The first review of the Eff It List© was posted on CNET earlier this morning. Jen reads it aloud at breakfast:

“Eff It List©: though it has some bug issues, ex-super models Day and Marcy Darling’s debut app is worth checking out. The app challenges its users to record and post a new experience (NewEx©) every day. Fun idea, but the delivery could use some polish. 3 out of 5 stars.”

John looks more haggard than the rest of us. He angrily spoons creatine into his orange juice. “Pure shite.”

Franky cuts a roasted tomato and dips it in cottage cheese. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger like an insect then bites and swallows, gags, and recovers. I watch her do this two more times.

“We’ve got busy lives,” Franky tells me, sipping mint tea, “but we always make time to have breakfast and an after-dinner drink together. Every day. That’s the house rule.”

The Mess Hall, as they call it, is designed to look like a Parisian brasserie with marble countertops and brass finishes. The booths are red; the floors are checkered. There’s a buffet that no one touches and a Greek yogurt fridge that can never stay stocked. I go to the buffet and load my plate up. When I sit down at Franky’s booth, she asks if I’m worried I’ll get fat.

“They can make you egg whites, ya know” she tells me.

“I can’t get fat,” I say, “I stay the same weight no matter what I eat.”

“Lucky dog,” says Franky and fingers her cottage cheese.

“Where are Marcy and Day?” I ask.

She abandons her breakfast and pushes it to the middle of the table. “They don’t eat with us peasants.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm” she says.

“Why are you, like, being nice to me?”

She eyes me thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Ya seem nice.”

“What if I’m not nice?”

Franky scratches her head. “At least you’re cute.”

My face feels hot. Throat’s tight. Am I sweating? I’ve got to get out of here. I excuse myself.

A staff member stops me in the hall to say that my suite is ready. I spent last night in Casey's guest room, though I don't remember going to bed. Between the hours of 5am and 12:30pm, my mind stopped recording. I thought I drank a lot before I met the Irises, but they can just keep going. I can’t keep up with that. They probably don’t do that every night. I’m sure it was for the special occasion.

I'm given a brass key and led to the farthest door on the left. My name has recently been painted on the door in French Metropolitan font. The brass key clicks and I push the heavy iron door open.

The suite is ridiculously, unnecessarily large for just one person. It’s even bigger than Casey’s. The simple foyer opens to an industrial style living room. Black concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows which overlook an interior courtyard. Exposed Edison bulbs glow orange in their sockets. Street art adorns the walls. Topless girl with a gas mask, Molotov cocktail throwing flaming human.

I find the master bedroom and lay down on the king-sized bed staring up at the exposed rafters. I glance over at the walk-in closet. They brought my luggage in and hung my three shirts. The sight is depressing so I get up and explore the rest of the suite. There are three rooms in all. The first is my bedroom.

The second has a private wet-bar, fully stocked and a hot tub. LED lights in the hot tub change the color of the water every few minutes. You get to this room by walking straight through the living room and through French doors.

The third is a guest room, much like Casey’ except with the industrial design instead of his train station motif. Music plays softly somewhere inside the suite.

Two thousand miles away my twin bed is empty. My 5x5 dorm room is empty. The cheap wooden desk chair is stowed beneath its desk. And I’m here in New York City with a rainbow hot tub. Maybe this is okay for now. I can always leave. The thought comforts me and I feel myself relax into the bed. There's a knock at my door.

"Ready?" asks Franky. She's wearing a skirt and leggings and a scarf; scratching the back of her right calf with her left foot.

"For what?"

She loses her balance and I catch her. Our eyes meet. "Klutzy me” she says, getting to her feet.

I laugh.

“Anyway,” she says, a little flustered.

Is she blushing? Don’t flirt. I’m taken. Hang on. I’m not taken. I’m single.

“We’re picking our NewEx for the day” she says, smiling back, “c’mon."

Out in the hall, the group has gathered around a rolling chalkboard. I’m reminded again of how tall everyone is. Marcy and Day stand side-by-side, waiting patiently for everyone to arrive. I join the circle next to Franky and see what’s being written on the board:

John: streak through Grand Central. Approved.

“You are both late” says Marcy.

“Sorry, Marce” says Franky, “new boy got lost.”

Marcy eyes me and I nod. Day doesn’t look up from his phone.

“Right. What’s it going to be then, Franky?" Marcy asks, pointing her chalk at Franky’s name on the board.

"I've never ridden a bike" says Franky, shrugging.

Marcy writes: ‘Franky: ride a bike.’ She turns to address the group, "all in favor?"

Only Franky raises her hand. She nudges me and I raise mine too.

"Boo” says Jen.

"C’mon," pleads Franky, "I can’t think of anything today."

Marcy erases Franky’s NewEx with her sleeve. "Who's got one?"

"Total a car" says John.

"Have a one night stand" says Brandon.

"Base jump" says Casey.

"Kiss a stranger" says Jen.

Marcy writes: "Franky: kiss a stranger" and asks for a vote. Everyone votes for it except for Franky and me.

Franky crosses her arms. "That’s disgusting. I don't wanna do that."

Marcy writes: "Approved" next to her NewEx.

“I’m not doing that” Franky says.

Marcy checks the board for effect. “It was approved” she says calmly.

She continues down the list until she reaches my name. "How will we break your NewEx cherry, Fey?"

Franky cuts in, “I said I’m not doing it.”

Marcy turns on her heel. “You aren’t?” She annunciates each word, never breaking monotone. “Do the NewEx or piss off back to the south.”

Franky follows Marcy’s line of sight. She’s looking at the door. No one speaks.

“Alright, Marce,” says Franky, “jeez.”

Marcy returns her attention to me, totally unfazed. “Ready, Fey?”

My stomach drops as the group waits for my response. I don’t want something as embarrassing given to me as Franky.

"I have a question," I say.

