The Price of Fame
She hadn't told us it wasn't quite as legal as she said. The first clue had been angry saleswomen chasing us out of the stores. We'd run, laughing. Casey told us it was part of the experience. She'd gotten permission from everyone. We'd seen the letters, on offical looking letterhead from the stores. We'd slept with body parts in our rooms, hidden from parents, and waited for the wee hours of dawn on Monday of Senior week.
So we'd done it, Eli, Laney, and I. I had the leg from a swimsuit model. She looked just a cute with one leg, really. Eli had a couple of arms from two different men's manniquens. Laney had another leg and a torso. No heads. Casey had been very specific about the headless-ness of the whole thing. Something about art not having a face.
Casey was an artistic genius. She was going to art school in a few weeks, and wanted to make a last outrageous statement before leaving for school. We were game. We'd been hanging out with her since she appeared in a patchouli cloud in October from New York.
New York breeds artists, you know.
We put the parts on the football field, the predawn light and mist from the field making the plastic glow surreal. We stepped back, huddled together in the sticky humidity, and waited. Casey should be here. Camera in hand, waiting for us.
Then we saw the red and blue flashes blinking off the model parts. As we turned to face the police car pulling up in the school parking lot, Eli pointed to the football goal post over our heads. A tiny go pro was strapped to the cross bar. A white slip of paper fluttered from the bottom.
He jumped up, plucking it from the air. The cop car door slammed, like a gunshot in the air around us.
Fame can cost you an arm and a leg. Thanks for helping with my performance art piece.