8—Dallas （Jarvis’ Dressing Room）
These are the factors that led to me being alone with Chad in Jarvis’ dressing room:
I left Larinda’s dressing room reeling and completely lacking presence of mind.
Chad decided he forgave me for possibly being a spy and needed my help with an exceedingly important project.
I might actually be a spy and this seemed like a great opportunity to do spy shit.
Rena from Lakebend Records said I have to.
“Should we put the cutout against the wall or beside the mirror? Beside the mirror, right?”
I don’t respond because Chad is talking to some older man on a video call, not me. He’s talked to this person at least twice a day since the start of the tour. Last night it seemed like the call was for the sole purpose of saying good night. It was weird even before he referred to the man as “Mr. Reedweather.”
Despite the dramatic pretense, as far as I can tell this “exceedingly important project” doesn’t seem to involve me at all, however. I thought it might get me facetime with Jarvis to further my goal of unearthing any scheming plots against Larinda, but mostly it’s entailed listening to these two speak in a made-up code that’s incredibly easy to decipher. Jarvis isn’t even here.
Correction. Technically, I am getting facetime with that scheming jerk, it just happens to be a life-sized cardboard face at the top of a life-sized cardboard cutout of the man. Interestingly, the only distinguishable difference between the real man and the cardboard version is the “It’s a streamin’ thang!” slogan plastered across the middle of the cardboard version. For the record, the three-minute ode to Sandeke Telecom’s internet service that spawned this now-famous catchphrase somehow hit two charts.
“Is there a radiator?” the man named Reedweather asks.
“Not that I can see,” Chad replies.
“That’s too bad. They say it’s always best to place things in front of radiators whenever possible.” His sage tone almost makes that seem like irrefutable advice.
Put things in front of radiators. Got it.
“How about by the mirror, then?” Reedweather says.
“Excellent suggestion, sir!” Chad agrees, forgetting that was his idea twelve seconds ago.
He moves fake Jarvis, who’s already stationed in front of the wall-length mirrors, three inches to the left.
“Any word on Project Hummingbird?” Reedweather asks.
My brain immediately switches to “actual information” mode when Chad’s gaze flickers to me.
“Nothing of note to report. All is going according to plan.”
He winks at me.
“Excellent. So you’ve developed a plan?”
“So many plans! Prepare to be astounded when you read the report. I’ve added twenty-three crystals and even recruited a valuable asset.”
Another wink for me. The crystal thing—no clue—but am I the asset? It’s either me or cutout Jarvis, so I guess it’s me. I suppose beating out a piece of paper for a job I don’t want is better than losing to it.
“That’s my boy. Dogmatic Positioning as they say. Well, I must go. Important things, you know.”
“Of course! I keep forgetting it’s Friday. I’ll call you later.”
“No need. I’ll still be doing important things then.”
“It’s totally fine! I don’t mind. Have a great day, sir. Tell Mary Lou I said hello. Oh, and check your email because I may have sent a teensy-weensy surprise. Hint: it’s the table of contents for the report!”
I’m pretty sure the man hung up a while ago, but Chad doesn’t seem to notice.
“That’s my boss,” he tells me after shoving his phone in his pocket. “Well, our boss now.”
No.
“Thanks for helping with this. I couldn’t have done it without you,” he continues.
“I mean… I haven’t really done anything.” Except lean against this wall. If that’s why I’m here, I’m nailing it.
“Don’t say that! Reedweather thinks you’re great!”
“Really? That’s… okay. So, the guy you talk to all the time is your boss?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.”
Wait, is he putting makeup on the cutout?
“To reduce the shine,” he explains as he brushes powder over the photo’s cheeks.
“Don’t you pay to have a glossy finish?”
“Yes, but the gloss is for public displays, not the photoshoot.”
“There’s a photoshoot?”
“Of course.” He steps back to admire his work. “What do you think?”
That it looks like a cardboard cutout of Jarvis that used to have a shiny face but now has a powdered substance on it.
“It’s… tall.”
“I know, right?! So tall. You ready?” He waves me toward the cutout.
“Ready for what?”
“To be famous, silly!” His expression clearly isn’t interpreting mine.
“Huh?”
He pulls a camera from the bag.
Hang on. No. Hell no.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but the left is probably your stronger side,” he says.
“You want meto pose with this thing?”
“Absolutely. Why do you think I invited you here?”
For literally any reason other than posing with a life-sized image of Jarvis in his dressing room.
“I—I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I work for Larinda, not Jarvis. I’m not comfortable giving the impression he and I hang out.”
“Exactly.” Another wink.
Okay, what’s up with the winking?
“No. I mean it.”
“I know. That’s why it’s perfect. Plus, you have the look the committee wants.”
“What committee?”
“The campaign committee.”
“Chad, I’m sorry, but I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”
He sighs as if he’s the one being put out by this conversation. “You know. The look! Edgy but not aloof. Cool but not too cool. Good-looking but not unattainable. Gen Z-ish but not fully Gen Z, you know?”
He waves over me. His bright smile is the only reason I know those were supposed to be compliments.
“Chad. Dude. I think?—”
“As soon as Rena suggested you this morning, we loved the idea.”
“Rena suggested me?”
“Of course. You’re a good-looking guy, my friend. You should give yourself more credit. Versatile too. You ever think about stripping? I have a friend who could get you set up. Remember the guy I was telling you about?”
