Her gaze fell to her phone. It was ten a.m. on the dot. According to her Instagram analytics, ten a.m. was when she received the most likes and impressions on Instagram, and was therefore the best time to put up a post. You should be adding content right now, screamed the Voice. You need to be showing up every single day, girl. You need to be increasing engagement by asking your followers more questions. And you need to comment on people’s pages, not just heart them, because you know how fickle those fans are. You’re terrible at this. You’re getting nowhere. You’re—
“Fiona Jacobs?”
A short woman with a smooth blowout peered around the door. She held a clipboard under her arm, and Fiona was pretty sure the shade of lipstick she was wearing was Urban Decay’s Scorched. Urban Decay was one of Fiona’s sponsors.
Fiona rose to her full height—almost six-one in wedge heels—and started across the room. The other girls stared. They were all prettier than her. Thinner. More glamorous, with better skin. They were looking at her flyaways. They could probably smell her breath because she forgot to brush her teeth. She needed a mint. After she crossed the room, it hit her: Did she take exactly twenty-five steps? Did she count correctly? She thought so, but . . .
“Hi!” Fiona said brightly to the group inside the smaller room. It was twenty-five steps. She was almost positive. She needed to stop thinking about it.
Besides the assistant who called her name, there was the casting agent, Derek; the producer, Bette; and Mona, the network executive. Everyone spoke at once. They all shook Fiona’s hand, which skeeved her out, because she really wasn’t into touching strangers. Also: Could they feel how rough her fingers were? She’d forgotten to put lotion on that morning. How could you have forgotten to put on lotion?
“Thank you so much for having me,” Fiona said, pulling her hands away quickly.
“Are you kidding?” Mona gushed. “We should be thanking you!”
They directed Fiona to a folding chair in the middle of the room under a set of hot lights. She made sure to count her steps to get there—eight. Good: an even number. Even numbers were lucky. She crossed her legs so that her pleated midi skirt fanned over her knees. A camera was set up in front of her; Fiona could feel its red eye passing judgment. The Voice was having a field day. I bet you look fatter than you do on Instagram. Your makeup is caking under your eyes. Your roots are growing out. You should take care of these things. You should be more careful.
Bette shook her head in wonderment. “God. You’re gorgeous.”
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, basically,” Mona murmured.
Fiona’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Really? I mean, did you see the other girls out there? One is prettier than the next!” She was babbling. She always talked too much when nervous.
Derek glanced at his notes. “Well, clearly millions of other people like your vibe, too. You don’t get that many Instagram followers for nothing.”
“How does one get that many Instagram followers?” Bette asked, cocking her head.
Fiona shrugged. “Well, there are a lot of ways. I did some really great giveaways at first—of old bags, mostly, but people were still thrilled to get free Hermes and Chanel, even if it’s used. And then I styled pieces together that were . . . unusual, I guess? It helps, too, that my aunt has some connections at the fashion magazines—their mentions of my account boosted my numbers for sure. And I’m also really, really into the algorithms. Hashtags, shout-outs, geotagging, getting tagged on bigger accounts and on the Instagram Explore page—it’s all about climbing a ladder and getting yourself noticed. Plus I know someone at BuzzFeed, which helped me get more visual. But it’s all a science, really.”
It felt like she’d been talking for days. She peered at the group, expecting abject boredom if not indignity that she’d wasted their time, but Bette nodded thoughtfully, and Derek and Mona hung on her every word. Right. Everyone, probably even George Clooney, wanted to know the secret of how to gain Instagram followers.
“And you grew up in Orange County?” Mona read from the back of Fiona’s headshot. “I’m from that area, too. Which high school did you go to?”
Fiona’s skin itched. She wanted to scratch, but she’d have to scratch exactly five times—no more, no less—and the casting directors would find that weird. It wasn’t like she could tell Mona the real answer to that question. You need to take that detail off your résumé, the Voice commanded. You need to stop saying you’re from Orange County.
“I did online school, actually,” she admitted. That wasn’t a lie.
“And why acting?” Derek stretched out his legs. “It doesn’t sound like you really need the job. Just got the acting bug?”
“You could say that.” She pointed to her résumé. “Um, you’ll see that I was in a few digital series, and then, last year, a guest star on Riverdale. I had the best time, and just kind of fell in love!” Fake. You sound so, so fake.
“You did an episode with Scarlet Leigh, right?” One corner of Derek’s mouth twisted mischievously. “What’s she like?”
“Oh, we weren’t in the same episode,” Fiona said.
“Yes, but you know each other, don’t you?” Mona draped her arms across the back of her chair. “Give me the scoop. Is she a total nightmare? A diva to the nth degree?” She leaned forward. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but she’s up for the part of Kate, too.” Then she snorted. Rolled her eyes. The others chuckled.
Fiona forced a smile. It was funny that people thought she and Scarlet were friends. They’d taken a few selfies together and occasionally commented on each other’s photos—which looked like friendship. An avid follower of Fiona and Scarlet would know their history, though—and that they definitely, definitely weren’t close. Not after Fiona stole Scarlet’s boyfriend, Chase McGeehan, years ago. But that sort of baggage didn’t bleed through to the general fandom.
“Anyway,” Bette said. “You’ve got a great look, Fiona. Especially for the part we’re looking for. Did you read the materials about Kate? She’s the real trailblazer in her group of friends. Fearless. Beautiful. Saucy. But funny, too.”
“Definitely funny,” Mona said. “Can you do funny?”
“I like funny,” Fiona admitted.
“Of course Fiona does funny,” Bette said. “Your Sizzle or Drizzle shows? You’re like a baby Giuliana Rancic!” She leaned forward on her elbows. “I love seeing you rave about such-and-such’s gown and roll your eyes when someone looks like a train wreck. It’s just . . . gold!”
Fiona tried to smile. In truth, she hated doing the awards episodes. She only did them because one of her sponsors was an advertiser for the SAGs and asked if she would. Then, when the vlog got so much traffic, they pushed her to make it a regular thing on her channel. But Fiona, of all people, shading famous, beautiful people? Bullying them? It cut a little too close to the bone. The Voice was always so taunting on the nights she did the Bests and Worsts. You sound just like Lana used to. And look what happened to her. Think about where she is now.
Bette tapped her pen against her notebook. “Fiona, from what I’ve seen in your online presence, it seems like your personality is Kate. You’re meticulous but self-deprecating. You don’t settle for second-best. You would be great for this project—so many viewers will already know you, and this will give them a chance to see a fun and different side of you. And, I mean, this pilot is almost guaranteed to go to series. Your account will benefit from that, too.”