Day sighs. Marcy folds her arms and raises her eyebrows inquisitively.

“NewEx stands for New Experience?”

“Yessir” says Marcy, “it’s something you’ve always dreamed of doing.”

“Are there any other rules besides that?”

“It has to not suck” says Jen.

Casey laughs, giving up on the cigarette he’s been trying to light for the past minute. I’ve never been asked about my dreams before.

“Okay,” I say, feeling a rush of excitement, “I have something.”

"You don’t have anything," Marcy says, pointing her chalk at the group, "they decide your first."

"Sex in public" says John.

"Mug someone" says Jen.

"Jesus," I say under my breath.

"Ice skate" says Franky, giving me a wink.

"Boo," says Jen, “go home, Franky.”

"Shoplift" says Brandon.

Marcy writes: "Fey: will shoplift" and asks for a vote.

Don’t pass. Please don’t pass.

Six votes approve it. I have my NewEx.

“No way,” I say quietly, “how will I do that?”

Franky leans in and whispers, “at least you don’t have to kiss a damn stranger.”

"Then it's settled, Miss Clavel," says Marcy. She gives the rolling chalkboard a shove and it wheels across the hall. "All the children are accounted for."

The group starts to head out through the double doors.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

John hits me on the back. He is way too strong to make that playful. "This one’s quick, eh?"

"Figure it out," says Marcy. She follows the group out and pauses at the door: “whatever you end up doing, get it on video."

"In the app?" I ask.

She slams the door behind her without given an answer.

I can't tell you why I chose Tiffany's. It all boils down to the few things I know about New York City. I don't know much, but I'm very familiar with Holly Golightly's favorite shop. I could have shoplifted gum from Duane Reade, but I didn’t want to let the group down with a crappy first post. That, and the fact that each of these NewExs gets rated; I’d rather not be the guy who has a rating of 3.

I call an Uber and tell them to take me to the nearest Tiffany’s. He’s got to look it up on his phone.

“97 Greene” he says.

“Sure” I say.

The ride over costs me $15. If I’m going to live in New York, I’ll have to learn the subway system. I’ll run out of money in a month if I keep using Uber.

An impeccably dressed guy with manicured eyebrows holds the door open for me. I’ve never actually been inside a jewelry store. It looks like everything’s just been vacuumed. It’s super intimidating. I can’t afford anything here.

“Can I help you find something?” asks eyebrows.

“Just browsing” I say.

“Please let me know if you need something.”

Why was I thinking it would be out in the open? Of course, it’s going to be under glass. I need to stop imagining what jail will be like. I need to think of a plan.

Plan #1: The most obvious way to steal jewelry is to ask a sales associate to see something. Can I look at that broach? That bracelet? No, not the sterling silver one. The real silver one. Your jewelry is removed from the case and laid carefully on the polished glass countertop.

You hold it up to the light and check the color. No, you say, your girlfriend would not like this. Perhaps the bracelet on the other side with the jade. Yes, that will be the one. The sales associate excuses herself and steps away.

That’s when you make your move. Bracelet goes in the pocket. Walk, don’t run, but walk quickly. Let them open the door for you. Out you go.

Plan #2: Go through the process of picking out the perfect bracelet. Look at a bunch of them—more than ten. Be really picky. Ask questions. When you settle on one ask to see the necklace that pairs with the bracelet. They will step away, confident that you will be purchasing not one, but two items. Bracelet goes in the pocket. See end of plan one.

I go with plan 2. The sales associate is a guy so my scenario is already thrown off. He’s a fake blonde and his name is Rick.

“Your contacts are gorge,” he tells me, “where do you get them?”

“Amazon,” I say, looking over the bracelets.

“They always give me pink eye,” he continues, “what’s your trick?”

Must act important. Important people are rude so I ignore his question and point to the platinum diamond charm bracelet. He’s impressed by my choice.

“Would you like to try it on?”

“It’s not for me.”

He places a piece of teal cloth on the counter and displays the bracelet on it. “You can change the charms, you know, if you don’t like crabs.”

I bite my lip try to slow my breathing. “Let me see this one instead.”

He replaces the charm bracelet and takes out the new one. “This is our Ten Chain Heart Bracelet. Would you like to…” he catches himself, “sorry. It’s not for you.”

I send that one and the next four back. Nothing catches my interest. I am less and less enthusiastic about each bracelet. I ask if they have anything new in. Something really new and he says he’ll check. He walks away and I notice he’s left the counter door open. Now, Fey. Do it now. He’ll be back in a second. I take my phone out and open the app.

It’s loading. Jesus. It’s loading. Come on. The app loads and I tap the ‘NewEx’ button and it begins recording.

With the phone in one hand, I throw myself on the counter and reach for the nearest piece of jewelry—an 18-karat brooch. It’s just out of reach so I push my whole weight on the counter and hear something crack. I grab the brooch and quickly turn the phone to film my prize. I’m certain a security guard will come out and tackle me. I run for the front door. So much for making a cool exit.

The greeter with the eyebrows holds the door open and thanks me for choosing Tiffany’s. I’m outside running down the street. I keep looking over my shoulder, just waiting to see someone chasing me, but there’s no one. I round the corner see a subway entrance. Now’s a good a time as any to learn the subway system. I buy a metro card and take the subway back, laughing like an idiot the whole way back.

It’s 4:30pm and I’ve made it back to the school before anyone else. I slip the stolen brooch into my jeans pocket and double check that the NewEx was posted. Not only was it posted, I’ve already gotten views but no rating yet.

I get a beer from my bar. I drink it and reflect on how much I like the sound of ‘my bar’. I have one of those ‘am I really doing this’ moments. Did I really pack up and leave my old life to start a new one? Or is this temporary?

I’m here now and that means something. It means I made a decision by myself. Focus on that. I followed through with something. I’m in my own suite drinking my beer from my bar with stolen Tiffany jewelry in my pocket. Yeah, I did that.

