Everyone nodded. Fiona nodded back. This was the biggest audition of her life. A half-hour scripted comedy called Like Me. A fresh storyline about bloggers and influencers—she was made for it.
Unless these people saw her cracks. Unless they got too close and realized that she was ruined inside.
Mona handed her a copy of the script with the scene they wanted her to read. Fiona took it even though she had the same copy in her bag. Two copies, actually, just in case. Bette gave her a rundown, even though Fiona had read the breakdown with her agent eight times: “Kate’s best friend, Autumn—who’s going to be played by this amazing Asian actress who was in this adorable Netflix romance—has just uncovered that her boss is stealing her P90X meals from the communal refrigerator. She’s telling Kate about it for the first time. Autumn’s only proof is that her boss is getting thinner . . . and Autumn isn’t. It’s extra complicated because her boss is a guy, and we all know how easy it is for men to lose weight.” Bette rolled her eyes.
Fiona giggled obligatorily, but something squeezed at her throat. Was Bette hinting that she knew? Was she suggesting that she and Fiona were in some sort of kinship, big girls at heart, forever struggling?
Fiona pushed away the thought. Of course Bette didn’t know. Fiona was being way too paranoid.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Derek said, and the team settled back in their chairs.
Fiona closed her eyes and took a few deep, meditative breaths. And that was when the transformation began. All at once, she wasn’t Fiona anymore. She wasn’t worrying about how many steps she took from her car to the office or whether her bra strap was showing. She wasn’t worrying if she forgot to unplug her Vitamix. Her present was gone. Her past, too. She wasn’t the girl who used to be on the receiving end of cruel giggles and jeers. She wasn’t the girl who once had to make a hard choice about something unthinkably awful on a hot summer night.
Instead, she was a funny, free-spirited girl named Kate who lived in New York City and was ready for big, hilarious escapades. End of story.
The lines flowed out of her like water rippling in a stream. She noticed the team’s charged expressions, the light in their eyes. This was why she liked to act. Because when she performed, she could shed herself. It was curative.
“That was great,” Derek said at the end. “Can you do it one more time and focus more on the anger than the funny? A little more biting, maybe. A little more justice-for-the-little-guy. Just to see how that plays.”
“Of course.”
It wasn’t as easy this time—anger was always harder, because Fiona needed to channel something that made her angry, and there was really only one thing that did—despite that it had happened years ago. Lana.
But she got through it. And when she was done, she looked up again, and everyone was staring, their eyes wide. Her mouth felt dry. Terrible, the Voice scolded. You’re a terrible, terrible actress. Just go home.
“You are so Kate,” Mona said, her hands clenched at her chest.
“That was just . . . wonderful,” Bette seconded.
Derek offered his hand. “I know I shouldn’t be saying this and we need to call your agent, but I think we can all say we want YOU for Kate.”
“As long as we can work out details with your agent, which I’m sure we can,” Bette added.
Fiona gaped. “Wait, what?” There had to be some mistake.
But then they exchanged phone numbers. Derek followed her on Instagram. They promised to call Fiona’s agent and set up a time to meet so she could do chemistry reads with some of the other actors. They told her not to spill the news yet—the network would handle that—but she could drop hints online.
Fiona’s head felt detached from her body. By the time she was at her car on one of the lot’s side streets—174 steps—she was shaking. Could she have done it? Could she have freaking done it?
She pulled out her phone and opened her front camera. She snapped a few pics of herself smiling, then looking wistfully off into the distance, and a couple shots with a smize—smiling with only her eyes. After about a hundred selfies, she decided she might’ve gotten one good picture. She uploaded the selected shot into Facetune and used the feature that deleted a small pimple on her cheek. She made her eyes just a little bit greener, her teeth a little bit whiter. She triple-checked to make sure her neck didn’t look fat, though the Voice reminded her there’s only so much she could do there. Once she was satisfied, she clicked VSCO for yet another perfect filter . . . and voilà.
She uploaded the picture to Instagram, captioning it, “Just found out some SUPER exciting news. Can’t share it quite yet, but I’m just . . . AHHH!”
The comments flooded in instantly, fans telling her how beautiful she was, and how proud of her they were, and oh how they wished they had her life. Moments later, her phone buzzed. It was her boyfriend, Chase. Fiona pressed ANSWER, and Chase’s adorable image popped up on FaceTime. “I just saw your post,” he said. In the background was the courtyard at Harvard-Westlake School—he was finishing up finals. “Did you get it?”
“I . . . did!” Fiona squealed in a bewildered voice. “I’m going to be Kate!”
“Oh my God, babe!” Chase cried. “That’s amazing!”
She couldn’t stay on the phone with Chase for very long—he needed to get back to his test. “But I’ll see you tonight,” he promised. “I can’t wait to celebrate!”
Fiona hung up, feeling a warm, tingly thrill. Everything suddenly seemed right.
Her phone bleated again, but she turned the device over and started the car—it was probably just someone else who’d seen her post and wanted the scoop. But then her Apple Watch vibrated, too. She looked down at her wrist at an incoming DM from an account she didn’t recognize. When Fiona scrolled down the tiny watch face, her vision blurred at a disconcerting, incongruous image: Lana Hedges’s oval-shaped face. It was the picture they’d used in Lana’s obituary.
Fiona turned off the car and whipped out her phone to get a better look. Her heart was suddenly pounding. Her fingers fumbled on the keypad. She entered her password wrong twice before the thing unlocked. She located the Instagram DM; it was from the number that wasn’t even a number, just a few digits and a dash, like the number Verizon texted with when they were sending a bill. And then there was the picture . . . and some words. Reading them, Fiona went boneless.
I know what you did. So you’d better call ABC and tell them you’re not doing Kate after all. Unless you want me to tell everyone the truth.
Transcript of Scarlet Leigh’s personal vlog, 6/18 (for her YouTube channel)
Video switches on. Scarlet Leigh speaks into the camera, looking gorgeous with a full face of makeup and blown-out hair. She’s standing on a busy street in Beverly Hills, holding a blueberry muffin.
SCARLET
Hey, Scarlet As! I’m coming to you live from outside Café #Blessed, where I’m eating the most incredible vegan muffin I have ever tasted. The ingredients are all-natural, there’s no GMOs, and you get 100 percent of your Omega-3s in just one 100-calorie treat! I mean, that’s a calorie burn of only ten minutes of hot yoga!