Catch a Rising Star (2 page)

“Tell me about it,” I mumble, eyeing the donuts and seriously considering snagging another one.

But it’s too late. Teresa nods toward the door. “Here they come.”

Deep breath. Happy place. Find the happy place.

But it really is hard to find that place when Janice and Kristin keep smirking. And they both seem to get a kick out of the
fact that I was once a glitzy red-carpet-goer, and now I’m reduced to this.

Okay, I can rise above this even with a slight touch of donut-induced heartburn. Just my luck.

“Children,” Mary says, putting on that happy face I know is totally for the sake of all the mothers in the room who will most
likely leave the store in an hour carrying a bag of books—including the one we’re about to read. The smile to launch a thousand
dings of the register. “Give a big hand to Peter Cottontail.”

This is it, Tabby. You’re on. Time to get into character. Discover the bunny. Be the bunny.

I
am
the bunny.

“Hello, children,” I say in my perky rabbit voice. I throw in a couple of hops just to make the character more real. “Who
wants to hear the story of Peter Cottontail?”

A rather unenthusiastic whoop goes up into the air. I have to say their lack of exhilaration doesn’t do much for my bunny
confidence.

“Oh, come on,” I prod. “Peter Cottontail? I’ll tell you all about how I—you know—” What did Peter do? Get thrown into a briar
patch? Turn left at Albuquerque? Wait! He lost a mitten. Shoot, no that was the kitten, wasn’t it?

“You can’t be Peter Cottontail.”

In the midst of my brain-wracking, I look down until I find the source of the first annoying comment of the day. Less than
a minute into the story hour. That’s got to be a record. The little girl has blue eyes, curly blond hair. Honest, she looks
like a child actress. But she’s not acting very sweet, I must say.

I draw in a long, steadying breath. Perky. Stay perky.

I give another couple of hops. “Of course I am.”

“No, you’re not.” She puts her chubby little hands on her chubby little hips. Clearly a challenge.

My teeth grind. I feel myself sliding to a bad place here. But wait. I mustn’t argue with the children. I replay Mary’s words
from the last time I entered into a “discussion” with someone under nine. “One more time and we’re going to have to let you
go.” True, this isn’t much of a job. But it gives me the hours I need and pays—well, pretty poorly, but it does pay. I force
a smile. “What makes you think I’m not Peter Cottontail?”

“You’re a
girl,
” she says matter-of-factly and with all the wisdom of a know-it-all twerp. “Peter Cottontail is a
boy
.”

I look down my black bunny nose at her and focus on being condescending—one of my better acting traits if I do say so myself.
“Maybe I’m in touch with my feminine side. Ever think of that?” Oh, I probably shouldn’t have gone there. I glance guiltily
around and kids are staring, maybe a little fearful of the crazed bunny.

The hideous child folds her arms across her chest and gives me a smug stare down. “You’re still a girl. And you don’t even
know the story of Peter Rabbit.”

“Yes I do. I just don’t want to brag.”

Okay, that was bad even for me. The kid gives me a know-it-all sneer. Suddenly I realize who she reminds me of. “Didn’t you
play the little girl in
Interview with the Vampire
? You know, the one who gets burned up in the sunlight while clinging to her mother-figure?” The little bloodsucker.

The child’s blue eyes widen in fright just before she runs away, and I realize she might have been scared by my reference
to vampires or possibly the mental image of flesh turned to ash. Shoot! Why do kids have to be such babies? This is why I
never babysat as a teenager. Oh darn! Now she’s coming back over here with someone who looks like a ticked-off mother.

Grown-up blue eyes flash before me. I give the woman a good sizing up. She’s a larger version of the child. Pretty, petite.
Blond. I wonder if I could take her if things get ugly, or should I be prepared to pull a Forrest Gump and run away? She doesn’t
look that big. I could probably hold my own.

“Did you just tell my daughter she looks like a vampire?” she demands.

“Of course not.” Backpedal, Tabs—backpedal fast! “Um… I was just thinking how much she resembles Kirsten Dunst as a child.
And I couldn’t remember any movie except that one. I—uh—didn’t even think about her being afraid. Your daughter is so pretty,
you should consider getting her some auditions.”

“Really?” The woman’s face brightens, and I know my work here is done. Catastrophic firing from job is once more avoided.
Now to drive the nail home.

