Grey

I covered my face in embarrassment. They had to be talking about some other Michael Rivers. Maybe the real Michael Rivers—someone who I didn’t even

want

to know. “Please,” I said, “I can’t watch this!”

“Just one more,” said Joelene, as she turned the channel. Now two blondes stood nose-deep in a field of purple, violet, orange, and canary-colored sunflowers. “Another backgrounder,” explained my advisor.

“A Petunia Tune channel.”

“Elle Kez,” said one, in an airy singsong voice as though she were reading poetry, “is the luckiest girl in the whole, big, wide world!”

“I gabbed with her all this morning,”

gushed

the other. “She’s in the capital city of Petunialand right in the petunia center of everything.” Holding her hands above her head, she did an awkward pirouette. “She’s going to be marrying

the bestest

of the best family blood, and they’ll have dozens of babies! I just know it!”

“What about her fashions for the date?” asked the

first.

“You’re going to ’gasm when you see it! She’s been working with her staff day and night.”

I laughed, and asked, “Who are they?”

She snapped off the screen. “Yes, it’s all dreadful, but the point is, tens of thousands of channels are going on and on.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Elle is getting a lot of attention.”

The news did not surprise me, but it did confirm my fears. Leaning forward, I touched the cool fabric of Mr. Cedar’s suit jacket and hoped that Nora would see the hidden message. It was the only positive in this unfurling disaster.

Father’s face flashed on the screen before me, and I jumped back.

“That’s what you’re going to wear?” he asked, making a sour face. “I thought you were going to get an actual color.” To Joelene, he said, “Didn’t we discuss blood red and chartreuse, or was I on slub drugs?”

“The silhouette is new,” said Joelene, her voice congenial.

“He tears her skin from her face!” he sang, stretching his mouth wide as though impersonating a bullfrog.

Once he had finished, I said, “This whisper of footsteps…”

For just a second he stared blankly,

then

he pretended to be happy. “Thank you! Wow! More Pure Hog, right?” After a snort of a laugh, he said, “The world is actually in color. Like the sun is orange. The sky is blue.” He inhaled and then bellowed, “And snot is green!”

“The soul,” I said, “is colorless.”

“The soul?”

He looked off camera.

“Like he knows the soul!”

After fluttering a hand in the air as if to dispel what I had said, he continued, “Anyway, thanks to me and my magnificent acting skills on that stupid Celebrity Research show our stock is up fifteen points. And I’m calling to say that we need every up-tick we can get. So, I was thinking, when Elle’s girly band plays, I want some old Michael Rivers dance moves! Let’s see you—”

“No!” I interrupted. “I don’t do that.”

“Sheeeit!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Do you understand the pressure here? This afternoon we had to sell off the last of the RiverGroup real estate at shit prices just to finance this stupid promo-date. We don’t own enough land to build an outhouse anymore. We’re borrowing against everything we’ve got left. If this show doesn’t work, we’re in fuck-water up to our eyeballs. So, we have to pull out the stops!”

“I don’t dance,” I told him.

He rubbed his face hard. “You need an immediate brain transplant! You really do!” He turned as if complaining to Ken.

“Stupid, fucking, wimpy-fashion, colorless, hairless ball-sack, teenage bullshit!”

With that the screen went blank.

“He’s a monster,” I said to Joelene. “I hate him!”

The screen turned back on. “I heard that!” snarled Father. “I’m sitting right here, you dumb slubber butt!”

“Intense feelings are good,” said Joelene, before I could react. “They play quite well in the media.”

Father froze for a second, as if he had not been expecting that. “Good then. Let’s see some intensity tonight. If he won’t dance, we’ve got to have more than the boring crap from the dates with the grey-snot girl. I know,” he said, his eyes glowing, “rub some dick vomit on her spoon so we can watch her eat it!”

The screen went black again. I tried to kick it, but missed and smacked my shin on a metal support bar. Momentarily, the pain obscured my revulsion and fury.

Six

I had been to the top of the three-hundred-story MonoBeat Tower before. Joelene and I had toured with channel reporters when it first opened. They showed us all the amenities, the mud and diamond lobby, the hay and crystal elevators, the light-emitting oleds that covered the surface and beamed advertisements, slogans, and channel shows on all sides. They also made a big deal about how the interior walls were made of a new kind of hard liquid that could be reconfigured in milliseconds. I was asked to touch some button that opened a wall as if it were a camera iris. They asked me what I thought and I tried to sound positive and interested. My attendance had been required as RiverGroup had a partnership with the company that built it, but honestly, the only appealing part of our visit was the meal at the restaurant on top, SpecificMotor 505.

Not only had my clothes-iron-scorched acorn salad and steamed elephant steak been sumptuous, but the decor had a definite Pure H flair. The dining room floor was black, toxic osmium tetroxide. The walls were tiled with human baby teeth, and the room was lit with a glass enclosure of glowing-orange molten lava behind.

Once Joelene and I had exited my car, we took the elevator to the three-hundredth floor and we were ushered to a green room. On the screens were a dozen channel feeds. One show was interviewing the SpecificMotor 505 chef. Another channel discussed the restaurant’s design. Many were speculating on Elle’s fashions for the evening. Another discussed and dissected the stolen nude photos of her.

Still another reviewed RiverGroup’s stock collapse, products, and chances for recovery.

I stood before it all for several minutes and felt discouraged.

Joelene turned them off and then handed me several screens. “I’ve written up some conversation notes for you. Elle is quite loquacious, so you probably don’t have to say much but memorize this. And,” she said, handing me another, “this is a list of the bands she likes and might mention. Below that are the channel shows she watches. And I included a run-down of the fashion magazines she reads. Mostly it’s Petunia Tune, but she also likes CuteKill, Ball Description, and Puffy Fluffer.”

“Those are terrible!”

“Regardless,” she said, “look over the info. I’ll see if I can work out a way for us to get to the SunEcho.”

“Do you think we can?”

She took a breath. “Sneaking out of the MonoBeat, with all the security designed to seal us in, is quite problematic.”

While she returned to her work at her screens, I looked over the dialogue, but it was all just silly references to Elle’s awful fashion magazines. Mostly, I worried that Joelene wouldn’t find a way to get to the SunEcho and Nora.

Soon, my makeup and hair artist, Petra, arrived. She was in her fifties, with bright red hair, wide, luminous sapphire eyes, a tiny blip of a nose, and pouting burgandy lips. As she lay out her tools she said, “I will do his hair, but under protest. This isn’t the sort of thing he should be doing.” Petra glared at Joelene.

“I agree,” she said, “but we have no choice.”

Petra stared coolly at me.

“You poor boy.

I have been so proud of you.” Her lips trembled. “I remember when you danced. You were so good. I watched you all the time. And I remember when