Flash Point (9 page)

“Everyone has that nightmare. Everyone. Which is exactly why you got to live it.” He laughed.

Hating him, Amy let herself be put into a cab back to the TV station, where a guard consulted his tablet and sent her back to her cubicle to move the can into the pan, the ant off the plant, the pup by the cup.

Ten

T
HURSDAY

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”
Violet asked Amy the next day at lunch. “Onstage, I mean?”

“I ad-libbed,” Amy said.

“You ad-libbed
Shakespeare
?”

Everyone else stopped talking. The seven sat at a cafeteria table. It was the first time they had all been together without Myra or Alex, but each had been sent there from morning duties at the same time so it must be what the producers wanted. Amy didn’t like being manipulated, but she was curious to know the others better. Except for Cai, whose effect on her was so strong that she would have preferred to avoid him. She sat as far away from him as she could.

The cafeteria was large, with plain tables, abundant if bland food, and industrial carpeting to hold down noise. This did not work. Amy had to strain to hear people two seats away, but everyone could hear Violet. She added, “What scene was it?”

“The opening scene,” Amy said. “I think.”

Rafe said, “The opening scene has no women in it. I read the whole play last night.”

Amy said, “Then maybe Juliet’s first scene. Her mother tells her she wants Juliet to get married to Paris.”

Waverly said, “‘I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; but no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.’”

Everyone stared at her. Did Cai’s stare hold admiration? Waverly was so very pretty, in her D&G miniskirt and punk jewelry and combat boots. Waverly shrugged disdainfully. “I told you all that I’m an actress.”

Lynn demanded, “So you just knew the whole play by heart?”

“Juliet’s role, yes. Of course.” She took a dainty bite of her sandwich.

Lynn said, “What scene did you get?”

“The balcony scene.”

“And you just happened to know it all.”

Waverly said, “I
killed
in the scene.”

Violet did a good imitation of Waverly’s usual eye-rolling. Waverly turned on her. “And what scene did
you
get?”

Violet said, “Some lame party. It’s when Juliet is supposed to meet Romeo.”

Waverly said, “And of course you knew the lines.”

“Of course I didn’t, bitch. But I know what happens at parties. Romeo came on all smarmy about how hot I am, and I just smiled, grabbed him, and signaled to the musician standing around in the background to play his lute. He did, and I swung Romeo—you never saw such a gay guy in your whole life—into a two-step. When he pulled away, I danced on my own, like Juliet was this narcissistic exhibitionist with great rhythm she wanted to show off.”

“Unlike
you
,” Lynn said sarcastically.

Violet ignored her. “The musician played along. Well, what else could he do? And I danced the hell out of that scene.”

Amy said, “For ten minutes?”

“And a
one
and a
two
and a
three
,” Violet said.

“Hardly Shakespeare.” Waverly sniffed.

“Hardly matters, bitch.”

Cai said, “Didn’t the audience laugh at you?”

“Sure, at first. So what? By the end they were clapping the rhythm. I did twenty-two
fouettés en tournant
in a row.”

Amy didn’t know what a
fouetté en tournant
was, but it sounded impressive.

Rafe said, “I got a scene with Romeo and his friend Mercutio. I didn’t know the lines and I didn’t pretend to know the lines.”

Amy said, “What
did
you do?”

“I went to the front of the stage, held up my hand, and told the techs to bring up a spotlight on me. They did. For ten minutes I talked about how drama fools us into accepting alternate realities as real, which softens us up to accept alternate realities that authorities want us to believe. Pay your taxes because it’s a civic duty, look both ways before you cross the street because you might get hit by a bus, obey the cops because they’re on your side. It’s all bullshit. The authorities want control because that’s always what authorities want, and they’ll use any means to get it. Drama and fiction and anything else unreal is just one more subtle way of keeping us under someone else’s thumb.”

Amy said, “Bravo. However, looking both ways before you cross the street . . . You could get hit by a bus. The bus is real enough.”

“You’d hear it coming,” Rafe said. “Anyway, that’s what I did. You asked and I told you.”

“And Alex let you?” Amy said. “He didn’t bring down the curtain or anything?”

“Of course not. I could have stripped naked and danced a tarantella and that curtain would have stayed up. They wanted a unique response to a humiliating situation, so I gave them one. Without acting humiliated. I’m going to get another cookie. Anybody else want one?”

