone to know this is my first time.

  Shelley Anne sits next to me. “I’ve never flown before,” she says under her breath. I clutch my hands together so that she doesn’t notice I’m shaking.

  The Jasmine clones, Brie and Mel, are sitting together one row back, frowning and jealous of each other, I suspect. One Jasmine is enough, three of them is ridiculous. Claire walks past wearing a sticker with her name on it. Where did she get a nametag? Did she make it herself, or are they handing them out and I missed getting mine? She’s not sporting her dance clothes this morning. Maybe those were just for the interview.

  Then the curtain parts and Jeremy is standing at the front of the cabin. All of my negative thoughts grind to a halt.

  “Hey,” he says. “I just wanted to say hi before we took off.”

  After a second of shock, all of the girls are talking over each other to say hi. The wave in his auburn hair flips to the left rather than the right today. Dark circles rim his eyes and his shoulders slump under a rumpled T-shirt. He doesn’t have his stage presence this morning. He just seems normal and tired. I’m staring at the hint of stubble on his face when his eyes meet mine. Oh, my. The corner of his mouth twitches and I wonder if he’s thinking about smiling at me. He looks like a real guy. Someone I could talk to.

  “Can’t wait to get to know you all on our dates,” he says. His gaze flicks away from mine and the loss makes me sad. “Have a good flight.”

  Again the girls talk over each other. I don’t even try to make myself heard. The curtain falls closed behind him and I wonder if there are seatbelts on the white leather couches. What position does he sleep in? I think back to all the articles I’ve read, but I don’t know the answer. Will he be thinking about new song lyrics on the flight? I wish I prepared myself more to win.