Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (3 page)

Chapter 3

I take in a nervous breath of air as I check out my appearance one final time. Deke Ryan will be here any minute now to interview me for
Arrivals & Departures.

And I want to make sure I’m camera ready the second he comes through the door.

I’ve gone a little heavier on the makeup than usual, so I don’t appear washed out on camera. I have sexy, smoky eyes, and I’ve put this fabulous Chanel pink lipstick on.

Suddenly the intercom buzzes, notifying me that someone is downstairs.

“He’s here?” Sasha cries, running out of her bedroom and into mine. “I’m not even ready yet!”

I turn and study Sasha, who is in a white terry cloth robe. Her long hair is messily piled up on the top of her head, and only one eye is made up with shadow and liner.

And from the way she is acting, you would think she’s the subject of Deke Ryan’s shoot tonight.

“Sasha, take your time,” I say, moving past her and heading down the hall to the intercom. “Deke has to interview me anyway, so maybe I can get him to do that first.”

“But I’m going to be on camera, right?” Sasha asks pointedly, following me out of my room and down the hall.

“Of course you are. You’re part of my reality, aren’t you?”

Sasha nods, an expression of relief crossing her face. Then she scurries off to her bedroom, no doubt to comb through her entire designer wardrobe in order to find the perfect outfit to wear on camera—and to entice the wealthy men of the world.

I resist laughing, as I really don’t think she’ll find a husband by appearing in
Arrivals & Departures
for oh, like fifteen minutes. I grin at the thought and hit the intercom button. “Hello?”

“May I speak to Avery Andrews, please?” Deke asks.

“This is Avery,” I say, excitement filling me. This is really happening. I’m about to become a real life TV personality!

“Hello, Avery, it’s Deke Ryan from the First Class Travel Channel. I’m downstairs if you want to buzz me up.”

I hold my finger on the intercom button so I can respond. “Sure, I’ll be right down so I can personally let you in.”

I click off the button and eagerly trot down the stairs. I see Deke waiting outside the door on the step but notice he’s alone. Hmmm. Maybe the rest of the crew is parking the van or something. Finding parking on the street at night can be a challenge, after all.

I open the door, and he smiles at me.

“Hi, Avery,” Deke says, extending his hand to me. “Good to see you again.”

I study him for a moment. Tonight he’s wearing an old, navy, Chicago Bears T-shirt. A vintage one, with a cracked and faded logo on it. The shirt seems like it was made in like 1977 or something. Not that I don’t like vintage, but this shirt needs to be
retired
.

“Hello, Deke,” I say, forgetting about the shirt. I take his hand and shake it. I instantly notice his tanned skin is kind of rough—like worker’s hands. Then I let go and glance up at him, thinking he’s about a whole foot taller than me.

“Are you ready to get started?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“But where’s the rest of your crew?” I ask, confused.

He furrows his brow. Now he looks confused. “What?”

“Your crew. Like I’ve seen on other reality shows. There’s a guy who holds a microphone type thing and a field producer,” I say, thinking out loud. “Isn’t there?”

Deke shakes his head. “Nope. I’m doing everything on this project,” he says, not bothering to explain further.

I watch as he bends down to pick up a big camera case that is on the ground next to him. Then I notice that Deke is once again intently studying me. And just like it did the first day we met, my stomach does a little flip in response.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t want to shoot your street or the outside of your building,” Deke says slowly, standing up. “I don’t want anyone to be able to know where you live when they watch the show.”

Oh. So he wasn’t really staring at me. He was thinking like a videographer. I blush at my own stupidity.

But then I realize what he’s just said.

“You . . . you think I could have
stalkers
?” I gasp, alarmed at this thought.

Deke smiles softly at me. “Anyone on TV can get stalkers, Avery. But don’t worry. I’ll just shoot the inside of your apartment so no one will be able to figure out the location, that’s all.”

“Oh. Good idea,” I say, but now my head is filled with obsessed fans following me home from work. What if I attract a psycho? Some kind of deranged lunatic? What if I have to get a restraining order or police protection?

“Avery? Can we go upstairs now?” Deke asks, staring at me with a quizzical expression on his face.

My face instantly flames in response. Apparently I’m the lunatic at this moment.

