by Holly Rayner
“Hm, yeah.” Dad considered this for a moment. “Brian, who wrote that essay?”
“Someone named Adele Dallas.”
“Really?” I said. “I’ve never heard of her, and I thought I knew everybody around here.”
“It sounds like a made-up name, honestly. It might be a pseudonym—a pen name,” said Brian.
“I know what a pseudonym is, thank you.”
“She’s probably some out-of-town hire,” Mom interjected with a pensive expression. “If it wasn’t your birthday, I would drive over there this morning and have a chat with her and her editor.” She looked imploringly at Dad. “Isn’t there something you can do?”
Dad raised his hands in surrender. “I only work in city planning; I don’t have the power to take down columnists I don’t like.”
“Couldn’t you at least bring it up at the next city council meeting?”
“Mom, please don’t make this any worse than already is,” I said heatedly. Mom had always had a vastly over-inflated sense of Dad’s powers as a civic administrator. “She’s allowed to write what she wants, as much as I might not like it.”
“Yes, but you know how much store people in this town put in that paper. You could lose friends over it.”
“If I lose friends over an article, they probably weren’t very good friends to begin with,” I said, though inwardly I was seething. It was like my dream from the night before was coming true and soon everyone in Woodfell would realize what a fraud I was. I didn’t like being reminded that I wasn’t the celebrity I had aspired to be, especially not now, on the morning of my twenty-fifth birthday. By the age of twenty-five, most of my musical heroes had already put out four or five albums.
The sliding glass doors leading out onto the patio opened and Ginger came out. She had tied up her hair in a red ribbon and was wearing a ripped T-shirt and a long purple skirt. “Hey, babe,” she said, flinging a wrapped package down onto the table. “I brought you a present.”
“Great, I could use a distraction.” I opened it eagerly; inside was a new strap for my acoustic guitar and a biography of Janis Joplin. “Oh, Ginny, I love it!”
“I thought maybe you could relate to her life,” Ginger said mildly. “Why does everyone look so upset?”
Ginger had an odd, if endearing, habit of saying exactly what was on her mind, a habit that drove my mother crazy. “The Beacon has been printing horrible things about Shannon,” she said. “Are you sure we can’t take legal action? I don’t care about the money; I just want them to retract the piece and issue an apology.”
“It’s very hard to sue a gossip columnist,” said Dad, reaching for a beer. Brian eyed it longingly. “There are always going to be people in the world who don’t like her, and Shanny is just going to have to accept that. Especially now that you’re a big celebrity.”
“Was a celebrity,” I reminded him. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly see lightning striking twice.”
“Well, don’t be so quick to count yourself out. I think sometimes you underestimate how talented you are.”
“I think that was mostly luck, Dad.”
“We can argue that all day. My point is you’ll need to get used to a certain amount of scrutiny and even rejection now that you’re in the public eye. You’re still the biggest thing ever to come out of northern Ohio, whether you believe that or not.”
I reached under the table for a beer and snapped the tab off. “I think that’s a slight exaggeration, Dad, but thank you.”
“You’re for sure the biggest celebrity in Woodfell. That’s no small accomplishment.”
“It kind of is, though,” said Ginger. Mom glared at her. “I mean, there are only three hundred people.”
“Ginny, you’re not helping, sweetie,” said Dad gently. “Shannon, it might help to think of other kids you went to school with and how their lives have turned out. How many of them have had a number-one pop song? Not many, I would bet. Katie Rees-Howells would give her left lung just to be on the Billboard Top 100.”
“Yes, but what am I doing with my life now?” I was so furious that I had lost all appetite for birthday cake. “It’s going to feel awfully sad in ten years when I’m attending my class reunions and I’m still known as the girl who had that one hit song when she was twenty-four.”
“Shanny, I hear you, but I can guarantee that’s more than most people will ever accomplish. You should be proud of your success. Not everyone can be Dylan.” Dylan Dwyer was a cousin from Indianapolis who had gone multi-platinum as a hip-hop artist, stage name “The Boss.” His success had come out of nowhere and remained a complete mystery to the rest of the family.
“It’s true, Shan,” Mom said. “We can’t all be The Boss. It’s better to be yourself.”
I knew Mom and Dad were just trying to make me feel better, but it wasn’t helping. I didn’t want them telling me everything was going to be okay when it very plainly wasn’t; there was a woman on the staff of the Beacon who obviously didn’t like me and seemed eager to savage my reputation. Who could say whether this was the last article she would write about me? It might have been the beginning of a continuing series. Within a few weeks, I wouldn’t be able to show my face even in church, and a live concert in the park would be out of the question.
It was almost midday and the sun loomed overhead, erasing our shadows. I didn’t like sitting there feeling miserable, feeling the eyes of the rest of the family on me. I resented their pity and wished I could excuse myself from the table and go hide in my own bedroom, where I could pretend I was seventeen again, before I had even tasted celebrity.
“You’re probably right,” I said grudgingly. “I should get over it and stop letting it bother me.”
“Well, give yourself some time,” said Dad.
“I guess I’m just worried. Because, like, what if she’s right? What if this really is all there is, and the best part of my life is already behind me? What if I have nothing to look forward to except growing old?”
