The Famoux

Chapter 11

emeray

Bree Arch's bedroom feels something like a crypt. The floors are freshly waxed, the sheets pristinely white, the contents in the drawers tucked away in neat, cautious folds. A few letters from fans lie on the nightstand, counting as the only untidy-looking aspect of the whole room. Everything else is ordered, spotless, as if a girl never lived here at all.

This comes as a surprise to me--Johnson had mentioned that Bree's room wasn't ready for my use, which made me think it must've been filled with eerie remnants of her residence. The only thing eerie about Bree Arch's bedroom is that there is nothing to it. Had I not been informed it was hers, I might've assumed it was the guest quarters.

"Okay," I mutter, clicking the door closed behind me. I give the room a good scan, taking in a sniff of the air, which is stale and abnormal, almost . . . ghostly. "This can be okay. I can live in this."

The whole expanse is enormous, housing a living room-like area with the sleekest leather couches, a wall-sized vanity with dozens of drawers, five individual onyx chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and a king-sized bed on proud display in the far corner. The color scheme is harsh, stark--black and white, nothing more. There's nothing homey about my new room whatsoever, and I can't help but get an itching feeling of dissatisfaction in my stomach.

"I can make it homey," I assure myself. "It'll just take some time, but I'll make it my own. No need to get upset."

But pressure is already growing in my sinuses, and tears are already pushing at their ducts, and my hands are already starting to sweat. My reaction to Bree's room feels very jejune, redundant, and I force myself with everything I have to stay composed. All my life I've gotten increasingly emotional and prone to this oncoming response the more tired I become, and the painstakingly endless ride out here to Colburn wasn't exactly the most restful of trips. On top of that, the contents of my day--getting to the Metropolix, actually meeting the Famoux--wasn't exactly relaxed. There was a fair share of stress.

Sleep--I need that. I just need to sleep through this night, and then deal with this room situation in the light of the morning, when I'm not all rattled by a long drive and meeting the Famoux members.

I run my hands under the faucet, splashing water in my face to get some feeling, realizing I somehow got all numb just walking inside. I've little makeup to take off, so I get it done quickly, brushing my teeth with eyes glued on the mirror, watching the wall behind me just in case something sneaks up. The sensation of some kind of presence in the room is all too strong, bringing my anxiety to new heights.

"Paranoid," I explain to my reflection. "It's been a long day."

On my way to the bed I realize I've nothing to sleep in, which adds a whole new level of childish frustration. With great caution I check and find that the closets are all still stocked, which leads to the unquestionable choice between my current shirt-dress or a piece from Bree's former wardrobe. I silently figure my present clothes can definitely pass as a nightgown for one day, no problem.

When I sit down on the bed, the mattress is plush, absorbent, sinking me a good couple inches within it. Something about this, about being sunk into a part of Bree's life, makes me so uncomfortable that I have to stand up. I catch my breath, pacing over to the vanity on the far end of the suite.

"Shit," I murmur, and it surprises me. Dalton was the one out of us all who swore, because all the guys did, and he adopted that trait to fit in with their vulgarity. I always used to hate it when he swore, because mom had taught him to talk like a gentleman, and I'd have to watch as he completely abandoned such teachings the moment we'd get to school. Such talk coming from me, minuscule as it is, still comes as a shock.