Scarlett Fever (7 page)

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.

Demo version limitation

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.