Tune in Tomorrow, page 11
Then she’d made a real mistake.
“Turn to the window after Beatrice crosses!” Cris had shouted. “Not before!”
“Not what you said a minute ago,” Starr had muttered to herself. “Maybe if you’d been on time …”
Sometimes, what was going on in her head slipped out of her mouth.
Cris had been in her face faster than she’d known anyone could move. Up close, he had a presence she hadn’t felt with any other mythic, like he’d just filled the room and could squeeze her out with a puff of air. He was scarier precisely because he was more… well, mythic. They might have been standing on the biggest stage set she’d ever walked on to, but she’d begun to feel claustrophobic. “Instead of what,” he’d breathed.
Starr had stared at the floor. Even ‘Sugar Ears’ had lost its hilarity. “Just that if we’d started on time we’d be… I’d be …” There was no good way to end that sentence.
“How long have you been on this show?” Cris had released smoke in her face. “One half of a hot second, last I checked. So, don’t go telling me how to—”
Dinner dishes had clattered on the floor and Cris jerked away from Starr. Nico had stood near a small pile of broken chinaware. “Oops?” he’d said.
“TAKE FIVE!” Cris had bellowed, stalking off. “CLEAR THE SET OR I WILL TORCH EVERYONE’S HAIR.”
Now, as Mav slid onto the far end of the sofa, Starr shook her head. “All my fault. I lost focus.”
“Cris is an acquired taste at the best of times.”
“I haven’t had much time to acquire.”
Mav leaned forward, elbows on his legs. “I’ve been here seventy-five years, and I still don’t know what ‘normal’ looks like with these mythics. Whole days go by I forget I fell into fairyland. But then Jan starts talkin’ outta both sides of their head, or Phil smokes up the lobby again and I’ll think, ‘This place’s crazier than a juke joint on free beer night.’ And that’s what reminds me why I’m here. Why it’s the only job I ever really loved. Like the man said, ‘Though this be madness,’ and all.”
“‘Yet there is method in ’t.’” Starr completed the phrase, loving that this cowboy-in-disguise kept Shakespeare in his back pocket. They shared a smile. His straightforward, earnest attitude was like drinking clear, fresh water. “That might be the first time I’ve heard Polonius in a Texan accent.”
“Oklahoma, but I’ll forgive ya.” Mav’s eyes twinkled. “Point is, you gotta remember what makes this place special. It’s the same thing that makes it scary. I confess, I missed it.”
“Where were you, anyway? I heard a vacation you couldn’t escape?”
“Somethin’ like that. My return ticket wasn’t… uh, working right.”
Oleander arrived with tea and biscuits on a tray that trembled like the San Andreas Fault. She set it on a small table between Mav and Starr, letting out a long, relieved breath.
Starr applauded lightly and the brownie bowed. “Oleander wants to do right by Ms. Starr,” she said. “There is milk and cream and three sugars and sparkles and cinnamon twigs. More can be fetched if these are not correct.”
“I drink it black,” Starr assured her. “This is terrific.”
“Y’know”—Mav lifted his cup while the brownie poured—“seems like Oleander could do Starr right by tellin’ her what was asked for earlier.”
Oleander wilted a little. “Mr. Forrest? I don’t think I’m supposed to… I mean, disintegration.”
Mav shook his head. “Don’t matter what you might’ve heard, Ole. Might be somethin’ people don’t talk about much, but it’s not a spell-breaker. Anyhow, I’ll save you the worry.” He turned to Starr. “Your bro here—”
Starr coughed back a laugh.
“Used to work for a lil’ gal named Amelia Beckenridge. She played Wilhelmina, who ran the local bookstore. And it’s been a lotta years since she was seen in these parts.” He shot a glance at Oleander. “An’ that’s all there is to say about that, isn’t it?”
Oleander nodded.
Amelia. Again. Starr sat up straighter. “She quit?”
“She moseyed.” Mav’s tone indicated the conversation was over.
Starr raised her cup to him and took a long sip, feeling calmer already. Nobody wanted to talk about this Amelia person? Fine. There were more important things to worry about, like how she was shooting scenes in an hour that she’d already failed to properly block. Starr did not want to go back to the stage afraid. The only answer to falling off the horse—or, in this case, mouthing off to the director—was to get back on again.