Feeling pretty damn good at this point, I give myself a tour of the school. I start with the courtyard. From the courtyard, you can look into the suites next door. The blinds are closed on whoever is to the right of me. The suite on the left side is modern with a minimalistic light wood and glass look.

It’s simple and appealing. I wonder who lives there. On the opposite side of the courtyard are classrooms. I guess they haven’t gotten to renovating those yet. When I’ve finished the courtyard tour, I take myself out to the hall and up the spiral staircase.

At the top of the stairs stretches a long hallway, ordained with more street art. I see Dr. Devon Russel, the scientist who discovered the Iris gene, in the mural. He’s been drawn to look like Dr. Frankenstein in the famous movie scene. His rubber gloved hands reach to the sky, praising the lightning that brought his creature to life. I notice that the creature beneath the sheet has an erection.

I follow the hallway. It leads to another banquet hall. The entryway is a cartoony sun with a big grin and flushed cheeks. “Luna Park” shines in bright carnival lights above it. There isn’t a single booth or chair in the hall, only a disco ball in the very center with the words “no dancing” painted on it.

I think the school must end here, but then I see a fire escape and take it. The bright light of the industrial stairway blinds me. The staircase to the third story is roped off so I go down. Back on the first floor, I exit into an arcade. It looks like the arcades you see in 80s movies. Rows and rows of video games. Black lights on the ceiling. Everything is glowing and grunts and explosion sound effects echo through the place.

I find my way through the snaking arcade back to the main hall. I hear laughter and smell food in the Mess Hall. Inside, the group has pushed a couple tables together. Marcy sits on the edge of the table, phone in hand, reading people's NewEx results. She’s wearing a different outfit from this morning. Black tights, black shirt, long khaki vest, white strappy wedges.

"Franky, you got a rating 6.3," she says, "who did you end up kissing?"

Franky slams her head down on the table. "Ughhh this guy from NYU."

"Coulda kissed me," says John, twirling a ringlet of her hair on his finger.

She pulls her hair back. "You're not a stranger, jackass."

John looks hurt. “Who says?"

Marcy continues reading: "Fey? Where's Fey?"

"Right here."

"Bad news, newbie. You got a 4.2" says Marcy.

Brandon laughs and my face goes red.

"No way, I stole from Tiffany's. That's got to afford me at least a 7."

"Let's see what you filmed" says Marcy, tapping my NewEx video.

The group gathers around to watch it. The video shows some out-of-focus jewelry. It must have started recording when I put the phone on the counter.

"Your contacts are gorge," says the muffled voice of the Tiffany's sales assistant, "where'd you get them?"

"Amazon” replies a nervous Fey.

And with that, the video ends.

"What the hell was that?" laughs Jen.

"Great video, bro" says Casey, hitting me a little too hard in the shoulder. “Look at the leaderboard!”

Eff It List© Leaderboard

1. Marcy

2. Stefani

3. Jen

4. John

5. Casey

6. Franky

7. Brandon

8. Day

9. Jin-ho

10. Fey

Last place. I take Marcy's phone and replay the video.

"But I filmed that whole thing. Where's the rest of it?"

"The app is programed to take eight seconds of footage, randomly, from your NewEx," explains Marcy, "if the whole experience isn't worth watching, none of it will be."

"He faked it,” says Stefani, “move on to my rating.”

I take the brooch from my pocket and toss it to her. "Look at my clothes and tell me I could afford this."

Stefani shoots me a dirty look, “don’t throw shit at me.”

"Cheeky bastard," laughs John.

Marcy takes her phone back. "You'll do better tomorrow, Fey," she says plainly, "if you don’t, you go home."

That’s it? I get two chances? I’m not going back to my shit apartment in the LA ghetto. I’m not going back to my old life. Tomorrow I’m going to ace the NewEx. I can’t fail out of this project.

The flight attendant seals the door and Marcy squeezes my hand. She doesn’t take her eyes off the tarmac. I know what she’s thinking: this will be the last time I see New York.

“It’s going to be alright,” I tell her.

Her voice is far away: “I’ll be dead before we land.”

I touch her chin and she looks at me, but her eyes are glossy.

“It will work this time,” I tell her, “things will turn in our favor.”

The engines fire on and whatever she said is drowned out. If the miracle drug doesn’t work, Marcy will be dead in two hours. If the miracle drug doesn’t work, I’ll be dead in three weeks. And who will be waiting for us when we land? More paparazzi?

I lean on her shoulder and smell her skin. She smells like smoke. My throat tenses and the anxiety rushes over me as I realize this really could be our last moments together. I squeeze her hand and know she’s thinking the same thing.

When we land, who will leave this plane?

In three-weeks I’ll be twenty-two and my time will be up. No Iris has made it past their expiration date.

I could be among friends right now. I could have stayed in Los Angeles and spent the last months with my family.

But I never would have met her. Marcy Darling. My Marcy. Marce behind doors. Darling in public. My mentor. My alpha. My friend. My obsession.

The only other living Iris.

The last of our kind.

We are Siberian tigers going extinct together at 600 miles an hour.

Take a picture. We won’t last long.

Just eight months ago, Marcy’s letter showed up in my P.O. box. I could never accept mail to my apartment—too many creepy Iris stalkers sending suicide notes and love letters.

I knew it was her as soon as I saw the Darlings’ logo: DⱭ. A capital D and its reflection. As recognizable as the Nike symbol. The handmade stationary was spritzed with Marcy’s perfume. It read:

Dear Fey,

The Darlings® request your presence at PS 111 in one week's time. Evening, 7:30. - DⱭ

I dropped out of college and broke the lease on my studio apartment. I was leaving Los Angeles, headed for a foreign city to spend my final days with the last members of my generation. Thinking back, I couldn’t tell you why I was so impulsive. I should have been planning my funeral. Making final arrangements. Writing a Will for all the shit I don’t have. It sounds stupid, but all I can think of is Marcy’s perfume. That lingering sweetness that would fade with time.

