The Miranda Contract by Ben Langdon Page A

friends?” she asked Sully, as he stepped down beside her. Ahead of them, Miranda saw about twenty people. There was a pool and a white-walled hotel surrounded by trees and soft-white spotlights.
    “You are entitled to some time away from the fans,” Sully said. He lifted her luggage from the boat and allowed her to walk ahead. A part of her was worried about who she would meet on the beach. Her real friends had been shunted to the side over the past year or so, and all she had now were these people.
    It didn’t take long for the paradise to shift.
    “Good to see you, luv.”
    Robbie Rogers looked gorgeous and drunk. He had KL with him, the faux-rapper he’d been partying with in Miami while dating Miranda in Los Angeles. She returned his smile but didn’t let him close enough for the kiss.
    “Thanks for the flowers,” Miranda said.
    Robbie looked confused. He had no idea what she was talking about, no idea that a bunch of flowers had arrived after the Jakarta concert, a bunch with his name on it. It must have been her manager’s idea, or maybe Robbie’s manager.

    Miranda had been swept from the stage by security. She remembered being physically lifted away, the burning boy dropping out of reach, and all she could see were lights from the roof and the swirl of colors and smells.
    And then in her room all she had was silence.
    She sat there for an hour, at least, while the world outside her door plunged into chaos. She called her father and cried into the phone, no words coming from her, just the rack of sobs.
    Sully was suddenly there.
    And then the plane.
    A night evacuation.
    Evie sat across from her with the flowers as they flew into Australia. She read the card from Robbie in her lilting voice, her wide eyes watching Miranda the whole time, like she was going to burst into flames as well.
    And maybe she was.
    She felt a pressure inside her. It stopped her from talking, from thinking, from even moving. But the pressure wasn’t just from Jakarta, from the falling, dying boy. It had begun with the competition, with becoming a national identity. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. She had been remade, over and over, even in the first few weeks.
    Miranda Brody was out of control.
    The protests had struck her hard. People shouting hatred. Freak Chic was a hit, but it was also a striking match. Uberhumans had been a part of the world for decades, but no one ever really confronted them – they were a part of the world, but also apart from it.
    Miranda’s music exploited the freaks, and she knew it. It was all part of the image Thurston Klein and the others had constructed for her. The undulating tentacle girls and the muscled cat men strutting their bodies across the stage while the girl-next-door sang about all the fun that could be had in this new world.
    Light music. Empty lyrics.
    She hated it.
    But that was celebrity, and Miranda wanted to sing to thousands of people. She wanted their eyes on her, their screams for her. It was her stupid dream and she had made it real. Even Robbie Rogers was part of the dream: a member of a British boy band, equally manufactured and equally beautiful.
    When Evie left for a moment, Miranda found herself looking at the flowers, the whites and pinks, and she reached across for the card. She remembered how much she’d loved being with Robbie. She remembered how much it had felt like everything fitted together.
    And she cried at his words.

    Miranda moved through the guests quickly, kissing cheeks and smiling widely at the stories from back home in the States. The gossip, intrigue and industry news washed over her. At last, Sully touched her arm and led her to the hotel. She looked back at Robbie one last time before the doors closed, but then she re-focused herself.
    “This isn’t fun,” she said, frowning.
    “Was that Mister Rogers?” Sully asked.
    “Yeah, not fun, Sully.”
    They walked to the second level and Sully led her to a balcony overlooking the beach. She couldn’t