I am the woman in your television having a great time. Behind me, the starry night projected onto green screen. I point to Ursa Major, Andromeda, make my way towards Mercury, until finally I announce the zodiacs for the day.
But numbers are down, ratings low. We have been worrying about this for months. Now Ivan tells me to dress the part. “Think dreamy,” he says. “Celestial. Put yourself in an astronomer’s shoes.”
“What do you mean by dreamy?” I unbutton the high button on my dress shirt.
“Édith Piaf,” Ivan says. “La Vie en Rose. Soft fabrics and skin.” He strains to put his hands on my shoulders. I am such a giraffey build.
“Are you telling me it’s my fault we’re losing airtime?” I say.
“Without a doubt,” Ivan says. “Yes.” He picks a nub of lint off my collar.
“What about Gary?” I say. “He’s always late. He can never locate Cassiopeia.”
“Gary’s been at the studio for a century,” he says. “The guy’s deaf in one ear. Just be a little more graceful when in front of the green screen.” Ivan has beady eyes, a puny mouth, a rather big head.
“Graceful?” I say.
“Stagey,” Ivan says, and hands me his tortoise shell comb. “And if you pull this off, who knows? The show could really take off!”
I go the buffet table and peel open a yogurt; a glob lands on my khakis. The studio is air-conditioned, the light hanging over me florescent and fat. Despite my dignity, I want to please him. And it fills me with an intense itch to sabotage Gary, to spike his prune juice, corrupt his data. But I tell myself, no. I work for the stargazers. I work for the future of my kid. My love for the universe is wilder than I know.
I eat a handful of Fritos, call my thirteen-year-old, June, home with the flu. I ask her how she’s feeling and if she’ll promise to stay a juvenile forever.
June says no and then she says yes.
“Arrested development,” I say. “It’s the new hip thing.” I shake my fist in the air. “Never taste the forbidden fruits of womanhood!”
“Too much coffee this morning?” June says.
I stare down at my unlotioned hands, cracked and pink. “I just miss you,” I say. “I miss your face.”
“You left the house three hours ago,” June says. I hear her sucking something, her hair maybe. There’s the television in the background, a dog singing. Our station.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Work’s just a little crazy right now. Transitional.”
“Mom, stop stressing,” June says. “I’m proud of you, okay? And I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Go back to work.”
“Okay, honey,” I say. “Feel better. I’ll see you tonight.”
*
Twenty minutes before showtime, I decide on a wardrobe change. I go to the Style Office and sift through the racks. On the wall is a shelf full of books on constellation history and a fiber-optic star chart that changes coordinates for every worldwide metropolis.
Our studio produces other programs, too: Kandy’s Kolossal Kool-Aid, a bartending show for ages six and up. And Can’t Sleep, Won’t Sleep, soul-inspired hypnotherapy for insomniacs. The costumes range from wacky-wild to the ultra conservative. Sequined get-ups. Worm-colored bodysuits. Bell bottoms with polyester vests. I pull out a satin blue dress, which flows down to my shins. Little pearl buttons run from bottom to top.
I undress, slip it on, try Ivan’s comb. I give myself a once-over in the full-length mirror. My armpits are noticeably hairy.
“Looking good,” a voice says.
I turn around, cross my arms over my chest.
Gary. His hair is fuller on the right like a crooked toupee. He calls me kiddo at least four times a day.
“I thought I locked the door,” I say.
Gary jiggles the handle and shrugs. Although it’s a No Smoking building, he lights a cigarette. I can almost feel the smoke flock to my skin.
“Ivan’s idea?” Gary says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“Yes!” I say.
He walks over and feels my dress strap. His hands are doughy soft. According to all women’s magazines this is how it begins. Soon I will be touched in various places and then bent over a copy machine.
“You know, there is a little thing called privacy,” I say.
“Oh?” Gary fingers the hangers. He makes me want to exploit his age, talk solely to his deaf ear.
“If you ask me,” Gary says. “I like this one better.” He holds up a black gown with feathers on the shoulders, a plunging neckline.
“That’s obscene,” I say. “Why go all glam and theatrical?” I search for my bra. “The show is fine the way it is. People love the stars, the planets, fate. ”
“People don’t give a shit about the stars,” Gary says.
