FanGirl (10 page)

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Chapter 8

D
uring the last 18 years, I’ve been many things:- Thumb-sucker (age 0-3)- Bed wetter (3-6)- Ace Frehley, lead guitarist of Kiss (Halloween, third grade)- Girlfriend (fifth
grade - three days; eighth grade
- three months; first kiss - 10-11
th
grade; Reid - first don’t-wanna-talk-about-it)- TV show auditionee (current)

The exception? Liar. Especially to my parents. It’s not out of any sense of moral obligation or anything. Apparently, I have a “tell.” My father has said that since I was a small child, when I lie, my lips curl into a smirk, making me look guilty as the devil. Eventually, I just stopped lying, opting for the truth or avoidance if necessary. The circumstances surrounding my audition and callback remain touchy (and frankly, unclear), so I hedge. Mom is still upset about my initial audition. Dad decided to stick with mom (damn him). They know the details of my audition, the first one, but thought it wouldn’t go any further. Neither did I.

Avoidance is my only option.

The night before the big day I stay with Iris, attempting to sleep on her soft, incense-smelling futon. Dim, star-shaped lights that we bought at Ikea hang from her curtains, giving the room a warm glow. Tucked into Iris’ familiar bed, I figure that if I stay away from home, I don’t have to lie, therefore solving the problem. I do not want to explain something that may not be a reality. Why have the same argument again if no one, including Gabe, thinks it will happen?
I am on my back, staring at the fading, glow-in-the-dark stickers on Iris’ ceiling when I feel her roll toward me and not-whisper-whisper, “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” I say back in the same hushed, unnecessary tone.

“Nervous?”

“A little.” I am not sure what to feel. Nervous, excited, anxious, nauseous, exhausted.

“I’ve been thinking about the audition,” she says. The bed shifts as she props herself on her elbow. “Do you think you’ll get to kiss Andrew?”

Um…

I sit up in the bed. “I never even thought about that! I can’t kiss Andrew Xavier! He’s all perfect, with perfect boy hair and perfect muscles. Plus, I’m a little mad about him getting the Wyatt part, so it would be really awkward and strange — beyond, you know, the general awkward and strangeness of kissing a guy you’ve never met, yet used to have posters of on your wall. Then there’s the fact it would be like a fake-fake kiss, since I’m holding a grudge for his casting.” I take a deep breath. “That’s it. I can’t go. I’m not ready for this level of moral dilemma.”

Iris stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’d consider giving this whole thing up because you’re afraid to fake-fake kiss Andrew Xavier? And because you’ve suddenly developed an irrational moral compass? Exactly how does kissing a hot actor for work make an ethical dilemma?”

“It just does,” I say, completely serious. Kissing boys was more Iris’ sport than mine. I like to kiss boys, when I know them, not because they’re famous. Or have hot tattoos on their necks. Not for the first time, I think about how our roles should be reversed.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” I flop back on the bed. The room is dark enough that it’s difficult to make out Iris’ features. I’m glad because it means she can’t see my face either.

“What else are you afraid will happen?”

“Failure. Mocking. Andrew Xavier,” I list. She settles down next to me. “The future, my parents, school, Gabe. General fears of making an ass out of myself.”

“The plot thickens. I know you’re not the risk-taker type, and really, do you think I would encourage you to do this if you were horrible? I directed you in that video. I watched it a million times.” She rolls over and faces me. “You have what it takes. Will you get it? I have no idea. Depends on if they want one of those glamazons or not, but you have every right to be there if you want. Gabe asked you himself.”

Iris and I have been best friends since our parents signed us up for a horrific year of gymnastics together when we were 6. She and I got into a scuffle waiting in line for the trampoline. To this day, she maintains that I cut in line. Likewise, I maintain she was a bossy brat. The result? One pulled pigtail and one kick in the shin. After being dragged from the gym floor, our mothers made us apologize and forced us into a play date. We’ve been BFFs ever since, but at any time I may kick her in the shin and she may pull my hair. It’s how we show affection. Her little speech kind of touches me.

“Aww. You really do love me,” I say.

“Shut up.”

“You do.” I snuggle into the bed at little tighter. “I also think you lace your words with sleeping potion.”

“It’s the voodoo,” she said in a clipped, island accent.

I close my eyes. “Then cast a spell that I go in tomorrow, say all my lines, kiss Andrew Xavier on the lips, wow Gabe with my skills and become the most kick-ass zombie fighter in the history of zombie-fighting ass-kickers.”

“Done.”

g

“You can go back,”
Ashley says, pointing me down the hall away from the safety of Iris, the couch and the handful of other girls who have returned.

“Ruby, wait!”

I stop in the doorway and feel Iris’ fingers in my belt. “Take this.”

She hangs a hatchet from my belt loop, a real one, just like Alexandra’s. The metal is heavy on my waist, but the twisted handle at the top hangs secure over the top.

“Thanks,” I say.

NAB isn’t here to escort me like last time. I reach the meeting room and the door swings open. Gabe steps into the hallway.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the wall.

“Hey.”

“Nervous?”

