emilee

My room is just as dark in the morning. Without power, thanks to the Darkening, I'm forced to throw on whatever pants and shirt I can find on the floor and proceed down my almost disturbingly dark hallway. I try my best not to slip and fall down the stairs. As my foot carefully feels for the next lower step, however, a part of me wonders if I really should fall. I remind myself how morbid a thought like that is, and feel a wave of confusion and slight fear--I didn't even register what I was wondering until the notion long since slipped from my mind.

I'm still trying to shake off that somber thought when I walk into the living room. I have no idea what time it is, but I gather it must be pretty early, because when I click the big red POWER button on the remote, the screen shows me various shots of Famoux members snug in their beds. They look even more beautiful asleep, if that's possible.

I walk off to the kitchen and fetch a handful of cereal. When I'm back inside the living room, I make myself comfortable on the couch. No one else is awake yet. I live for mornings like this in the house--Darkening mornings. Without working alarms, or the brightness of the sun, my family members could stay asleep until the afternoon.

I barely get a wink every night, so I'm always up before sunrise anyway.

Sometimes I wish my siblings were as heavy sleepers as my father. That way I'd be able to turn on the volume and hear the Famoux's voices. I assume they must sound like silk, or honey, or maybe something even better.

It takes hours and hours of sitting in silence before someone finally wakes. First, it's Dalton, rubbing the salt from his eyes and wondering how long I've been up this time. I choose to lie, and tell him only a few minutes. Maybe it'll make him think that I'm making an effort to be more normal. He always tells me I could benefit from that.

Brandyce comes next, feverish and commanding she get the couch so she can relax and hopefully cure her incoming sickness. I relocate to the floor.

The day is dreary, as most Darkening days are. Dalton and Brandyce play cards by the television, and I pretend to watch, my eyes on Kaytee McKarrington as she does her makeup, on Foster Farrand as he fixes himself a warm breakfast with the only power usable in the country. Chapter and Race tell jokes to Till. I don't hear any of it, but I find myself smiling all the same. Till has an attractive-looking laugh, and even if you don't catch the joke, the look on her face is enough to make you want to join in.

Father doesn't appear until we're well into the afternoon, and he grumbles about how hungry he is until Brandyce decides dinner will be served early. It's leftovers from the night before--the turkey sandwiches. I notice that the mustard doesn't seem to find its way to the table.

xxx

As I'm trying to sleep later tonight, I find an interruption. Perhaps I'm just becoming delusional, but there's this curious sound coming from every which way, and I don't know how it got here, and I don't know how I can be so sure of what it is. It's . . .

. . . the sound of a piano.

I must be delusional. We don't even own a piano, and even if one of the Famoux members were playing it, the TV is off, and the volume isn't up anyway. Besides, I've never really heard a piano in my life.

But I still hear it, and somehow I'm sure of what instrument it is.

The melody goes through constant flux--slow, light, sorrowful, and then, so suddenly, crescendo. It's a foreign word; I overheard it once when I listened in on a conversation between a few orchestra kids at school. Means something along the lines of an increase in tempo, in volume. I hear the little black and white keys do just that.

I listen intently to the noises in my mind, staring off to the end of the room, wherever it is hidden in this thick darkness. The music is beautiful. Calming. It makes me wish I had some means to get my fingers on a keyboard. I'm almost positive Carstan has one--he has everything, Felix claims. It's too bad they'd sooner smash my face on the keys than let me take a stab at playing it.

I don't know when the melody stops, or when exactly I fall asleep. It's not restful, like I've craved sleep to be. I don't dream; I rarely do. But I do sleep for quite a long while, and it's refreshing.

When I wake, the piano has ceased. To my surprise, my siblings are already downstairs in the living room. I must've slept longer than I thought.

"Emilee? Coming down last?" Dalton gives me a faux shocked face, and looks over at Brandyce. "Has this ever happened before? This is unheard of!"

"Whatever," I mutter.

"This is not whatever!" he exclaims. He always likes to make little things like me sleeping in seem like I've woken up with brown hair and brown eyes. "What could have occurred to make this happen?"

Brandyce grins at me. "Sweet dreams, huh, little sis?"

I don't answer, and take my seat on the floor. I try my best to focus my attention on the television screen, where Chapter Stones is talking to Till Amaris. Usually when I don't show interest in taking their conversations any further, they stop.

Alas, Dalton continues.

"Ah, d'you have sweet dreams about the Famoux?" he asks.

I quickly shift my gaze to the floor, so I'm not watching anymore. Also, I'd like to avoid whatever look Dalton's got on his face.

