Scarlett Fever

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THAT SPECIAL SOMETHING

Scarlett showed up at the appointed time the next day, malice in her heart, and twenty-five of the promised fifty dollars in her pocket. Chelsea lived in an old building in the East Thirties. Not a massive, fancy one like Mrs. Amberson’s. A smaller one, with no doorman. The elevator was one of those ridiculously small ones that only held two people. The hall was dark, and there were only three doors. One had been left ajar, and Scarlett pushed it open, feeling it make cushy contact with what must have been a bunch of coats hanging on the wall behind.

“Is that Scarlett?” Mrs. Biggs said. “Come in!”

Scarlett stepped into a tiny hallway, which was halved in size by all the coats. The living room was absolutely packed, every inch of space used to death. There was a full-size sofa, bookshelves, a set of drawers, a crowded console with the television and stereo equipment, stacks of DVDs of musicals, and books on acting. The space around it was taken up by an electronic keyboard, an exercise ball, free weights, and piles of music. It seemed like an excessive amount of activity went on in here—a lot of living.

Mrs. Biggs was sitting at a tiny table over by the kitchen alcove, doing something on a computer. She was wearing the dress that Scarlett had seen Chelsea in when they met. It also fit her perfectly. She and Chelsea were almost identical in size.

“Chelsea will be home in a minute,” she said, waving Scarlett to the sofa without even looking up. “Give me just a second. Chelsea got two fan mail letters today. I’m just answering them. Have a seat.”

The sofa was crowded at one end with piled blankets and pillows and clothes. There was a strong plug-in air freshener at the end of the sofa—a sickly one that was probably supposed to smell like clean linen but smelled more like sticky, floral bleach. The scent rang a bell in Scarlett’s mind. She knew it.

This was Max’s bed. Max trailed that air freshener smell all day. That’s what it was.

Scarlett quickly turned herself away from the sofa she was about to sit on and made a circuit around the room instead, pretending to take an interest in the things on the walls. There was a clear theme in the decorating scheme, and that theme was Chelsea. Somewhere in Scarlett’s mind, where things she didn’t know she was thinking were being thought, this had been expected. It seemed like every inch of wall space was encrusted with a show poster or a photo. There was no sign of Max except for the pile of clothes and bedding. It was like some kind of nature documentary, where you had to hunt for evidence that the animal had a den nearby.

Miranda noticed that Scarlett hadn’t sat, then looked over and saw why.

“Oh sorry,” she said, nodding at the pile in annoyance. “I tell Max to put his things away when he wakes up, but he never does.”

To be fair to Max, which was something Scarlett didn’t really feel like being, there didn’t seem to be anywhere for his stuff to go. This apartment was full. It would have been a tight fit for one person, or one really close couple. Three people—three people who needed their own space—that was impossible. Living like this would have made her insane.

Scarlett stood there uncomfortably while Mrs. Biggs typed. It was weird enough being invited here—but stranger still to be ignored once she arrived. As someone raised in the hospitality industry, Scarlett disapproved of this.

“There,” Miranda said, finishing up and shutting the computer. “So…I thought it might be nice for Chelsea to talk to you some more…and Max. We’re new to the city, so we don’t know many…Chelsea’s busy with the show, and Max doesn’t…”

None of those sentences were complete, but Scarlett grasped the missing concept. They don’t have friends. Friends, luckily, were something that Scarlett never felt short of. She might not have studied dance for a dozen years or been in a commercial or a Broadway show…but she had people she could call at one in the morning.

“So,” Miranda said, getting up and stepping into the kitchen, “was school good?”

When normal adults asked this question, Scarlett would move through a rote response indicating that school was school and the experience had yet to kill her. But Miranda Biggs didn’t ask innocent, polite questions. She wanted to know about Max. Of that, Scarlett was sure, and she wasn’t going to tell. Scarlett decided that she would talk about absolutely everything else, much more than she wanted to know. She walked Miranda through periods one through seven, everything but Bio. Scarlett listened to the impatient thwack of vegetables being chopped.

“Right,” Miranda said, her voice barely concealing her impatience, “but don’t you and Max have a class together? Biology?”

“Oh,” Scarlett said as if just remembering this. “Yeah.”

“And how’s that?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Well,” Scarlett said, “it’s just been a few days.”

