The Classix

(OLD) Chapter 5

Note: Isn't the edit attached gorgeous? If the maker of this edit could step forward and remind me of their expertise, I would love to make them a character in the book really soon. I have a feeling it's from Mel, though, who's already the nanny for Callan. I love you, Mel!

PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Norax is making everyone choose a new member because Foster makes nothing simple and basically needs a hundred million people to replace him. Also, some of those new members could be haters. Or extreme fans. Or both!?

emeray

There's a place I like to sit, tucked away in the corner by the massive rack of shoes in my closet. It's a narrow fit, even for my generally thin frame; I have to really work to wriggle myself into a comfortable spot where my shoulders hit the wall and the metal rack in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant. The moment I'm finally settled snug, I cannot move without disrupting the peace. It's imperative that I find a good position and stay put.

Trapping as it sounds, it doesn't discomfort me––I've never had a problem with falling into a state of paralysis, especially when the whole world seems to go careening south before I even know something's been done.

I started sitting in this spot in the closet after we came back to the Metropolix for the first time without Foster Farrand. Needed a spot nobody knew about, too small for any regular human being to evade, where I could sit without needing to move. God, that's all the world wants from me: To move.

Go, they say.

Go over there, closer to Cartney Kirk.

Go right here, closer to my camera so I can get a better shot.

Go somewhere I can meet you, Emeray Essence.

Sometimes I just want to stand still.

There's solace in knowing that when the Metropolix gets flooded with our new Famoux members, I'll still have this spot. It may very well become the only area here I'll have entirely to myself. That is, if they don't start invading my closet too.

We didn't choose them today. Norax told us to take the pictures with us, so we'd be able to review our options. She thinks it'd be best if we only chose one of them, since that would double the Famoux from five members to ten.

"Ten, though pretty large, is manageable," she told us. "If you chose two people each, we'd end up with fifteen members in total, and I fear the public would be overwhelmed and would not want to get to know ten new people."

Personally, I feel like she's underestimating just a little. After all, the public was quite incredibly overwhelmed getting to know just me, and I was only one person.

But five people now?

From my spot in the closet, my fingers move in small shuffling motions, flipping through the four Polaroids from my file, wondering in earnest.

I wonder if the guards who approached them for these pictures told them the details––that they were the prime candidates plucked from a secret lottery they didn't know they'd entered. I wonder if they know how much they apparently talk about me more than anybody their age. I wonder what country they're from.

Four potential Famoux members, their fate at the mercy of my volatile tendencies. Mercy. The word brings a smirk to my lips. I was never graced with mercy in my life as Emilee Parvenu, not even for a faltering moment. I'm not sure I ever really understood the word until I believed I had found it––really, sincerely found it.

If I were to be truly merciful, the way of which I have learned, I would make them all members. I'd give them the lavish living spaces and the white-hot spotlights and the closets that seem to accumulate more and more clothes in them with the turn of dawn. I'd put them in the Fissarex so they'd never have to worry about their weight, or hate their bodies, or question whether or not the cameras being jabbed into their faces are getting an unflattering angle. I'd hold their hands and walk them across the street, knowing where they think they should go, but leading them to the better place. The greener grass. The grass I'd watered especially for them.