I reply, "No, I wasn't."

He hums, like I'm lying. "No, no, you were dreaming about . . . " he pauses to look at the screen, for an aid ". . . Chapter Stones, weren't you?"

"No," I answer.

"That was a quick decline," says Brandyce. "I think you were."

"I wasn't."

"Oh, but you were," Dalton says.

"I wasn't."

He smirks. "You were."

"I wasn't."

Dalton opens his mouth, most likely to say you were another time, but it's Brandyce who cuts him off.

"Let's just let it be, Dal." There's a shadow of amusement in her voice. "If Emilee wants to keep her little Famoux fantasies to herself, we better let her relish in them alone."

"Oh come on. I want to know all the little details."

I give him my best scowl. His smile is triumphant.

"Do we have any idea of the time?" It's father, walking in with puffy eyes. I notice the whites are all reddish pink.

"Not at all," Dalton answers. "I'm guessing it's around lunchtime."

"Oh, good," he says. "I'm starving."

Brandyce gets up from the couch. "I'll go get something for you, then." She sounds annoyed. Yet again, she always does.

A couple cans of tuna are pulled out, one of dad's favorites. Brandyce doesn't favor the texture of it much, and Dalton's actually a bit allergic. I can't stand the smell. We all try our best to stomach it for our father's sake.

"So," he starts through a mouthful, "how did we all sleep?"

"Oh, just wonderful, dad." Dalton flicks me a teasing look.

"That's great. Always good to get a good night's sleep."

"Did you sleep well, father?" asks Brandyce.

He stares down into his tuna can for a moment before looking back up at us with wide, honest eyes.

"No, I didn't."

It's predictable at this point--a given. Sometimes, he screams at the top of his lungs our mother's name, and both Dalton and Brandyce pretend they're such heavy sleepers that they don't hear it. I'm always the one who has to walk in there and try to calm him down with the exact voice he shouldn't be hearing.

In spite of my completely differing appearance, he's confused me with his wife many times over the years. Having to convince him that it's me, Emilee, is the worst part. Most mornings that follow, he won't talk all day. Brandyce chalks it up to a lost voice from all the yelling. Father's inability to look me in the eye on those days, Dalton explains must be because he remembers all the trouble I've caused for looking different.

I reckon they must hear father's reactions when he thinks I'm mom. I'm grateful for the fact that they don't ever try to bring it up.

"So, everybody." Father claps his hands together, forcing excitement to his face. "It's going to be a very wonderful day today."

"A wonderful day?" asks Brandyce. "During a Darkening?"

"Yes," he replies. "It will be very eventful, very sociable, and very fun."

"Uh, how?" Dalton asks. "We can't really do anything in the house, dad--"

"Oh no, we aren't going to be in the house, son."

"We . . . we aren't?"

"Yes, indeed."

Dalton glances at me, with a look that asks: What's he up to? I don't know either, so I shrug in reply.

"What are we doing, exactly?"

He looks so happy he could burst. "We are going to see the Famoux today!"

I whip my gaze to him. "Excuse me?"

"Yes!" he replies. "It's so cold in here, Emilee, and the Fishbowl radiates warmth. Also, dozens of people are already there, making a bit of a campout with hot food. I thought it would be a wonderful day trip."

I can't tell if this is one of the crazy things my father says, or if he's actually being serious. He knows my siblings hate the Famoux, and especially hate the Famoux whenever they come to Trulivent.

"We wouldn't be actually watching the Famoux, of course, right?" Brandyce asks, tone laced with disgust. "We're only going for the warm food?"

"We're going for food, yes. We'll stay for dinner."

I look out at the window next to me. There, like a little flicker of light, a little dot within the trees, is the Fishbowl, too small to barely identify.

For years and years I've debated whether or not I'd actually want to join the other fans who gather around it. I could never pluck up the courage to even throw it out there for my family's consideration. They would accuse me of actually liking the Famoux, which I still wasn't quite sure of. Maybe I like the idea of them, but I don't really know enough about them to like who they are.

I pretend to be irked alongside Dalton, just so they believe I'm as angry to be going towards the Famoux too.

"If we must," I say with a sigh. I glance towards the television. Kaytee McKarrington and Foster Farrand are now sitting on a couch, talking. I continue, "As if having to watch them here isn't enough. But if there's food there, sure."

"Who're you kidding, Emilee?" says Dalton. "You're probably thrilled to go."

"It's better than staying in this ice box all day," I say, ignoring him.

"Then we'll go," father confirms. "It's decided."

I feel a stirring in my stomach. Something like excitement.

Perhaps I do like the Famoux, after all.