“Of course—I used to act on a soap opera,” gotta get that little plug in—I’m so weak, “so I know the type of children they
scout around for, and your daughter definitely has the right look.” I glance at the little girl, who is still glaring at me.
Obviously all the flattery hasn’t made a dent in her armor.

She stomps her patent leather shoe. “You still can’t be Peter Cottontail if you’re a girl.”

Irritation creeps back up. What is it with this kid? “Oh yeah? Watch me.” Shoot. That’s arguing, isn’t it?

“Of course Tabby isn’t the
real
Peter Cottontail.” Mary walks into the room and immediately order is restored. She gives me a one-eyebrow-raise in passing.
Doggone it. I realize she’s heard enough of my conversation to figure out that the kid and I weren’t swapping recipes. She
skewers me with a glance that no one could possibly have caught but me and continues on like she’s one happy camper. “Let’s
just pretend.”

How does she sneak up on a person like that anyway? She just appears, like a… Well, I’m not sure if I should say this
but… If anyone’s a vampire . . .

Vampira’s giving me that “get on with it” glare, and I know I’d better start reading… or else.

Thirty grueling pages and a gazillion kiddie interruptions later, I bid Teresa good-bye until next week, then go to the ladies’
room, zip out of the bunny suit, peel off the whiskers. I stare at my pitiful reflection. My face is blotchy red from trying
to get the whiskers to let go and from scrubbing off the makeup. Hideous. But what’s a girl to do? I pack away the suit. And
let me tell you, this is absolutely the last time I’m wearing that awful thing. After tucking it away in the costume closet,
I walk to the counter, ready to face the music. I try not to be too scared since I’m sure God is directing my steps here.
Surely He’s going to reward me for the first half of the day when I was so good about surrendering to Him. Even when I got
cut off on the highway. Not only didn’t I flip anyone the bird, but I waved and acted like it was my idea to let the guy over.

Mary smiles at a customer and hands her a bag. “Happy reading.”

Then she looks up and sees me standing there. Her smile fades fast like I sucked the happy right out of her. She gives me
the evil eye, and I know I’m a goner.

I wonder if I should ask for a reference.

By the time I make it home, I’m trying to shove the hideous day aside and focus on my big plans for tonight. My parents are
coming over for dinner at the apartment I share with my two best friends, Laini and Dancy—only they’ve decided to be absent.
I honestly can’t say that I blame them. I’m not all that crazy about the idea myself, but you know, it’s all about dinner
with the folks. A necessary part of every adult’s life. At least every three months or so, I’m obligated to invite the parents
over. Otherwise they start to imagine I have something to hide, and once their minds go there, short of marriage to the man
of their dreams, there’s no convincing anyone I’m A-OK and not hopping from party to party with Paris or Lindsay.

Anyway, I figure Mom and Dad will shove off by nine, and I can curl up with my new copy of
Soap Opera Magazine
. Or better yet, read while taking a bubble bath. It’s my night for a long soak in the tub. Rule number four on our door:
One person per night is allowed a long bath in the tub. First of all, because three women sharing an apartment can’t possibly
all soak each night, and secondly, because we have water pressure issues, and it takes as long to fill the tub as it does
to soak away our troubles.

Laini is the official—and self-proclaimed—rules person. Being an accountant, she’s big on lists and organization. She works
for ACE Accounting. And—not to brag or anything, but—she’s the aciest of all the aces there. A real hotshot with numbers.
We’d never get all the bills paid if she didn’t keep track of things.

Some of the rules are only posted “just in case.” For instance number two: Men are not allowed in the apartment after midnight.
Okay, honestly? I can’t remember the last time either of my roommates had a date—unless you count Floyd Bartell, the guy Dancy’s
mom is dying to have as her son-in-law. It’s really a curious thing, if you ask me. I mean, they’re both attractive, smart,
nice. All the attributes that should act as bait on a hook. But unfortunately, my two gal-pals aren’t getting so much as a
nibble. As a matter of fact, the only nibble I’m getting is from Brian Ryan, a total mistake. A guy I went on a blind date
with and can’t get rid of. I’m sure he’s harmless. Well, almost sure.