“Sure,” I say. I lead him up the staircase to my apartment. I push the door open and bring him inside, where he instantly stops and looks around.

Deke slowly puts down his gear, and I follow his eyes around the room. I doubt he’s taking in the room in the way I am, like seeing the cute floral loveseat, the striped, oversized chair for two, and the fabulous bay window that overlooks Armitage Avenue.

He’s viewing it like a professional videographer.

“Okay,” Deke says, bending down and opening up his camera case. “Why don’t we start with you giving me a tour of the place? I’ll put a mic on you and follow you around to get some footage. Then I’ll have you sit down here in the living room while I ask you some general questions.”

“Great,” I say, watching him unpack a bunch of stuff. “Hey, would you like a bottled water or something to drink?”

Deke doesn’t even glance up at me. “No, thanks.”

“Okay.” I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So I continue, curious about what his story is. “So, Deke, how many years have you been a videographer?”

“Five years.”

Silence fills the room. And it’s obvious he’s not going to elaborate any further than that.

I furrow my brow as I watch him. Wow. He really is a man of few words. But maybe I haven’t hit on the right question. I’m about to ask him something else when he stands up, holding a small black box in his hand.

“Okay, Avery, this is a transmitter for the wireless microphone,” Deke explains, moving over to me. “It sends the signal to the receiver on my camera. I’ll need for you to clip this to the back of your waistband for me.”

“Sure,” I say, taking it from him. I clip the box to the back of my jeans, and instantly my low-rise pants droop from the weight of the transmitter puling on them. I quickly tug my jeans back up. But they instantly fall down again. Shit. If my jeans are tugged down any lower, I’ll be giving Deke a view of my underwear.

Deke moves in front of me, oblivious to my panties dilemma. I casually hold up my jeans with one hand, keeping my hand tight on my hip in a pose designed to keep them there.

His eyes study me again, this time flickering over my pale green, gauzy, spaghetti-strapped top. “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm what?”

“I’m trying to figure out where to clip the mic,” Deke says. “Normally I would tell you to clip it to your bra strap, but since you aren’t wear—”

“I am too wearing a bra,” I interrupt. “It’s strapless.”

Deke views me as if I were a creature from another planet. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You just said I’m not wearing a bra. But I am. I
always
wear a bra. I’m n
ot the type of woman to go anywhere bra-less, and certainly not on TV.”

“That’s
not
what I was going to say. I was going to say ‘I can’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a bra
with straps
.’ And that’s
all
I’m saying.”

“Oh,” I say, totally embarrassed. “Well, okay then.”

He exhales loudly. “Listen, I need for you to take this mic and wire. The wire runs from the transmitter to this clip on microphone, and I need for you to hide the wire under your shirt. And then clip the mic—” He pauses again for a moment, studying my spaghetti-strapped top.

“Yes?” I ask, staring up at him.

“I guess clip it down near where your strap meets your shirt,” he says.

I follow his gaze down toward my chest. Then I lift my eyes up to find him staring at me. And as my eyes meet his, my pulse twitches just a bit. After all, Deke is cute, despite the bad shirt. And there is something mysterious in his blue-green eyes, something that makes a tingle shoot down my spine whenever I look in them.

“Okay,” Deke says simply, interrupting my thoughts. He bends down and picks up his camera. “So if you’ll go do that, we’ll be ready to go.”

The moment is over. If there was even a moment. Maybe I’m imagining things. That’s probably the case anyway, as I have had paranoid tendencies lately. So I nod and head back down the hall, to my bedroom, with my hand still firmly planted on my hip. I shut the door behind me, let go of my pants, and they immediately drop down again. Damn it! I ignore them for a second and run the wire and mic up underneath my shirt, clipping it where Deke told me to. At least that part works like it should.

I come back out down the hall and notice Sasha is still barricaded in her room. I leave her there for now and come out to the living room.

“The first thing I need to do is to check the audio levels,” Deke says, putting some headphones on. He picks up his camera and aims it at me. “Say something.”

I stare back at the camera. God, this is weird. “Uh . . . Testing?” I ask, thinking that sounds appropriate. “One, two, three, testing?”

