CARMINDOR
The Black Nebula - what’s happening to it?
The NOXIAN GENERAL draws herself up to full height. She is unafraid of her answer.
NOXIAN GENERAL
It has opened again, unsurprisingly .
Looks like your princess didn’t sacrifice enough.
Now get out of my way.
CARMINDOR’s mood darkens. He stands rigid in the doorway, like a sentinel. Just out of the NOXIAN GENERAL’s line of sight come two Federation officers. They have their hands on their pistols, ready to draw.
The NOXIAL GENERAL notices them and she whirls back to CARMINDOR angrily.
NOXIAN GENERAL
You know this is war.
CARMINDOR
(to the Federation Officers)
Arrest her.
For a moment, it seems like CARMINDOR won’t let her pass, but then he steps aside and the General leaves.
Ugh, people.
From across the hall, the booms and murmured shouts of a TV show hum underneath the door. Dare and Calvin have been marathoning old Star Trek movies in preparation for the fourth or fifth one—I can’t remember—coming out next week. They’re up to the one with the whales. I recognize Leonard Nimoy’s voice. My mom loves Spock—I think she had a crush on him, honestly.
Things were simpler back then, when Mom would catch the last thirty minutes of her favorite Star Trek movie before she bussed me off to auditions. Ethan would sometimes tag along, playing his Gameboy in the backseat while Mom and I played traveling games in the front. That was before I appeared in a commercial, which got me in front of a casting director for Huntress Rising, which nabbed me an Oscar nomination. Sometimes I wish Ethan and I could go back to Mom’s VW bus, with the windows rolled down to catch the summer breeze, Led Zeppelin blaring from the speakers, the road wide and open and the stars spread out across the endless horizon.
I could be anyone I wanted.
My story was mine.
The door to my hotel room creaks open and Ethan appears with a dirty chai latte and chocolate Frappuccino. I quickly sit up, checking to make sure my mascara isn’t runny from crying—until I notice a stain in the shape of Texas on Ethan’s once-immaculate shirt.
“What the heck happened to you?”
He scowls. “It was that girl again—the one who impersonated you. She’s a total monster, but I survived.” He marches over and gallantly hands me my chai latte and sits down beside me. He takes a long gulp of his Frappuccino.
I sip my chai, and it tastes like bliss. He smells like hazelnut creamer, but I don’t say anything since he looks as annoyed as the time his older brothers put blue dye in his shampoo (they didn’t know he used it for body wash, too).
“Thanks, Ethan,” I say quietly, and lay my head on his shoulder.
“Don’t mention it—”
“Not for the coffee, for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Call me every day and complain about your other PAs?” His spot-on guess makes me laugh. “You can complain to me any day of the week whether I’m your assistant or not, you know that, right? I’m always all ears.”
“I’ve tried not to do it too often.”
“But it’s okay if you do. Everyone needs to vent sometimes, you know?”
I do know, but there are some things I can’t even tell Ethan—especially not now. He reports to my agent, so it’s his job to tell her whether I’m all right or if something is wrong in my life and how to make it better. But those are questions I don’t know how to answer. He’s my best friend and my secret-keeper, but it isn’t his job to be burdened with all the self-doubts in my head.
He shifts slightly, a little uncomfortably, and says, almost in a whisper, “Hey, Jess? Are you…are you happy?”
At first, I don’t understand the question. I blink once, twice, and the words sink in.
Are you happy?
Of all the interviews and online questions and magazine articles, this is one question I’ve never been asked. Perhaps because, in everyone’s mind, it’s never been a question. It’s always been a statement:
Jessica Stone is happy.
She has to be.
I open my mouth to tell him the truth when—
My phone dings. Ethan looks at me expectantly but I wave him off. “Twitter notifications. Someone’s leaking a fake script again.”
“Again? Wasn’t there one last week?” he asks. Thankfully he doesn’t push the “are you happy” question.
“Yeah, they’re being ridiculous—”
Suddenly, the Jaws theme shouts from Ethan’s front pocket. We both glance down to it. The duuuuuun-dun, duuuuun-dun is so loud it would be almost comical if we didn’t know who he assigned the ringtone to.
My agent.
But…I just talked to her. Why would she be calling Ethan so soon?
We exchange the same questioning look before Ethan pulls his phone out and answers. “Diana, good evening.”
I sit quietly, straining to make out whatever Diana is saying. Ethan tries to keep his face impassive, and to most people it would look like he succeeds, but I know him better than I know anyone. I know that the left side of his lip twitches when he hears something he doesn’t want to know; his breathing becomes even, deep, almost like a trance.
This is not a good conversation.
“Yes, she’s here,” he says, and hands the phone to me.
I have to talk to her; I don’t have a choice. Is it about the script? Is she calling to say that I am in the sequel as some pointless five-second flashback? Or am I free?
Please let Amara stay dead, I think as I bring his phone to my ear. “Diana?”
“Do you still have the script?” she asks tightly.
What script? “Yes.” I lie.
“Oh, thank God.” She lets out a breath. “Because it’s leaked, and as long as we know it isn’t you, that’s all we care about.”
Dread slithers down my spine. The tweets. Are they real?
My heart is beating loud and ferocious. Please let Amara be dead. Please let Amara be dead. Please let— “So we know for sure? Am I in it? Am I free—”
“Jessica,” Diana interrupts calmly, “the execs are thinking you leaked the script, but as long as you didn’t then we’re fine.”
“Why would it be me?”
“Exactly. You’re the most recent person to be given a physical copy, no one else in the cast has been given one yet. But if it wasn’t lost in transit or anything, it must have been leaked from the studio—one of the interns, maybe, who got a hold of it when they shouldn’t have. Anyway, I’ll go ahead and tell the studio that it didn’t come from our end. Just hang tight and sandbag every question about the sequel, do you understand?”
Oh no. I swallow the lump in my throat and nod numbly. “I understand.”
“Good. Talk to you later with more details.” She hangs up to call whoever and tell them that I am, in fact, not the villain in this story.
I exhale hard and hand Ethan his phone.
He quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t actually have the script, do you?”
“Of course I don’t. Why would I—oh.” My eyes widen, and he must realize it at the exact same time. “Oh no.”