Page 37 of Let’s Make a Scene

“But I do feel there needs to be more dynamism in your movement,” Dad carries on as if she hasn’t spoken. “Your performance is lacking a certain…”

“Spark?” Mum suggests.

“Spark!” he agrees happily, and I’m glad the two of them are having a nice time, because I feel like I’m about to be sick.

“More dynamic movement,” I echo hollowly. “Got it.”

“Now,” Dad continues, and there’s the sound of paper shuffling. “Let’s talk about the scene in the ballroom…”

It’s another forty minutes before I manage to get off the call, and by that point I’m limp with exhaustion. My head is pounding, but inside I just feel… numb. I want to lie down and sleep for a week. My parents’ copious notes on my apparently lackluster performance circle round and round in my head. It will be a miracle if I can get through a single line tomorrow. Crushing bands of tension wrap themselves around my chest.

I know I should be grateful. It’s just hard when I sometimes feel like the disappointing product of an experiment, as if they were hoping that between them they’d create some sort of super-actor. But instead they ended up with me.

I look down at the phone in my hand and notice in a detached sort of way that my fingers are shaking. A fleck of glitter on my phone case catches the light, and I stare at it for a moment then close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Cynthie’s face swims into focus behind my eyelids. She’s wearing the smirk that stretched across her lips earlier. Something breaks through the numbness then, something hot and bright.

Cynthie.

I push my parents’ voices aside, focus my attention instead on the chaotic little demon who is turning my life upside down. Tomorrow, I’ll get her back for what she pulled today. I lie down, my head hitting the pillow. It’s Cynthie I’m thinking of when I fall asleep.

THE NEXT MORNING, SCOTT AND I stand, poised outside the hair and makeup trailer. The muffled sound of conversation and laughter indicates that the group inside have no idea what’s about to happen.

I can almost visualize Arjun reaching carefully through the open window we have scoped out.

“What was that?” Liam’s voice rings with alarm, as the first domino falls.

There’s a crashing sound, a stifled expletive.

And then the screaming starts.

When the door to the trailer bursts open, and the four of them come tumbling out, I’m ready with my own camera. There’s even more shrieking than I had expected, and the sound is music to my ears. I let the laugh that’s been building up in my chest loose and press the shutter.

When the flash bursts, Cynthie comes to a screeching halt in front of me, her mouth hanging open. I watch the realization dawn in her eyes.

“Is it on me? Is it on me?” Liam’s voice is shrill, and he and Patty dance around on the spot while Hannah bats ineffectually at their clothing.

“Stop,” Cynthie wheezes, cutting through their panic. “It wasn’t real. It wasn’t… It was… him.” She points at me, venom in her words.

I don’t care; I’m too busy laughing. When I went to Pete in the prop department and explained the situation, he was only too happy to let us dig into their supplies. One extremely realistic, remote-controlled tarantula later, I knew we were in business.

“Wait… what?” Patty stares at me, wide-eyed.

“How?” Liam asks.

I look past them, and Arjun wanders nonchalantly round the side of the trailer, a grin on his face. He pulls a remote from his pocket and drops something to the floor. The spider skitters toward them, and even though they know it’s fake now, Liam and Patty jump back, cursing like sailors.

“You shouldn’t leave your windows open,” I say with a shrug. Arjun sends the spider running back toward him and scoops it up off the ground, waggling it in the air. In fairness, the thing is absolutely, horrifyingly realistic, all hair and legs.

I look down at the Polaroid of the four of them jumping around in a chaotic blur. “I think I’m going to frame this one.” I smirk. “Although, maybe Pete will want to pin it up in the props trailer? Just goes to show what good work those guys are doing.”

Cynthie takes a step toward me but I don’t budge, and suddenly she’s right there in my space. God, it feels good to get back at her. The fury is pumping off her body and it’s doing something intoxicating to my bloodstream. I think I’m drunk on sweet, sweet revenge, and I like it. The bad taste that last night’s phone call from my parents left behind is gone now. I feel invincible.

Then, just when I think she’s about to start yelling, Cynthie does something totally unexpected: she lifts her hand and runs her fingertip lightly over the curve of my cheekbone.

And everything stops.

I exhale in surprise. She’s so close that the toes of her scuffed sneakers kiss my own. My gaze drops to her mouth, and the moment stretches between us. Time thickens and slows and her perfect pink lips part, drawing in a ragged breath. I lift my gaze up to meet hers, and something flares in her eyes.

Cynthie takes a sharp step back, but then she steadies herself. “Sorry,” she says, her expression composed, her voice full of nothing but triumph as she holds up her finger, “just thought you’d want to know you missed a spot.” A fleck of gold glitter shimmers in the early morning light.