Note: I got this beautiful edit on Twitter! I realized after some of the character interviews in book one that I stopped giving credit on edits. So, this one is by @FamouxForever on Twitter!
If you didn't read my little note in the middle of the week, I AM GETTING PUBLISHED! The book comes out on April 26th in both bookstores and ebook formats. It's called Imagines, and the hashtag #ImaginesBook trended worldwide on Twitter above "Trump" for a hot second. Guess who cried about it for an hour?
PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Chapter and Emeray made out, but it was all for a movie. They, with Cartney, just left Notness to come to the film's set in Betnedoor. This also happens to be the country where they live, so essentially, they're home now. The 1975 also just dropped their album and I'm having trouble focusing on this recap while listening to A Change In Heart over and over again.
emeray
He swings our heavily-gloved hands in the space between us to the beat of the song in our headphones. It's something soft and chilling by Kaytee, and just haunting enough to match how much she's been to Cartney. Needless to say, the song has been a staple in these brutal Colburn winter months.
Rain, snow, or shine, we must always go walking.
A mix of rain and snow embellishes my coat, a new black one which once belonged to Chapter. There's no risk to wearing itââany passerby who's brave enough to face the weather out here will assume it is one of Cartney's without a second thought. The coat is paired with a pair of glistering faux-leather pants I found in the back of my closet.
According to tabloids, which have gotten infinitely more testy with my fashion choices as of late, I wear these pants far too much, what with the hundreds of options a Famoux member's closet must boast. But they don't seem to consider my side, and how the very idea of wearing anything other than black and anything other than leather is something I'm not too keen on just yet.
I never got that punk photo shoot with Fosterââthe one he always wanted. So I've decided to make everyday, and every single walk outside the Metropolix with Cartney a punk photo shoot in and of itself.
These walks have absolutely no trouble becoming photo shoots. Just before we pass by a barber shop, a man in a black parka slips out the door, walking backward so he can face us as he grabs something out of his backpack. The item turns out to be a massive, wide-lensed camera.
"Casual," I mutter.
When we turn the corner at the end of the street, we're greeted by a hoard of more men, looking identical to the first in their cameras and ferocity alike. They start snapping pictures like an army surging toward the enemy.
"My," Cartney says, sardonic. "It's good to be home."
Behind me, I hear a loud groan from our bodyguards as they step in front of us to block off the paparazzi. In the half of a day I've been given to get to know Angad, Gerald's replacement, the only thing I've gathered thus far is that being on "babysitting duty," as the Famoux guards call it, was the last thing he wanted to do.
"Some guards have to watch the hallways," he'd told me. "Some have to man certain doors. Some have to stand by all the entrances to the Metropolix. Some even have to watch the different buildings and labs that the Famoux Institution has in Eldae and Notness. But some guards have to babysit the celebrities when they decide they want to walk outside and cause a ruckus."
"Somebody's status shouldn't stop them from being able to do something as simple as walk outside," I'd said. "Why should I have to sit around in a room all day because people might recognize me if I left that room?"
He gave me a curt look. "And why should I have to walk you around on a little leash and tell all the passers that they're not allowed to pet you?"
"You became a Famoux guard, Angad. You're the one who decided you wanted a dog to walk. Sometimes you don't get to choose what shift you get."
"And how would you know anything about not getting what you want?"
I could've told him everything, everything I've ever been denied, but I stick with the things a guard is supposed to know, like the Cartney/Chapter situation, and the bare bones of our past DEFED threats. The look on his face as I did so was enough indication to me that he wasn't expecting any real complications in this "charmed" little life of mine.
In essence, Angad and I haven't exactly been getting off on the right foot, but I don't hate him, and I don't think he hates me either. Ever since I informed him about my dating contract, there's been a level of understanding between usââwe both don't want to be doing what we have to do, yet our obligations are occupational hazards. We should've known what we were signing up for when we signed away our lives.
As Angad moves in between me and the paparazzi, he throws me a quick nod. He's got a job to do, and so do I.
He guards me.
I guard my fake relationship.
The sound of camera shots make me flinch. Since the Fishbowl, anything abrupt or startling does a number on my breathing. Feeling a little suffocated, I pull the wool collar of my coat closer to my face, hoping to catch the extremely faint smell of something fruity and herbalââthe remnants of the chamomile oil Melissa has been administering to Callan. She's been quite fixed on essential oils lately, from peppermint ("for sickness!") to lavender ("for headaches!") to rosemary ("for stress relief!"). While I find the scents to be comforting, Race speculates this to be some sort of ployââa way to get us all to attach our mourning onto a fake yet tangible cure, just so we can feel like we're getting better.