Because Starr really wanted to keep this gig. It paid rent, sure, and it made her feel at long last that she had exceeded her mother’s expectations. But there was more to it than that: this place had gotten under her skin. She loved hearing Phil’s morning greeting snorts, or brainstorming in the werepanther’s pillow-strewn room, or feeling her heart race while hanging around with Jason. Even Nico lingering in the background felt right. He kept things pretty. As for Fiona’s odd acting ‘lessons,’ well, she was the expert. Fiona thought Starr should project her voice and fling her limbs around? Fine. She could fit in.
This all spilled out in front of Mav, in a gush of words not unlike the suddenness of her tantrum earlier. He sat back and listened patiently, never averting his gaze, keeping his counsel until she’d finished.
“Well, then,” he said, once she paused for breath. “Emma was right about somethin’, at least: you are like a gust of fresh air here. You’re also reminding me of a wild mustang, though, so that’s somethin’ to keep in mind. We’ll find a way to make sure you stick around. I’ll personally take a hand in that, ’cause it looks like we’ll be in scenes together quite a bit. The writer of the feline persuasion moved all sorts of things around, which put a burr in my blanket—least, until I met ya.” He nodded at Starr’s manila folder. “Those’ll be your updates, I reckon.”
Starr drew the papers out of the envelope, shaking her head. She’d have to relearn everything. So much for making a good second impression with Cris. “Do you think they understand that this isn’t really much of a reality show? I haven’t shot a scene yet, but even I can tell them that.”
Mav shook his head and chuckled. “Look, whatever y’all are calling ‘reality TV’ out there on your side of the Veil… that don’t matter too much to these mythics. You could call this the Super Bowl and it’d mean as much to ’em. They got their own definitions for everything. So—stop thinking so hard on it. Their world, their rules, their… reality.”
That was the clearest explanation anyone had ever given her, and it made several puzzle pieces come together for Starr. Maybe, possibly, she was starting to get it. She scanned the new pages, which were yellow and smelled of lemon. “Mav? Any chance you’d be up for reading lines together?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Starr grinned. “And what if we act them out, right here?”
He glanced around the dressing room. “Might be tight, but sure.”
“And—maybe call in Nico and Nora? Assuming they’re still in the scene?” She was starting to feel excited again.
Mav nodded at Oleander. “Send yer helper to fetch ’em. We’ll get started.”
The brownie was already at the door. “Right away, Ms. Starr!”
“Oleander,” she called out, and the brownie stuck her head in the room. “Thank you.”
Starr hadn’t known brownies could blush. “I live to assist!” she cried and ran off down the hall.
Mav had his eye on Starr. “You’re a nice lady, Starr Weatherby. That’s a rarity around these halls. See you hold on to that, if you can.”
“If we’re going to be friends, Mav, know two things.”
He tilted his head and a section of hair tumbled down over one eye. She had an unexpected urge to brush it back. “And what’s that?”
“I’m neither nice, nor a lady.”
Mav laughed, and it was exactly the sound she imagined a cowboy would make as he rode off into the sunset.
A few hours later, Starr was ready to rumble.
Form-fitting maid’s uniform from the leprecostumers that looked and acted like a Halloween getup? Check.
Holding silver tray? Check.
Standing on her mark, ready to enter Lady Marlborough’s parlor as soon as Cris and Emma finished conferring over the script changes? Check and check.
Now, all she had to do was stop shivering. Part of it was nerves about shooting her first scenes; part of it was that the vast cavern of the stages seemed to be just one degree above freezing.
Uniform, tray, maid. One week ago it had been uniform, tray, waitress. Really moving up the career ladder there, Starr.
Still, at least things were moving. The lemon-scented pages had revealed that the scene had been completely rewritten since the disastrous blocking, and ‘Sam’ was now being introduced not as a bumbling kitchen worker, but a member of the house staff who was proving to be nosy about her employer’s business. Working the new pages out with Mav, Nico and Nora had been invaluable, and Starr promised she would not falter, or mouth off.