“A little,” I hold up the script Ashley gave me when I arrived. He raises an eyebrow and I cave. “Okay, a lot.”

“You’ve got this. You’ve channeled Alex before and nailed it.” His voice lowers. “I need you.
Zocopalypse
needs you. These other people will totally fuck up my vision.”

I have no idea if this comment is supposed to be reassuring, but all I feel is panic.

A smile breaks on his face. “No pressure, huh?” He opens the door and gestures for me to walk ahead of him. Right as I pass him, he whispers, “I’m serious. These other girls are idiots.”

I gulp and do a quick sweep of the room. The long table from before is still in place. The same faces from last time sit behind it, although this time NAB sits at the end of the table with a stack of papers in front of him. Gabe is already back in his chair with a blasé, innocent expression. Then I see him. He’s opposite NAB, at the far end of the table, as though the atmosphere of NAB and Hottest Upcoming Star 2011 should not mingle.

Andrew Xavier.

AKA: the best-looking person I’ve ever seen. No, really. I thought I had a solid concept of a handsome or beautiful or attractive person.

For example:

• Taylor Lyn:
  Homecoming queen; Cheerleader Number 3 on “One of the Pack;” blonde, blue-eyed, Southern beauty
  
• Iris’ father:
  creamy dark skin, perfect teeth
  
• Hot lifeguard at my pool:
  genetically superior, arms made of steel, wingspan of a giant
  

But I’m wrong. This boy-man standing in front of me may be the most beautiful person ever. Even the glamazons have nothing on him.

“Hi, I’m Andrew,” he says, half standing to shake my hand. His hands are so soft. Do men normally have soft hands like this? Self-conscious, I rub my wet, sandpapery hands on my skirt after he releases mine.

“Ruby.” Yeah, that’s all I can manage.

“Okay, Ruby, we’re hoping to get a read on how you and Andrew work together. The scene you were given beforehand is one between your two characters. We’d like to see you act it out together,” Nick announces from his spot behind the table.

I immediately recognized the scene when Ashley gave me the script. It’s a section of Volume 1, when Alex and Wyatt decide to travel as a team.

Andrew moves from behind the table to stand next to me. He’s not as tall as I expected, but his eyelashes are a foot long and I think he could cut someone with the sharp angle of his jaw.

“Ready when you guys are,” someone says from the table.

“Ready?” Andrew asks. Are his eyes blue or green, I wonder, resisting the urge to shield myself from their glory.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’re ready?”

“Oh, sure. Yeah. Ready.”

Alexandra and Wyatt rummage through an abandoned, picked-over convenience store, looking for food and other supplies. Both are dirty, weary and on edge from being so exposed during the daylight. Although they’ve traveled from the farmhouse together, they’re in an uneasy and undefined alliance.

Wyatt shoves random packages from the auto parts section into a large, hiking-style backpack, one-handed. A shotgun is in his other hand.

Wyatt:
How long were you and your mom on your own?

Alexandra picks through the remaining bottles of aspirin, medicines and soap. She fights back tears.

Alexandra:
Long enough. You?

Wyatt:
Since the outbreak. I lived on my own anyway. I just packed a bag and got out of there.

Alexandra:
Where’s there?

Wyatt:
Durham.

They both shift around the store, moving to a different section. Wyatt glances over his shoulder and at the doors occasionally. It’s eerily quiet.

Alexandra:
You’re a student?

Wyatt:
Am. Was. Whatever.

Alexandra:
I looked at Duke. Pre-med.

Wyatt:
Eh, college sucks. You’re not missing anything.

Neither laugh at his lame attempt at humor.

Alexandra:
My dad is the one who wanted me to go there. He was a huge basketball fan. One year he even got to go to the Final Four… basketball. Afterward, he said he would have rather watched it at home, on the TV with instant replay. What a stupid concept, you know? Running around shooting a ball in a hoop. Does it all seem crazy to you? Was that real? Did we spend time and money and energy on games?

Wyatt says nothing. He’s just watching her. Listening as she tells her story.

Alexandra:
I mean all those boys are dead, right? Unless they’re one of them. Faces rotting. Brains oozing. Can you imagine being eaten by a seven-foot center?

Wyatt:
They don’t eat you.

Alexandra:
Sure they do! I’ve seen it.

Wyatt:
They don’t eat. They’re dead. They just want to spread the virus.

Alexandra:
How do you know this? Did you hear this somewhere?

Wyatt shrugs and moves behind the counter. Alexandra doesn’t press and the two pick over the rest of the store. They seem to know there’s nothing left to scavenge and they stand across from one another.

Wyatt:
Look, you’re nice and all but I’ve been on my own this whole time. I don’t need anyone slowing me down out there.

He looks her over, as if to suggest she is weak.

Alexandra:
You’d rather be on your own.

Wyatt:
Yep.

A groan comes from the back of the store and a zombie comes into view. He lumbers in their direction. Wyatt reaches and pumps his gun, loading the cartridge. Before he takes aim, Alexandra pulls her hatchet out of her pants and hits it square on the forehead. Direct hit. Wyatt, shaking, looks at Alexandra in amazement.