Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 37
ACT IV, SCENE II

January 8, 1995

Rochester Hills, Michigan

Cherry Blossom Inn

…

Time had been set on fire.

Its searing heat licked at Jackie's skin, made her sweat. Her room at the Cherry Blossom Inn was lit by one lamp, but it might as well have been a galaxy. Come On Magazine was spread open on her lap, to the article about Ro Skirving and Steven, and she couldn't read it. All was white and throbbing in front of her eyes.

She brought the magazine from the bed to the table by the window. The article was still open and on her lap, but she kept her gaze off it. Slowly, the white pulsed back into color. Covering the table was a pale blue tablecloth. It had a print of pink roses, and lying in the middle was a brown paper bag. It stuck out like a turd but contained her and Steven's sandwiches. She would've devoured them had they been cupcakes.

"No." Her hand swiped the paper bag off the table. She couldn't afford such thoughts. Steven's life was wrapped in dynamite, not hers, and the fuses were lit. All the phone calls in the world wouldn't stop the explosion.

During the drive back to Rochester Hills, he'd read part of the tabloid article aloud. Mostly the subheadings, like, "The Mysterious O. MacNeil Revealed?" and "The True Power Behind Degenerate Matter".

Once they'd returned to the inn, he said, "Got to make some calls," and disappeared upstairs to his room.

The orange light on her phone wasn't blinking. She hadn't given anyone but Donna the name and number of her lodgings. Her mom wouldn't have called anyway. Supposedly, she was on a business retreat with Anders.

Jackie pressed her hand against the window. The cold night penetrated her fingers, but five milligrams of Valium were working through her system. It prevented her from internalizing the chill. Her mom should've been here, supporting her; but Jackie existed in a far-off corner of Pam's world, relegated to not-quite exile.

Come On Magazine smacked the floor. It had slipped between her knees, and its noisy fall focused her. She snatched up the tabloid and forced herself to read the article. It was packed with false claims from so-called sources, beginning with Steven's childhood: "raised by William Barnett, groomed to take over Grooves, full of the privileged rebellion of the rich and preppy."

All lies, which meant the magazine had no actual sources. The article was a cobbled-together mess of dates, places, and speculation. It questioned William Barnett's decision "to pass the business onto his biracial but, to all outside appearances, white son over his dark-skinned black daughter" and conjectured that "Mr. Barnett might have deeply-rooted internalized racism that inspired the choice."

Ending that introductory section was the challenge: "Is Steven Hyde William Barnett's biological child? Only a paternity test can confirm the truth. If they've already taken one, Come On Magazine would be more than happy to publish it."

The next section dived right into Steven and Ro Skirving's partnership. It claimed their sexual relationship started during the recording of Ultrarelativistic "because that's the first Degenerate Matter album where O. MacNeil's lyrics appear."

The article included an aside about Lee Turnbull's supposed jealousy: "With the band's six GRAMMY nominations for WIMPs and MACHOs, one of which is for a song where O. MacNeil himself sings, will Turnbull finally make good on his threats?" Beneath a picture of him and Ro in their college days, the caption read, "Skirving and Turnbull in love."

Jackie was ignorant of any inter-band tension. Or whether Ro and Lee had ever actually been a couple. But Come On Magazine had clearly done limited research on Steven, rushing the article probably in fear of being scooped. The editor must've wanted to get that picture of Steven and Ro out as soon as possible.

Jackie waited for a knock on the door that might never come. Time was on fire, but for her it barely moved. She left the magazine on the table and lay down on the bed, fully dressed. The Valium she'd taken urged her to sleep, but if she did that, she might not see Steven for a very long time. He'd write her a hasty note of apology, leave it downstairs with the concierge.

His solar system was being invaded, but Jackie was too far out in space. She could do little but watch from an asteroid.

Then again, maybe she had some means of influence. The LCD clock on her nightstand showed 11:42 p.m., but Michigan was an hour ahead of Chicago. She reached for the phone and dialed Betsy's number, but the answering machine picked up.

"It's Jackie," she said after the beep. Betsy could've been with friends. Going out on Saturday nights was normal for kids her age. She might not know her photo had landed on the cover of Come On Magazine—

"Aunt Jackie?" Betsy's voice was a whisper. She'd picked up the phone in the midst of Jackie's message. "Do you know? Did you see it?"

"The tabloid? Yes."

"It's my fault. The article It's my fault!"

Jackie's anxiety rose in response to Betsy's, but she imagined how Mrs. Forman might speak and did her best to emulate it. "How, bunny?"

Her question was met by quiet sobbing. Betsy was stuck in fear or guilt or whatever else she was feeling, so Jackie tried another approach. "Steven isn't angry at you. He's knows something must have hap—"

"He's with you?" Betsy said with some strength. "Where?"

Jackie considered telling her, but protecting Steven's privacy was the priority. If Betsy had a friend whose parent worked for Come On Magazine, Betsy could be feeding the tabloid information without realizing it.

"Steven didn't call you yet?" Jackie said. Distract a questioner with questions, an old tactic of her dad's.

"No, but you talked to him?"