Back in her dressing room, she’d discovered that Emma’s revisions altered Sam’s role considerably: Sam Draper has been sent to the estate by an employment agency. Lady Marlborough’s home has a surprising amount of turnover in staff. Many quit, disappear or die.
“Die?” She’d given Mav a worried look.
“Household help,” he’d shrugged. “Holding cell for you rookies. ’Case things don’t pan out.”
Now, Starr rattled a piece of hard candy around her tongue to make sure her mouth didn’t go dry and vowed once more: I’m gonna take the reins on this pony ride.
“Places!” Cris boomed on the other side of the oak door now. “I know we haven’t had time to block out this new arrangement, but—” He glanced around, noting how his actors had already arrayed themselves in the Marlborough estate’s lobby. Starr peeked through a small opening in the oak door that ostensibly led from the kitchen to the foyer, delighted at his astonishment. “Well,” the director continued. “Looks like you mortals can learn a thing or two.”
Fiona, only just now arriving to the stage, raised an eyebrow. Cris guided her to the front of the fireplace, then stood back and gave a nod to the tableau.
Adrenaline sang in Starr. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. Cold was no longer an issue. She flexed her hands, recalling Fiona’s advice: Think of your hair as a prop. Use it! They love flowing hair. Also: Your voice—make it soar. They should be able to hear you in the cheap seats. Plus: Big gestures. Wave those pudgy little arms of yours. Own that stage.
It was all so different than what she’d been taught at Gilliard, but Fiona was the expert. This was a different world. As Mav had suggested, she should stop thinking so hard. Be Sam. Be the mango.
Still, as Starr peered through the crack in the door to the mansion’s lobby, she wondered how anyone could believe this was human reality. The set had a cheap feel to it—high, ornately designed walls outfitted with antique wooden furniture, overstuffed and petrified chairs, and a round marble table whose sole purpose seemed to be to support a giant flower arrangement.
Why don’t they just glamour the sets? Starr wondered. If they can do the dressing rooms, they could make this place look amazing.
No time to ask. Cameradryads perched around the room, camouflaged as plants on the interior and around Cris, beyond that missing fourth wall. Each wore a small water pack over a forked branch and took regular sips; Celtis had told Starr that if they worked too long without refreshment, they wilted.
“Kurupi!” Cris swore. “We’re late again. Foxing time to get started!”
The slate snapped. Cameradryads rolled.
Fiona/Valéncia spoke to Mav about how another of her various offspring—his brother—was locked up in jail for ‘grand theft assault.’
Starr was sure there wasn’t any such thing. Focus, idiot. Be Sam. Fling that hair around. Speak loudly and carry a big tray.
Nora/Beatrice set down a cup of tea, wondering if they would ever get things tidy in this filthy house.
Cue! Starr straightened. All she had to do was push open the swinging door while holding her empty tray aloft, then circle the room while gathering up used teacups. She put her shoulder to the door.
It didn’t budge.
She pushed harder.
“Oh, maid!” Beatrice called again, more insistently.
Starr took in a deep breath and accidentally sucked the hard candy into her throat. Choking, she stumbled. Seconds ticked by as she tried not to cough. The others bantered to fill in the space—and Cris let things roll on. He hated having to edit a scene, and felt it was more realistic to do everything in one take.
But Starr couldn’t breathe. The sweet melting candy wasn’t shrinking fast enough. Hot blood filled her cheeks, and the room went from freezing to oppressive. Whirling around she backed hard into the oak door, which flew open, banged against the opposite wall and returned in an instant to smack hard against her back.
The candy dislodged and she spat it out.
Freed to breathe again, Starr turned and rammed her free hand into the door, stumbling into the parlor like a drunken trespasser. She gripped her tray like a shield and careened directly toward Fiona, who cringed and lifted her hands in defense—they would collide in a second…
Except Mav stepped into the breach. In one graceful move he relieved Starr of the tray and slid it onto the table, then made a half-turn and caught her in his arms, dipping Starr like a dancer. His hands were warm against her skin—it was a very skimpy outfit—and her heart raced like she’d been on a rollercoaster.
