Page 5 of Wyatt’s Fever

“Yes, Mom,” I say, giving her a sideways squeeze.

She takes a step back and beams at both of us, but there’s a flicker of worry behind her smile. I think she wants to say something else but she just pats my shoulder, straightens my cardigan one last time, and leaves.

Casey lingers, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So… if you catch anyone famous doing something scandalous, you have to tell me, okay?”

“Not happening,” I say, scooping up my purse. That was another thing the Sterlings insisted on—I had to sign an iron-clad NDA.

She grins. “Not yet, anyway.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile, and head for the stairs. Behind me, I hear Casey call out, “Go break a leg, Mistress Bardot!” as my mother shushes her.

It’s not Hollywood, but it’s home. And that’s even better. When I moved away after high school, I had no idea how much I’d miss my family and hometown.

I thought I’d find fame and fortune in Hollywood but all I found was utter disappointment.

I tried out for every freaking part my agent could find. I did it again, and again, and again, until I learned that “sexier” just meant “skinnier and less like yourself.” The acting gigs dried up as soon as I ran out of patience, and the bills didn’t stop just because I was out of work. One month I was background in a car commercial, the next I was eating cold noodles at midnight and calling my mom to beg to come home.

By the time I actually admitted defeat and bought a one-way ticket home, the version of Naomi Bardot who left Silver Spoon Falls at nineteen was already dead. All that was left was the girl in the mirror, praying her new job wouldn’t require latex gloves or pole dancing skills.

I pause in my makeup, stare at myself, and try to picture any possible future version that doesn’t look so… temporary. The only thing I can conjure is tonight, and maybe tomorrow, and then the next day after that. “One shift at a time,” I tell my reflection, and she rolls her eyes but lets me finish the mascara anyway.

“Naomi! You’re going to be late if you don’t get moving!” Mom’s voice is a rocket blast from downstairs, and I can practically feel her hovering by the front door, clutching the Tupperware of dinner she’s definitely packed for me.

I throw the last few essentials in my battered purse, lip gloss, wallet, pepper spray, breath mints, and two pens then I snap the bag closed. I pause at the doorway and look back at my childhood bedroom. It still looks like a Pepto Bismol bottle threw up in it, it’s still plastered with theater posters and old Playbills and there’s a weird comfort in knowing I’ll probably never get around to redecorating.

At the bottom of the stairs, my mom is waiting with a bright orange Tupperware bowl in hand. The smell of her homemade chicken salad hits me before her lecture does.

“Eat something on your break,” she orders, pressing the container into my hands. “They probably won’t let you take a real dinner.”

“I can handle missing a meal, Mom.” I grin. “I did live in LA, remember?”

Her lips purse. “You got sick in LA. You called me from the hospital.”

“Once. And it was food poisoning from bad sushi.” I haven’t looked at raw fish the same since.

She inspects my face, satisfied with the makeup job, then brushes a thumb over my cheek anyway. “You look beautiful. They won’t know what hit them.”

Before I can answer, Casey slides into the hall, tapping away on her phone. “Text me if you see any celebrities,” she says without looking up. “Or if you get stuck in handcuffs or something. I want video.”

I groan reminding her. “I’m not a member of the club. I won’t be participating.”

She smirks. “Sure, Mistress Bardot.”

Then, in a sudden move that takes me by surprise, Casey reaches out and gives me a real, fierce hug. Not the drive-by, air-kiss nonsense she usually does, but a solid squeeze that says I’m glad you’re here, even if you’re a giant nerd. “Don’t let them push you around, okay?” she whispers.

I nod. “I won’t.”

As I walk out the door, my mother calls to me. “Be safe. Text when you’re on your way home no matter what time it is. I hate the idea of you walking home in the middle of the night.”

“I will,” I promise. My mother wanted me to take her car but I refused because I don’t mind walking and because it’s only a five minute walk in one of the safest cities in the country.

The night air is thick with lilacs and distant barbecue smoke as I step onto the porch. I take one last look at the house I’ve lived in since I was born and then head out.

No cameras, no red carpet. Just the click of my flats on sidewalk, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something better than what I left behind.

Silver Spoon Falls doesn’t just have a regular old downtown. It has a “historic business district,” complete with brick sidewalks, trellised roses, and perfectly maintained brick buildings lining the street.

As I cross Main Street, I pass a hair salon with gold-plated scissors on the door, a family-run candy shop that only sells fudge in three flavors, and, sandwiched in between, a fancy art gallery.