More dismemberment of vegetables. Scarlett smiled to herself.

There was a jangle of keys, and Chelsea appeared. Her hair was back in two chunky little braids, and she wore a sleek exercise outfit. She was makeup-free, but had flushed little apple cheeks, fresh from a workout of some kind.

“Oh hi!” she chirped. “Just had to meet my trainer for a session.”

“Good,” Miranda said. “You’re here. I have to go out and get more broccoli. Did you do free weights?”

“No. I think I pulled something in my neck. Derrick told me I’d better not push it or I might have trouble during the show tonight.”

“I know the muscle mass is making your weight go up a little, but as long as we balance out the rest…”

“He’s checking every day,” Chelsea said. “I’ve gained five pounds, but I’m obviously leaner.”

“As long as he’s checking.”

On that unpleasant note, Miranda left to get her broccoli, and Chelsea excused herself to take a shower. Scarlett finally took a seat on the sofa and stared at the piles of Max’s things.

Chelsea was a quick showerer. She was back in a few minutes, wrapped in a towel.

“One sec,” she said, disappearing into what Scarlett presumed was her bedroom to change. It looked like there were two bedrooms in this apartment—one for Chelsea, and one for Chelsea’s mom.

“Must be kind of hard,” Scarlett said. “All three of you in here.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Chelsea emerged, dressed in a nearly identical set of exercise clothes. Scarlett had a feeling that if she looked through Chelsea’s drawers, she would find a dozen of these uniforms. “Max sleeps in here, which is why his stuff is everywhere. It’s a pain for him to be in the living room, but in a way, he has the most space.”

She shrugged away his lack of privacy as if it simply could not be helped, and sat down next to Scarlett to put on her sneakers.

“We’re supposed to be getting a bigger place sometime,” she said. “But we can’t afford it right now. Everything here is so insanely expensive! He didn’t want to move, and he doesn’t need to be here like I do. But my mom was obsessed with getting him into a school in Manhattan.”

“We’re lab partners now. He sits next to me.”

“Be careful,” Chelsea said. “He cheats.”

“That’s what he said. I thought he was kidding.”

“It’s true. He does. He’s really lazy, and he’ll try to get you to help him. Don’t let him take advantage. I’m not going to mind, trust me. I don’t even know why my mom dragged him to New York. He should have stayed at home.”

“Where is home?”

“Binghamton. A few hours away. Our house is there, and my dad.”

“Your parents are still married?” Scarlett asked. Scarlett had assumed that there was no Mr. Biggs, that Mrs. Biggs had divorced and taken her kids to the city. As soon as she said this, though, she realized that sounded kind of bad. But Chelsea just laughed.

“Oh yeah. My parents are just…they’re fine. I don’t think it matters to them if they see each other very often. I think my dad likes having the house all to himself. We live on a golf course. He manages the place. He can just golf whenever he wants now. That’s like his dream.”

Mrs. Biggs returned with a shopping bag and Max in tow. He looked absolutely appalled to see Scarlett in his living room. She would have warned him in advance, but he hadn’t shown for Bio that day, which had been a pleasant surprise. A totally Max-free day would have been better still, but life doesn’t give you everything you ask for.

“Scarlett’s here for dinner,” Mrs. Biggs said.

Max grunted what Scarlett assumed was some kind of insult and dropped his bag in the center of the room.

“Not there, Max!” his mom called. “Someone will trip!”

“Who?” he asked, kicking it aside.

“I’m just making chicken and vegetables,” she said, ignoring this remark and addressing Scarlett. “I don’t like…weird food. I don’t like spices and things.”

What Miranda Biggs didn’t like, it seemed, was flavor of any kind. She steamed some broccoli until it was anemic, piled some lettuce with no dressing, and plopped down a baked, dry chicken breast. This was served up at a tiny table really only made for two people. Max sat down at the table without bothering to remove the earbuds from his ears. Sound dribbled from his head.

“I have some low-fat salad dressing spray,” Mrs. Biggs said. “Max, turn that off!”

Max couldn’t hear her, on account of the earbuds. She pulled one of them loose. Then she reached around to the refrigerator without even getting up and retrieved a spray bottle of low-fat dressing, as promised.

“Your brother went to the High School of Performing Arts, right?” Chelsea asked.

“Right.”