I didn’t come to New York to become famous. Obviously, I knew who Marcy was. She and her brother Day have been household names since their birth. Two mixed model babies with fatal diseases? Give those kids fashion lines! Give them TV spots and Instagram pages and agents and fans. So many fans. There were twenty children born with the Iris disease and the Darlings twins were undoubtedly the most famous. I never wanted fame.

My parents had intentionally kept me out of the lime light and I was okay with that. But when the cheerleader asks the mathlete to prom, he doesn’t think of an excuse.

“My clock is ticking,” Marcy says, stirring me from my thoughts, “do you wish things had been different?”

[Want a free copy? Message me and I will gift you the Kindle version of Darlings :) ] 

Phase One

About eight months ago

Chapter 1

The landing wakes me up.

“Welcome to John F. Kennedy airport. The local time is 6:48pm and the temperature is a brisk 38 degrees with chance of snow. We’ll be pulling into the terminal shortly. Thank you for flying American.”

By the time I get to the taxi line, I’m exhausted. My cab driver’s name is Luis. The flash must have surprised him because he's squinting in his driver ID photo. I give him the address of PS 111 and shut my eyes. When I open them, we’ve arrived.

“Forty-five” he says.

“Where are we?”

“Alphabet city,” he said, “forty-five.”

I hand him my debit card and he points to the machine on the back of his seat. I swipe the card and nothing happens.

“It’s not working” I say.

“Machine’s broken? Cash only.”

“I don’t have cash.”

He sighs loudly and fumbles for something under the passenger seat. When his hand appears in the divider window, I see it’s his phone with a credit card swiper attached.

“I thought it was broken” I say.

He doesn’t respond. It asks me how much to charge to the card and I enter $55.00 as the amount.

“Receipt?” he asks, snatching the phone back.

“No.”

He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Most tip 18% in cash.”

“I don’t have cash.”

He blows out his breath and I get out of the cab. In front of me stands a three-story redbrick building with a basketball court in the front yard and a huge cast iron gate. “P.S. 111” is written in yellow paint above the faded blue doors. At one point, it had been a public school. And by the look of it, not too long ago.

I get my bag out of the trunk and the cab drives away before I can close it. A light rain is falling and I hurry across the basketball court and up the steps. I give a hard knock. There’s no answer. It’s unlocked so I let myself in.

“Hello?” I call.

While the exterior of the school has been left the same, the inside is totally remodeled. It looks like a hotel lobby from the turn of the century. I recognize the architecture from my Intro to Art class. It’s early 20th century French. I couldn’t tell you the name of the architect, but I know the style is called Art Nouveau. The floor is dark mahogany and the walls are white with big Banksy murals. I have the same Girl with a Balloon in my dorm room. Except I’ve got a poster and this looks like the real thing. Did they hire Banksy? How can you hire Banksy?

Twisted gold Degas’ ballerina statues adorn the spiral staircase in the room’s center. There are eight black doors on one either side of the massive hall. Some of the doors have names: Franky, John, Jen, Jin-ho, Casey, Stefani, Brandon, Marcy, and Day. The rest are blank.

The door marked “Franky” opens and a girl steps out in Lululemon yoga pants and Ugg boots. She’s gamine, thin and boyish with black pixie hair. She isn’t wearing anything under her “we can be internet friends” tank top, though there isn’t much to cover.

Franky notices me and calls: “you’re early!” in a cute Southern twang.

I check my watch. It hasn’t been changed for New York time. “What time was I supposed to get here?”

“Y’all are here for tonight’s party?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, “the message didn’t say.”

She purses her lips and crosses the hall. With the hall being so large, this takes a long awkward minute. When she finally reaches me, she leans in far too close and looks me up and down.

My heart pounds and I feel a little sick. Her hair is auburn and she has freckles on her nose. I try not to look uncomfortable. She stops her search when she sees my eyes.

“Hot damn,” she gasps, “you’re the last one, aren’t ya?”

Her eyes dart back and forth. I realize this is the first time I’ve met another Iris. It’s eerie seeing the signs in another person. Her eyes are brown and green. Do I really look like that?

I break the awkward silence by offering a hand, “I’m Fey.”

“Fey?” she laughs, “that’s a girl’s name. I have an Aunt Faye. Did your mom hate you?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“You kinda look like a girl,” she continues, “Do you like boys? What’s your full name?” she asks all at once, still looking from one eye to the other like they might change colors if she looks fast enough.

I nervously glance away and she giggles. Franky yells “Stef, c’mere and meet Aunt Faye.”

Another door opens and Stefani pokes her head out. “You invited your aunt?” she asks.

She’s in a black bikini, tall and thin. Her pale skin clashes with her shock of raven hair. She’s just as striking as Franky, albeit in a totally different way. Like they’d been designed by the same artists in different phases of his life.

“Hey,” I say, offering a hand. She, like Franky, doesn’t shake it.

“Who’s this? Party’s at 9” says Stefani.

I lower my hand and don’t meet their eye contact.

“He ain’t here for the party,” Franky answers for me, “he’s the guy.”

“Aunt Faye?” asks Stefani, putting a hand on her hip.

“I’m Fey,” I say, “just Fey.”

“What’s your full name?” repeats Franky.

“It’s worse than the nickname” I tell her, feeling my cheeks redden.

“Isn’t he pretty?” asks Franky, pinching my chin, “Like a girl, huh?”

“Can one of you explain what’s going on?” asks Stefani.

Franky ignores her. “Which one of your parents picked the name?”

“My dad, I think.”

“That explains it,” says Franky, matter-of-factly, “your parents are still together?”

“No.”

“That explains that.”

“Explains what?” asks Stefani.

“His name” laughs Franky.

“What’s his name?”

“Fey” I repeat angrily.