No one did. Violet said, “Watch out, Rafe, chocolate chips could be a means of government control.”

Rafe ignored her. Cai and Lynn declined to say how they reacted to the scenario. Cai merely said wryly, “Let’s just say I don’t have Rafe’s presence of mind. Or his politics.” When Violet asked Tommy what he did onstage, he just hung his head and said nothing.

Lynn said, “Well, two more days until the show airs. Then we’ll all see who did what, or maybe not in this particular scenario. Does anybody know which episode airs first?” She looked hard at Waverly, who shrugged.

“No idea.”

“Really.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Waverly said.

“Just that I saw you hanging around Mark Meyer, looking flirtatious. Trying to exchange information for your cold flesh, Waverly?”

“Actually,” Waverly said with poisonous sweetness, “I think you’re more his type, and you’re probably more used to that exchange. Casting couch and all. Bye, all you sad toads.” She took her tray to the bussing table.

On their way out, Amy said to Violet, “Who’s Mark Meyer?”

“Techie genius who does their special effects. Wasn’t he at your first interview? Young, geeky, leather jacket, tablet always in his hand?”

“He was there, yeah. But how did you know his—”

“Googled the TV station and read all I could. Really, One Two Three, you gotta keep up. Your tablet is your extra brain.”

Amy had no tablet. But she nodded, resolving to learn what she could at the library. She was obviously far behind the others.

So was this a competition, like Gran said? If so, who was winning so far? Probably she would find out Saturday night.

* * *

Thursday afternoon Amy was “promoted” to production assistant for a soap opera. At first this sounded exciting, but she quickly discovered that it mostly meant fetching coffee from the Starbucks across the street (“I just can’t drink that awful stuff they have here”), fetching things from other rooms (“My red scarf, I think I left it either in Makeup or my dressing room or maybe the ladies’, the one nearest the green room, or—”), and watching actors emote through overwrought plots (“But . . . Stone . . . Emily swore that Cliff was the father of Madison’s twins!”). Amy crossed “television production” off the list of careers she might want someday if she never got to college to study neurology.

Waiting for the unknown, Amy discovered, was worse than facing it. No scenarios occurred on Thursday. But she remained constantly on edge, poised for action she couldn’t predict. When an actor came up behind her to complain that she’d gotten his coffee order wrong, she jumped so hard that the coffee sloshed onto his costume. Amy apologized so profusely that finally the actor told her to knock it off, he’d drink the damn coffee the way it was.

When would the next scenario happen? What would it be?

In the evening Amy couldn’t concentrate well enough to play decent chess with Paul, who resented it. “That was a really dumb move.”

Amy tipped over her king. “Your game.”

“I can’t believe you had a rating of 1900. Were you lying?”

“No!”

“Then I don’t know what’s happened to you. It’s hardly worth playing you at all.”

Amy scowled, but she had no real answer.

The only bright spot was, surprisingly, Kaylie. She had gone to school every day that week, and as she and Amy prepared for bed, Kaylie said abruptly, “I know I’ve been a bitch lately. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just that I’m so keyed up about All-City tomorrow night. This is going to be it, Amy. The band’s big break. Tomorrow is the last day I have to sit in that stupid school and listen to stupid teachers drone on about the Council of Trent.”

Amy couldn’t remember what the Council of Trent was, if she’d ever known. She said, “School is more than that.”

“You’d like to go back, wouldn’t you?” Kaylie said shrewdly. “Do that summer bridge course to take the college-admit exams. Fuck, I can’t imagine anything worse. But when Orange Decision is rich and famous, I’ll get it for you. You won’t have to work at the boring job anymore. I’ll take care of you and Gran both.”

“Kaylie,” Amy said, because it looked like this might be her only chance, “about my job at the TV station. It isn’t exactly . . . I mean, on Saturday night there will be a—”

“Gotta get to sleep,” Kaylie said. “I can’t be late tomorrow for my last day in hell. But on Saturday there’ll be what?”

“Nothing,” Amy said. She didn’t want to spoil Kaylie’s mood. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned the show debut when all at once Kaylie flung her arms around Amy, something she hadn’t done for at least two years. Into Amy’s ear she whispered, “It means the world to me that you and Gran will be there tomorrow night. Really.” She whirled away and into the bathroom, singing.

