"Yeah." Feeling more awkward in public than he has since fifth grade, he can only blurt the word. But he remembers being at the school earlier today, talking about being a heroand he forms a speech that will dedicate this award to the aces lost in Egypt.
But before he can speak, he sees Berman flinging his arms around like a child of six in midtantrum. "What do you fucking mean 'we're not on the air'?"
The information strikes Peregrine at the same moment. Frozen smile on her face, still conscious of the cameras on her, she turns to Eryka, the production assistant. "Did I hear that? We're not on the air?"
"Look," Rosa says.
On the monitor showing the network feed, the American Hero finale is gone. In its place a middle-of-the-night scene in some European citythe hot, young South African reporter from NBS standing in front of some ornate building.
"What the hell is that?"
"The Hague," Berman says. He reminds Jamal of a tire deflating.
"What's the Hague?" Rosa asks.
"Home of the World Court."
The reporter is saying, " . . . brought the strong man leader of Egypt, Kamal Faraq Aziz, and his whole leadership, here to the Hague. . . ."
"Who brought them?" Jamal can't see or hear.
"Your friends," Berman says. "Our discards."
"Michael, what are we doing?" Peregrine says. "Do we start over?" Berman shakes his head. "Well, fine," she says, completely flustered. "This was going live to the East Coast. What about three hours from now?"
"You think that's going to be over? Look at it!"
On the screen a group of men in chains, with CIA-style hoods, is being marched right to the front door of the Hague. Suddenly the camera finds John Fortune, grinning like . . . well, to Jamal, like Tom Cruise. Harrison Ford. Jack Nicholson. And there's Lohengrin, Bugsy.
And Rustbelt, looking more sure of himself now than he ever did during American Hero.
They are the real heroes now.
Rosa turns to leave. "Where are you going?" Jamal asks her.
"Home, baby. Like everyone else." She nods toward the audience. Those who aren't staring at the screen, open-mouthed in admiration and wonder, are jamming the aisles, talking on cell phones, clearly thinking only about the events at the Hague.
Jamal searches for his parents. They, too, are rising from their seats, shaking their heads. All this work! All this time! And he was ready, not just to accept the money, but to be the American Hero.
He will. It is the role of his lifetime.
But no one will care.
Jonathan Hive
Daniel Abraham
2: JONATHAN HIVE SELLS OUT!
JONATHAN WENT OVER THE release form again, flipping the paper back and forth. The time he'd spent trying to parse memos from Senate campaigns just didn't help much when it came to these West Coast entertainment wonks. The whole point of the exercise, after all, was to get something he could write about. If the first thing he did on day one was sign away his rights, he might as well go fill out an application at Starbucks and be done.
He looked up and down the parking lot. Great silver buses and trucks filled the place, sound equipment and shoulder-mounted cameras making their way to the secular cathedral of Ebbets Field on the backs of scrungy-looking technicians. A folding table had been set up with a tarnished coffee service and a few boxes of donuts. Several of the other prospective contestants were milling around, trying to size each other up.
"Is there a question I can help you with?" the flunky asked through a practiced smile. She was early twenties, long-faced, and mean about the eye. Normal-looking people who lived in the beauty pits of Hollywood too long seemed to get that feral I'm-not-a-supermodel-but-I-might-kill-one look after a while.
"Oh," Jonathan said, whipping out his own smile, "it's just . . . I'm a journalist. I have this blog, and I don't quite know what I can and can't talk about there. If I did get on the show, I couldn't really afford to take however many months just off."
"Of course not," the flunky said, nodding. "This is just the release for the tryouts. If you're chosen for the show, there's a whole other process."
Which didn't even sort of answer Jonathan's question. He smiled wider. They'd just see which of them could nice the other to death.
"That's great," he said, shaking his head. "I just had one or two tiny questions about the wording on this one?"
"Sure," the flunky said. "Anything I can help with. But it is the standard release." Meaning move it, loser, I've got a hundred more like you to get through.
"I'll make it quick. I really appreciate this," Jonathan said. Meaning suck it up, jerk, I can stall you all day if I want to.
The flunky's smile set like concrete. Jonathan killed half an hour niggling at details and posing hypothetical situations. It all came down to the same thing, though: If he wanted in, he'd sign. If he refused . . . well, the field was full of aces who were there for the express purpose of taking his place. He kept up the tennis match of cheerful falsehoods until the flunky's smile started to chip at the edges, but in the end, he signed off.
He sidled over to the coffee and donuts just long enough to confirm that he didn't want anything to do with either, and then a vaguely familiar blond guy with a clipboard rounded them up and led the way across the tarmac and into the entrance of the ballpark. They were divided into ten groups and then each led to a camera and interview setup where a small bank of lights were ready to make him and all the others glow for the camera. Of his group, he got to be the lucky bastard who went first.
"Don't worry about the camera," the interviewer said. "They just want to see how you come across through the lens. Just pretend it's not there."
She was much prettier than the flunky, dressed a little sexy, and willing, it was clear, to flirt a little if that made you say something stupid or embarrassing for the viewing public. Jonathan liked her immediately.
"Right," Jonathan said. The five-inch black glass eye stared at him. "Just like it's only you and me."
"Exactly," she said. "So. Let's see. Could you tell me a little bit about why you want to be on American Hero?"
"Well," he said. "Have you ever heard of Paper Lion?"
A little frown marred the interviewer's otherwise perfect brow. "Wasn't that the ace who"
"It's a book," Jonathan said. "By George Plimpton. Old George went into professional football back in the 60s. Wrote a book about it. I want to do something like that. But for one thing, football's for the football fans. For another thing, it's been done. And for a third, reality television is for our generation what sports were for our dads. It's the entertainment that everyone follows."
"You want to . . . report on the show?"
"It's not that weird. A lot of guys get into office so they can have something to write in their memoirs," Jonathan said. "I want to see what it's all about. Understand it. Try to make some sense of the whole experience, and sure, write about it."
"That's interesting," the interviewer said, just as if it really had been. Jonathan was just getting warmed up. This was the sound bite fest he'd been practicing for weeks.
"The thing is, all people really see when they see aces is what we can do, you know? What makes us weird. These little tricks we've gotflying, or turning into a snake or becoming invisiblethey define us. It's doesn't matter what we do. It just matters what we are.
"I want to be the journalist and essayist and political commentator who also happens to be an ace. Not the ace who writes. This is the perfect venue for that. Just getting on the show would be a huge step. It gives me the credentials to talk about what being an ace is. And what it isn't. Does that make sense?"
"It does, actually," the interviewer said, and now he thought maybe she was just a little bit intrigued by him.
One step closer, he thought. Only about a million to go.