"Yes, and he's not mad. He just wants to know what happened."

"If he's not mad, why didn't he call me himself? He's never been mad at me before..."

Jackie clutched the phone receiver. Old stories from Michael flitted through her mind like glitter. Sober recountings of drunken outrages where he'd punched Brooke's front door repeatedly or cursed at Brooke for keeping Betsy away from him.

"I'm not sure Steven knows how to get mad anymore," Jackie said. "Frustrated and annoyed, but..." She hadn't seen Steven get truly angry once since they'd reconciled. "He told me he had to call a lot of people. Business stuff, I'm sure."

"You mean Degenerate Matter stuff because I messed up." Betsy grew silent, but she seemed more composed the next she spoke. "I started keeping the picture in my wallet. It made me feel like—it gave me somewhere safe to go. Dad proposed to my mom on New Year's Eve, and she said yes, and I knew it was coming because he told me. It's so weird."

She cleared her throat and blew her nose away from the phone. "They're engaged but not living together. He'll be here, like, every weekend, or we'll go to him. My mom doesn't want to uproot me from Chicago, but once I start college, she's—she's going to move us to Wisconsin."

Her voice deteriorated back into tears, and Jackie wished she could reach through the phone and physically comfort her. She was also thankful she couldn't. Her body was just getting used to being touched. It would likely tense up and make matters worse.

"I'll never see him again," Betsy whispered. "With Dad here on the weekends, there's no way Steven can stay over. And after what I've done, he wouldn't want to anyway."

"Of course you'll see him," Jackie said. "He loves you."

"He might not when he learns what I did. I kept the picture in my wallet so I could look at it during school. Or at parties. Or whenever Mom, Dad, and I went out to dinner." Betsy blew her nose again. "Other girls, like my friend Sandy, they get so obsessed with boys and all that stuff. They get distracted, and I need to focus on getting into Princeton. Or Harvard. But how can I focus when I'm..."

"When you're what?" Jackie didn't want to push her, but as much as Betsy was like Brooke, she also had Michael's tendency to digress. "You can tell me."

"I … I have this feeling like Dad might snap," Betsy said. "Mom doesn't see it. Like, at all. But he's done some awful things. I know he's changed—or everyone says he has—but there are times where his face gets this look. It reminds me of how he used to be."

Jackie stiffened. She sat up straight on the bed, and her thighs squeezed together. A physical memory had surfaced, of Michael shoving himself inside her. She'd been too feeble from grief that night in Chicago to fight him off. Each thrust had pierced a hole in her spirit, torn apart her relationship with Steven. Had set her up for Dale Fischer.

"If you think Michael's capable of..." She breathed in deeply through her nose. Michael continued to go to Alcohol Anonymous meetings. He'd been through the Steps and owned his behavior. "That face is probably neurological," she said. "His brain did get damaged—"

"I know," Betsy said. "That's what I keep telling myself. And ever since Steven talked to him after Thanksgiving, Dad's been better with me. Still..." Static hit the phone receiver, and her voice came out even lower than before. "I left my purse on a chair. I went to a Christmas party at Mom's library with her and Dad. When I got back, the buckle was open. The picture was gone."

"Someone stole the picture out of your wallet?"

"Yeah! The thief took nothing else. I had twenty dollars in there, too."

Jackie stared at the cream-colored carpeting beneath her feet. "It makes no sense. Why would a librarian rifle through your purse? Who would even know to look in your purse for a photo like that?"

"I had a few friends there, kids of my mom's coworkers. I have a Degenerate Matter pin on my purse strap. Maybe one of their parents took a guess? I don't know."

Their conversation ended shortly after that, with Jackie promising to tell Steven the information. She sat back on the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, as time continued to burn.

A knock at the door shocked Jackie awake. Almost two hours had passed since she'd called Betsy, and she raced to the door. Steven was visible through he peep hole, and she let him in.

"Sorry for wakin' you," he said. His hair was a frizzy mess, as if he'd been frantically scratching his fingers through it. He sank into a chair by the table, but he didn't smell like cigarettes. She'd expected him to go through at least a pack, disregarding the inn's no-smoking policy. "Called my dad. He's already got security at my house. Called Dawn, who's been no-commenting to the press—"

"Dawn?"

"Band's manager. Sorry." His eyes were half closed. He had to be exhausted, physically and mentally. "Ro's at her dad's place, mostly to keep his mouth shut to reporters." With both hands, he massaged his temples. "Got to call Betsy tomorrow, find out what the hell happened."

Jackie sat at the table with him. "I already called her," she said, and as she related Betsy's explanation, his jaw clenched. "She's just a kid, Steven. She—"

"Not pissed at her," he said. "My own damn fault, but what's done is done." His finger traced over the tablecloth's floral print. "Man, one night. One fucked-up split-second choice..."

She didn't understand what he meant, but his eyes seemed more alert. "Good thing no one knows I'm here," he went on. "Otherwise, your ass would've been dragged into this mess already." He turned his hand palm-side up on the table, as if he wanted her to take it. She did, and his fingers curled around her hand. "I'm really, really sorry."