Kaylie really thought her band would win. She really thought this evening would change her life. She really expected to rescue Amy, who at only one year older already had given up such expectations. There was no rescue. There was only what you could scrounge for yourself and yours, through putting up with Myra Townsend and Waverly Balter-Wells. Through yearning for someone not interested in her. Through muscles knotted by tension and a heart clenched against humiliation.

Through not knowing when the next scenario would come.

Eleven

F
RIDAY

ON FRIDAY, SHE
and Violet sat at a table by themselves. Instantly Lynn Demaris stood by the table. “Myra says we have to all lunch together over there.” She pointed to the table where Cai and Tommy already sat.

Violet said, “She didn’t tell me that.”

“Well, she told me. So come on.” Lynn stalked off.

Amy said, “What’s her problem? She wasn’t like that at lunch yesterday. In fact, she hardly said a word.”

Violet shrugged. “Probably screwed up something and is taking it out on us. Stay here, One Two Three, I want to talk to you. How about a shopping expedition sometime after you get paid? No offense, but I think you could use some Violet help with your wardrobe.”

Amy smiled. There was no attack mode in Violet’s speech, and as always, her exuberance lifted Amy’s spirits. With Gran weak, Kaylie often sullen, and Amy’s job boring when it wasn’t terrifying, Violet was like a bracing wind. It didn’t even embarrass her to answer Violet in the way she must.

“Violet, I haven’t got any money for clothes. I mean, none. I support my grandmother, who’s old and sick, and my little sister. I’m hoping to scrounge enough from this paycheck to get a TV from the pawnshop so I can see our show on Saturday. God, that sounds weird—I can’t believe I’d ever be saying a sentence like that!”

“Yeah, I know. But about the clothes—I’m not talking couture. Just, you know, jeans that fit, which yours don’t because it looks like you’ve dropped weight, and tops that don’t date from the early Jurassic.”

Amy blushed and looked down at her soup. She didn’t want it anymore.

“Listen, One Two Three,” Violet said gently, “I think you’re a saint, taking care of your family like that.”

Amy winced, hearing Kaylie’s sarcastic
Saint Amy
.

“But this is television and you gotta look as good as you can to keep this job. Now, you probably think this top is expensive—”

“A Carolina Herrera knockoff, three-ply cashmere although the original was six-ply.” Violet stared at her. Amy smiled faintly, feeling a little better. “I have an eye, just no money.”

Violet hooted. “Who knew? But I’ll tell you what, you don’t need much money for what I have in mind. You think dancers have money? We’re the poorest of the poor. So we all know the thrift shops where rich women donate their castoffs and we all cultivate the shop clerks like we’re Farmer Jones and they’re prize pumpkins. Cathy at Jeu d’Esprit sets aside things for me. For you we’ll try to snag a—oh, hell, here come the spoilers.”

Lynn, Cai, Tommy, and Waverly carried their trays to Amy’s table and plopped them down. Lynn said, “I told you Myra said that we lunch together! You should listen to me!”

Cai said apologetically, “Myra called our cells.”

Violet said, “She didn’t call mine,” just as it rang. Violet answered, listened, scowled, and moved her chair to make room for Tommy.

Amy hadn’t had a cell when she’d interviewed, and she hadn’t told Myra that she had one now. She had to save her precious minutes for her family. Tommy sat down beside Violet, with Lynn on her other side. Cai sat between Amy and Waverly.

Instantly every part of her was aware of him: his nearness, his scent, the heat of his body. He gave her a friendly smile, which she found herself incapable of returning. She could drown in the blue of his eyes. To say something, she blurted out, “Where’s Rafe?”

“Rafe!” Lynn cried, so loud that a table of adults turned to look. “Rafe isn’t here! I’ll find him!” She jumped up and shot off.

“What’s her issue?” Waverly said. “She stop taking her meds?”

“Sweet Waverly,” Violet muttered. “Everybody’s friend.”

Tommy said, “I don’t like waiting for something bad to happen. It upsets me.”

Amy stopped chewing, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. So it wasn’t just her; the others were all nodding at what Tommy said. She hadn’t slept well last night, which had led to too much coffee this morning, which only made everything worse. She said, “It
is
upsetting, Tommy. You’re right.”