Stefani laughs. “That’s a girl’s name.”

Why are they so close? Neither of them care about personal space. Stefani leans so close I can feel her hot breath. She also has heterochromia. The same colors as Franky’s, but a little greener in the left eye.

“The hell?” she asks, staring into my eyes, “Those are fake.”

“Nope,” says Franky, “he’s the last Iris.”

“I remember him having a weird name, but come on… Fey?” Stefani laughs.

“I get it,” I say, “my name’s weird.”

Franky’s face lights up, “we’re making him uncomfortable. Want to go skinny dippin’ with us, Fey?”

A door opens and slams shut. The interruption saves me from answering Franky’s question. Casey’s shirtless in board shorts, tan and cut. I feel like a skeleton by comparison.

He sees his reflection in the marble ballerina statue and casually flexes a tricep. “We goin’ swimmin’ or what?”

When the girls don’t answer, he jogs over.

“Who’s this?” he asks, looking me up and down like an intruder.

“Fey” says Franky, “he’s the last Iris.”

“That right, guy?” He asks, shaking my hand a little too hard. “Casey,” he says and notices my bag. “These bitches didn’t even show the guy to his room? Stop pesterin’ him. C’mon, guy.”

I’m lead across the hall to the last door on the left. Casey tries the doorknob. “Shit” he says, “still locked. You’ll haveta talk to the head honcho.”

“Marcy?”

“Yup,” he says, brushing nothing off his abs.

I can’t help but stare at his flat stomach. How does that even happen?

“Never met her” I say.

He checks to see that we’re alone and says, “some advice, bro. She’s a steel trap. Nothin’ you can do with her.”

“Got it…” I say, “know where I can find her?”

“She and her bro are getting their NewEx done.”

“NewEx?”

“Ehh,” he tilts his head and considers an explanation, “better let them explain all the rules of the house. You can hang out in my room until they get back.”

“Thanks.”

We enter the suite labeled ‘Casey’. It looks like a train station depot inside. Exposed brick, wooden benches, even a chalkboard time table that never changes. He opens a door marked ‘to trains’ and the inside looks like an office. An old wooden desk sits in the corner with an oscillating metal fan. There’s a bed propped up on steamer trunks.

“Make yourself at home till’ they get back” he says, “then get the fuck out of my place.”

I set my bag down and look around. “Are you into trains or something?”

He shrugs. “To tell ya the truth, I got no clue why the twins made our rooms up like this.”

“Does everyone’s room look like a train station?”

“Nah,” says Casey, “everyone’s place looks different.”

“Pretty cool” I say.

He scratches his elbow. “Pretty cool” he repeats dully. “Time for me to get to the pool. Girls are waiting.”

“I’m gonna lay down for a bit” I tell him.

He’s already out the door. “Whatever.”

I flop onto the bed, not bothering to remove my jacket. A terrible thought surfaces before I fall asleep: what the fuck am I doing here?

My phone wakes me up from a dreamless nap. It’s mom. When she calls, her contact picture is Van Gogh’s self-portrait. Her favorite painting. I consider answering, but I’d have to explain the plane ticket charged to her credit card. I’ll have that conversation once I know what I’m doing here.

I let it go to voicemail. After a moment, the phone vibrates again and I get a notification saying I have 12 new voicemails. Ugh boy.

It's dark in the train station guest room. I feel my way back to the front door. I'm blinded by the bright lights of the hall. There are rows of tables and string lights and a full-size stage. The singer is in this white sleeveless dress and white Ray-Bans and she keeps flicking the mic. Whatever she’s saying is lost because it’s not on.

There's no sign of the Irises. Only staff members, dressed in white tie attire adjusting red pillows and adding bottles of champagne to ice filled buckets. The decadence is overwhelming. Little cocktail napkins with the Darlings’ logo. A gift basket at each seat. Wrapped inside the gold cellophane is a bottle of Hudson Valley vodka, cigarillos, and a custom iPhone: matte black with the Darlings’ logo where the Apple logo usually is.

"...with you in your worn-out jeans," booms the singer’s voice over the microphone, “ooh, oh. Jason, what’s up with the lights?”

The PA, this strung-out guy in a polo shirt, shrugs.

I sit on a couch near the stage and rub the sleep out of my eyes. There’s a champagne bucket at my feet and I check my reflection in the ice bucket--bloodshot eyes, messy hair. My shirt is wrinkled, pants are stained, shoes are worn out. I look homeless.

A voice startles me: “Sir?”

It belongs to a bald man in a tuxedo. He’s looking over his glasses at me.

"Your section is this way” he says.

He leads me to a roped-off area in the middle of the room. There are reserved signs for each table: Wired, People, PC Magazine, CNET. My section, labeled ‘VIP’, has the couches facing each other. A round love seat sits in the middle. Looking top-down, you'd see an eyeball.

The guests flood in. They try to talk over the music. They shake hands, exchange business cards, take pictures. Wired admires the Banksy murals. The New York Times are having trouble opening their champagne. YouTube takes a team selfie on their couch bed. When the song ends, the lights dim and a spotlight moves to the spiral staircase in the center of the hall. The Irises descend the staircase. They look unimpressed, bored even. Seven in all, they move gracefully to pose before the photographers. The camera flashes have a strobe light effect, putting their walk in slow motion.

The band performs "Bad Blood" and the crowd applauds. John, Casey, Jin-ho, and Brandon wear suits. GQ, fits-perfectly, damn-I-look-good suits. Even Brandon, the little person, looks extravagant in his tailored suit. He’s an unbelievable sight—a strong jaw, sculpted cheekbones and well-manicured scruff atop the body of a child.

Jen and Stefani wear cocktail dresses with high heels. Franky's in skinny jeans and a leather jacket. The girls are waifish, tall, ethereal. They float towards me on six inch stilettos, their graceful movement punctuated by camera flashes.