"Look at this." Race said last month. He shook a vial of jasmine oilââone of the many vials Mel had set out on the table for all of us to collect as we wished. "This isn't going to help me 'balance my mood,' or whatever it's supposed to do." He'd dabbed a little on his neck like cologne just to prove it to us. Perhaps it was him fighting to be in control of something, but for the rest of the day his mood was still far, far from balanced.
Of course, little Callan is much more easily persuaded. Melissa had explained to us in the kitchen one day that Roman chamomile oil has been used for centuries to give people clarity in tough times, such as preparing for battle. For Callan, of course, its only use is to help him sleep. Works like a charm.
The smell is so potent that it catches on Chapter's clothes from time to time. I can detect a hint of it every so often if I concentrate hard enough.
"You cold?" Cartney asks.
"Aren't you?"
He takes in a breath through his chattering teeth. "Hell yeah. Would it make your life absolutely miserable if we stopped this walk for a few minutes to go into a coffee shop? I think my cheeks are getting frostbite."
We're a couple steps away from a quaint tea shoppe, but I make us move past it, much to Cartney's chagrin. "If we're going to stop anywhere," I tell him, "I'd like to go to Wes Tegg's."
"Do they, like, pay you to go there?"
"I just like the staff. It's all young people."
"Probably the same young people who torture you and your friends on all avenues of communication."
I give him a look, but I'm forced to keep it semi-playful for the paparazzi's sake. One bad picture could ruin everything. "They torture you too."
"But they always make me a hero in the end. But yet again, I'm sure being an attractive guy who got famous off association and not a threateningly successful woman has a little to do with it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, aside from the world hating Race right now because they've finally realized how much of an asshole he is, guys can get away with anything. We've just got to flex our muscles and lip-synch something pretty. Haven't you noticed that nobody's calling me a player for getting with you so quickly after breaking up with Kaytee? They're proud of me for making such a jerk move."
"You've got a point there," I say, thinking it over. "If anything, they sooner hated me for it and started taking sidesââme versus Kaytee, like it was some sort of contest over you or something."
"The world loves girl fights, Ray. They live for that drama."
"I can tell."
When we reach Wes Tegg's, a crowd is already formed at the entrance. Word on the street, according to every teen tabloid in Delicatum, is that if you want to meet Emeray Essence, you should wait for hours outside Wes Tegg's, because she loves a vanilla latte almost as much as she loves Cartney Kirk.
But it's not trueââI've never had a vanilla latte in my life. In actuality, I love a regular cup of coffee almost as much as I love Chapter Stones.
Another thing people simply don't know about me.
As I rub my hands together to feel the newfound warmth of the cafe, Cartney shrugs off his moto-jacket, cursing under his breath about how frozen his arms have been outside. I imagine it's not the coziest of winter protection he could be wearing, but it's the only jacket he wears nowadays.
Around two months ago he purchased the jacket after he'd established the fact that my wardrobe had made a swift turn from little burgundy overcoats and brown ankle boots. Suddenly, gone were his own coats of tweed and various shades of blue, and in were the sneakers and beanies and black fingerless gloves.
I never asked him to do any of that for me. I made that clear to him the first time I saw him wearing the new getup in full. He'd been standing outside the Metropolix on a milder afternoon, grinning wide and childish with a single lily in his hands. The paparazzi was already there, just like they always were, waiting with their cameras poised for me to come out and begin our daily walk.
"You didn't have to buy that," I'd told him.
"I that really how you greet your boyfriend, Ray?"
"Was it Buchan's idea?"
"Please, I actually like it," he insisted. "Buchan doesn't do all my thinking for me. Plus, I noticed I've been looking like an absolute goober wearing trench coats around you lately. Now we'll be even in our cool factor."
With that, he held out the lily for me to take. Camera flashes popped like pins as I reached out for it. A picture with our hands in close proximity sells for thousands above a picture of us standing near each other.
"No roses at the store?" I asked.
"There were, but this one's a mourning flower."
My mouth dropped, but Cartney didn't seem phased. His eyes swirled with a sort of sentiment, an understanding. He bent down to whisper in my ear. I could only imagine how much of a kick the paparazzi got out of that.
"I get the black clothes," he said, voice low. "You guys were good friends. If you can listen to Kaytee's songs on repeat all the damn time for me, I can wear this jacket for as long as you'd like."