“I don’t like it.”

“So quit,” Waverly said.

“I don’t like it.”

Waverly rolled her eyes and shifted closer to Cai. Her hand lay provocatively beside his on the table, their fingers almost brushing. Cai moved slightly away. This brought him closer to Amy, which made her take a deep breath. So Waverly wanted Cai, and it wasn’t mutual. But Amy got no vibes from him; his gorgeous body sat beside her as if she were Rafe or Tommy. Or another chair.

Was he gay? No, Amy was good at picking up those particular signals. Cai just wasn’t attracted to her.

She focused on Tommy. “Would you like to quit the show, Tommy?”

“Yes. But I can’t.”

“Why ever not?” Waverly said crossly; she had felt Cai shift away from her. “It’s not as if Taunton Life needs a halfwit on the show.”

Amy said, “Shut up.”

“The mousy one speaks!”

Tommy looked down at the table, blinking back tears. Violet leaned toward Waverly. Her voice was pleasant and casual, as if offering a Tic Tac. “Leave Tommy alone, bitch, or I will cut out your liver and feed it to rabid dogs, who will then shit all over your lifeless corpse. Oh, here come our Rafe and Lynn. Hi, guys.”

“Hi,” Rafe said. He squeezed in next to Amy, which shoved her even closer to Cai. “Myra decrees that at lunchtime we’re an indivisible unit.”

“Myra and the Myettes,” Violet said.

Amy said, “Or Caesar and the Praetorian Guard.”

Rafe looked at her with sudden appreciation. “Dr. Ms. Frankenstein and a bunch of Igors.”

Cai said, “I’m thinking Snow Gray and her seven dwarves.”

Amy laughed, but not comfortably. Rafe and Cai were both funny, and both smart. It might actually have been easier if Cai had been dumb. Poor Tommy looked bewildered. Waverly gazed at them all with aloof superiority. Lynn chewed her sandwich with a ferocity that surely wasn’t normal, then abruptly flung it down, stood up, sat down again, and resumed eating.

Rafe said, “Just another joyous meal here in Point Paradise. Do you think our happy little family is being overheard? Filmed? Of course we are.” He picked up the saltshaker and pretended to speak into it. “Hey, Myra, come join us for lunch!”

“Stop that!” Lynn snapped. She sounded almost hysterical.

The weird thing was that at that moment Myra did join them, strolling across the cafeteria in an asymmetrical Karl Lagerfeld jacket. She handed each of them a white envelope.

“A bonus is included for all of you.” Myra smiled her kind, motherly smile that by now drew a response from only Tommy. “You’ve all done well for your first week.”

As she walked away, Rafe muttered, “Sweet syrup poured over pure ice.” No one replied. They all opened their envelopes, and Amy knew that hers wasn’t the only hand that trembled. Even a small bonus would mean so much to her.

It was more than a small bonus. It dwarfed even the amount withheld from her salary against the advance she’d taken last week.

She sat stunned, staring at the check that meant everything to her and nothing to the vast resources of Taunton Life Network. She knew that, but it didn’t affect her gratitude. Money for whatever medicine Gran might need, a new TV instead of an old pawned one, new jeans—

Violet said, “It looks like that shopping expedition might be on after all, One Two Three.”

Rafe said, “Golden handcuffs.”

Cai said, “Cuff me more, please.”

All at once the mood at the table lifted. They rose amiably to go back to their job assignments, and even Lynn was smiling. Amy and Violet made arrangements to meet at ten o’clock the next morning to go shopping. Amy spent the afternoon actually amused by the soap-opera shoot, whose plot now involved a long-lost brother who was possessed by the ghost of a man killed by the heroine’s cousin, with whom she had a child kidnapped by the hero’s first ex-wife, who had fled to Dubai with an Arab oil mogul.
Shakespeare it ain’t
, Amy thought, stepping carefully over snaking cables backstage to bring another order of coffee from Starbucks.

On the street there was another protest march, two dozen tired people plodding in a circle, their homemade signs scarlet with
TIMES BE TOUGH MAN
. She avoided them, again squelching the impulse to tell someone, anyone, that the slogan needed a comma. Back inside, Amy stood around while the lighting was changed for the next shot. She planned six different ways to spend her bonus, until her cell rang.

