“Kind of. We flit pictures back and forth sometimes to make each other laugh. It’s this dumb game we have.” I adjusted the earbud so I could hear Laura better, doing my best to follow Monique’s instruction to “keep smiling whenever you’re not talking” in the general direction of the camera. It felt as natural as if someone had glued a pair of gummy lips to my face.
“And you thought she’d get a kick out of a picture of Kyle? Did someone have a crush?” The audience wooooed in the background.
“No, she’s just really into modernist burger art. This was my riff on Edward Hopper.” I gulped against the surge of renewed, throat-noosing nerves. Jesus, Rachel, can you not play it straight for five fricking minutes? But Laura laughed.
“Me too. I find it very tasteful. Okay, so the picture blew up, obviously. We know all about that, so I’ll ask the question I think we all really need an answer to.” She looked out at what must have been the audience, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. I could hear some laughs and whoops coming through the feed. “You ready for this one?”
“Maybe?” Was I smiling, or did I look trapped inside my own eyes? Please don’t make me talk about the trolls. I’d be stiff and stupid and possibly also cry on national television.
“How. Do you get. Your hair that way?”
I frowned. What?
“Because seriously, it is awesome. It’s like a sculpture you get to live inside. I was so jealous that I tried to steal your style before today’s show, and . . . well, who wants to see how it turned out?” Everyone cheered wildly, and Laura nodded, smiling ruefully.
“This was attempt number one.” A picture flashed onscreen of her with fat, sausagey poodle curls all around her head. She looked like some Victorian child, but old. Everyone laughed uproariously. “But that seemed too tame, so I decided to try something a little edgier.” The picture showed a super-teased, eighties-looking Laura. More chuckles. “But that still didn’t have the depth I needed, so I tried one more time.” The orange fro wig she wore next had to be at least a foot deep in every direction. The audience loved that. Laura waited a solid fifteen seconds so the camera crew could get audience shots before she quieted them down.
“Obviously none of them came close. So what’s your secret?”
“Um . . . I guess shampoo? And not cutting it too short. Then I look like that last picture.”
“Mmm. Shampoo. Should’ve known. Thanks for the tip. Now that that’s out of the way, we have something fun planned for Rachel today . . .”
Laura launched into an explanation of how I was shopping for the perfect dress for the homecoming dance I’d be going to with Kyle, and I nodded and smiled and uh-huhed through the rest.
“And . . . cut.” Anastasia strode forward to help me remove the mic pack. “Great job, Rachel.”
“Am I done?”
“For today! You did great, though, so I’m sure Laura will want at least one more segment before the dance.” Was she just humoring me? But thinking over the interaction, I couldn’t point to a place where I’d really screwed up. Except for occasionally grimacing like someone was torturing me just off-screen to get me to deliver their manifesto.
“Okay.” I unclenched my fists. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been squeezing them until right that second.
“You can get your things together and head home. We’ll get things squared away with the dress.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” Anastasia turned to one of the crew and started rapidly issuing directives. Mary in sheep’s clothing, that one.
When I got back to the dressing room, Monique was failing to repress her grin, my phone in her hand.
“You have a message.”
I tried to frown at her for looking at my phone, but I couldn’t pull it off. I was still pulsing with anxiety—it was like the camera turning off released a brand-new flood of stomach-twistingness—but it felt different . . . almost good. Knowing Kyle had texted was too much to stifle.
I sent a couple of messages.
Then he asked me to come over and watch the show.
“Mo.” I blinked a few times. Was he serious? Saturday’s bowling fiasco was one thing. The party had been such a rain of flaming crap, he probably felt like he had to check in on me to make sure I hadn’t curled up into a ball and died. Plus, we had to get to know each other a little before the dance.
But after how that ended I’d sorta figured he’d keep his distance. And he could have asked anyone to watch him on TV—like his stunning maybe-girlfriend, Emma. But he hadn’t. This didn’t feel like due diligence for the show, it felt like he just wanted to hang out with me. Maybe that girl in the gray dress wasn’t only a trick of the lighting. . . .
I passed Mo the phone.
“I thought you were watching with me,” she said, looking at me expectantly.
“Oh. I mean, that’s . . . okay.” I stuck my hand forward robotically. I’d never had to think about girl code before, because there had been no one to break it for, but I had promised.
“Jesus, Rachel, I’m kidding.” Mo laughed.
“Oh.” I laughed, relieved. Maybe studio lighting fries your brain briefly. “Okay, cool.” I typed in a quick response. “I’m really doing this?”
“Absolutely.”
I hit send.
chapter forty
KYLE