Dead Famous

DAY THIRTY-FOUR. 8.00 p.m.

Layla stumbled away from the church, her eyes half blinded with tears. The priest had asked her what had made her feel the need of a faith that she had rejected when she was fifteen.

“Father, I have a death on my conscience.”

“What death? Who has died?”

“A girl, a beautiful girl, an innocent I despised. I hated her, Father. And now she’s dead and I ought to be released. But it’s worse, she’s everywhere, and they’re calling her a saint.”

“I don’t understand. Who was this girl? Who’s calling her a saint?”

“Everyone. Just because she’s dead they print her picture and say she was a lovely girl and innocent and that she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, she hurt me, Father! She hurt me! And now she’s dead and she should be gone, but she isn’t! She’s still here. She’s still everywhere, a star!”

The priest looked hard at Layla through the grille. He had never watched House Arrest, but he did occasionally see a newspaper.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “I know you, don’t I? You’re…”

Layla ran. Even in church she could not escape the shame of her poisonous notoriety as a nonentity. There was no sanctuary from her anti-fame. The fact that she was a failure, the first person to be thrown out of that house. And Kelly had nominated her and then kissed her in front of millions. The whole nation had seen Layla accept Kelly’s sympathy. And now Kelly was dead and Layla did not feel any better at all.