“All cells silenced on the set!” the director roared, glaring at her even though nobody else was silent during setups. Amy scurried into the corridor, her heart thudding. Nobody but Kaylie and Gran had this number. . . .

She was wrong. “Mark Meyer here,” the caller said. The show’s tech guy, whom Amy had hardly seen. “Myra wants everybody in a meeting at five thirty in her office, 29-C. Be there.”

“How did you get this—” But he had already disconnected.

It was 4:50. Amy had hoped to leave work early. The All-City Youth Talent Show started at Bentley Arena at seven thirty, and Amy had to get home, order a taxi for Gran, and get to the arena early enough to get Gran settled in a safe place by six thirty, before any huge jostling mob could arrive. Amy had planned to bring sandwiches to eat while they waited, along with enough pillows and blankets to make her grandmother comfortable. It could all work because Gran had had a really good week. But now this meeting—

She called back the number on her cell. “Mark? This is Amy Kent. I’m afraid I can’t make the—”

“You don’t have any choice,” he said brusquely. “It’s a requirement. Be there or else.”

Her temper rose. “Or else what?”

He disconnected.

At 5:20 Amy told the director she’d had a summons from her boss. He nodded, not caring. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything that mattered. Amy stomped from the studio to the elevators and took one to the twenty-ninth floor.

She’d never been up here before. Under any other circumstances, she might have felt intimidated, but now she was too angry. Well, all right, maybe still a little intimidated. The elevator opened onto a big carpeted lobby. It had no windows, but the luxury more than compensated. Deep leather chairs and sofas, little marble tables, paintings on the wall in severe, elegant frames. One whole wall was taken up by five TVs, each turned to a different channel, all on mute. A receptionist sat behind a low marble counter. She was in the same glossy good taste as the room, and looked just as expensive. Amy wanted to hitch up her too-big jeans, but she resisted.

“May I help you?” the receptionist said doubtfully.

“I’m Amy Kent. I have a meeting with Myra Townsend. I’m a little early.”

“Oh, yes! Go right in, Ms. Kent. Ms. Townsend will be with you shortly.”

Myra’s vast office was even barer than the lobby, with an entire wall of glass that looked over the city to the bay. One end held a huge teak desk and a wall of TVs. At the other end a few leather chairs ringed a low glass table. That was it. The room was big enough to echo, Amy thought, if it hadn’t been for the thick beige carpeting. Lynn Demaris perched uneasily on the edge of one chair.

“Hi, Lynn,” Amy said.

Lynn sprang up as if shot, whirled around, and then relaxed. Marginally, anyway. “Oh, it’s you, Amy.”

Who had she been expecting? Lynn’s sharp features all looked twitchy, like a nervous rabbit’s. She kept curling and uncurling her fingers, not quite making fists but close. Amy got a sudden phantom in her mind:
a dark tornado, with tiny figures whirling endlessly inside
.

Chilled, Amy said, “I’m sorry I startled you. Do you know what this meeting is about?”

“Why should they tell me? Or any of us? I just know it better be short.”

Amy shared that sentiment. However, she couldn’t think of anything else to say to Lynn, so she walked over to the window and watched the traffic far below. Over the bay, clouds rose in the high, dark, anvil shape that promised thunder.

Cai entered with Tommy. They spoke in low tones. Tommy seemed very upset, with Cai soothing him. Amy was glad for the excuse to not make chitchat with Cai. Even the sight of him with his sleeves rolled up, exposing muscular forearms, made her breath come faster.

Violet’s explosion into the room, with Rafe in tow, was welcome. Both of them seemed to still be in a great mood.

“You’re full of shit, Rafe,” Violet teased, “and what’s more, you know it. John Milsom!”

“Milton,” Rafe corrected, grinning, “and if you ever read anything besides
Dance
magazine, you’d recognize the quote. Also its aptness to the current culture in this country.”

“Rafey, nobody but you would recognize that quotation. Here, I’ll prove it! Amy, Cai, Lynn, listen to this! Did you ever hear such bullshit in your life?”

Rafe struck a pose and declaimed dramatically:

But what more oft, in nations gone corrupt,

And by their vices brought to servitude,

Than to love bondage more than liberty—

Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.

Cai said, “Never heard it before. Do you really think our civilization is corrupt?”