“But you don’t have the acting bug?”

“No,” Scarlett said.

“So what do you do?”

Max was clearly paying some kind of attention, because Scarlett saw him looking over at her at this.

“I…go to school…”

She was answering this question like a five-year-old. I go to school. Genius. What else did she do? She tied her shoes. She liked kittens.

“Yeah,” Chelsea said sympathetically, as if she knew this answer was exactly as pathetic as Scarlett feared. “You have to feel it. It has to be in you. And, you’re, you know, an agent. Or something.”

Max let out an audible sigh, grabbed the salad dressing, and sprayed everything on his plate until it had a high sheen.

“You need to be a special kind of person to be a star,” Mrs. Biggs said, slicing her chicken breast with a vigor usually reserved for the severing of human heads from still-struggling bodies. “It doesn’t just happen. It’s about talent, and it’s about focus. Chelsea’s been working toward her goal all her life. Sure, there are people who work just as hard, but if they don’t have the special something, then they aren’t going to make it. Chelsea has both.”

Max’s eyes fluttered slightly closed.

“Max is the academic one,” Mrs. Biggs said, remembering her other child at the table. “He gets by on just brains.”

“And the blood of virgins…” he said, drifting into the conversation.

“Don’t use that language at the table,” Mrs. Biggs snapped.

“English?”

Mrs. Biggs just looked up tiredly.

“That’s not what Max gets by on,” Chelsea said under her breath.

It was so strange being the outsider to all these little barbs and understandings. Scarlett suddenly had a lot of sympathy for people like…well, Eric and Chip…who had sat in the middle of six Martins at the dinner table and tried to keep up.

“I have to get home,” she said, the moment Mrs. Biggs stood to yank the plates away. “But thanks…”

“You should come again!” Chelsea said. “Anytime you want.”

Just when Scarlett thought she’d made her escape and was halfway down the steps, she heard a creak above her. Max was following her down.

“So,” he called down the stairwell, “you’re dating my sister now, huh? Or was that just you being a good lackey?”

“My boss gave me fifty bucks,” Scarlett answered honestly. “Next time? I’m going to ask her for double.”

For the first time, Scarlett heard Max laugh. If she had been guessing, she would have thought his laugh would sound like a mancackle, or something like the squawk of a dying bird. But it was a full, round sound. Not unlike an actor laugh—from the belly, full of voice. The largeness and humanness seemed to startle them both, and he turned and went back up.

As Scarlett walked back to the Hopewell, she saw Spencer’s bike still leaning against the stop sign invitingly. Someone had put a half-eaten hamburger on the seat, but still, no one had made the effort to take it. Upstairs, it was very quiet. The pigeons were cooing and resting on the outside of Scarlett’s air conditioner, their tiny feet tapping on the metal. She looked through her homework list—three paragraphs of French, thirty-five Trigonometry problems, five chapters of Great Expectations to read, one chapter of Biology with six end-of-chapter questions to answer, and five articles on the government of Pakistan to find, digest, and summarize. She decided the articles were a good place to start, but once she got online, she ended up reading all of her messages and watching Eric’s commercial seven times, closing down the window after each viewing and telling herself that she would not reopen it. Then she would go looking for articles for five minutes, but find her mind dragging her back to the commercial for one more look.

She slammed the computer shut and faced the silence. And in the silence, a question came. Another creeping question. The question the Biggses had put there: What was she going to do with her life? She’d never felt a pressing need to answer this question before now. She was fifteen. She wouldn’t have to choose a college or decide on a major for at least two more years. But still…there were classes to pick now. There were skills to pick up. Everyone else did things. It wasn’t just Chelsea who had trained since she was just a small cellular life-form. Almost all of her friends were developing some kind of special skill. And it wasn’t just a question of who she was and how much money they had—after all, Spencer had become an actor. Sure, he was just kind of born that way, but he had also taught himself many, many things. He always had a mission. Marlene had…well, cancer. But that had weirdly provided her with a social life and maybe some kind of perspective. And she was eleven, so who cared?

The only other person who didn’t really seem to have a definite goal was…

The door to the Orchid Suite flew open, and in came Lola, the very person she was thinking of.

Except that Lola didn’t look like Lola. Her face was flushed and her eyes were narrowed. She was walking quickly, instead of her usual smooth, graceful step, and her back was hunched. It was like her entire body was trying to curl itself into a fist.

