“It would cost the studio a lot of money if we replaced her now.”
“It might cost them a lot of money if you don’t.”
I backed up slowly, careful not to scuff my feet on the floor. When I got far enough away, I turned and took another exit, for the long way around to my trailer. I got inside and leaned against the door, out of breath.
Sixteen
Donavan hadn’t moved from his position on the couch; he was reading my book. But when I continued to stand there, he looked up. “What’s wrong?”
I put the ink and quill on the table and tossed my kneepads into the corner. “I heard someone talking in the hall to my director about how they think I suck. I kind of do right now.”
“Someone said that? Who?”
“I have no idea. What if my director listens to them? What if they’re someone who has a lot of influence?”
Donavan stood and walked over to where I was standing by the window of my trailer. He took my hand and led me to the couch. “Sit down.”
I did.
“How do you take this off?” He pointed to my face. “Is there a special method?”
I nodded toward the vanity. “There’s some Q-tips and a bottle of solution. And there are some makeup wipes up there.”
He gathered the things I’d mentioned and brought them back to the couch. Then he handed them to me and sat down.
I turned toward him, pulled my legs up onto the couch and crossed them. I dipped a Q-tip in the solution and held it out for him. “You use this when it doesn’t come off easily.”
He hesitated as he stared at me, and I realized he hadn’t meant that he was going to take it off. He’d brought it over for me to do. My mind was a mess. I started to say as much when he took the Q-tip from me and asked, “I . . . does it hurt?”
“No, it’s fine.”
He reached for a section and gently tugged. After freeing that piece, I held out an upturned hand and he dropped the latex onto my palm. Then he turned more fully to face me, matching my cross-legged position. He leaned in, his eyes as intent on my face now as they’d been on that book moments before, while he carefully removed more sections. My heartbeat picked up.
I shifted, hugging my knees to my chest.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a makeup-remover person,” he said.
“I know, what kind of second-rate joint is this?” Our position made it so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him. He was close, his brown eyes studying each section he removed as if this was the most important thing he’d done all day. His hair that I had messed up earlier flopped forward. I pushed it back for him, out of his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. Then he brushed a finger over a bare section on my cheek. “Why are you always missing this big part? Have you not fully transformed yet?”
“It’s the only section that’s premade, and Leah, my makeup person, takes it off before I leave the set for the day. She doesn’t trust me with it.”
He nodded like this made perfect sense. Like he wouldn’t trust me with anything valuable either.
He was quiet for a moment and then said softly, “You don’t suck. You deserve to be here.”
I shrugged. I hadn’t been feeling like that at all lately.
“You landed a movie with the Grant James,” he said.
I smiled a little.
“Not to mention, every episode of The Cafeteria was near perfection.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You’re a fan of The Cafeteria?”
“I am.”
“So you saw my episodes?”
“You were brilliant.”
I was used to getting compliments, but from Donavan—the critic, the guy who seemed to disapprove of half the things I did—it felt bigger somehow. It made my cheeks go pink. I wondered if I still had enough makeup on to mask it. My eyes dropped to the collar of his shirt. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No . . . well, yes, I am. But I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“What happened to being objective?” I asked.
“I am being objective. I don’t think you need to worry about people gossiping in the hallways. You were hired because you’re good.”
I bit my lip. “I didn’t realize you knew me before . . .”
“I didn’t know you before.”
“I mean, I thought this was how you saw me for the first time.” I held up the handful of latex in my palm.
“No.” His eyes slid to mine. “I’d seen you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s the only reason I took the job.”
“So it was one of the reasons?”
“What? No.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Fine, it didn’t hurt.”
I smiled. “So what was the main reason you took this job?”
He hesitated, like he didn’t want to tell me but then finally said, “I took it because your dad had submitted an ad to the paper, and I read it but didn’t want to print it because that seemed . . .”
“Super embarrassing?” I finished for him. My dad was going to put an ad in the school paper? Anger surged through my chest. “Does the paper have other ads?”
“Yes, it has a classified section. People sell instruments and cars and promote yard sales, so don’t be too mad at him. Like I said, he seemed desperate.”
I sighed, trying to take his advice but failing. “What did it say? ‘Come help my daughter, who’s a bad actress and even worse student’?”
“No. I don’t really remember what it said, but not that. And we already established you’re a brilliant actress.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I like how you didn’t refute the bad-student part.”
“You’re a horrible student. But only because you have zero desire to do schoolwork.”
I tried to hold back a laugh. “I wouldn’t say zero.”
“Zero.”
I rolled my eyes. “So does everyone see all the ads? Or are you the editor of the paper or something?” Actually, he probably was. That’s why he sat in that little office in the journalism room.
He shrugged one shoulder like it was no big deal.
“So you could probably assign yourself any section to write. Why entertainment?” I asked. “Why do you like to write reviews?”
“I love stories. I love watching them play out and trying to guess the endings. I love being surprised and learning new things about people or about myself.”
“And then you love saying how it could’ve been done so much better?”
He laughed, a soft, deep laugh that made my stomach flutter. “Or how it was done well. Don’t forget I do write good reviews too.”
“So no hard-hitting, investigative journalism for you?”
“I have the flight personality, remember? I like to avoid conflict when I can.”
“Says the guy whose movie review became a meme.”
“Not by choice. I have no desire to pick a fight with Grant James.”
My hand was full of latex, and I could tell he was done when he did a final scan of my face. I pulled out a makeup wipe and finished the job. “Thank you,” I said. “For talking me through that.”
“Any time.”
“You should ask my dad for a raise.” I don’t know why I said that. Maybe to remind myself that Donavan was here because he was paid to be here.
“Should I add listening to my bio? What was it? Haircuts, harmonizing, and . . .”
“Homework,” I said with a smile.
“Oh, right. How could I forget homework? The only one that is actually true.”
“But you can’t add listening. That doesn’t fit the H theme we have going on.”
“Hearing? Helping?
“Better.” I took a piece of latex from my hand and stuck it to his cheek. “You’d make a cute zombie.” The piece fell off his cheek and onto his leg.
He picked it up with one hand and used his other hand to steady mine while placing the latex onto the top of the pile. When he didn’t let go, I met his eyes. He averted his gaze, dropped his hand, and then stood. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I promised my mom I’d be home earlier tonight.”
I threw my whole handful of scraps into the garbage. “Oh, that’s okay. I wasted all our time.”
“Text me if you get stuck on any of the math.”
“For sure. Thanks.”
I moved in to hug him as he was turning toward the door.
“Oh,” he said, and patted my back awkwardly. “See you.”
“Bye.”
He closed the door behind him, and I sank down to the couch. Why had I turned that weird? What was I doing? I did not like Donavan Lake. He was just a very helpful friend who I felt comfortable around, which was great, because that’s what I needed right now. That’s all I needed.
What I didn’t need was people talking about me to Remy. I took a deep breath, but Donavan was right, it was just on-set gossip. People talked about other people all the time. Remy was probably used to it too. It wouldn’t influence him . . . I hoped.
Dancing Graves
INT. LORD LUCAS’S LAB—LATE NIGHT
LORD LUCAS mixes chemicals and herbs in a glass beaker, measuring each carefully. His large wooden table is a mess of dirty beakers, spilled formula, and scattered ingredients. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is disheveled and his nerves are on edge. Every noise outside makes him jump. He spills a chemical and it splashes onto his wrist, burning him. He curses and throws the glass beaker across the room, where it shatters against the far wall. BENJAMIN rushes in.