“The agency has a large collection, some works given to us by clients, others collected by leaders of the company and loaned to us to display. The Sherman, I believe, was provided by Mrs. Putnam.”
As we walked, we passed a number of other extraordinary pieces of art. The walls were gallery white, and every twenty feet or so there was a photograph or painting or mixed-media piece. I estimate that we walked by at least two million dollars’ worth of art on the way to Jennifer Putnam’s office.
All around us while we walked, the business of contemporary show business was happening. This, apparently, meant mostly phone calls. There was also a fair amount of bustling about keyboards and remarkably little chitchat. We walked by a young woman whom I did not recognize but who was very clearly rich and famous. It’s funny how you can just tell, even if you’ve never seen them before. High fashion is astoundingly different from regular clothes, but I mostly knew because the three people walking behind her had a very clear air of “Don’t you dare even think about asking for a selfie.”
And that was the state I was in when I walked into the office of one of the most high-powered agents in the world.
“Robin! You found her! Welcome, April.” Her voice was not loud exactly, just . . . strong. Surprisingly forceful. She was physically nondescript. Short gray hair, average height, in good shape. Her voice was her most particular characteristic. This was a woman who could cast spells on people.
Her office wasn’t huge, but it had a nice view. The shelves were full of books, video games, DVDs, even board games. It read more like a gallery of achievements than a place to store things she liked. Every one of those things was a deal she’d made, and the shelves were full. There was enough room for the four of us to sit comfortably, but a fifth would have been stretching it.
Robin was standing by the door. “She was admiring the Sherman.”
“I see you’ve got good taste! I bought that at auction just a few months ago. Managed to get it a nice place on the walls here, despite the fact that most people couldn’t care less about Sherman anymore.” I found this to be an odd thing to say considering that she probably paid over $50,000 for that photo, but I didn’t say anything. “Anyhow, it’s been quite a week for you! I’ve been following every moment of it. Fascinating, and you’re handling it so well! Last night was fantastic—you’re viral all over again!”
I was confused for a moment, but then remembered the late-night show we had been on. It felt like remembering high school English class.
“Thanks, um . . .” It occurred to me that I had no idea what the game plan was, and I was way too tired to pretend, so I just said it: “So what are we doing here?”
“Well, Marshall”—she indicated Andy’s dad—“has been telling me about the two of you and we all just thought it made sense to get you in here and talk about where you want to go from here. There are going to be a number of opportunities, and we want to make sure we go through those doors while they’re open.”
She talked faster than anyone I’ve ever heard in real life. Staccato, almost like a slam poem. It was pleasantly peculiar. It was not lost on me that she’d already switched from “you” to “we.”
“Well . . .” I looked at Andy, who gave me a little shrug. I interpreted that as “Play it how you want to play it, girl.”
So I played it wide-open.
“Last night some information came to light that might change all of this. According to a report that I received from a credible source, it may not be long before people in positions of power publicly confirm that the Carls are not from Earth.”
The words hung in the air for a while. Jennifer Putnam looked at Andy’s dad, who looked worriedly at Andy, who looked at me. I also would have looked at me if I had been capable of it, but I couldn’t because I was me. My impulse was to look down at my hands, but I knew that that was wrong, so I just looked at Putnam, who was, by this time, looking back at me.
“Robin, I’m going to need you to cancel all my calls for the next two hours.”
“Yes, Mrs. Putnam.” If this was unusual, they made no sign that it was. The door closed quietly behind Robin.
“And what information is this?”
“A materials scientist from UC Berkeley that I’ve been in correspondence with says that the properties of the Carls are impossible. Not weird or expensive or new, but according to everything we know, simply not possible.”
“And you trust her?”
“She seems trust- . . . able?” I said, feeling a little bit like maybe I was a complete idiot. But if Putnam was skeptical, she didn’t show it. “But also, I have not told you the whole story. I need you to assure me, 100 percent, that you will not tell anyone what I am about to tell you.”
“I can have Robin work up a quick NDA if you would like, but if my word is enough, you have it,” Putnam said.
So I told her about the Freddie Mercury Sequence, and what Miranda had figured out, and that we were planning to make a video about it. I did not tell her that we thought the sequence was a request for physical material and that we were planning on providing it. Frankly, I knew deep in my heart that that was a selfish and foolish thing to do, and I didn’t want them to talk me out of it.
I’m not much older now than I was then, but in a lot of ways, obviously, I’m a different person. So it is easy for me to recognize that I made some good decisions and some bad ones. But it’s telling that, with this, I knew it was a bad idea even then but I still couldn’t control myself. Knowing something is a bad idea does not always decrease the odds that you will do it. If I had examined my motivations on this one, I probably wouldn’t have liked what I found, so I didn’t.
After I’d finished telling her about the sequence and that we’d figured it out, Jennifer Putnam said, “Well, then the situation has changed, but the question has not. April, Andy, what do you want out of this? You can, if you’re right, have anything.”
You hear about Hollywood agents promising young stars everything—the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever you want, if you only sign right here! But the way it came out of Jennifer Putnam’s mouth, I believed it. The power of the whole thing flooded into me. The Sherman photograph, the confidence on national TV, the knowing of things no one else knew. It was candy, Christmas morning, and a first kiss all rolled into one.
So I gave her the elevator pitch.
“We have already created a strategy. We want the idea of April May to be a counterbalance to the idea of the Carls. Where they’re powerful, I will be weak. Where they’re terrifying, I’ll be cute. Where they’re otherworldly, I’ll be human. We would like to build the idea of April May to help people deal with the reality of Carl. And, once I have that platform, use it to bring people together and promote simple change and a better world.”
I didn’t really know what simple change I wanted to promote, exactly—that seemed like the kind of thing I’d figure out once I had the power.
In any case, Putnam loved every second of that, but Mr. Skampt did not. I sometimes imagine what it would have been like if he hadn’t been in the room. The thing about getting famous is that, often, the only people who are in a position to be honest with you about the realities of celebrity are the people who will make gobs of money if you go all in. They have no incentive to tell you the dirty truth, which Mr. Skampt attempted to tell me then.