“You okay?” Scarlett asked.

Lola tore off her Bubble T-shirt and threw it at the end of her bed.

“Fine,” she said, her jaw set.

This was so obviously a lie that it didn’t need to be said. Scarlett just kept looking at her until she decided to explain.

“Do you remember Boonz?” Lola finally said.

“Chip’s friend?”

“Well, she’s one of his friend’s girlfriends. He doesn’t like her. Boonz was the one who made fun of me about the dress.”

“Oh,” Scarlett said, nodding quickly. “Her.”

Chip had given Lola a beautiful Dior dress. It was a dress Lola had seen in the window of Bergdorf’s and coveted deeply, but never even imagined owning. Lola wore the dress everywhere, to everything. It was the best article of clothing she had ever owned—was ever likely to own—and she maintained it with the zeal of a curator. It was her favorite thing until Chip’s friend Boonz made a snide comment about the repetitive wearings, questioning whether or not Lola owned any other clothes. The weight of dealing with much wealthier people must have been pressing on Lola for some time, though she had never really shown it. But when Boonz did that, something inside of Lola snapped. She ran away from the party and from Chip, escaping from society types and a competition she could never win.

“I guess I thought that stuff was over,” Lola said. “Chip’s up in Boston in school. He doesn’t see a lot of these people anymore. But she came into the spa this afternoon, she and some other girl. I was restocking some shelves. They followed me around, asking me stupid questions about the products. It was all just to mock me for working there. I even lost a sale, a big sale, because they wouldn’t leave me alone. You can’t get away when you work there.”

Her humiliation was so clear, Scarlett couldn’t think of anything that would make it better.

“Sorry,” Scarlett said.

“It’s fine,” Lola said. But she didn’t look fine. She reached to her dresser for a shirt. The drawer stuck. She jiggled it once, but it only gave another inch or two. She rattled it even harder until Scarlett heard a tiny crack and the drawer stopped moving completely.

“It’s their problem, not yours,” Scarlett said. “There’s nothing weird about having a job.”

Scarlett knew this was a pointless thing to say. It was true, but it was pointless.

“They make it my problem!” Lola yelled. “I can’t get away from them. How do they make me feel so bad…about everything? Everything in my life?”

She tried to squeeze her hand into the opening to get a shirt, but she obviously couldn’t reach. She grabbed the drawer on either side and pulled it hard.

“Damn it!” Lola mumbled. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

Each word increased in volume and brought a more fervent shake and pull. The entire front piece of the drawer came off in Lola’s hands, leaving the contents exposed. Lola dropped it in disgust, reached into the naked, half-extended shelf and yanked the first shirt from the stack. She sat on the end of her bed and looked at the hole she had just created. It was all too symbolic.





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ACT III

NEW YORK MOURNS SONNY

The New York Bulletin

Last night, television history was made when Detective Sonny Lavinski (played by Donald Purchase) was shot dead on the season premiere of police drama Crime and Punishment. Lavinski’s death came as a major surprise to millions of viewers who had tuned in for the start of Lavinski’s 16th season. What began as a fairly ordinary case involving the murder of an NYU student ended with a shooting at the foot of the courthouse steps, with Lavinski dying in the arms of his partner, Mike Benzo.

Reaction across the city, the country, and the Internet was immediate. News of Lavinski’s murder trumped coverage of real-life murders, instantly becoming one of the top news stories. The headline rippled across news tickers around Manhattan, causing crowds of people in Times Square to stop and point. The Crime and Punishment online fan site, which boasts more than two hundred thousand members, immediately crashed.

Sources from the set report that Lavinski’s departure was long in planning, and that much work had gone into keeping the story line under wraps.

“It was just time,” said one staff writer who asked to go unnamed. “Donald’s been great to work with. We were all crushed when he said he had to go. He didn’t want it dragged out. He said that would hurt the fans who were really attached to his character. He wanted it to be quick. So that’s how we wrote it.”

Lavinski’s killer, David Frieze, is played by cast newcomer Spencer Martin, 19.

“Yeah,” another on-set source confirmed, “that story line is going to be a big part of this season. David Frieze is the new baddie on the street.”

Over five hundred dedicated fans had an impromptu candlelight vigil on the steps of the New York Supreme Court, where the death scene was shot.