“Good,” he says, putting the camera back down. He removes the headphones and picks the camera back up. “Now I’m going to turn the light on real quick to check the lighting on your face. It will feel kind of hot to you once I start shooting, but that’s normal, okay?”

I nod, thinking Deke really is good at explaining things to people who aren’t in the business.

He turns the camera on and the light is bright—and warm. And just like Deke said, I can feel it on my face.

“That’s good.” He turns it off and lowers it for a second. “Here’s what I think we should do. I want you to walk around and give me a tour. Tell me whatever comes to your mind. But the hardest thing is going to be for you to look at the lens and talk to it like you are talking to a person. That is kind of awkward at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

“You sound like you’ve coached a lot of people through this,” I say. “Have you done a lot of shows?”

“Avery, I’m not here, remember?” Deke says quickly, putting the camera back up on his shoulder. “This is all about you.”

I frown for a moment. Obviously Deke isn’t going to engage in conversation with me. But how can he say he’s not here? This is a documentary. Real life. And in my reality, he’s here, isn’t he?

But really, that’s fine if he wants to be that way. It’s not like I care or anything.

“Sure,” I say, tugging my pants up one more time and holding my hand on my hip.

Deke turns the camera light on. “Whenever you’re ready, Avery. I’ll follow your lead. And I might ask a question here or there to prompt you.”

I nod and stare at the camera. And he’s right. It’s very hard to look at the lens and talk to it like it’s a person. I feel weird. Watched. And very self-conscious.

“Why don’t you show me the kitchen?” Deke asks, as if he’s read my mind.

“Sure,” I say breezily, backing into the kitchen so he can’t see my panties, which I’m quite sure are visible now. “This is the kitchen.” I back into the small space, across the hardwood floor. Silence fills the room. I still don’t know what to say. Oh, God, they’ll take one look at my awkwardness on camera and find a replacement by the end of tonight if I don’t think of something.
Think, think
—

“Here’s my coffeemaker,” I blurt out, moving over to it.

Oh God. I’m talking about coffeemakers. What am I
doing
?

“Yes,” Deke says.

“What I love about it is that it’s pink,” I say, rambling. “It’s so fun and just brightens up the kitchen. And it’s my favorite color.”

“Of course,” he says in a monotone.

I hesitate. What’s so wrong with liking the color pink? Oh, right. It must mean I’m a total girlie girl flake if I dare to say I like pink.

Well, he’s
wrong
.

I lift my chin defiantly. “It’s Cuisinart, and I scored it on eBay for a great price a few months ago. And once I perfect the art of making coffee, I’ll use it every day before going to work to save money on coffee drinks.”

“So you bought a coffeemaker and still haven’t learned to use it yet?” Deke asks. And as he does, I hear confusion in his voice. Then he turns the camera on me.

“I haven’t had time yet,” I lie. The truth is, I have tried making coffee, and so far each attempt has been an epic fail. But I keep that fact to myself. “But I’ll master it. So for the time being it’s as a decorative accessory in our kitchen,” I say, staring at him. Then I remember he’s not there so I shift my gaze to the lens. “To compliment the coffeemaker, I plan on bidding on a pink Cuisinart toaster very soon.”

“Right,” Deke says, not sounding convinced of my idea to decorate the kitchen with pink appliances.

“Uh, my roommate and I—her name is Sasha—are lucky enough to have a pantry,” I say, hoping to divert him away from an appliance conversation. I quickly head over to it, backwards, with my hand still clutching my pants.

“Avery, take your hand off your hip,” he says gently. “And you don’t have to walk backwards everywhere. Try to be normal.”

“But . . . but . . . this box is tugging my jeans down,” I admit. My face begins to burn, and I know I’m the color of my coffeemaker.

Deke stops. He turns the light off the camera and lowers it so he’s staring at me. “Are they low rise?”

“Yes.”

“That’s normal. I’ve seen this happen ever since low rise became popular. I’ll just shoot from the waist up.”

“Oh. Good,” I say, releasing my hand and letting my jeans sag. I worry about him looking at my underwear for a second, but then decide that Deke’s a professional. I’m sure he’s seen way more exciting things in his career than my panties peeking out of my J Brand jeans.