Chapter 38: (OLD) Chapter 28

Note: I am alive!!! I'm so sorry for missing last week. The adjustment to college was a lot busier than I anticipated. Don't worry, though. I'm hoping I've got the hang of it now! Thank you to all the people who expressed concern instead of unhappiness that I didn't update. The fact that you care about my wellbeing before any demand for an update makes me feel so thankful to have you.

PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Emeray is back from the Onward Train set. Gerald decided to be a model. We're getting serious I Miss Foster vibes here, huh?

emeray

Even when our lives are normal as ever, they're abnormal all the same. There's always at least one shift from the regular––one moment to make you step back and marvel about how much things have changed so quickly.

We wake up and go about our schedules, yet we wake in new rooms and go off to new projects. New movies, new songs, new settings.

I go on my walks with Cartney, yet we take to the suburbs around the Hideaway instead of our usual route in the city. The same Kaytee song playing in our headphones, but different streets and turns and fans waiting just around the corner.

Articles are released on the Famoux everyday as per usual, yet most of them are credited to the Fanatix for being the source of information. No longer are they completely filled with false rumors, but little facts about our daily lives that the public probably didn't need to know.

And then there's today. Kaytee is giving Callan and I a piano lesson as Chapter watches along, just like old times, yet now we're joined by Lacey's young children Hadley and Mikayla. Mel, who was quickly promoted to being the nanny for all three children in the Hideaway, recommended Lacey's kids start expanding their knowledge of music. Kaytee was all too willing and thrilled to have more people to teach.

We've only had two lessons with them thus far, but when comparing our skills all together, our two new additions appear to be picking up all the different notes much quicker than I did. That's the main issue with the piano for me: I absolutely love playing it, and I practice as much as I can with my schedule, but it doesn't mean I'm suddenly a prodigy. At best, I'm good at reading the sheet music. The physical playing of the instrument itself, however, I wouldn't consider my strong suit.

At first it was embarrassing these children, barely at five years old, could be so much better at piano than me, but it's slowly become a source of comic relief for everyone. They excel through their songs and my songs in one lesson, and I struggle my way through two or three lines while Chapter and Kaytee laugh and encourage me to keep trying. I like being able to make them laugh like that––any reason to be happy for a moment under all our stress these days is good reason enough.

"Hey, Sticks," starts Chapter. He's sitting similarly to how he'd sit during the piano lessons in the Metropolix––in a chair pulled from his room's sitting area, close enough to listen to Kaytee explain the music, yet far enough that Callan doesn't get anxious to do better just for him.

But the scene is different even so. The chair is dark and wooden, the room is new and infinitely larger.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Explain to me, if you will, why it seems to me like just about anybody can play the piano better than you."

I can't contain my grin; it's too instantaneous. There's one thing that hasn't changed about these piano lessons––Chapter's commentary.

We both glance over to the three toddlers as they flip through a new book and choose their next songs to play. Kaytee watches along carefully, her smile effervescent. I recall Till telling me one time months ago that Kaytee always loved being around kids, even wanted to raise some someday. By the looks of the way she treats her fans on a daily basis, and the looks of her it's more than apparent.

"They're just fast learners," I insist, but it's unconvincing. Anyone could look like a fast learner against my constant need to stop and work through the proper finger placement on the keys.

I expect Chapter to make another joke, but instead he nods. "You pick it up better when you're younger. Kids are so impressionable, you know?"

"Still, I don't think many pick up piano as quickly as Callan," I say, gesturing to his son as he flips through a higher level book of sheet music. According to Mel, Callan has advanced at least three years above his age––just looking at the stuff Kaytee has him playing gives me a headache.

"That's true," he says. The pride in his voice brings a smile to my lips. "I mean, the kid's a genius."

"It would make more sense if you were a musician."

"It would. We both know Rebecca tried to be one, but I wouldn't go so far as to call her a professional."

I contain a wince, thinking back to the wild chase she seemed to have sent me on before the Darkening––the notes in my old room spelling out ACE - BE BECCA, the Fitz's Gin bottles and the secret messages on their labels. I remember Cartney asking Chapter and I at Bree's gala whether or not this Rebecca girl was the one planning the whole party, since the shopping list on one of the bottles matched the event identically. They were even only serving her favorite drink, gin rickey.

Chapter and I don't talk about Rebecca a lot. He usually likes to avoid the subject of her any time he can, which is all the time nowadays given the Fanatix members' need to share everything and anything with the public. Consequently, this means I know very little about her besides the things I found in the messages and the little hints I've picked up. I know she's Callan's mother. I know she's Bree's sister. I know she hated Chapter and Bree before they left for the Famoux.

But I don't know why any of that is.

Kaytee plays through the opening notes of a song Mikayla and Hadley are interested in, flooding the room with smooth, hypnotizing legato. When I speak soft enough, only Chapter can listen in.