“I can’t stop crying,” said Felicia Wills of Brooklyn, as she placed a bouquet of flowers on the steps where Lavinski fell. “It’s never going to be the same without Sonny.”

Andrew Walsh of Manhattan said he was riding by on his bike when he saw the gathering and asked what happened.

“I was recording the show,” he said. “I was about to go home and watch it. I never thought they’d kill Sonny Lavinski. That’s like…killing television. I’m in shock. I’m honestly in shock.”

A larger, more organized event in Central Park is to follow on Saturday.





THE LOVE OF THE MASSES

The next morning, when Scarlett emerged from her room, she was struck by the sight of Spencer coming out of the bathroom wearing white pants and a white shirt. It was the whitest outfit she had ever seen, broken only by a sliver of dark silver tie.

“Is it Dress Like a Kentucky Colonel Day?” she asked. “I always forget to mark it on my calendar.”

Spencer straightened his tie.

“I kind of wanted to get dressed up today, but my only dress pants are my work ones and these. And my good suit, but I didn’t feel like wearing that. They’re nice, right? They’re really nice pants. I should wear them more often.”

“They’re nice,” Scarlett conceded, taking a good look at them as they walked down the hall. “But they do look a little…musical-ish.”

“That’s because they are musical-ish,” he said, pushing the elevator button, which stuck and clacked back out again. “They were part of my costume for The Music Man. I swiped them from the costume room when the show was over. I have the jacket, too, but it doesn’t fit right. The arms are too short. Here, read this.”

He pulled a copy of the New York Bulletin out of his messenger bag and passed it to Scarlett. It was already folded open to a page, and he tapped on an article.

“They’re already lying about it,” he said. “I am already spinning in the spin machine.”

“Why are they saying it was planned?” she asked, scanning the article. “I don’t get it. You said he walked off.”

“Because it sounds better than, ‘Bitter, greedy, slightly drunk guy leaves set with no warning after fifteen years.’ Did you see the part about ‘cast newcomer Spencer Martin’? That’s my favorite part. That’s the part where the article really shines. I’m the new baddie on the street!”

The arrow above the elevator pointed to five, and the doors creaked open. Spencer reached over and opened the gate for Scarlett.

“I’m feeling generous this morning,” he said. “I feel like treating my favorite sister to an iced coffee.”

“You still killed Sonny,” Scarlett said. “You can’t just buy me off with cold caffeine.”

“Did I mention that I’d also treat you to a cab ride to school?”

“It’s important to forgive,” Scarlett said. “Are you always going to be like this? I like this new you. The old one was okay, but this one is better.”

“As long as I’m a fancy, rich television star.”

Spencer yanked the gate shut, and the inner doors squawked closed.

“You seem calmer today,” she observed.

He shrugged, dismissing the panic of the day before.

“You know,” he said, “the more I think about it, the more I’m glad I killed that guy. I’d do it again.”

Scarlett smacked him playfully. Rather than reply, he threw himself back against the sunburst and slid down to the elevator floor. The door opened at that moment and the German couple staying in the Sterling Suite looked at him in bafflement. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t immediately notice. Scarlett kicked his foot, and he looked up.

“Sorry,” he said, getting up and stumbling slightly as he exited the elevator. “I have this inner ear thing and I lose my balance…”

He swayed a bit as he held the gate for Scarlett to exit and the couple to enter. They looked concerned, and a little scared.

“It’ll pass,” he said as the elevator door slowly closed on them. “It always does. Have a good day!”

“They don’t speak English,” Lola said from behind the front desk. “Could you not freak them out by pretending to be dead in public spaces?”

“You can’t be mad at me today, Lo,” he said, leaning over the desk. “Your heart is filled with Spencerlove.”

“I’m not mad,” she said, smiling. “It’s just that I’d like to keep the last guests we have left. Also, you aren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day.”

“I’m the bad guy. I break the rules.”

“Do you shoot more today?” Lola asked.

“No,” Spencer said, checking to make sure he’d put his wallet into his fancy white pants. “It’s just a read through. See you later.”

