“I guess,” I reply, but the words put a sour taste in my mouth because I don’t know what’ll happen after senior year. No—I do know. I’m going to win this contest and fly out of here, straight to L.A. And never come back.
She picks up her ice cream again and turns to me. “Anyway. What were you saying?”
“Oh…nothing.”
I can’t bring myself to ask her about the sewing video. I know Sage isn’t like the others—I just saw as much—but she’ll want to know why I’m asking and there’s no way someone like Sage is going to care about Starfield. If I’m going to fail, I don’t want to drag someone as cool as Sage down with me.
She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Besides, I can do it myself. I’ve always done everything myself.
I SQUINT IN THE DRESSING ROOM mirror, messing with the golden starwings on my lapel.
“Gail, this costume’s all wrong.”
Gail is sitting in a hard red chair, scrolling through emails and itineraries and fan mail—everything that I don’t want to do—while chewing on the string of her IGNITE THE STARS hoodie. She looks about as tired as I feel.
The film’s shooting in a studio lot outside of Atlanta, Georgia, under the codename Kingship. It’ll be my home for the next twenty-three days of principal photography. The director insists on using practical effects whenever we can, which means shooting on an actual bridge made in a sound studio and doing actual stunts and…and kissing Jessica Stone on said bridge in that soundstage while doing my own stunts.
I’m most nervous about that. The kissing, not the stunts. Well, okay, maybe the stunts too.
“Huh?” Gail looks up from her smartphone and squints at my Federation Prince uniform. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the wrong color. The blue’s not—it’s not blue enough.”
“It’s the same color it was when wardrobe fitted you.”
“No, it’s bluer, Gee. It’s definitely bluer.”
“It is not.” She sends off an email and sets down her phone, finally turning her full attention to me. “It’s just the lighting in here. Trust me.”
“But you lied about Lonny. He’s great company, by the way. Loquacious even.”
The tips of her ears go red and she squirms in her chair. “Mark gave me strict instructions to keep him a…surprise.”
“Because I’d say no.”
“Surprise?” she offers weakly. I give her a knowing look and she quickly averts her gaze to her phone. “Let’s argue about it later, okay? You’ve got makeup in ten minutes. Do you need anything? Water? Or we could go over today’s script while we wait, help calm your nerves—”
The dressing room door flies open.
Sunlight streaks in, making me wince. At first I think it’s Donna, the makeup artist, come to yell at me for being late. But last time I checked, Donna the Makeup Artist doesn’t have long dark hair braided into a perfect royal Anorian braid. Or legs that go on for days. Or a female Federation uniform.
Gail jumps to her feet, looking flustered as ever. “Oh! Oh hello!”
“Mind if I hide in here for a while?” The amazingly beautiful girl plops down in Gail’s empty seat and pulls one golden leg over the other. Me, I’m trying not to stare. Because holy even tan lines, Batman.
“It’s troll o’clock and the paparazzi are out in droves,” she continues, leaning toward the mirror to fix her lipstick. “I’m already up to here with all the heckling. I had to get away. You don’t mind?”
Gail looks at me hesitantly. “Well, actually we were—”
“No,” I croak, giving Gail a meaningful look. Doesn’t she even know who this girl is?
Jessica Stone. The Jessica Stone. My costar. As in, indie film poster child, beloved by the internet for being sexy and cute and funny, sure to snag an Oscar one day Jessica Stone. I think I saw her last movie in theaters fifteen times, and not just because it was based on a graphic novel.
Don’t fanboy, I order myself. Don’t fanboy.
Gail looks at me, surprised. “But Dare, we were—”
I cough. Twice. Gail looks between Jessica Stone and me, widens her eyes, and finally gets it. Her ears go even redder.
“Oh. Oh.” She grabs her backpack and makes a hasty retreat. “I…um. I’ll be around if you need me, Dare.”
After the door closes, Jessica Stone turns her eyes—which are super, freakishly, ice-water blue—to me. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
My tongue ties into ten hundred knots. She can intrude as much as she wants. I mean, not intrude—like, let me politely be in her presence for the rest of my life—but intruding works too. Into my life. As much as she wants.
Is that weird? It’s probably weird. But it’s Jessica Stone.
Damn it, man, don’t fanboy.
“I have a bad habit of doing that,” she goes on. “Just barging in places. My therapist says I have no sense of personal space. Really, you can tell me to leave if you want. I’m Jess, by the way.”
“N-n-n—” I stammer, then bite the inside of my cheek. Stay. Cool. I try again, channeling Sebastian, my character on Seaside Cove. “No, Gail really was just legging—leaving.”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I worry she’s about to take one of her heels and shove it through my eye socket like she did in Huntress Rising, but then she throws her head back and laughs. It’s a no-holds-barred laugh, the kind where if I get her laughing too much I guarantee she’ll snort. The edges of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. She’s beautiful in all the traditional ways—obviously the legs—but her personality helps, and her acting chops. She could quote Shakespeare in circles around me and I’d be none the wiser. It’s a respect thing, I decide, not a fanboy thing.
Her laughter dies down and she shakes her head. “You’re cute. No wonder they chose you for the lead. Equal parts dorky and sexy. A winning combo. If I were a guy, I’d be nervous. You’ll start taking all the good roles.”
I look back at the mirror, still fiddling with the lapel of my uniform. “Nervous? I’m the one who should be nervous. You’ll make me look like a sham. You were amazing in Huntress. You were Sylvia. You channeled her perfectly from the comic books.”
She shrugs. “Thank you. But I never actually read them.”
“You didn’t?”
“No time,” she says simply. She cocks her head and surveys my uniform. “How come the men get to wear pants while I have to wear these stupid things?” She motions to her mile-high heels.
“Sexism?” I offer. Jess smiles. With me, not at me, this time.
“Sadly,” she says. “It’s just ludicrous.”
“Yeah,” I say in agreement. “Because, I mean, the Federation never puts its female officers in heels, so it’s not even canon, right?”
Jess gives me a blank look. “No,” she says, not unkindly. “Because they expect me to run in them.”