“I think I get where you’re coming from,” Ginger cut in. “It’s like in the old stories when a man goes to some mysterious other realm and tastes its forbidden fruit. Or he kisses a gorgeous woman on the lips and it forever ruins him for anyone else.”
“Yeah, how do those stories usually end?”
“Usually they pine away in despair, wishing they could return to the other world. But they can never get back.”
“That’s how it feels, all right. Like I’m trying to get back there, but the door won’t open again. And I have no idea how I got there before.”
To my surprise, Mom looked more sympathetic than angry. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, coming around and putting her arms around me. “This is all in your head. There’s so much good in your future, even if you end up singing commercial jingles for cat food.”
“You won’t, though,” Dad hastened to add.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, giving her a reassuring pat on the back. “That was almost helpful.”
Chapter 2
Shannon
Mom eventually made us put our phones away so I would stop obsessing over the article, though by that point, I had read the opening paragraphs so many times I had almost committed them to memory. Brian was placed in charge of cutting the cake while Dad lit the one candle with the lighter for the barbecue grill. Then everyone gathered around me and sang “Happy Birthday,” Mom sounding like the lead soprano in a choir, Ginger humming along absently, Brian singing in German and slightly off-key.
“This is a better birthday than I ever had growing up,” said Ginger as we sat in the living room an hour or so later eating brownies and ice cream. Ginger had made the brownies, which were slightly harder than is generally acceptable. “I don’t know how it compares to the parties in LA, but I think I would have been very happy if my family had celebrated me like this.”
“It could have been a lot worse, I admit.” Sometimes I needed Ginger to remind me how good I had things. I had been so fixated on Ms
. Dallas’s essay that I had hardly noticed how hard Mom and Dad were working to make the day special. “I guess it’s just my luck that the paper decides to write a hit piece on the morning of my twenty-fifth. Doesn’t really bode well for the rest of the year, does it? If this is a quarter-life crisis, then it’s started right on schedule.”
“Hopefully, in a day or two, no one will even remember,” said Ginger. She was wearing one of those colorful pointed paper hats that get handed out at kids’ birthday parties. Mom had tried to convince Brian and me to wear them, but we had refused. “How many people even read the Beacon, really?”
“I’d love to think you’re right, but I worry that it’s going to start everyone talking about me again. My life isn’t anyone else’s business, but I just know the next time I go out in public, I’m going to be bombarded with frivolous questions about who I’m dating and whether or not I’m ever going to move back to LA.”
“I guess it’s flattering, in a way,” said Ginger, setting her half-empty bowl down on the coffee table. “You’re the sort of person that other people like to talk about. Maybe their own lives aren’t exciting enough and they feel like they have to live vicariously through you. That’s what happens when you’re in the public eye.”
“I wish they would find better things to do with their time, really,” I said. “No matter what they might have read in the papers, I’m not that interesting. I had one hit song, and apart from that, I’m a pretty normal girl. As much as I hate people like Katie, I have to admit she’s way more interesting than me.”
“She’s a fascinating person, but a bad icon,” said Ginger. “Nobody wants to be Katie. You’re talented, but also very ordinary, and I think that’s one of your strengths. Young women are able to imagine themselves growing up to become you. They think if they just practice their guitar enough or find the right lyricist, they could make it like you did.”
“I don’t know if I would say that I made it,” I said shyly. “I’ve still got a long way to go before that.”
“What would making it look like, in your case?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I swept a strand of hair out of my face. “Maybe having two albums in a row that didn’t flop. Being invited to sing at the White House. Knowing I can have a career and write the kinds of songs I want to write without having to worry that I’ll be dropped from my label.” I considered this for a moment. “I think that’s what I want more than anything: independence as an artist, and the security of knowing that I can sing and record for the rest of my life. Knowing that I won’t have to go back to scrubbing floors at the mini-mart.”
“Never again,” said Ginger with her fingers crossed. “I’d rather feed the eels at the aquarium than do that again.”
She took our bowls into the kitchen and washed them while I thought over what I had just said. It was something just to know what I wanted in the world, even if I didn’t know how to get it—even if I was currently stuck working the day shift at the local greasy spoon diner. I was half-tempted to email my agent and tell her what I had told Ginger, but lately she hadn’t been answering my emails or taking my calls. It was just a matter of time before I had to find a new agent, and then what would I do? Look for another one? What if no one else wanted to take on a woman who had already been dropped by one agent? If I had to navigate the music business on my own, without someone to guide me, I would be hopeless. I might as well march back into the mini-mart and ask if they were hiring.
It was mid-afternoon. I could hear the clatter of dishes in the sink and Brian playing with the dog in the backyard. Next door, the neighbors were still playing their dad-rock as loud as ever. I had promised Mom I would keep the phone out of sight as long as Ginger was over, but my fingers were itching to draft this email and as long as she was in the other room, I didn’t think it would hurt. Reaching under the chair, I pulled the phone out of my purse, but before I could begin writing, I got distracted by an email from a most unexpected source.