As he and Scarlett walked to Third Avenue, a few heads turned in their direction. Spencer glowed with contentment. By the time they reached the coffee and doughnut shop, he had actually started humming to himself, very lightly, under his breath. They took a spot in line behind an older man who was ordering a large box of cream and jam doughnuts and an iced coffee. As he waited for his food, he kept looking over his shoulder at Spencer, each look getting longer and longer until it was an outright and undeniable stare. Spencer wheeled around, turning his back to the man, and leaned down to Scarlett.

“That guy is looking at me,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re on TV now,” she whispered back. “And you just killed Sonny Lavinski. And you’re dressed like the ice-cream man.”

“I know. I just didn’t expect anyone to recognize me. Like, that much.”

The man at the counter wasn’t the only one. Two women stopped outside the window, pointing inside. Spencer turned back around and put on his most innocent smile, waving at the women.

The man got his box of doughnuts and drink and paid, and only then did he ask, “Aren’t you that punk from Crime and Punishment?” “Yeah,” Spencer said, slipping the man a sideways smile.

“I thought so.”

He made a low sound, not unlike the first, tentative whir of a blender, and stood off to the side while Spencer ordered the iced coffees. While Spencer paid and batted his eyelashes at the woman behind the counter, Scarlett watched the man. There was something in his aspect that suggested that maybe some medication had been forgotten. He didn’t eat a doughnut or drink his iced coffee. He just stared at Spencer.

“Here,” Spencer said, pressing a massive iced coffee with whipped cream into Scarlett’s hand. “Healthy breakfast.”

He grabbed his own drink and shoved five dollars into the tip cup. They were just passing the man, and Spencer was just giving him a friendly nod of good-bye, when it started.

“You son of a bitch!” he said in an even, angry voice.

The smile dropped from Spencer’s face in an instant.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“You heard me, you son of a bitch.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, quickly giving Scarlett a shove in the direction of the door. “Nice meeting you. Stay classy.”

“What is wrong with that guy?” Scarlett asked as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Don’t people know the difference between fantasy and reality?”

“He’s just a weirdo,” Spencer said, pulling the straw out of his cup and using it to scoop up some whipped cream. “Dime a dozen. You grew up here, you know that.”

“I know, but…”

Scarlett felt something smack the middle of her back. It wasn’t hard, but it was definitely solid. She turned just in time to see the man who had just yelled at them. He was following them with his box of doughnuts in his hand. He removed another one.

“That’s the son of a bitch!” he yelled as he got closer. “That’s the son of a bitch!”

Spencer turned in time to catch a cream one midchest. He looked down at his shirtfront, where he’d been struck.

“Is he really throwing doughnuts at me?” he asked.

“At us,” Scarlett said. “He got me, too.”

“What?”

Spencer stopped and changed position just enough to block Scarlett.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled at their attacker. “You hit my sister with a doughnut!”

“Let’s just go,” Scarlett said, catching Spencer’s shirt and attempting to tug him along. But Spencer would not be moved. Another doughnut took flight. This time, it was jelly, and it made clear, perfect contact with the side of Spencer’s head—cutting a streak of powder across his dark hair and exploding into a thick raspberry mess along his ear and neck. Against the white shirt, it looked like blood.

“Son of a bitch!” the man screamed again.

By this point, all the passersby stopped to watch the display. Not all of them knew which particular son of a bitch Spencer was, but a few did. Those few were pointing and whispering the sacred name: Lavinski. The rest of the crowd was prepared to accept the spectacle in the spirit in which it was offered—just one of those things that New York occasionally threw in their path to shake things up.

“He’s an actor!” Scarlett yelled back, stepping from behind Spencer. “And you’re a lunatic!”

The man reached for another doughnut.

“That box holds at least a dozen,” Scarlett said. “He’s got a lot more to go. Come on, Spencer!”

Spencer just maneuvered her back behind him again and held his ground.

“Seriously,” he said. “You do know it’s just a show, right? Right?”

The cream doughnut that immediately followed didn’t rupture in quite the same way as the jelly had. It got him low on the torso, leaving a cream blotch on his hip. The next assault came from behind. A kid, maybe Scarlett’s age, decided to take advantage of the open food fight that seemed to be going on and lobbed half a granola bar in their general direction. It glanced off Scarlett’s elbow and landed on the sidewalk.

“Okay,” Scarlett said, “that was just ineffective.”

