“You don’t touch the merchandise, not even the free testers,” Marty says, spelling it out even more by jabbing his index finger into my chest. “By that I mean Natalie, too. Keep your fingers out of the pies.”
Pies? Is he really describing women as pies? “I’ve already told you I’m not interested,” I say, forcing my tone to remain even despite my rising anger.
He narrows his eyes at me, disbelieving. “That’s what they all say.”
I’m about to walk off, not wanting to endure another second of his lecturing, when Marty notices the crumpled burger bag in my hand. “I see you stopped for a midnight feast,” he grunts, moving past me and opening the car door. “Great, now my car stinks.”
“Luna wanted something to eat,” I say by way of explanation.
“You shouldn’t have let her,” Marty says, wiping at an invisible mark on the interior of the door.
I shake my head, confused. “What?”
“She can’t eat that junk. She’ll put on weight.”
“She’s tiny,” I say in disbelief.
“And she needs to stay that way.” Marty grinds his teeth.
It takes a lot of willpower to bite my tongue. I watch Marty move to get into his car.
“Hey,” I call. “What about the letter?”
“What about it?” he asks grumpily.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“That’s my problem, not yours,” he tells me.
“But that’s why I’ve been hired, isn’t it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “You’ve been hired to drive her about, keep wild fans away from her, and watch her so she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“That sounds like a babysitter.”
“Listen, mate,” he says. “You want this job or not?”
He’s calling me mate? After wagging his finger in my face and poking me in the chest and telling me to keep my fingers out of all the pies?
“It’s a good job,” he continues. “And what’s a kid like you gonna do otherwise? Sign up for another four years in the army?”
My back stiffens. “The Marines.”
“Whatever.” He gestures backward, toward the house. “This is a damn lot better paid, and you’ve got a lot less chance of being blown up.”
I work to keep my cool, riled because he doesn’t know jack about me or why I joined the Marines. He’s assuming I’m an idiot who can’t get another job… which makes me want to tell him exactly where he can stick this one, but I stop myself. I need the money, I tell myself, trying to ignore the voice in my head whispering that he’s right. What would I do otherwise? I’m definitely not signing up for another four years in the Marines. It’s bad enough I have to do eight more years in the reserves.
Marty’s tone shifts all of a sudden and becomes friendlier. “You seem like you’ve got a fairly good head on your shoulders,” he tells me. “So, I’m trusting you to do your job.”
I nod, thinking of the money. “But what about the threats?” I press. “The letters. How serious are they?”
Marty rolls his eyes. “They’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s just some obsessed fan who has a thing against her,” he says, sighing loudly. He throws his hands in the air. “Maybe they hate that she’s rich and successful and they’re not. I honestly don’t know. But what I do know is that the police have already told us that it’s nothing to worry about, and I’m listening to the professionals.”
I’m not a fan of the police. My father was a cop. His badge gave him protection. His buddies in the department turned the other cheek when my mom tried to press charges, and it took him almost killing her before they decided to take it semi-seriously. Even then he received a shorter prison sentence than he should have and was let out early, which led to him terrorizing my whole family for a second time. “It’s never serious, until it is,” I tell Marty.
Marty sighs again, even louder, as though I’m being overdramatic.
“We need to find out who it is, make a list of suspects, and eliminate them,” I tell him, ignoring his sighs. “Natalie said she saw someone, some guy in a black cap.”
“Look,” Marty says, interrupting me. “I’m not paying you to play Hercule Poirot,” he says. “The threats aren’t important. It’s someone trying to mess with Luna’s head, that’s all. Just do your job and don’t let anyone get near her, and if you do come across any of these letters, hide them from her. We don’t need her any more stressed than she already is. She’s very highly strung.”
I think back to the pills I caught her taking. “What are the pills for?” I ask Marty.
“Her anxiety,” he mumbles, seeming surprised that I know about them. “She gets them prescribed. Again, that’s between you and me.”
I nod, but at the same time I’m wondering why, then, if they know she suffers from anxiety, are they putting her in situations that make her anxious?
He walks toward his car. “A warning, by the way,” he says before he gets in. “Tomorrow she’s going to be in a bad mood.”
“How do you know?” I ask, while wondering what mood she was in today.
“Because her boyfriend just cheated on her.”
“Jamie?” I say.
Marty nods. “That’s the one. He’s a right pillock. Don’t tell her I said that.”
I nod. I wasn’t intending to. “I thought they broke up?”
“They break up and get back together all the time. It’s their schtick. They first started dating around the time they were both breaking out. Was a match made in heaven—PR heaven, that is. Two cute, talented young kids. People were obsessed. Still are. And I’m warning you, tomorrow she’ll be a right grumpy pants,” Marty tells me.
And that’s different from normal, how? I think, but don’t say out loud.
“Don’t take it personally,” Marty reassures me. “It’s not about you. And next week, when Jamie gets back from Japan, it’ll be back to normal and she’ll be all smiles and sunshine again.”
With that, Marty finally gets into his Tesla and drives off. After he’s gone, I head up the stairs to my new apartment, mulling over everything he just told me. I think about Luna as I walk around my new digs, taking in the neatly made bed with my bag beside it, then the bathroom, filled with all the amenities I’ll ever need and some I never will. But I’m still thinking about Luna when I slide into bed. I picture her walking up the red carpet, posing for photographs and chatting with fans.
She was so at home there and she seemed so happy and confident, but then I saw another side to her entirely, outside the venue and again in the car, someone vulnerable. Is she putting on a mask when she’s onstage and in front of her fans? If so, that mask is better even than my own.
LUNA
I look like I’m wearing a death mask. My eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, my skin dull across my cheeks and greasy on my forehead. My hair hangs limp even after I drag myself into the shower and wash it. It’s almost midday, but I only managed to fall asleep around dawn after taking a sleeping pill stolen from my mom’s cabinet.