“The ophthalmologist?”
“No! But that would be amazing. Can you imagine those appointments? I’m talking about Nate.”
“The one who went to Yorkshire.”
“No, that was Marcos, but he could help too, maybe. I’d have to check. Nate is an amazing instructor, though, so try him first. Taught me everything I know.”
“About…?”
“Stripping.”
“Hold on. You’re a stripper?”
“I don’t like labels, Val. Some dibble, some dabble. Anyway, you don’t have to pretend to kiss him or anything. Just maybe put your arm around him?”
“Huh? Kiss who?”
I’m so lost.
“Jarvis. Obviously.”
He throws his arm around the large cardboard figure, and now I’m even more confused about why the ideal place for this activity would be in front of a radiator.
“You can leave your shirt on.”
What?
“Okay, look, man. I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think we need to?—”
Saved by the crashing door… until it leads to real Jarvis and several members of his entourage.
Awesome, because that’s what this scenario was missing. A pompous jackass who hates me.
“Mr. McKinnley!” Chad cries. Then bows.
Jarvis twists a quick smile before landing his cold gaze on me.
“For the record, I’m not a fan of this,” he directs at me.
That makes two of us. Whatever “this” is.
“Liquify me,” he barks, snapping his fingers.
Within seconds a servant—I mean, assistant—shoves a glass of lemon water into his hand. He takes maybe half a sip before handing it back.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grunts, stomping toward the slightly faker version of himself. I can’t help but notice they’re wearing the same outfit.
Chad pretends to adjust settings on his camera, while Jarvis pretends he’s not standing beside a replica of himself. The ease with which he does this makes me think that might be a standard part of his day. If anyone would interact with a life-sized reproduction of themself on a regular basis, it would be this person.
“Let’s do the cutout image first,” Chad says.
Jarvis steps back to make room for something. When five gazes lock on me, I realize I’m the something he made room for.
I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
“Don’t smile in this one,” Chad tells me.
That shouldn’t be hard.
“You will have to get closer and maybe look at him?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Jarvis.”
“Cutout or real?”
“Cutout. I just said that.”
“Yes but… never mind,” I grumble, then plaster a fake smile on my face.
“I said don’t smile for this one.”
Oh. Right.
“Don’t look unhappy, though. You’re glad to be in the presence of such musical magnificence, just not smiling about it. You’re overwhelmed… but with awe, you know?”
I pull in a deep breath.
“Perfect! Don’t move.”
Do I look different than I did a second ago? Because I still feel like a guy who would rather be doing anything other than this.
“Okay, I think we got it. Oh wait! No. You need to take off your security badge. You can’t look like you’re part of the tour.”
“I am part of the tour. And I’m literally in his dressing room.”
“Yeah, but it’s about the aesthetic.”
“The aesthetic? I don’t?—”
“Quit being a whiny wasp and just do what he says,” Jarvis snaps.
I shoot him a glare and rip the lanyard over my head.
“Yes! Keep that face but turn it toward Jarvis… other Jarvis. Great! Now, Real Jarvis.”
I’m already in a living nightmare when Real Jarvis shifts closer. Too close because his denim jacket brushes my arm, and I’m nearly choked out by the aggressive cologne he’s wearing. Does he get daily sandalwood injections?
“You need to look at each other. You’re besties now!”
Nope.
Jarvis slings his arm around me and tugs me against him.
“Smile,” he growls through a clenched grin.
I force something that can’t be worse than what his mouth is doing.
“Perfect!” Chad says.
Jarvis immediately drops his arm and jumps away like he just realized we were touching. No confusion on my end.
“We done?” he snaps. “I need to get to hair and makeup.”
Seven hours before the show?
“Yes, sir, Mr. McKinnley, sir!” Chad says.
“Great. This changes nothing,” Jarvis fires at me as he stalks toward the door. “Nothing. If anything, it un-changes things that already changed!”
“Absolutely. Not a thing,” I say. “Unless it’s the unchanging things.”
His forehead gets all scrunchy. “You know what they say about people who stick their noses where they don’t belong.”
“No. What?”
I see the moment he discovers he might not know what people say about that.
“Never mind. Send those to my publicist. Do not post a thing yourself,” he directs at Chad, who salutes.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Break a leg tonight! Dallas, am I right? So many horseshoes.”
Jarvis grunts and yanks open the door. Then must realize it’s his dressing room.
“Out,” he growls, waving at those of us who aren’t him.
Gladly.
In a perfect world, I will never again find myself in his dressing room (or near a radiator if this is their main purpose).
He spins away from us and immediately gets lost in his own reflection. He probably doesn’t even remember we’re here once he sees himself.
I’m eagerly following Chad to the exit when I see the open notebook he tossed on a chair by the door earlier. Are those scribbles song lyrics?
Step 1. Get engaged.
Wow. Pure poetry.
Step 2. Get her to dump me.
Whoa. What the hell?
I glance at Jarvis but he’s still busy admiring himself while being “liquified” more aggressively now.
I check the notebook again and see an equally concerning message beside the second one:
(Better if she cheats!!)
This is not good.
What else did Jarvis write in this disturbing memo to himself? Pulling out my phone, I check his status one last time. For once his lack of awareness for anyone but himself is a benefit to society.
“You coming?” Chad hisses from down the hall.
“Yeah,” I whisper, then snap a photo of the notebook.