I think about the night without Orion, the ocean without the moon, June’s celestial glow-in-the-dark ceiling she had since she was five. “I care,” I say and look at him sadly.
Gary doesn’t hear me. At first I think this is his way of being an asshole, but when he turns to admire the star chart I notice the pink slip peeking up from his back pocket. For a moment I blink and feel pity.
“You know when I was your age,” Gary says. “I had a big crush on Andromeda.”
“You had a crush on a constellation?” I joke.
“The Greek mythological Andromeda,” he says.
As if that’s more appropriate.
Gary pulls a book from the shelf, flips through and points to a nude photo: Andromeda chained to a rock, sacrifice to a sea monster.
I stare at it sideways. “Ah, yes,” I say, squint-eyed. “I’ve always admired her undulating hair.”
Gary smiles with his big white teeth. He hands the open book to me, touches my back. “The show depends on you, kiddo,” he says. “Don’t fuck it up.” Then he stubs his cigarette onto a page about Venus. I watch him as he backs out of the room, disappears into the hall. I’m unsure if I’ll ever see him again.
I set down the book, revisit the mirror. I keep thinking back to June’s first day of school and her prima donna attire. The tights, the eyelashes, the shoes. Everything metallic and teen-sized. I wanted to be her role model, modest and right, but she looked like a self-assured nova. So maybe, I think, dramatic beauty isn’t so bad after all.
I glitter my eyelids, lipstick my mouth. June texts me her picture with an emoticon smiley. The chart continues its rainbow shimmer, from Paris to Houston to Rome.
*
Next time I see Ivan, he’s Windexing the television screens. I’m wearing a terry-cloth robe, new garb underneath.
“Ow ow,” Ivan says.
I tighten the belt.
“How do you feel?”
“Dazzled,” I say, making myself wince.
“Since our last talk,” Ivan says, “there’s been an addition to today’s show.”
“An addition,” I say.
“You’ll be wearing this.” He holds up a bile-green cap, his pupils beaming.
I’m speechless.
“We’re going to be editing in some special effects we’ve had on the back burner.”
“On my head?” I say.
He nods.
“I’m not wearing that.”
“You are,” Ivan says.
I shake my head no. I look for Gary, as if he’d appear through the door again, have my back. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Before I know it, Ivan’s waggling the cap onto my crown. The smell of piney cologne leaks from his wrists. He tucks every hair under the nylon, pinches my cheek. “Perfect,” he says.
“What will I look like?”
He goes to the computer desk, sifts through some papers, brings back a sketch.
“She’s terrifying,” I say. “No way.” I point at the penciled-in face. “Plus, her eyes are blacked out.”
“Ideally they’d be red,” Ivan says.
“Red?”
“Glowing. But we don’t have the technology.”
“I don’t want to look like that,” I say. “It’s humiliating.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Ivan says.
“I have a daughter,” I say.
“I don’t care,” Ivan says. “We need this.”
*
The computers are on, the lighting ready. The studio crew reassembles.
I step onto the stage, adjusting my microphone. I feel as if my head has shrunk, as if my cheeks have doubled in size. I undo my robe, toss it aside. The cold air rushes the satin, my skin.
“Ready?” Ivan calls.
I stare at the camera screen, at the computer-generated sky. “Ready,” I say.
Tonight will be beautiful. A waxing moon. Gazers will see Castor and Pollus (beacon stars of Gemini), and Procyon in Canis Minor—all in the east by nightfall. I think of the breathless air, the big sun, and how I am nothing but a blue dot on a blue sphere. It is the feeling of being seed-sized, lost, but even seeds have their own strength.
The announcer holds up the slate, reads the program information. The electronic countdown begins at ten. I close my eyes, listen and wait. There’s exactly two seconds of silence before we begin the show. And in that moment I picture the snakes. I pretend they’re more elegant than the mythological rendition. Instead of hair, they wrap around my head like soft yarn. I breathe in and open my eyes, bat my lashes, work the stage. I deliver the sky how I know it.
“Tonight will be beautiful,” I say. “A waxing moon.” And the crews’ eyes fall upon me, chins high, mouths agape, as if in a dream state. I imagine the blood in their hearts slowly turning to stone.
Hannah Pass lives in Portland, Oregon. Her stories have appeared in Caketrain, Tin House and Kenyon Review Online. She’s currently at work on her first novel.