Light From Uncommon Stars(39)

“You mean I can just give you a name, and you can find a video?”

“Yes, of course,” Katrina said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just, Miss Satomi, weren’t you living in Tokyo?

“I know … How can I not know about the Internet? Look, I just had this conversation with Lan. So why don’t you show me now?”

“Yes, Miss Satomi.”

For most of the morning, they watched concert footage, TV broadcasts, even newsreels. Some were in color; others were black-and-white. Another musician. Another. Each was someone whom Katrina had never heard of. Each was someone whom Katrina would never, ever forget.



* * *



It was late afternoon. Katrina was relaxing in her room, snacking on Emmental and mustard green sandwiches.

Emmental?

How was she even saying this?

Katrina recalled the videos they watched. Those musicians were wearing gowns and tuxedoes, and there were conductors and orchestras. And these were Miss Satomi’s colleagues, as well as her students. They were champions, prizewinners, people who had toured Asia, Europe.

She could understand why those musicians were given training, scholarships, fellowships. But how was she supposed to be next? Her musical career was an eBay violin, a few group lessons, a used copy of Schradieck, and some shitty gaming music covers on YouTube.

Who the fuck was she?

And let’s not even talk about how poorly her practices were going.

The entire situation was impossible. Miss Satomi didn’t care about her being transgender. Miss Satomi didn’t care about her being a runaway. Miss Satomi didn’t even care about her money.

But why did Miss Satomi care about her?

She was to be the next touring superstar? Yeah, right. She couldn’t even play a proper spiccato. Or was that an arpeggio?

And there was yet another concern. Even if she stretched her doses, Katrina had only enough hormones for two more weeks. What then?

Just walk up and ask Miss Satomi for money to buy spironolactone and estradiol?

Katrina quickly finished the rest of her sandwiches. Okay, then. She was on borrowed time. Katrina trusted Miss Satomi enough to assume she would not be kicked out tomorrow, but sooner or later, Miss Satomi would have to realize that selecting Katrina was a mistake.

Katrina fished through her bag and pulled out her camera. She had no idea how long she had, but for now, there was fast Internet, a room, a bed, and a door.

The nice thing about being young and trans, especially if one looks “exotic,” is that anonymous men will pay to see you cum.

Katrina picked a good spot for the cam. Then she undressed and stepped into a cute little red satin slip dress that never wrinkled and that cleaned off really easily.

As she did her makeup and teased her hair, her body already betrayed her excitement. Yes, this was for money, but as she looked herself over, her usual doubts about how ugly she was, how gross and freakish—went silent. She felt sexy and beautiful. And soon, people were going to pay money to tell her just that.

Was that such a crime?

She checked the camera angle, lay back, and logged in. Almost immediately people responded.

“Hey, Yvette! Welcome back!”

“Yvette!”

“Where ya been?”

“Let me see that pretty ladyboy cock.”

Sure, if a guy was desperate or horny enough, he would compliment a mailbox, but at least they were compliments.

“So hot. I wish I could be sucking on that right now.”

Most people sent text messages, but some paid more to cam themselves. They never showed their faces, just their penises like turtleheads bobbing in the dark.

She looked at their pseudonyms. That was probably a vet. That was a cop. That name was from a Bible verse. These same people would probably beat her up in the bathroom. But no matter.

She had them now. She would take their money, then make them give more money.

She started to get excited.

Slow down. The longer one can make it last, the more one could make.

“Ooh! Yvette! Slow down.”

“She must have missed us—the bitch is already wet.”

But it was no use. She grabbed a pillow, buried her head in it, and screamed.

For a split second, she was beautiful, her music was beautiful, her body was beautiful.

Then the door swung open.

“Katrina? Is everything all right?”

The lock! Of all the stupid things to forget! Katrina looked up, horrified.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Astrid said, and closed the door.

“Who was that?” said a turtle.

“Was that your MOM?” said another turtle.

“Um, I have to go,” Katrina typed.

“Someone’s in trouble!” said another turtle.

“HOT!” said yet another turtle.

Quickly, Katrina shut the computer. She felt herself begin to throw up, but she shoved it back down.

Don’t worry. This was never real. Don’t worry. This was never real.

She sniffled, grabbed her bag, and quickly gathered her stuff. Clothes, music—Come on, girl, faster! Any moment there would be pounding on her door, and then screaming and then the throwing of things.

“Katrina.”

“I’m packing! I’m leaving! I’m sorry!” Katrina pleaded.