The list of nice things Cartney Kirk has done for me is a short one, but it doesn't diminish how much those nice things mean.
By now, the weather has taken its toll on the poor jacket. It wasn't built to outlast the sort of snow Colburn gets, and under the warm yellow lights of Wes Tegg's I can see it distinctly: What was once glossy and dark and new has been gnarled to faded grey. I believe I like it better this way.
Upon our arrival, a dozen phones from the patrons inside have been angled in our direction. Angad steps toward me, trying to block off a few shots, and I put a hand on his shoulder, shaking my head.
"Let them," I tell him.
"Huh?" he says. "But they could try to profit fromââ"
"If I go inside a small room like this, I can't demand that the people in the room not take my picture, Angad. You don't have to be on guard right now. Gerald usually just stands by the door when we go here."
He blinks slow, like a student struggling to comprehend something complex in class. "You want to buy your own coffee?"
"Of course she does." Cartney rubs his hands on the front of his t-shirt, glancing at Angad through a decorative mirror on the wall. "We're freaking gorgeous, but we're not incompetent."
This makes a few eavesdroppers close by laugh, me included. With a slight eye roll, Angad begrudgingly hands over to me a card to pay with, moving to the front door to block of hopeful incomers with Cartney's guard.
For the few minutes it takes for my usual barista, Brit, to excitedly greet me and get the usual order ready, life feels normal. Well, as normal as normal comes when you're dating a fake boyfriend and pummeling through the death of your best friend.
Brit narrows her eyes at Angad, grabbing a cup and a pen. "He's new, isn't he? Does he want a cup of coffee like your other bodyguard did?"
Before I can tell her that I'm not sure, Cartney intervenes.
"Here," he says, "I've got this." He cups his hands, shouting from across the room. "ANGAD. DO YOU WANT A CUP OF COFFEE?"
"That was unnecessary," I whisper.
"Hardly."
"The room isn't that big. Did you have to shout?"
A woman in line leans toward her friend like she's telling her a secret. I hear her loud and clear anyway. "Their banter is absolutely adorable!"
"I know! It's like being in love with your best friend."
Cartney gives me a look of triumph. "Ray, tell me, have I not told you lately that you're my best friend? Because you are."
The women put their hands to their chests, as if feeling their hearts skip a beat. I shake my head at him, my smirk small and coy. We paint the picture of an outgoing, slightly foolish boy and his reserved, sensitive girlfriend. A masterful pairing of archetypes. Very few people can resist it when they see it unfold before their eyes.
Angad, much to my surprise, says yes to the coffee. For the sake of everyone in the room with subscriptions to tabloids like Delica-teen, Cartney loudly asks Brit to fix us two vanilla lattes. At least four tweens sigh lovingly together as he dramatically gets down on one knee to hand me my cup.
"You drink, my dear," he proposes.
"Unnecessary," I hiss though my teeth, which form a wide, animated smile.
"Hardly."
xxx
They're back in Colburn and already visited the coffee shop! When will I get new ideas!? NO TIME SOON!
PLEASE download this pretty new app Radish to read The Arottir by my love, my life ElleRoseBooks. If you like sci-fi and fantasy, you will honestly be blown away. I like this story more than my own most days. Also, my username is kassandratate!
I am full of so many grateful thoughts this week. You have no idea how much your support out there in the world means to me. Honestly, it fills my chest with this beautiful and overwhelming warm feeling. I can't even put it to words.
At school yesterday I got a lot of dirty looks by people who'd liked my Instagram post about the publishing thing. People are a frightening breed when they are bitter. But I don't hold it against them or necessarily take it personally. It's our senior year, and we're about to hear from colleges, and it's super stressful to see anybody do something like that.
Lucky for me, I'm not the kind of person who needs a bunch of people feeding my ego to feel proud of myself. I'm great at just writing about it in my journal and treating myself to a vanilla cake pop. So that's what I did, haha.
Regardless, I am so incredibly grateful for you. You tell it like it is with me--whether that be editing my mistakes or calling me out on my plot errors. You don't kiss up, and I'd never want you to. We're on the same level and I adore it. I value you so so SO much. Comment your story right here so I can read it and become your biggest fan. That's all I want to do right now. Let me love you.
I hope you're having a lovely Friday, Wattpad. I want you to remember this:
Sticks and Stones may break your bones, but haters make you famoux. Stay classy, stay classix.