The Irises join the hobo kid, in the VIP section. I'm on the loveseat in the center of the eye and they don't seem to notice me until the houselights turn back on.

"You lost?" asks John. His Scottish accent is rough and I’ve got to concentrate to understand him.

“What?” I mutter.

"That's Fey," says Franky, “isn’t he pretty?”

John opens the champagne, sending the cork into the crowd. "He your joy boy?"

"No, no,” she says, “he's one of us."

Jen doesn’t look up from her phone. "No shit?"

"Haw haw" bellows John, picking me up off the seat. He gives me a squeeze and sets me down.

Jen comes to the loveseat and shoves me down. She straddles me and pries my eyelids open. Why do they keep doing this to me?

"Uh huh, I see,” she says eyeballing me, “you're the lucky boy with the blue and green peepers. He is pretty."

I pull away and blink. My throat tightens. Don’t have a panic attack right now. Don’t have a panic attack right now.

Jen looks over her shoulder at the group, beaming. I see a Tank Girl tattoo on her neck. "He’s so confident in his looks he thinks he doesn’t need to try” she laughs.

My stomach turns. "That’s not true. I just…"

She slaps me hard and gets off. "Who asked you?"

I touch the handprint on my face. Jen tousles my hair like I'm 5. I shoot her a look of pure hatred.

“This thing is Jen,” says Casey, kicking her in the butt, “and that big mofo is John.”

“I know,” I say, still rubbing the handprint. “I watched you coming out of the Dakota.”

"Hoity-toity fan boy” laughs John, “who don't you know here?"

"I know all of you," I say, looking around the group, "you're Jin-ho, Brandon…”

"Is he still talking?" asks Brandon kicking his feet over the edge of the couch.

Casey passes me the champagne and flashes a smirk at Brandon. “Did you say something, Tyrion?”

Brandon spits at Casey and misses. Jen looks revolted.

“Nasty little shit” she grumbles.

I look for a glass to pour the champagne into, but there isn’t one. The group watches to see what I'll do. I take a swig straight from the bottle. Casey takes the bottle back and drinks himself.

I notice Franky studying me, elbows on her knees, "how old are you Fey?"

I take another drink. "21."

She shakes her head. “No, I mean, how many months you got left?"

The question catches me by surprise. "About eight," I say quietly.

"Woo-wee," she hollers, "how ’bout that? Brandon's got four.”

“Could you not?” asks Brandon, grabbing the champagne bottle.

“Six for me," Franky continues, ignoring Brandon.

"Cut that out!" Brandon snaps. He holds the empty bottle up and a staff member takes it.

"About eight," says Franky in a little voice, "he’s the baby of the group."

I smile and feel my face redden. I wonder if Franky is like this with everyone. I look at the floor, hoping more champagne will come soon. The more I drink the easier it will be to stay grounded. I can’t have a panic attack in front of these guys. First impressions are everything. Isn’t that what they say?

“What do you think, Fey?” Franky asks, gesturing to the stage.

“Pretty cool. The cover band is a little random.”

Jen is talking to Franky and she’s trying to carry two conversations at once now. “Cover band?” she asks.

“The Taylor Swift cover band” I say, pointing at the singer.

Franky laughs, holding a finger up to Jen. “That is Taylor.”

I squint at the singer. “Seriously?”

“Uh huh. Marcy’s known her forever. They’re, like, BFF.”

The lights dim and an excitement stirs through the crowd. My mouth is still open as I watch Taylor lower the mic to watch.

“Here come the beautiful people” whispers Franky.

Photographers gather at the foot of the staircase, DSLRs in hand. The Darlings are coming. They wear their patented expressionless white masks and matching black pea coats. The band plays a slow rendition of “You Belong With me”. Marcy walks with the gait of a runway model, hands in pocket, quick confident steps down the stairs. Day has a very different, nonchalant stride. When they reach the bottom, the twins stop to pose. The crowd goes silent.

The song slows to a crawl and they remove their masks at the same time. Cameras flash, the music swells, the crowd goes berserk. This marks their first public appearance sans-masks. Their faces, as it was said in the Netflix documentary, were for the runway. Now they’re for everyone. The house lights go on and the party tries its best to resume.

Marcy and Day part the crowd and take their seats in the VIP section between John and Jen. I thought the other Iris girls were pretty, but Marcy is aggressively beautiful. She has a layered bob, her hair slightly wavy. Her lips are full and naturally a dark pink. She doesn’t wear makeup.

Doesn’t need to. Her skin, like Day’s, is a light mocha. Somewhere between ebony and perfectly tan. Her dress is simple and black and shows off her long legs. Ankles together, she leans forward to take her champagne glass. No drinking from the bottle for her.

Day drinks from a copper hip flask, savoring whatever it’s filled with. His head is shaved. His cheekbones are sharp. The twins have milky blue eyes, though each has a bright white ring around one. Marcy’s left eye; Day’s right.

Jen whispers something into Marcy's ear and she nods. A staff member brings Marcy the microphone and she stands to address the guests. The spotlight finds her and she looks directly into the light. I think she does that to make her eyes glitter.

The staff circles the VIP section with hors d’oeuvres and I take far too many and shove brie on toast into my mouth, entranced by the show.

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" she asks.

Her audience laughs on cue. They do not have somewhere better to be.

I’ve never heard her voice before. She never did interviews and never spoke during fashion shows. It’s deeper than I imagined. Her inflections are sharp, syllables tight.

Marcy checks her watch, "in eleven minutes, the world will change and you will be at ground zero when it happens."

She drops the mic into the ice bucket and lights a cigarette. "Did you sign the contract?"

It takes me a second to realize she's talking to me. "Wha?” I choke through a mouth of champagne.

She smokes, watching me with a face expressionless as her mask. My mind races.

I swallow.

“Oh, yeah. The contract. Should I… get it?"

She doesn’t respond.

