The Collective(6)

He looks at me. “What is this?”

It’s a group. For people like us. “I have no idea.”

“Niobe,” he says. “From Greek mythology.”

“I . . . guess? I’m not much of a Greek mythology fan.”

He nods slowly. “Weird.” He hands the card back to me, his gaze fixed on the cab’s TV screen, footage of colorfully dressed dancers in some Broadway show, spinning, then leaping, the grins never leaving their glitter-painted faces.

I watch Luke watching them. I’ve had a few actor friends in my life. They all seem to be obsessed with Greek mythology. “So,” I ask finally. “Who’s Niobe?”

“The wife of a king.” He says it quietly, his gaze still locked on the screen. “She lost her children.”

The diner is called the Acropolis and it’s nearly empty, which isn’t surprising. It’s four in the morning, after all, and OPEN 24 HOURS sign or not, it feels more like a daytime place, the lemon scent in the air a little too thick, the lighting too bright and cheery for the after-club crowd. There are potted plants everywhere.

We take a booth next to the window. “I Can See Clearly Now” is playing over the speaker system—a song I’ve heard at least four times in the past few days. I’m starting to feel mocked by it. A tired-looking waitress drops menus in front of us and walks away. I smile at Luke, my throat dry and ragged. “So, how’s the show going?”

“Fine, I guess,” he says. “I’ve been getting weird emails from this fan.”

“What kind?”

“You know what slash fiction is?”

I let out a laugh.

“So you do.”

“I’d think it would be flattering to have erotica written about you.”

“My character. Not me. Let’s not get carried away here.”

“Even more flattering. A testimony to your acting ability.”

He sighs, shakes his head. “All I can tell you is, I can’t do scenes with Lieutenant Mitchell without picturing him in leather chaps.”

I stifle another laugh. “I hope that, at least, they’re accurate procedurally.”

“You think I’m going to show this stuff to Jim Grady?” Jim Grady is the show’s on-set consultant—a retired NYPD detective who probably thinks slash fiction has something to do with vandalizing tires.

“Good point,” I say. “But still—”

“Can I just ask you one thing, Cam?”

My smile fades.

“Why were you at the Brayburn Club? How did you even know about the awards ceremony?”

“That’s two things.”

He just looks at me.

I take a swallow of my water. “If you must know,” I say, “I got an invitation.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. I was emailed an invitation to the ceremony. I don’t know why. I’ve gotten other things from Brayburn, though, over the last several months. I think one of the times when I was on their site, I got put on their mailing list.”

Luke purses his lips. Gives me flat eyes, like a disapproving parent.

“I look at their website, Luke. Sue me.”

The waitress is back. I don’t know how long she’s been standing there, but I think it’s just been for a few seconds. Luke orders a cup of tea, a short stack, a side of bacon. “She’ll have the same,” he says. He knows enough not to ask me first. Back home, I subsist on stacks of canned soup and frozen meals I buy based more on price than on content. I don’t care what I eat, as long as it fills me up and gives me enough energy to move through the day.

Before she leaves the table, the waitress takes a closer look at Luke, then me. “Aren’t you . . .” She breathes out the words.

Unlike the older woman on the street, I don’t assume she’s going to ask Luke for his autograph. The waitress is very young, with dyed orange hair, bars in her ears, elaborate tattoos snaking up both arms. The wrong demographic for Protect and Serve; the right one for a semi-viral video. “You’re—”

“I’m not anybody.”

But her gaze stays locked on my face, recognition dawning in her eyes. I’m newly aware of the sweat stains on my dress, the moldy scent of the holding cell in my clothes and hair, the blotches on my skin from crying. “I’m a hungry customer.” I try a smile. “That’s who I am.”

She gives me a weak smile back, her pale cheeks flushing red. She leaves quickly with our order.

I look at Luke. “I don’t like being more famous than you.” Out of the corner of my eye I can see her raising her phone to take a picture.

Luke spots her too. “Oh shit,” he says. “We should leave.”

But I’m already up and heading toward this girl.

“Camille,” Luke says. “Camille, wait.”

Within seconds I’m inches away from the waitress, glaring into the lens of her phone. “You want a close-up?”

“Uh . . . I . . .”

I swipe the phone out of her hand. Her mouth drops open, and she looks like Lisette, then Harris, then a combination of the two. I clutch the phone so tightly, my hand hurts. I want to smash it to the floor, but I don’t. I don’t. I can’t. You can’t do things like that. I stare at the screen—at my own face in the picture she’s taken, gaunt and unfamiliar. She’s about to text it to someone. It’s her, the waitress has typed, along with a goggle-eyed emoji and a half-dozen exclamation points. The crazy bitch from the Brayburn Club!!!!!!