Flash Point (13 page)

Honesty spawned honesty. Amy, no longer angry, said, “She was a plant.”

“What?”

“Lynn. I guessed that she was a plant, an actor hired to create some pretend danger. I wasn’t really risking much.”

Violet stared, then broke into a raucous laugh. “Amy, I’m glad we’re friends. And allies on the show.”

“With Rafe,” Amy said. She explained the new three-way alliance, and Violet nodded.

“OK. He’s really smart. Now—can we please go shopping? Maybe if you looked better, you
could
have gotten to Mark.”

Violet was Violet. For the next three hours Amy let herself be led to stores she never knew existed. Tiny vintage shops, upscale consignment shops on deep clearance, wholesale irregulars—Violet knew them all, and she could haggle on prices in a way that never would have occurred to Amy. By evening, Amy, who had been firm about buying only three items although she lusted after a dozen more, hardly knew herself. She stood in front of a scratched dressing-room mirror in a blue (“Definitely your color as long as you don’t go pastel”) Marc Jacobs top with a small tear in a mostly unnoticeable place, and perfectly fitting dark-wash jeans (“Your waist is good but you might want to play down that swell of hips just a little”). Violet had just finished snipping wispy bangs into Amy’s unmanageable hair, plus long side layers that framed her face. The rest she’d twisted into a high chignon, held with a pencil borrowed from the clerk. In a plastic bag at Amy’s feet was a secondhand charcoal Zac Posen sweater that somehow made her skin look like cream.

“See,” Violet said triumphantly, “I told you I had great taste.”

“I already knew that.
Thank you
, Violet.”

“Now all you need is a plastic hair stick to replace that pencil, although I’d hoped we could find an old tortoiseshell one. Still, you can’t have everything. However, you cannot wear those ratty sneakers with these clothes. Here, these are a gift from me.” She handed Amy a pair of the new stretchable flats, black with tiny mirrors sewn in the sides, last year’s runway sensation that now appeared in knockoffs all over the city.

“Violet, I can’t—”

“Sure you can. They’re as flexible as sneakers, see—you can still do backflips or pole-vaulting or whatever comes up next.”

“You told me you don’t have any money and—”

“And I can’t bear to see anyone wear those jeans with holey sneakers. It completely offends my sensibilities. Which, I know, nobody believes I even have. Take the shoes. And now don’t you have to get home to that grandmother you told me about?”

“Yes. I can’t thank you enough for—”

“Sure you can. Take me home with you.”

Amy blinked. “What?”

“You have a TV, right? My little dancers’ hellhole doesn’t. I was going to watch the show tonight at some bar, but I’d rather watch it with you. Can I do that?”

Amy grinned. “Of course!”

“And will you give me dinner? I don’t eat much.”

“Pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”

“I take it back. I eat like a horse.”

They walked home, Violet’s bargain hunting having brought them within ten or twelve blocks of Amy’s apartment. Twilight had turned the air colder. Still, Amy was warmed by the admiring glances she got in her new outfit and hairdo. The glances were worth the gooseflesh. Violet chattered away, making Amy laugh with more outrageous stories of a dancer’s life. Mrs. Raduski must be out walking Buddy, because no snarling or growling greeted them in the vestibule. The delicious smell of pot roast drifted from the apartment. Life was good.

Except for Kaylie, and the TV show starting in less than two hours.

Thirteen

S
ATURDAY

MUSIC STARTED LOW,
gradually becoming more audible: rap set to keyboards performing atonal music. The rap words were indistinguishable and stayed so, but the strange music sounded both energizing and slightly menacing. “Catchy,” Violet said, “but hardly danceable.”

Amy, Gran, and Violet sat on the sofa, facing the small television. Reception had improved after Gran fiddled with the TV. Amy’s palms were slick with nervous sweat. Gran looked tired but interested, and she seemed to like Violet.

On screen two teenage actors described the show and how audience voting worked, finishing with “Each week: seven participants, five possible responses, seventy-eight thousand one hundred twenty-five chances to get it completely right. Way better odds than the lottery! And if you’re one of those that do, within the first two hours after the show ends, you split five million dollars with the other winner!” The music rose to deafening levels, eerie and menacing and the title came up in scarlet:

WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?