“Hey, Ginger?” I called after her. In the kitchen I could hear the faucet turn off. “Do you remember those Nigerian email scams and how your mom had to talk you out of giving them your ID?”
Ginger came into the living room drying her hands with a washcloth. “Yeah, did you get one?”
“Either that or someone who knows me is playing a mean prank, because this one feels very personal and sophisticated—almost as if it was directed at me. Listen to this: ‘Dear Mrs. Tessmacher—’”
“Wait, who is Mrs. Tessmacher?” asked Ginger.
“Oh, that’s my fake agent name. I figure my real agent is going to drop me any day now, so I started listing a fake agent on my website.”
“Oh, smart!”
“Anyway. It goes on: ‘Mrs. Tessmacher, I know your client is a busy woman, but I would love her involvement in a birthday party being thrown next week for my daughter, who is about to turn eight and adores her music. Perhaps I should explain a bit about who I am: my name is Sheikh Umar bin Maham al-Taleb and I’m an investor and banker based in Sabah.’” I looked up at Ginger. “Sabah—do you have any idea where that is?”
“Yeah, it’s somewhere in the Middle East. Next to Qatar, I think?”
I didn’t have any idea where Qatar was, but I wasn’t about to admit the fact.
“Well, so he goes on to say: ‘I finance the building of model towns based on western cities— London, Paris, Vienna, etc.—which, over the past five years, have become some of the fastest-growing cities in my country. I realize your client is a busy woman, but if my offer is accepted I’ll of course pay for her flight out here. And it goes without saying that she’ll be handsomely compensated. She’s welcome to stay in one of our Londontown hotels, and my daughter and I will ensure that she experiences the finest luxuries that Sabah has to offer. I know you must get a lot of requests, but I must emphasize that Kalilah’s birthday is in just a few days and time is of the essence. If Ms. O’Neill were to accept this invitation, I am positive that it would make my daughter’s whole year.
Respectfully,
Sheikh Umar bin Maham al-Talab.’”
I set the phone down and gaped at Ginger, feeling sort of amazed by the extent of the deception. “I mean, they really put a lot of thought into this. Gave his daughter a name and everything.”
“Yeah, and what was that about fake cities?” asked Ginger, perplexed. “Is there, like, an exact replica of Paris somewhere way out in the desert? With the Champs-Élysées and everything? And Notre-Dame?”
“That’s what it sounds like. Now I’m curious.”
“Me, too. There’s no way this is a real offer, but why go to all the trouble? Even the Nigerian emails were more to the point.” Ginger bit her lip thoughtfully. “You ought to do a search for that name and see what comes up.”
“Who, Sheikh Umar or whoever? There is no way he’s an actual sheikh.”
“Come to think of it I’m not even sure what a sheikh is,” Ginger said. “I mean, I know they’re very wealthy. I thought they ruled the country.”
“You might be thinking of something else.” I typed his name into a search engine and waited for the pages to load. “Well, it looks like whoever wrote that email used the name of a real person, at least.” My search had turned up a whole bunch of results about the grand opening of Londontown a few years back. “I wonder if he knows he’s being used as part of a scam.”
Ginger came around behind me and read the phone from over my shoulder. “Did they at least get their facts right, or did they just completely make that up?”
“No, it looks like he is an actual sheikh—apparently that’s a term signifying the ruler of a tribe, or someone very rich and powerful—and he really does fund model towns. It says here that he and a friend hit upon the idea of building replicas of European cities to boost their country’s flagging tourism industry. That’s pretty brilliant, honestly.”
“Yeah, who else would have ever thought of that?” said Ginger. “I like the idea that I could be lost in the
desert, without water, and just over the next sand dune, I see the gates of Buckingham Palace.”
“I would think I was having an especially vivid hallucination,” I said with a dreamy feeling. “I wonder how elaborate those models are. Like, did they replicate every street and shop? Or did they just build a cheap replica of the Eiffel Tower and call it a day?”
“I would assume the latter,” said Ginger, throwing the wash cloth down on the table. Through the glass doors, we could see Brian trying to wrestle a chew toy away from the dog. “Building an entire city to scale would be ridiculously wasteful, not to mention expensive. Anyway, did he leave you a number? I think you ought to call this guy.”
I stared at Ginny as if she had taken leave of her senses, but her eyes didn’t betray the slightest hint of mischief. “Why? I thought we had agreed this was just an elaborate hoax—no more real than one of his fake cities.”
“I thought so at first. But whoever wrote that email put way too much effort into the details. If I was drafting a hoax I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble.”
“Ginger,” I said sternly. “Do you remember the fiasco with the Nigerian emails? Do you remember how upset your mom was, and how you couldn’t go online for a year?”
“Yes, but I feel like this could be different. He’s not offering you money, he’s offering you a one-time job.” Sensing my skepticism, she added, “Anyway, you ought to at least email or call him just to see what he says. It wouldn’t hurt.”
I was in a mischievous mood after having read the email and it was tempting to call him and see how far the deception led. “I’ll have to use my fake agent name so he doesn’t know it’s me. Wouldn’t it be something if this turned into an actual gig? I’d almost given up hope that I would ever be asked to perform again.”
“There are plenty of venues in town that would love to have you.”
