—I think tonight I’ll introduce my friend to the Amara eps.
—Let her cry it out
—Although I’m not sure if she cries
—I mean, I’m going to cry
—Maybe she’s the crying-because-other-people-cry type
Elle 6:32 PM
—Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if she had never saved his ass?
I smirk, because I know the exact answer to that.
7:43 PM
—He probably would’ve died.
—Also hi Sorry for not replying sooner
—Got in trouble for texting at work
“Oh look, it’s the Ice King doing what he does best—being antisocial.”
The sound of Jess’s voice makes me jump. I shove my phone into my jacket and spin around to face her. She’s changed out of her costume, back into yoga pants and a tank top, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail. In her hands are two plates of barbecue.
I lift a brow. “One of those for me?”
She chuckles, sitting down beside me. “I only share with social people.”
“I’m social enough.”
“You totally aren’t, dude.” She hands me a plate anyway. “How’re you supposed to work the crowd if you’re sitting over in a corner texting all day?”
“It’s not my job,” I argue, taking the plate. It smells delicious. Oh and look—she remembered not to put bread or any sort of carbs on my plate. Only protein and greens. I swear, if I can just have one piece of bread, I’ll never lie about my texting habits again. “And genius sells itself, anyway.”
Jess gives me a look. “Watch out, your ego’s showing.”
“It ain’t easy being me.”
“Hm.” She swings her legs back and forth, looking out over the soundstage. “My agent’s in talks with this indie project,” she says after a moment.
“Oh yeah?” I say through a full mouth. “Whassit ’bout?”
“This small-town girl who lives a double life as a deejay. I read the script and it’s good. It’s really good. And I’d be so good in it.”
“You have the talent.” I swallow my food. “I mean, no one can run in heels like you can.”
“Want me to stab you with one?” she threatens. I raise my hands in surrender. “It’s a good project—small but cool, you know? And I’m a perfect fit for the lead.”
But she doesn’t sound happy about it. I study her for a moment.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Starfield,” she says simply.
“I’m…not following.”
She exhales slowly. “Starfield’s the matter. It’s got this huge following—fans are coming out of the woodwork. Those Stargunners. If they rally around this movie, pay attention to it, make it a success…”
Realization dawns. “If there are Starfield sequels, you can’t do that role.”
“It’d conflict with my contract.” She sighs. “I’m already twenty-two, Darien. And a woman. I know you love this, but my expiration date’s coming a little faster than yours. I can’t waste another three years being a space princess. Space princesses don’t win Oscars.” Morosely, she picks at her food, separating the green beans from the barbecue, her lips curved into a frown. “So much for a springboard. Maybe I should just hope it bombs—oh jeez.” She gasps and looks over at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. It was word vomit. I know this is your dream role. I’m so sorry. I suck.”
“It’s okay.” I tilt my head up, staring at the dimming orange lights on the set. “When I was younger, I never fit in anywhere. I always felt like that puzzle piece no one knew where to fit it. And then I found Starfield and its fandom”—and Brian—“and I thought for the first time hey, Carmindor’s like me. And now I get to be Carmindor. But what if I’m not cut out to be him after all? What if it does bomb? What if it bombs because of me? You might not have anything to worry about.”
“Seriously? If the screaming banshees outside the lot every day don’t tell you anything—”
“Not them,” I interrupt quickly, frustrated. “The true fans. Like you said, they’re coming out of the woodwork and I don’t think they like me much.”
Jess cocks her head. “You like Batman, right?”
I shrug. “I’m a fan.”
She eats a small bit of barbecue, chewing slowly. That’s how she eats, I’ve realized. She savors little pieces, eating bit by bit, like a bird. “So who do you like better, Val Kilmer or Christian Bale?”
I scoff. “No one in their right mind likes Val Kil—”
She makes a buzzer sound with her mouth. “Does that mean you aren’t a true fan?”
“What?”
“If you like one Batman over another? Which Batman does a true fan like?”
“I—” I realize what she means. “I guess it depends on the fan.”
Jess nods. “As actors, all we can do is put ourselves in another person for a while and play them the best we can. We’re instruments. We read the notes on the page and interpret them.” She fashions a violin out of thin air and begins to play a slow, moving song, her eyes closed so delicately, I wonder if in another life she once played the instrument.
“I thought you didn’t care,” I tease. “Since it’s not an ‘Oscar movie.’”
She pauses midnote and drops her invisible violin. “I don’t. But like I said, we’re an orchestra, and if you’re out of tune you’ll make me look bad too.” But she can’t meet my gaze.
“Admit it, you like being Amara.”
She mock gasps. “Never!”
“Jessica!” An assistant calls from the exit, her voice echoing in the now-empty warehouse. “Phone call!”
Jess hops off the set so quickly; she must’ve been expecting the call. “For the fans, right?” she says, and hurries out of the lot, grabbing the cell phone from her assistant’s hand as she goes.
I flip out my own phone, remembering blog posts on Rebelgunner. All the scathing comments online. Jess paints a pretty picture of an orchestra, but if we are one, then I’m the first chair violinist…who’s been doused in gasoline and handed a match by the fans to watch me play while going up in flames.
I have a bunch of new messages, all from Elle.
Elle 7:47 PM
—Oh no! Did I get you in trouble??
—I’m sorry!
—I won’t text you as much anymore, promise-sworn!
But then there are fans like Elle—people like Elle. Even if she ends up not liking my version of Carmindor, I’m going to give it my all. Because somehow she makes me want to be better. She makes me want to play my heart out while I’m on fire, play and play until I burn up like a dying red giant.
7:49 PM
—Pshhh, let them riot.
—I’d rather you promise-swear that you’ll never stop.
Elle 7:50 PM
—Really?
7:50 PM
—Really. I like talking to you.
Elle 7:51 PM
—Why?
“Ten minutes!” someone calls, and I jump. My hands are actually shaking a little on my phone, dying to type all the things I’m thinking. Before I can stop myself, I start to type.
7:52 PM
—Because I can’t stop thinking about you.