“A show,” Spencer was saying, still trying to reason with their primary threat. “Not a real gun. Not a real murder. Not even my idea…”

Scarlett saw a cab with its light on stopping to let someone out. She took Spencer by the arm and pulled him toward it. He allowed himself to be moved this time, narrowly missing what looked like a very unstable blueberry jelly doughnut, which exploded on the back of the car.

“One Hundred Fourth and the park,” Scarlett said to the driver, who already looked very sad that they were his passengers. “The faster you go, the less messed up your car gets.”

Spencer got the door closed right before the man threw his iced coffee at the window. The window was half rolled up, which provided some protection, but not enough. The coffee drenched Spencer, soaking his face and side and pooling in his lap.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked.

Scarlett’s heart was thumping in her chest. She looked down at herself. Tiny spots of powder and jam covered her shirt.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just drop me at Dakota’s. I’ll borrow a shirt.”

There was little point in asking Spencer the same question. The white clothes highlighted the damage. One side of his head and face was soaked with coffee-thinned jam. It dripped from his ear and down his shoulder. The majority of it was pooled in his lap. There were heavy impact marks of jam and cream on his chest and legs, which looked like someone had decided to make an abstract painting, using him as the canvas.

Scarlett dug around in her bag. She had no tissues; paper would have to do. She ripped a few pages from a notebook. Spencer didn’t make a move. Figuring he was too stunned by the assault, Scarlett reached over to clean off his ear and cheek. As her hand drew near, he reached up to block her.

“Leave it,” he said.

“What?”

“I have to make sure it stays this way until I get to the set.”

“You want the jam on your head?”

“Not much point in trying to clean up. I can’t hide this.” He tilted his head in the opposite direction to slow the dripping of the evidence. “It’s my one day of fame. Might as well enjoy it.”

“I didn’t think this is what fame was like.”

“Me neither,” he said.

The cab stopped at a red light. The driver handed back a pile of napkins, indicating that he would like his backseat cleaned up a little. Spencer took them and mopped up the space around him. Scarlett blotted her shirt. Mostly it just smeared the dots and made it worse. Her hand shook a little.

Scarlett called Dakota to request the shirt, and Dakota was waiting at the curb when they arrived. She was unable to contain her shock at the view inside the cab.

“Breakfast,” Spencer said. “I’m a really messy eater.”

“We never give him soup,” Scarlett added.

Spencer nodded gravely, waved good-bye, and the cab pulled off.

“What. Was. That?” Dakota said. “Tell. Me. Now. What. Was. That?”

“There was an incident,” Scarlett said.

She explained the morning’s events as they walked up the three flights to Dakota’s apartment, where Dakota had already laid out a selection of new T-shirts on her bed. Scarlett picked through them and selected a basic white one, similar to the one that she had on.

“Can you bring your jam-covered brother to my house every morning?” Dakota asked. “Why doesn’t he need to take off his shirt? He totally needed a new shirt.”

Many moons ago, in sixth grade, Dakota developed a crush on Spencer. It was an obsession that had long faded into a ritual joke that was important for them to perform every once in a while. Or, it was important to Dakota to perform and for Scarlett to nervously tolerate because she loved her friend and sometimes friends do these sorts of things…because sometimes friends think they are joking when they are not joking at all.

“How much do you think he would charge to take off his shirt?” she went on, to Scarlett’s dismay. “I know he’s famous and everything now, but everyone has a price.”

“I don’t know,” Scarlett said. “A quarter?”

“Really? I like how cheap he is.”

While Scarlett changed, Dakota fell back on her bed, imagining something Scarlett would undoubtedly find horrible.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Your brother just killed Sonny Lavinski.”

“Do? I don’t do anything. No one knows he’s my brother except for you guys. And he’s just going to be on the show for a while.”

“But you guys got attacked,” Dakota said.

“Yeah, well, it was just some freak,” Scarlett said. “I don’t think we’re going to have any more problems like that. And who’s even going to know?”

“Dissection,” Ms. Fitzweld was shouting in eighth period, “is not the same as slicing to bits. You are not cutting up a pork chop.”

Actually, she wasn’t shouting. Ms. Fitzweld just happened to have one of those natural speaking voices that was sharp and pointy and overly loud—like she could see someone off in the distance ramming her car repeatedly with a shopping cart and could do nothing about it except take it out on sophomore Biology students.