"None of this has anything to do with me."

"It will. Reporters are gonna dig. They're gonna find you, and all of this..." He let go of her hand and dragged his fingers through his scalp. "My life's about to get complicated."

"It wasn't before?"

"Not compared to the hell that's coming. Me and Ro were so damn careful, and now freakin' Come On Magazine's got its tentacles on us. Other rags are gonna slither out of the ocean, try to grab onto whatever I've got."

Jackie rubbed his arm softly. She'd seen him like this before, a long time ago. "You won't lose everything."

He laughed the quiet laugh of disbelief but reached for her hand again. She grabbed hold of him. Her lack of discomfort at touching him was surreal, like a kind of magic. It was both powerful and frightening at once.

"You won't, Steven."

His gaze intensified. "I have before." He was looking directly at her, and she fought every impulse to look away. "I'm not good at holding onto what I love."

Her throat became tight. Every nerve in her body was buzzing with the pain she'd lived with for fifteen years. "Neither am I."

January 9, 1995

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
…

Jackie's answering machine was full of messages. Carrying it from the living room to the solarium, then tossing it into the Foster City Lagoon outside would've been the smart choice. She'd arrived home from the airport minutes ago, anticipating some reaction from her own circle, but she couldn't have imagined what was waiting. Every member of the Blonde Brigade was after her, thanks to the tabloid article. Even Deborah, whose message began with, "You liar. You filthy lying bitch! You knew all along who Steven Hyde really was, didn't you?"

But after that friendly greeting, Deborah's tone softened. She offered Jackie a spa day, just the two of them, and Deborah would pay if Jackie connected her husband with Degenerate Matter. Robert wanted to manage the band's stock portfolios.

Jackie had no idea if Steven or Degenerate Matter owned any stocks. And a spa day was a pathetic bribe, but it was better than June's manipulative guilt trip. Her husband, Trevor, "would just die if he got to meet the band backstage. And I'm sure the band would love to meet him. He's the Giants' star pitcher, for God's sake. The band could spend time with the Giants during their next spring training. You owe me, Jackie. Don't be your usual selfish self on this one, okay? Trevor and I would really, really, really appreciate it."

Jackie flipped off the answering machine, and she kept her middle finger raised throughout Ann-Marie's message: "Degenerate Matter simply must play a private event for the Wintry Charities, darling. They must also offer backstage passes or some kind of meet-and-greet. Perhaps a dinner? Call me back immediately."

Ann-Marie's demands were laughable. Jackie had as much power over Degenerate Matter as she did the Blonde Brigade.

Brie's message started with an apology. "I'm sorry for being so rude to you during your friend's photo shoot. I know it was months ago, old news, but I shouldn't have kicked you out. The next time will go better. 'What next time?' I'm glad you asked."

Jackie exhaled a long, steadying breath. Her finger itched to press the stop button, but she let the message continue. "I have an offer. You've got a knack for fashion. Except for the sizing, your own clothes reflect it, but that's neither here nor there.

"Anyway, one of my junior stylists is out on maternity leave. Cosette's doing a feature on Alicia Silverstone, the girl from Aerosmith's videos? She's got a huge movie coming out this summer, and she'll be on our cover, and I want you to style her shoot. Don't worry. I'll give you a quick training session, but you have to give me Ro Skirving and Steven Hyde."

The sofa beneath Jackie's butt felt too weak to contain the gravity pulling her down. She groaned, but Brie's message wasn't finished.

"If Cosette breaks this story, we'll become the number-one magazine in the country. Maybe around the world. It would be a huge get for me. Jackie, I know what you're capable of even if you don't. Make it happen."

Jackie moved her finger to the stop button on her answering machine. She'd had enough, but her mom's voice came through the speaker. "Jackie, honey..."

The message was unsurprising but no less disturbing. Pam wanted Jackie to "whisper in Steven's ear," to convince him that Ecliptic should open during Degenerate Matter's next tour. It would finally give Anders's poser band "the legitimacy" it supposedly deserved.

"If you don't help us," Pam said, "then I will have every tabloid knocking on your door. They will follow you, no matter where you fly off to. They'll snap pictures of you and your ex-boyfriend—because you are clearly in some kind of relationship—and you'll be begging me to help you.

"If you don't believe me, then listen to this." She recited Steven's home phone number and address. "Isn't technology wonderful these days? Thank you for calling him on Thanksgiving, sweetheart."

Jackie grabbed the phone receiver and bashed it against the answering machine. She struck it over and over, screaming words she had no memory of. She just remembered she'd screamed them.

A while later, she went to her deck and gazed out over the lagoon. Her dented answering machine sank into the water, disappearing without air bubbles. She mentally apologized for the pollution, but rational thought was only slowly returning.

Her mom had been using her. Her friends wanted to use her, and she'd given them the means to do it … but they'd also given her the means to use them back. Starving animals could be vicious, yet their desire for food narrowed their focus.

Jackie no longer knew what she hungered for, but neither the Blonde Brigade nor her mom could supply it. That provided her with a precious, flammable commodity.

Time.