"Do you think she ever wonders where you are?"

His face turns tart. I instantly regret my choice to dwell on the subject, to push it forward––all it does it turn him inside and close his shutters. Chapter's always been good about not asking me too much about Carstan when he doesn't have to. But I . . . I always seem to prod a little too far for comfort. First when I found out about Callan, and then again when he received the bone cufflinks from DEFED.

I'm curious by nature, and while Chapter and I are usually good at communicating with each other on all fronts, any discussion on the past is frequently ignored. If our lives in the Famoux could be equated a dinner table, brimming with new high-class courses and tastes we'd never known before, then our past lives are the crumbs and dribbles on our cheeks left behind. The only thing we do about them for one another is rub them away with our thumbs.

"We don't have to talk about it, though," I say quickly.

"No, I've been wondering about it to. We have some great indication that she knows, what with all the notes in Bree's room and everything." He scratches his chin, looking from Callan to me. "It's just––the more I think about it, the more confusing it gets. I don't know. I don't like to think about it."

"I understand," I say.

"Hey, Chapter." Kaytee's voice pulls us out of our conversation. She's seated at the piano bench, smiling brightly. "Callan over here requests your help in choosing his next piece to learn."

Chapter glances at me, the look in his eyes promising that we'll discuss this further another time. That's how it usually goes––another time, another time. As he makes his way to the piano, I announce that I have to leave. Gerald is at his first photoshoot today, and it's in my schedule to drop in so I pick him up from it. I leave the room knowing nothing more about the Rebecca situation than I did coming in.

Angad takes me to the studio. It's in a quiet part of Colburn where the streets are wide and the buildings boast various expensive items in their windows. I've only ever seen it in paparazzi pictures of Foster––ones of him visiting his management team. The familiarity of this place I've never been to makes me feel sick; as I get out of the car and walk through the door, I can't help but feel comforted by the thought that Foster must've walked on this very slab of sidewalk a hundred times in his life.

The first thing I see when I arrive on the set is darkness. The overhead lights of the warehouse are off, and a handful of spotlights are stationed carefully and precisely around the area. The bluish tint to their lenses make everything on the set that's white glow ethereally––even the white on myself.

"Whoa." I glance at the C scar on my wrist. It's as if it was injected with some kind of chemical. "What's happening?"

Angad gestures to the white details on his guard uniform, then to the lights around the room. "It's a blacklight."

This blacklight he mentions appears to be the focal for the entire shoot. The walls around the set are pitch black, like night, encapsulating a massive, glowing white staircase that leads to no where. At the center is Gerald, offsetting everything. While the photoshoot seems to whirl with a sense of darkness and mystery, he appears like he cannot be bothered, sitting on the steps of the stairs in an all-black ensemble with his head perched down toward the incandescent pages of a book.

"The shoot finished up a couple minutes before we arrived," Angad explains. "They're looking through the pictures to make sure they got enough good shots."

I nod, walking toward the staircase. Its bright, illuminated quality makes it slightly intimidating to approach, but I manage to situate myself beside Gerald on the steps.

"How'd it go?" I ask.

He closes his book with a shrug, the black fringe of his jacket falling off his shoulders like soot. "According to literally everyone I've encountered today, I've got a really timeless face. You could say I'm a natural."

"And what was this photoshoot about?"

"I think it's some kind of metaphor." He crinkles his nose. "Being a light in a dark time, sitting on a staircase leading up . . . that kind of stuff. You know?"

My mind goes straight to Foster. Gerald is the first male model since him. It seems too fitting to be a coincidence.

"That sounds interesting," I say.

"It's actually horrible, when you think about it."

"How so?"

Gerald shifts. "Not just the photoshoot, really. I mean, Foster was the one member I couldn't save, and now look at me. They're making me his replacement."

My mouth goes dry. I clear my throat. "You didn't need to agree with Lex if you didn't want to be a model."

"It was the one career path nobody was picking. None of the Fanatix wanted it after, well, you know. Carstan wants us to have a variety of careers, and since I was the last to pick my job, there wasn't really another choice."

"I thought you got to choose whatever you wanted."

He gives me a side-eyed, incredulous look. "We both know they only say that shit to reel you in. And you––you should know that better than anyone."

My mind goes back to what Cartney once told me. Ray, you surely know by now. We don't have a choice. We never do.

I fidget with my fingers, seeking out a new conversation. If I had a rock to toss from one hand to the other, this would feel just like the times when my friend Cora and I used to meet at the steps of a building outside town. She'd speak negatively––complaints, critiques, laments. I'd nod absently, tossing my rock and searching aimlessly for something else for her to rant off about.

"Um, what's that you're reading?" I offer.

Gerald shows me the cover––or, lack thereof. The first few pages are ripped off. "Not really sure, honestly. Found it in my stuff." He notices my raised brow and shakes his head, grinning. "It's not threatening or foreboding, don't worry. Must be Chapter's or Carstan's from when we were all roommates."