“You do as little cutting as possible!” she raged on. “Do you understand me? Now, one person from each station come over here and get your fetal pig. Bring your dissection tray.”

Scarlett put on her plastic apron and a pair of goggles and made her way toward the barrel, tray in hand. She winced as her classmates walked past with their little plastic-bagged pigs on trays. The formaldehyde was overwhelming. It smelled like a sterilized headache.

“I see Slax is skipping today,” Dakota said, coming up beside her.

True enough, Max’s seat was still empty.

“That’s sad,” Scarlett said. “I feel all dead inside when he’s not here.”

The pig supply had run low. There were two left, at the very bottom of the barrel. Scarlett adjusted her ill-fitting plastic glove and leaned in, her nose almost touching the rim. She tried to lift a pig by the corner of the bag, but it was too heavy.

“Stop being squeamish,” Ms. Fitzweld said. “Pick it up.”

Even through two layers of plastic, the heavy wetness of the pig was palpable. Scarlett grabbed it and plopped it on the tray. Back at her seat, she read through the instructions. Task one: sex the pig. She was glad Max wasn’t around for this. She quickly examined hers and found it was a boy.

“Sorry, piggy boy,” she said quietly. “I really am.”

The classroom door opened, and Max sauntered in. Today, he was wearing a striped tie loose around his neck. Scarlett fondly remembered all the ways you could choke someone with a tie.

“Where have you been?” Ms. Fitzweld snapped.

“The bathroom,” Max said with a smile.

“Thank you for sharing. Do it again and I’m docking you half a grade on the next exam. Get over to your station.”

“Actually, I was reading the Internet,” Max said, sitting down and pulling on his gloves. “But I thought saying I was in the bathroom sounded cooler. Guess what I found out. Someone was throwing doughnuts at your brother this morning.”

Scarlett stopped what she was doing.

“Where did you see that?” she said.

“It was on Spies of New York. I’ll read it to you.”

He pulled out his phone and held it low, just under the desk.

“Let’s see. ‘Sonny-Killer Wears White After Labor Day, New York Responds. On seeing Sonny’s killer, one loyal fan responded with a volley of doughnuts that sent him running for a cab in the company of an unidentified blonde’…That’s you I assume; they probably think you’re dating him or something…Then it says, ‘After covering Martin in jam and cream, the assailant dumped a cup of iced coffee on him before the cab drove away. We thoroughly applaud this man’s civic action and encourage other like-minded citizens to avenge our Sonny.’ Guess it was his lucky day for some random nut job to come along with a box of jelly doughnuts.”

“There was nothing random about it,” Scarlett snapped. “It was because of the show last night. He had to give a speech about doughnuts. That’s why the guy was throwing them.”

“I know,” he said. “I saw it. My mom turned it on because she wanted to see what kinds of jobs your boss is getting for her clients.”

“So a crazy person attacked us.” She pushed the dissection pan toward him. “Cut the pig.”

“Not me,” he said. “I’ll just screw it up. We’ll both fail. I’d hate to drag you down with me.”

Scarlett dragged the pan back with a bitter heart. Hers, not the pig’s—though the pig couldn’t have been happy about it, either.

“Does your brother always wear white?” Max asked as Scarlett began the unpleasant task of the first incision with the scissors. “It’s kind of a weird outfit. It’s like something you would wear if you wanted a lot of people to look at you.”

“He wears, whatever…I don’t know.”

“All I’m saying is that it seems like a good outfit to pick if you knew someone was going to, I don’t know, throw jam doughnuts at you. And you wanted it to show up well in pictures.”

“I was there,” Scarlett said coldly. “It just happened. It wasn’t planned.”

“Sure,” Max said. “There’s no way that an actor would lie or pretend or stage something.”

“He would have told me.”

“Of course he would,” Max said. “Whatever you want to think. All actors care about is that you spell their name right. Trust me. I live with one.”

“So do I,” Scarlett said.

“Fine,” Max said, holding up his hands. “Ignore me. I’m wrong. Your brother is different from the rest. It was all a coincidence.”

Try as she might, though, Scarlett couldn’t ignore it. Max’s idea immediately took root in her mind, and soon its tendrils had spread in all directions, crowding out other thoughts. There was something wrong about that morning.

“You know I have a point,” he said, leaning close. “Bet it drives you crazy.”