I excuse myself and hurry to Casey's room.

Great first impression, jackass. As if I didn’t already look like shit, I have to act like a child too. I curse myself for being such a beta loser. Not only do I show up to a white-tie gala in dirty skater shoes and a hoodie, I didn't even sign the contract. I need another drink.

In the safety of Casey’s room, I allow myself a mini panic attack. When I spot the wet bar in Casey’s suite, it begins to subside. I pocket a fifth of vodka and find the guest room in the dark and drink. Once I can breathe again, I get my phone from under the bed and turn on the flashlight. I get the crumpled contract from my bag and look for a pen. I find one on the guest room's desk and I sign the contract and put the bottle back.

I hear a voice booming from the hall: "10, 9," it counts, "8, 7..."

I run back outside, through the crowd.

"4, 3," counts the singer.

I make it to the couch and give Marcy the contract. She takes me by the arm.

"2, 1."

The guests turn to watch as Marcy pulls me up on the loveseat. We stand on the pupil of the VIP section's eyeball, lit by camera flashes, and Marcy raises my hand above my head, still holding the contract. Banners fall from the rafters. On them are written: "WE'RE LIVE".

They cheer and the singer quiets them with a raised fist. She reads from a notecard: “The 120,000 people who downloaded the alpha, as well as the rest of the world, now have full access to the Eff It List©. Hoorah. Hoorah.”

The Wired team already has their new phones out. I watch the crowd playing with the app, recording the banners, posting their first NewExs.

Marcy touches my chin. We’re the same height. Her eyes flash, glittering in the spotlight. "You came” she says, “I so hoped you would”.

I learned the truth about dreams the weekend of my sixteenth birthday. It was the day before winter break, right when the leaves had begun to die and the nights were long. We were in drama class, rehearsing scenes for the holiday play—Romeo and Juliet—bound to leave the audience with a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Kelly and Brian hurried past my desk to the front of the room.

“Good luck” I whispered, and when I turned back, the cat was gone.

Kelly pulled on her fake beard and spit out a hair. She was Romeo; a full-bearded thirteen-year-old. Brian was her Juliet, standing on Mr. Hernandez’s desk in a plus-sized floral muumuu. He must have raided his grandma’s closet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Hernandez said from the back of the classroom.

Kelly took a knee and looked longingly at Brian who was searching the classroom for his Romeo.

Then Kelly broke into song. Not softly; she belted it: “Don’t thee ev’r sayeth I just walked awayeth, I shall at each moment wanteth thee.”

I had to cover my mouth from laughing when I saw Mr. Hernandez’s jaw drop. The class’ laughter didn’t stop Kelly. She only sung louder

“Okay, thank you!” said Mr. Hernandez from the back of the classroom.

Kelly and Brian took a bow. Mr. Hernandez helped Brian down from the desk and they took their seats to the applause of the class. I couldn’t tell if Mr. Hernandez was about to yell or burst into laughter.

“Right,” Mr. Hernandez said, clutching his copy of Romeo and Juliet in a death grip, “I didn’t know there would be so much… improv on the Bard’s work.”

The bell rang and Mr. Hernandez had to shout over us: “rehearsal tomorrow morning! And Kelly; an encore with the actual words, please!”

Kelly and I waited for Brian outside. He was trying to pull the muumuu off and get his backpack on at the same time.

Brian joined us on the lawn. The trailer classrooms were lined up against the back fence and we had to cross the soccer field to get back to campus. I spotted Trevor by the goal. He ran over and picked me up and spun me. A long-standing tradition ever since we were kids. It used to be cute, but now it drew tons of attention and made people think we were dating.

“Put me down!” I said.

He did. I flattened my shirt and saw he was smiling.

“We made it!” he said.

“It’s just winter break,” I said, “it comes every year.”

Kelly sighed. “Can we go? I don’t want to spend another minute at school.”

We headed across campus and through the treacherous parking lot. We said our goodbyes and Brian and Kelly made their way to the bus.

“I can walk you home if you want,” Trevor said.

Why was he acting weird? He never walked me home.

I shrugged. “If you want.”

We took the meadow behind the school. A crisp winter breeze blew through the field, carrying the smell of orange blossoms. On either side of our path was shoulder-high brush, tan from the sun. Ojai may be boring, but it is beautiful. A hidden pink valley of orange and avocado trees, far from L.A.’s smoggy reach.

Trevor wasn't talking. Every time I stole a glance at him, he looked deathly serious. When we got to my street, he stopped walking. He had this really intense look like he was about to say something important.

I didn’t like it when he was serious. “Trev?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. “Listen, I’ve gotta tell you something, Mar.”

His eyebrows tensed, making his freckles dance. My heart pounded. What was he doing?

A car rounded the cul-de-sac and we had to get out of the way. We waited on the sidewalk in awkward silence. It drove down the street and slammed on its breaks. A man had seemingly appeared right in front of the car. I squinted, second guessing what I’d just seen.

“Did you see that?” I asked Trevor.

He blew out his breath and humored me, following my line of sight. “What, the car? Yeah, it’s a crappy Buick.”

“Not the car. The guy in the street.”

He rolled his eyes. “So, what?”

“He just appeared there. I swear he wasn’t in the street a second ago.”

Trevor looked annoyed.

“Sorry, what were you going to tell me?”

He hesitated. “Forget it. I’ll tell you later.”

The car honked its horn and swerved around the man. I saw that he was dressed entirely in black and his face was super pale. Like that killer from the Scream movies. It gave me the creeps. Then, like a horror movie, he started towards us. It unsettled me so much I grabbed Trevor’s hand.

“Come on” I said, pulling him towards my house.

It was the last house on the street. Right at the end of the cul-de-sac. The black figure watched us the entire way. We hurried inside and I slammed the door behind us.

My mom looked up from the kitchen table.

“Hey guys,” she said, “what’s up?”