Sooo, back to this evening. Everything has got to be
perfect
. Otherwise I’m going to have to hear about it from my mom. I hurry home to the two-bedroom apartment where Dancy and Laini
graciously allowed me to crash when I lost my own place three years ago—after I was canned from
Legacy of Life.
That day still haunts me. The day I realized that after paying off most of the debts I incurred when I thought I had another
three years on the show (per my contract—apparently they could terminate if story line necessitated—whatever!). I had two
choices: Go home and live with Ma (kill me, please, for even thinking of that as an option) or beg my friends to take me in.
After all, I don’t take up a lot of room.

Not to be a snob or anything, but I had a condo in a high-rise with an elevator, doorman—swanky digs if I do say so myself.
Now I live in more of a Sarah Jessica Parker,
Sex and the City
building. But it’s nice too. I’d never complain. Only, well, the other one
did
have a doorman.

Regret—just a twinge, mind you—pinches me. And immediately I realize that the new Tabby who is giving it all over to God has
no reason to feel regret. But then… I can’t be too hard on myself. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

It’s not easy to take the high road though. It’s quite a comedown going from a soap opera diva to a reading bunny. I love
acting, and darn it, I just want to do something more meaningful with my talent than dressing up for the bookstore. I mean,
I still audition from time to time and have an acting coach, who incidentally always smells like a brewery and has more love
scenes for me to practice (with him as the male lead, of course) than really seems necessary. But there hasn’t been a lot
of time for auditions between working two jobs.

My whole life I’ve wanted to be an actress. NYU, extra acting classes, auditions. Finally, after tons of rejections and a
few embarrassing Tampax commercials, I landed a recurring role on
Legacy of Life.
A character that the fans immediately took to—and begged to see more of. A role that turned into a five-year run.

I really was on the fast track to stardom until I had a sort of fling with the head writer’s husband. In my defense, let me
be clear: I had no idea he was anyone’s husband, let alone Julie Foster’s. She uses her maiden name. He didn’t have on a wedding
ring—believe me, I checked. The producer’s house, where we had the now infamous Christmas party, was enormous. If I had married
a man with a roving eye, I’d keep him on a short leash—wouldn’t you? So as far as I’m concerned, it’s partly Julie’s fault
that I ended up wasting my entire evening chatting with her husband.

I truly thought I had maybe found Mr. Right. I mean, we had a lot in common, talked for hours about family (mostly mine, come
to think of it), goals, hobbies, and—long story short—Julie caught him just as he was about to move in for a kiss. Not that
I blame her, given the circumstances, but she caused a big fat scene. I tried to explain, and Mr. Definitely-Not-Right even
took up for me… which I think actually made things worse. But despite my insistence that I was innocent, no one sympathized
with me because everyone assumed my shock and dismay were just good acting. After all, I
was
nominated for an Emmy once.

Julie had the last word when she concocted a story line whereby two months later my character was killed in a fiery inferno.
And the powers that be let her get away with it. Can you believe that?

I tried to make amends, but she didn’t believe my innocence. Within a week she had thrown her husband out of their condo and
started dating the director of the sitcom three sets down from ours. So much for true love. Again, not that I blame her. But
she could have taken all that woman-scorned fury and done something a little more constructive with it than kill off the most
popular leading actress on the show. And not to brag, but I was. My portrayal of Felicia Fontaine got me that Emmy nomination
in the last season I was on the show. I mean, come on. How could they just let that go? But they did. And now I wait tables
and dress up like various animal characters to make ends meet. Well, I did anyway.

I swear, when is Prince Charming going to take me away from it all?

W
hy can’t my mom get it through her head that Brian Ryan is
not
my Prince Charming? I just hung up the phone with her. Here’s how the call went.

Me: “Hello?”

Mom: “Hello, dear.”

As soon as she called me “dear,” I knew something was up.

Mom: “Your father and I are bringing a guest, so be sure you have plenty of food.”

Sinking feeling in stomach because she said “guest” with a lilt.

Me: “Ma! You tell me two hours before dinner? I’ve been planning this for two weeks. How am I supposed to ord—uh—fix more
food on such short notice?” (Okay, Mom didn’t have to know I called for Chinese—but in my defense it’s the good Chinese place
and not the cheap one that was recently closed down for a week after the health inspector found a cat in the freezer. And
let me just say—well, no, I’d better not go there.) Back to why my mom drives me crazy.