Abruptly the music ceased. Total quiet. Brick-or-concrete walls narrowly set apart from each other, lined with blue Dumpsters. Myra wasn’t going to use any of the four scenarios since Amy had been hired; she was going to use the audition in the alley.

“Huh,” Violet said. “Maybe that’s the only one they had time to edit so far.”

That made sense. Amy’s hands twisted together so hard that the tips of her fingers went bloodless.

Waverly was thrust out of a door into the alley lined with blue Dumpsters and encountered the “dying” actor bleeding and gasping on the ground.

“Well, well,” Violet said, “look who’s first. Our little rich bitch. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Whitcomb.”

Gran merely shot Violet an amused glance; Gran wasn’t that easy to shock. Amy decided that Myra and Alex had put Waverly out there first because she was the best dressed. The contrast with the “homeless” guy in the alley would be all the greater. Waverly strolled along, scowling at where she found herself—obviously she didn’t know she was being filmed any more than Amy had known.

Waverly reached the homeless man gasping and bleeding on the ground. She didn’t even slow down. Her path altered to move as far away from him as possible, and she kept on going.

“Such a sweetheart,” Violet said.

“A heart soft as butter,” Amy said. “Didn’t even call for help.”

The injured man stopped being injured. He leaped up, ran after Waverly, and caught her easily. The camera zoomed in to her face, outraged and terrified, and then to his, predatory and evil. Waverly screamed and started to struggle. The screen went black. A voice-over said, “How did Waverly react? Do
you
know?” Then a list appeared, accompanied by pulsing music, with Waverly’s picture above it:

WAVERLY:

1. Fights—and wins!
   
2. Tries to run—and escapes!
   
3. Tries to run—and is caught!
   
4. Strikes a bargain with the attacker!
   
5. Freezes and cries!
   

Violet said, “Well, we know her and the viewers don’t. I’m guessing she freezes and cries, hoping for his sympathy ’cause she’s so hot.”

“No,” Amy said, “don’t underestimate her. She’s not stupid. She’ll try to strike a bargain, buying her way out. She—oh my God, Violet, we’re sucked into playing!”

Gran said quietly, “This is going to be a very successful show, girls. You both need to be prepared for that.”

Amy said nothing. She stared at the screen as the show ran through the other six participants grabbed by the predator. The same list appeared after each name. Then the hosts were back, hyping up the need to vote and the promise that on Wednesday night the show would reveal exactly how Waverly, Cai, Rafe, Amy, Lynn, Tommy, and Violet reacted! The actual film! You’ll be amazed and amused and affected! And someone will win a share of five million dollars—maybe you! So vote now! The whole list and all the names, identified by small head shots, stayed on the screen while the music pulsed and, presumably, watchers texted their predictions.

Violet snorted. “Well, that’s helpful—like they can tell from a head shot who will do what.”

Amy said, “Each week they’ll learn more about us.”

“Too bad we can’t vote. I could make a fortune.”

“Amy,” Gran said, “which of those five behaviors was yours?”

Amy said, “I jumped onto the Dumpsters and evaded that guy as long as I could, but eventually he cornered me. So I guess I’m ‘tries to run and gets caught.’”

Violet said, “I bet you put up a good show, though. I’m ‘strikes a bargain with the attacker.’ But I’m not saying what I offered him.”

After Violet’s performance with Mark Meyer that afternoon, Amy could guess. “Good thing it was only an actor and not—Gran!”

“I’m all right, just tired. Will you excuse me, Violet?”

She had slumped sideways against Amy. Amy helped Gran sit upright, then pulled her to her feet and walked her into the bedroom. Gran kept reassuring her, but fear squeezed Amy’s chest; Gran ’s attack of weakness had come over her all at once, in a way Amy hadn’t seen before. She could barely stand. Amy said, even though she already knew the answer, “When are your test results due back?”

“Next week.”

Amy helped her into her nightdress, to the bathroom, back to bed. Violet tactfully kept her eyes on the TV, now airing some stupid show she couldn’t possibly be interested in. When Amy had Gran settled, Gran fell asleep almost immediately. Amy sat beside her for a few minutes, remembering so much: Gran singing Amy and Kaylie asleep every night after Mommy died. Gran already old but not yet infirm, explaining Mendelian inheritance diagrams to Amy’s sixth-grade class. Gran creating elaborate birthday cakes in any shape Amy or Kaylie chose. Only in the last few years had Amy really appreciated how much sacrifice must have been involved for a woman nearing seventy to take on two small girls to raise. Kaylie still didn’t appreciate it.

