“Fluffing out your zombie hair?”
I halted, fingers midscratch.
Nate propped the door to the building open with his foot, waving me in with a huge grin. Not only had he come early, but he’d been inside the whole time. Had he seen me progressively erupt into a sweat fountain? He definitely witnessed me scratching like a mangy dog. Yet here he was, smiling at me. Making my head sweat even more.
I hurried inside, and he closed the door behind us. “I came through the back. If I had known you were here in front the whole time, I’d have opened the door sooner. I was checking for a package.”
Okay, it’s your turn to say something, Kate.
“I’m wearing camo. I’m surprised you saw me.”
Kate. Really?
He raised an eyebrow. A single laugh burst out. “You’re such a clown. I brought your wig back. It’s inside.”
He’d found it.
Of course he had found it. Seven whole days had passed for him to discover the giant hair mass on his passenger seat. It wasn’t invisible.
He led me to his locker and fished around in his backpack. His Clyde Hill cross-country shirt fell out, and he quickly stuffed it back in. Damn, he went to the only school my dad’s hefty donations couldn’t get me into. Standardized tests were among the highest on my list of things that ruined my life, ranked just above my eczema. My test scores were barely above average, and my grades weren’t good enough, the headmaster said, and they couldn’t make exceptions. My community theater accolades and national youth screenwriting awards weren’t enough to gain admission.
Clyde Hill was nearly one hundred and fifty years old and a feeder into all the Ivys. At night, Clyde Hill looked majestic and impressive, like Hogwarts, but without the magic.
But back to the wig.
Damn it.
“You want it back?” Nate dangled the wig enclosed in a gallon-size ziplock bag. Wincing hard, he added, “My little sister messed with it. I’m so sorry. She was trying to give it bangs. I can pay for it if you want.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” I chirped. “Thanks for bringing it today. Sorry if it scared you.” I unsealed the bag and airlifted the tangled wad of hair. Holy hell, it was so matted and hacked up that I couldn’t tell which way was the front anymore. “I like the glitter, and the, um, chunks of missing hair.” I smiled. “Very grotesque, in a good way.” Peering closer, I saw that the avant-garde hairstylist had tried to make bangs for the front and the back. “Glittery pink doesn’t go with my camo look, but maybe I’ll wear it next time. How old is she, by the way?”
“My sister? She’s five. There’s an eleven-year gap.” He paused. “She was an accident.”
“Five’s a cute age. I bet she’s a cute accident.” I remembered kindergarten as being one of the best times of my life: new school, new backpack, new outfits. Both parents hugging me and sending me off to class.
He snorted. “Lucy’s stubborn and throws tantrums like it’s a requirement for survival, but yeah, when she’s not a pain in the ass, she’s pretty cute.” Nate nibbled his bottom lip. “Um, in case this happens again, maybe you can give me your phone number so I can consult you about which glitter glue color she uses next time?”
He took a step closer and focused his gaze on my face. He had these magnetic, dark-brown eyes that made my knees go wobbly.
How could I explain to him that the phone my dad gave me was collecting dust on my desk because it was the property of his company? Dad could (and did) monitor my location and recorded my calls, so I stopped carrying the phone around. He was more overprotective now than ever before. The iron security gates, surveillance cameras, the GPS tracking. A teenager raised by a single, career-obsessed father who was CEO at a security technology company. Lucky me.
“Um, let me get your number instead.” Think of something, think of something. “I’m getting a new phone. We’ve moved around a lot because of my dad’s work, and I wanted to get a 206 Seattle number. I swear I’ll input your number into my phone once I buy it. It’s on my to-do list this week.” With a stammer, I added, “Y-you’ll be the first new number I enter, so congratulations.” My plan was to get one of those burner phones that drug dealers and pimps used. One that Dad couldn’t trace. I’d seen it in movies.
Nate pulled a business card from his back pocket. “Cool. Here’s my number and email.” A matte black card with sans serif font on the front. Nate Kim, Entrepreneur. His contact info was on the back.
“How many of these have you given out?”
He shrugged. “Uh, you’re the only one. I won them as part of the grand prize of the city’s Young Inventors contest.”
My eyes bulged. “You’re an inventor? Wow!”
A wide grin spread across his face. “Well, sort of. I like to take ideas and make them better. Like, you know how toilet seats are heated in Japan and Korea?”
I shook my head.
“Okay, maybe it’s not a well-known fact. Anyway, I invented one for the U.S. market, and it uses a long-lasting, partial-solar-powered battery that you can charge outside. It’s still glitchy with limited variable heating functionality. By that I mean, it has an on-and-off switch, and that’s it. You can choose between a heated or not-heated bottom.”
“I didn’t know you had so much passion for toilets,” I teased.
“I just picked something easy and useful.” His rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “I don’t love poop or anything—”
I interrupted. “I was kidding. I’m not a poop fan either.” The heat pulsing in my body went straight to my cheeks, setting them on fire. Attempting more humor, I said, “I’ll keep this in a safe place,” and slid the card in my bra, like I’d seen sassy, sexy women do on TV shows. What Hollywood never revealed was that the stabby corners on rectangular card stock were extremely painful when poking boob flesh. My eyes quickly filled with tears of agony.
A voice boomed from the hallway, “Can you two stop talking about excrement? The first group starts in like five minutes.” One of the zombie actors entered the employee area and slapped Nate on the back. “Hiya, boss man.”
Nate glanced at his watch. “Damn it. I have to go. I need to collect waivers. But, uh, message me? And I hope you get to come out of the closet this time,” he said, rushing out the door. He turned around, and his eyes widened. “Er, not in a gay way. I mean, not that there’s a problem with that at all, but you know, good luck with your role.”
The zombie dude and I took the back passage to the escape room and took our positions: him behind the chained metal door, me in the supply closet. I pulled out the business card from my cleavage for immediate relief and shut the door. Slivers of light streamed in from the vents at the top of the locker-like closet. Crouching down, I pulled my key chain flashlight from my pants pocket. I flicked the light on and committed the business card info to memory.