Free The Fame Game by Rona Jaffe Page A

she liked the way he moved, sort of relaxed but quick. She would watch him moving about the set, directing the other acts, and she thought he was kind of sexy. That surprised her, because it had been such a long time since she had thought of any man as sexy, or even as anything. Then, after she sang for the first time, she had the idea maybe he was noticing her too.
    She didn’t at all hold it against him that he was white. Silky had never been prejudiced. In fact, she kind of liked it. He was nothing like pimply Marvin, or that ape Mr. Libra, or the cruddy Eyetalian boys in her old neighborhood. He was real classy. She wondered if he had a wife or a girl friend.
    They did the show in their new plaid knicker suits, with little red ascot ties and their Buster Brown wigs. They looked groovy. And they had never sounded better, since they were only lip synching to their records, so it was crazy of her to worry about losing her voice, although logic had nothing to do with it. After all, someday soon they would be doing their singing live, on an even bigger TV show than this, and it would be a heck of a mess if she couldn’t sing now , just because there were millions of people watching what was coming over the camera at their end. All the girls were aware of the unseen audience, and the thing was, you had to sing out loud anyway, or it didn’t look real. When they did “You Left Me,” as usual Silky got carried away and changed some of the words without even knowing it. The girls knew it, though, and they were furious.
    “Can’t you even remember that old song?” Honey said, mad.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You certainly had enough practice,” Honey said. “ I know the words.”
    “I know the words,” Silky said.
    “That girl sure is dumb,” Honey said to the others.
    Dick Devere just laughed. After the show he asked Silky to come have a drink with him. The girls raised their eyebrows when they saw her go off with him, but Silky didn’t care. She was floating on air. All the way to the bar she was wondering whether she dared order a real drink even though Mr. Libra had told them they must never drink in public.
    They went to a little bar down the street from the television studio. There were a lot of television people there. Silky had changed into her own clothes; a navy-blue wool sailor suit with a white blouse, and she was still wearing her wig and her television make-up. She glanced at herself in the mirror over the bar when they walked in and she thought she looked real good. They sat in a booth near the back, and Dick Devere ordered a Scotch on the rocks.
    “Bourbon and Coke,” she said recklessly.
    “Cigarette?”
    “Thank you, I don’t smoke.”
    “Good girl.”
    She chewed on a nail.
    “How did you ever get the name Silky?”
    “On account of ma’ voice,” she said, because it was what Mr. Libra had told her to say.
    “You’re going to be very famous one day,” Dick Devere said.
    “You think so?”
    “There’s no doubt about it. I can always tell. I see hundreds of singers, but none of them have what you do.” He smiled at her. “What’s that book you’re reading?”
    Silky showed him. It was The Death of a President .
    “I’m glad you’re not reading Valley of the Dolls ,” he said.
    “Oh, I read that too.”
    “You read a lot,” he said, sounding surprised.
    “I read a book a week. I really read them too; I don’t just carry them around like the girls say.”
    “You don’t get along too well with the other girls, do you,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
    “Oh, sure I do!” Silky protested. “We get along just fine. They’re great girls.”
    “I think they’re jealous of you,” he said.
    “Oh, no, they’re not. We all get equal money.”
    “That doesn’t make any difference. They know you’re going to be a star someday and leave them far behind, and what’s worse, they know you deserve it and they don’t. Don’t you notice they’re