Amy left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. Violet had turned off the TV. She said, “Well, One Two Three, I think I’ll take off now. Thanks for dinner and the show preview, I think it—”

The apartment door burst open. Kaylie barreled in.

She stopped short when she saw Violet, and her eyes widened. She blurted, “You’re one of the other people on the show!”

Amy’s stomach churned. If Kaylie was going to throw a nasty tantrum in front of Violet—

She didn’t. Kaylie flashed an enchanting smile, dark curls bobbing, and held out her hand. “I’m Kaylie Kent, Amy’s sister. I’m so glad to meet you! I’m sure you’ll be great on TV—although not as great as Amy, of course!”

Amy blinked. Kaylie turned and hugged her. “I’m so proud of you! The show will be a big success, I just know it!”

A phantom in Amy’s mind:
a tiny furious figure beating on a closed door, trying to get in.
Like Amy needed that to understand Kaylie’s sudden sweetness! But it didn’t matter where the sweetness came from, as long as it defanged her sister.

“Thanks,” Amy said.

Kaylie said, “I want to hear all about it!”

Violet left, raising one eyebrow at Kaylie and whispering to Amy, “Your little sis is gorgeous.” Then Kaylie questioned Amy relentlessly about the show: what Amy had done, what the others had done, what they were like, what happened after that, and then what? If Amy hadn’t suspected Kaylie’s motives, she would have been delighted; the talk almost felt like the ones they used to have, years ago. But when Amy tried to ask Kaylie what was going on in her life, Kaylie yawned.

“I’m really tired. Late night last night. Let’s sleep now and talk tomorrow, OK?”

“OK,” Amy said, because she didn’t see any other choice. And at least Kaylie was safe at home.

For now, anyway.

* * *

Late evening, and lights still burned in the Taunton Life Network building downtown. James Taunton sat in a deep chair, facing a bank of computers where two techs monitored incoming data. Myra Townsend and Alex Everett stood beside the chair. Myra’s temple pulsed with tension. Alex slouched, too relaxed.

A tech said, “We have a winner. In Raleigh, North Carolina.”

“Great!” Alex said. “We get to give away five million dollars.”

The tech said, “The data is still coming in. There might be more than one winner.”

The second tech said, “Here comes the West Coast now. . . . Hey, that’s really good for a pilot! A two point six rating and eight percent share!”

The first tech said, “Another winner. In Des Moines.”

Alex straightened, underscoring how fake his relaxation had been.

James Taunton rose, walked over to the screens, studied them. The techs leaned respectfully aside. Everyone held their breath. Finally Taunton turned to the two producers.

“It’s a go. Nice work, Myra, Alex. Keep it up.” He left the room.

Everyone breathed again.

Myra said, “Alex—tomorrow. For the next scenario.”

Alex looked doubtful. “Tomorrow? They just had the Lynn thing last night.”

“That’s why they won’t be expecting it tomorrow. And we’ve got to do it before everyone starts recognizing them on the street and we have to move them. All six of them could go viral on the Internet.” Then, more sharply, “You’re not going to tell me it’s not ready?”

“Of course it’s ready,” Alex said, offended. “It’s just that doing another scenario so soon is being a little rough on them, don’t you think?”

“That’s not really the point, is it? They signed up for it. The real point is to keep Taunton impressed. Mark has everything in place?”

“Yes.”

“Then call him. Now.” Her eyes went back to the screens.

Not until after Alex left the room did Myra permit herself to sit down. She had been clenching her butt cheeks to keep her legs from trembling, an old trick. No one understood how important the success of this show was to her—not Alex, not Taunton, not Mark, and certainly not the talent. Those kids thought they understood economic hardship. But they had barely reached adolescence when the Collapse happened. They didn’t know what it was like to see the future you’d so carefully built crumble overnight into so much rubble.

Myra had lost well over a million dollars in the stock market. Her previous job had disappeared during a panicky corporate reorganization, and she’d lost her beautiful house. Nor was Amy Kent the only person with relatives dependent on her salary.

Myra Townsend was going to make this TV show work no matter what that took.

“Looking good,” a tech said, gazing at the screens.

“Yes,” Myra answered, unsmiling, as she watched the numbers climb and climb.