She saved her work and closed the laptop. I let go of Trevor’s hand. I’d forgotten I was holding it. My mom raised an eyebrow at us.

Trevor had a smile glued to his face. “Hi, Mrs. Quinn.”

“Mom,” I said, “there’s some weird guy outside.”

She cocked her head. “Weird how?”

“He’s standing in the middle of the street, dressed in, like, a costume” I said.

Before I could say another word, she was at the window. As she looked out, she absentmindedly fingered the sapphire necklace my dad had given her. I didn’t like that. She only did this when she was deeply worried.

“I don’t see him,” she said.

Her face was pale. She was squeezing the necklace so tightly that her knuckles went white. This wasn’t like her. She was always so calm.

“Probably a tourist,” I said, now trying to sound nonchalant, “trying to find main street or something.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she let go of the necklace. With two jobs and the mortgage my dad had left us, my mom was working around the clock. She didn’t need more stress. 

“I’d better get home,” Trevor said, “promised my dad I’d hang Christmas lights.”

Mom closed the curtain and composed herself. “Nice seeing you, Trevor. Wish your parents a Merry Christmas from us.”

“I will,” he said.

“Watch out for tourists,” I told him, and I meant it.

That night, we ordered pizza and a movie. By the time Totoro and Mei were waiting at the bus stop, my mom had fallen asleep.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” she said, not opening her eyes.

“Bed.”

She stretched and stood. “You gonna stay up?”

It was 10:30.

“Yeah,” I chuckled.

“Mmkay,” she said sleepily. Then her eyes snapped open and she pointed to the time on the VCR we didn’t use anymore. “Midnight!”

“Mom, don’t. Please don’t.”

“Happy happy birthday,” she sang, “you’re older, so good luck! If you drop dead tomorrow, who really gives a bleep!”

She’d learned the song from the Blamorama’s, the sports bar she worked at before her online job. Each birthday, the I got to hear more of the lyrics.

“Mooooom seriously,” I moaned, happy that no one was here to have heard that.

She gave me a hug. “Happy birthday, Mar.”

I watched her disappear down the hall and heard the bedroom door close. My phone vibrated.

Trevor: What r u doing?

Mara: Watching a movie

Trevor: My Neighbor Totoro?

Mara: Duh

Trevor: Soo predictable.

Trevor: I’m going to bed. Talk tomorrow?

He hadn’t remembered to wish me a happy birthday.

Mara: Sure. Night.

He totally forgot my birthday. My best friend forgot my birthday. I shoved the phone deep into the couch. At some point, I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. I was awoken by my phone. The TV screen was black. Trevor was calling.

I answered. “Trevor?” I whispered

“Happy birthday,” he said.

I checked the time. It was 4:19 in the morning. “Why are you calling so late?”

“You were born at 4:19, dummy.”

I smiled so hard it felt like my lips would tear. “That’s… sweet,” I whispered.

A knock at the door startled me so badly that I dropped the phone. My heart was racing as I dropped to the floor to get it.

“Trevor?” I whispered, “are you here?”

“No, why?”

My throat tried to seize the words. “Someone just knocked at my door.”

The garage light hadn’t come on. Maybe the motion tracker batteries were dead. I wanted to stay on the floor and hide.

“Mom!” 

I heard her bedsprings shift and hid the phone in my pocket. I called her again and she was up, running down the hallway.

“Mara? Are you alright?” She ran to me and knelt, touching my forehead.

“I’m fine. Someone’s at the door.”

She stood and went to look out the peephole. “I can’t see anything,” she muttered.

The knock came again and we both jumped.

“Who is it!” she shouted.

There was no reply. I felt my heart pounding in my throat.

“Mom?” my voice was higher. It didn’t sound like my own.

She untied the necklace and held it in her fist. “Go to your room and wait until I come for you. Lock the door.”

“I’m not leaving you alone” I said, my voice shaking.

“Do as I say” she said and turned to the door.

There was another hard knock.

“Now!” my mom said.

I ran to my room and locked the door.

“Mara?” came the buzz of Trevor’s voice.

He was still on the phone. I held it to my ear. “They’re… the guy we saw…” I stammered.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he told me, “where are you?”

“Don’t” I said.

“I’ll be there soon” he told me and hung up.

I heard the front door open and held my breath to listen. My whole body was shaking. Soon there would be screaming. A commotion. Gun shots. Horrific images filled my mind’s eye. They’d take her away like they’d taken my dad. I’d be an orphan. I’d be alone. The doorknob jiggled and I held my breath.

“Mara,” my mom said, “open the door.”

When she came in, her face was pale. She shut the door and leaned against it to catch her breath.

I wanted to cry. “Mom?”

She slid to the floor and put her head on my shoulder. “No one was there,” she said breathlessly.

I felt my heartbeat slow. My body began to relax. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said. “Must have been the Smith’s kids.”

I rested my head against the door. “They scared the crap out of me!”

“Me. Too.” she said.

We sat there for a long time waiting for the adrenaline to go away. The sound of her breathing could calm me like nothing else. My hands and feet were tingly.

“Can you sleep?” she asked.

I nodded and she got up. She opened the door and stepped out into the hall. 

“It was no one, babe" she assured me.

I watched her walk down the hall and out of sight.

“Night, mom” I called.

“Goodnight, Mar.”

Once I was sure the coast was clear, I pulled out my phone and frantically texted Trevor.

Mara: it was no one.

Trevor: You sure?

Mara: uh huh. sorry I freaked out.

Trevor: it’s cool. See you tomorrow?

Mara: yeah :)

Trevor: Night, Mar.

There were things in the night, moving through the darkness. Things I wouldn’t understand until much later. I knew, even then, that my mom wasn’t telling me everything about my past, my dad, and my dreams. But even the night of my sixteenth birthday, as I drifted off to sleep, I had this undeniable feeling that nothing would be the same after that night.