“I’ll pay you double,” Luna’s mom says.
I freeze. Double? I have no idea how much the rate was to begin with, but double? I think about the weight of all the worry I’m carrying around and how nice it would be to not have that on my shoulders anymore.
Still, I’m furious at the invasion of my privacy. How dare she dive into my financial records?
“How about if you agreed to just a six-week contract? Initially?”
My shoulders involuntarily relax. That’s definitely more appealing. I could earn enough to make a dent in those interest payments, and I wouldn’t be signing away my life.
“And a bonus of five thousand if you stay the whole six weeks,” she adds, seeing my hesitation.
I hesitate some more, doing the math. Five thousand dollars as a bonus? That would go a huge way to clearing my debt. I could do six weeks. I’ve done a lot worse for a hell of a lot less, after all.
“And you can stay in the apartment over the garage. Rent-free,” she says, sensing that she’s close to convincing me. In fact, she already has.
I nod. “Six weeks. But that’s it.” I should feel relieved that I’ve finally got a job, but a sense of foreboding hangs over me that I just made a huge mistake and am walking into a situation I’m going to regret.
Mrs. Rivera takes a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“When would I need to start?” I ask her.
“Today. Tonight,” she says.
“What?” I say, surprised. “I don’t have any of my things with me. I—”
“I can send a driver to pick your things up,” she interrupts.
“Seriously?” I ask, bemused. “Oceanside’s an hour and a half away.”
She waves me off as though it’s no bother. “There’s an event tonight. Whoever is sending these letters warned us that they’d be there. I want you to be there too, with Luna, to make sure she’s safe.”
“Why is she going if threats have been made?” I ask.
“She has to,” her mother answers in a firm voice.
“Why?” I ask, confused.
“It’s a big deal,” she explains. “An award ceremony. Luna’s giving out the award for best music video.”
“Can’t she pull out?” I ask.
“No,” Mrs. Rivera says with a shake of her head. “She’s contracted to do it.”
I shake my head too, still confused. It sounds ridiculous. “I don’t get how these things work,” I say as politely as I can, “but it seems to me that nothing’s that important, and surely if the organizers knew about the threats, they’d be okay with releasing Luna from any obligation?”
Luna’s mother laughs at me as though I’ve said something naive. “You’re right.” She pushes herself up to stand. “You really don’t get how these things work. But you’ll learn.”
I bristle at her tone.
“I’ll have Carla show you the apartment,” she says, already turning away and heading back toward the house.
“Oh, Will?”
I look back around. Mrs. Rivera has stopped by the back door and is glancing over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah?”
“You’ll need a tux for tonight.”
LUNA
The girl in the mirror has bright red lips and a brilliant smile. Her eyelids are crusted with sequins, and her skin glitters like ice. Her hair is twisted up into an ornate updo that exposes her neck and shoulders. The dress is cobalt blue in some light, purple in others, and clings so tightly that I wish I hadn’t eaten those eggs earlier, or anything in fact for the last week, and can only send prayers for the invention of Spanx. There’s a slit up the side of the dress, thankfully, so I don’t have to teeter terribly on these ridiculous shoes with their heels like skewers and overly complicated straps.
“It’s very gladiator mermaid.” Natalie beams, dusting my shoulders with some more glitter.
Just the look I’ve always wanted to try, I think to myself.
“You look amazing,” she says. “Do you like it?”
“I love it!” I say, startling myself with the force of my enthusiasm because inside I feel as flat and deflated as a ripped helium balloon.
Marty barges into my bedroom without the courtesy of even knocking first. He looks me up and down, appraising me like I’m a mannequin. “That looks good,” he finally says.
Not You look good That looks good. Whatever air was left in the balloon whistles out, leaving me feeling like a piece of trash lying on a dirty sidewalk.
“You ready?” he barks.
I nod, no longer smiling. “I guess.”
“Cheer up,” he answers in his gruff English accent. He holds open the bedroom door and I walk through it.
Marty claims to be cockney, born and bred in East London, but I’ve heard him on the phone once or twice to his mom when he didn’t know I was in the room, and he sounded very different, like an actor reading Shakespeare. I wonder if he’s playing a part as much as I am, in his case the role of the pop star’s manager.
He’s older, but he dresses like he’s in his twenties in too-tight T-shirts and ripped jeans. He likes to pair them with pointy leather shoes, and he sports a diamond earring in one ear. All in all, having him compliment my look doesn’t fill me with confidence.
“Let’s go, then. Don’t want to be late,” he says, ushering me toward the stairs. I freeze at the top, spotting Will standing in the hall below by the front door, wearing black tie. I grip the banister to stop myself from tripping. What’s he still doing here? And why’s he wearing a tux?
My mom exits the living room just then and looks up at me. I glare at her. My fury meets her stone-cold defiance and bounces right off it as though she’s made of Teflon-coated rubber. She doesn’t care what I want; that much was already clear. She must have hired him after all, and he’s coming with me tonight. Great.
“All right, Luna?” Marty asks, his hand on my elbow, trying to hustle me along. I shake his hand off and start walking. My legs quiver, though, as I descend the stairs, and I have to hold tight to the banister because I’m scared I might fall.
When I reach the bottom in one piece, Will opens the front door for me. I feel like yelling at him that I can open a damn door, I don’t need his help for that. I stride past him, glowering pointedly in his direction, but his expression remains totally blank. It’s as though he’s looking through a pane of glass. He doesn’t even see me.
I storm through the door, heading for the limo parked in front of the house, and somehow, before I get two paces, he’s one step ahead of me, his head moving on a pivot left to right as if he expects an assassin to leap out of the fountain.
He opens the car door for me, and I climb in, determined to ignore him. As we set off down the drive, I ignore my mom, too, who is waving from the front door, and I try to tune out the nonstop chatter of Natalie sitting beside me as well. It’s easy enough, since now that we’ve started to leave, I suddenly feel sick, my skin crawling with ants and my stomach churning. I’d been holding off thinking about walking out onstage tonight, but now there’s no more ignoring it.