"You're right," I say. "Is it any good?"

"Super descriptive."

The photographer approaches Gerald to show him how some of the photos turned out. When he raves about Gerald's timeless face, we both can't hide our smirks.

"And Emeray!" He tucks his camera in his arm, extending his hands out to me. I don't know which one he wants me to shake, so I take them both. With a few excited swinging motions, he continues, "I had no idea you were going to be coming too!"

I smile politely. "Just checking up on my member here."

"Checking up? No! Participating!"

"Oh. No, thank you," I say. "I couldn't––this is Gerald's moment."

"Like you said, he's your member!" The photographer gestures to my black outfit. "You're already all dressed up for it, too."

"No, I don't––"

"Just a few pictures, I insist! You two wouldn't even have to move. This position is perfect as is."

He's moving back toward the camera stands before I can protest further. Sighing, I glance over to Gerald, who shrugs.

"You did make the fatal mistake of walking straight onto the set."

Gerald's photographer instructs us to reposition ourselves slightly on the steps, and the camera shutters come at rapid pace. The sound reminds me instantly of whenever I go outside on my walks with Cartney. Unlike those walks, however everything on set is quiet minus a few encouraging comments on facials. No crude shouting. No inquiry on rumors. No poking and prodding. The world feels strangely frozen.

When they've taken enough pictures, Gerald is dismissed to change back into his regular clothes. Meanwhile, I'm shown to a waiting room with refreshments. It's slightly crowded inside––full of staff members taking a break now that the photoshoot is finished. All their chatter comes to a prompt stop the moment I step in.

After greeting a few of the people closest to me, they return slowly to as much normalcy as possible with a Famoux member in the room. I graze the table of snacks, mostly just to keep myself occupied while waiting for Gerald to be ready. When we leave, we're going to be headed back to the Hideaway where Cartney will be waiting to sweep me away with flowers and public affection for our afternoon walk.

The rumors on us nowadays mostly include talk of me making a full-fledged singing debut by joining him on his tour. I draft possible replies to the questions the paparazzi will ask today––the more ridiculous and vague, the better.

I grab a pretzel from a big bowl of them, glancing aimlessly around the room. My eyes fall on a door in the corner labeled STAFF ONLY. A man in a black collared shirt approaches it casually, fiddling with his pocket for a pair of keys. I watch on.

The way he carries himself, the way his shoulders move as he goes––it's all strangely reminiscent. A part of me pictures the same back of a person walking in the hallway ahead of me when I used to go to school. As he finally unlocks the door, his head turns in slight. It's just enough that I can glimpse his side profile.

And for a moment my senses wipe.

Foster.

I regain composure quick enough to watch the door click shut. Stumbling on my first step, I leave the refreshments table like lightning. I draw the attention of half the people in the room as I scurry across toward the door, gripping onto the knob.

Evidently, I find it locked.

"Wait," I spit out, pulling against the handle. My heart feels like it could explode in my chest. My breathing is short and exasperated, as if I just ran miles and miles to get to this door. I see the face again and again in my mind––the curve of his nose, the glint of the one blue eye I could make out. "Wait––wait."

"Is everything okay?" A staff member has approached me at the door, her face riddled with confusion.

"Could I get in here?" I ask, moving the knob.

"Miss Essence, it's our break room."

"I think there's something of mine in there. I left it."

"How––" She stops herself from speaking any more, seeming to come to a realization within her mind. There's no possible way I could've entered this break room and left something there, yet here I am, Emeray Essence the Famoux member, asking her if I can look inside. She assumes a casual stance, pulling out a key. "Yeah, we can check."

"Thank you so much."

I can feel my pulse moving a mile a minute when I press my arms against my stomach. The temperature in the room seems to have dipped down significantly, the same way the atmosphere would feel when I first started sleeping in Bree's bedroom. It's as if we're entering another realm within our regular world.

When she finally gets the door open, the lights inside the break room are off. I reach out on an instinct. Nothing stirs.

"Here," she says, flicking on a switch. Stark white lights come on in unison, casting foreboding shadows over a row of lockers and a table with an ancient-looking chess board. My eyes scan the whole thing, top to bottom.

Nothing.

Nobody.

xxx

AHHHHHHHH WHAT?

You know I can't resist my random ghost vibes. HALLOWEEN IS UPON US. (It's September 2nd and my patience is thin.) Tell me your thoughts on everything.

College has been going pretty well, if you were wondering. I'm a little over a week in now. I'll let you know when classes become so dramatically unbearable. Hahaha.

I hope your Friday is going wonderful. I've been planning some exciting stuff both Famoux and nonFamoux related, and I'm getting really hyped about it. I can't wait to show you everything!!

In the meantime, remember:

Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.