Still, no call of ‘cut.’
Her head upside down, Starr glimpsed Jason off-stage. His eyes were huge.
Mango time, she thought, and grinned wickedly. “Well,” she said loudly, holding position. “That’s one way to make an entrance.” Sam/Starr righted herself and straightened her apron, giving Valéncia a curtsey. “Evening, Madame.”
“We appear to have an eavesdropper.” Mav rescued the scene. “Are you going to give us trouble, Miss—”
“Draper,” said Sam, giving her hair a mighty toss, the way she’d been taught. Her little maid’s cap went sailing off-camera. “Samantha Draper. And I am absolutely no trouble at all.” She placed heavy emphasis on her final words, again thinking of Fiona’s lessons. “Unless you’d like me to be.”
Nico/Roland snickered, and Beatrice stared off into space, attempting haughtiness. Fiona was unreadable, which worried Starr.
“I do enjoy a bit of trouble,” Roland strode forward, and everything Starr had seen before of Nico was gone. He was precisely the person she’d landed on that first day in the lobby: slick as Teflon. He kissed the back of her hand. “As for ladies who know how to manufacture it, well …” He winked.
A thrill ran through Starr. Yes, and… She was ready to take this ride wherever it went. What could she do next? Would Emma be angry if they didn’t follow her script?
There was an opening here to get back to the original plan, but Fiona/Valéncia took an opportunity to sail in. Standing next to Sam, she announced, “Snooping can be dangerous to your health.” She ran a sharp fingernail beneath Sam’s chin, poking up at the last second. “But good help is so hard to find. Maverick, your decision. Shall we keep the interloper?”
Her subtext was as subtle as a hammer to the head. Starr gave it her all, batting her lashes at Mav. Big gestures! Focus on you!
Mav seemed to be choking on something, his shoulders heaving. Starr couldn’t decide if Nora was somehow using her power on him or if he was choking back laughter. “S-sure,” he said, voice strangled. He coughed. “I’m A-OK with that, Ma.” He drew in a long breath and tried to restore his dignified demeanor. “Ms. Draper, what’s your take on whether I can bust my wayward little brother Duncan out of jail tonight?”
And once again, the script was out the window.
Starr’s heart raced. She didn’t even feel like herself any more. She was Samantha, and not the old version. A new, improved one. She envisioned a door—different from the one she’d smashed through—and on the other side was this person she was crafting. Samantha would be ‘Sam,’ no question. And Sam, she sensed, was all about trouble. A street-smart chick with skills. “I believe you can, sir,” she improvised, straightening her outfit and flipping those curls again. “With a bit of help.”
Mav tilted his head.
“You see, I have a lot of practice busting through doors.”
That did it; Mav’s laughter broke through. Off-camera, Starr thought she saw Jason fall on the floor, but she couldn’t break concentration long enough to be certain. Everyone was finding this a lot funnier than she’d expected. She tossed her hair again. Couldn’t hurt.
“And—cut!” Cris shouted.
All laughter dried up. Equipment hummed and cameradryads sipped, but there was not a single other noise.
He hated me, she thought. I’m totally dead. But on top of that: Actually, that was fun.
Cris strolled around the set, eyeing them all. He gave Jason a hand up from the floor, and as the faun brushed clear his eyes, they huddled with Emma. As they spoke softly, Cris waved around his cigar, the tip turning blue, then emerald, then rose. Emma reached into the air with a pencil and scribbled. Jason glanced over their shoulders and caught Starr’s eye.
She flushed to her roots.
At last, they broke formation. “Sold,” said Cris. “Keep all of it. Emma, you’re set?”
“On it!” the wordcat continued scribbling in the air. “Maid Samantha—now in scenes twelve and sixteen.”
Starr’s legs wobbled as she reached out for whatever was handy—Nico’s shoulder. He patted her on the back while Fiona folded her arms over her beaded gown, face a mask.
Cris strolled over. “Two things.” He waved the cigar at Starr. “Turn down that volume. Mythics are not deaf. And that thing with your hair, quit it.”
“Aw,” Nico murmured.
The director flashed a glance at Fiona. “Was that what you spent this past week teaching her?”
