Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(18)
“May I remind you,” I said, “that I know approximately jack about the rules?”
“This is important, She-Hulk, so listen up. No violence against fey, ever. Not one drop of blood spilled. Not a scratch.”
“What if one attacks me?”
“Then you take the beating. Smiling optional.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“There are really good reasons for that rule—like, epic reasons—but those details are way above your clearance level. But this is all you need to know: we do not want to piss the fey off, and not just because if it came to war they’d wipe us out like a termite infestation. They’re behind every great—well, anything, really. Our whole society depends on them.”
“Do they depend on us, too?”
“Yeah. To them, our way of reasoning and organizing is the most amazing thing ever. Like their whole ranking -system, with viscounts and barons and whatever? They got that from the Brits, ages ago, and it’s practically religion to them now. Even simple stuff like counting time, it’s totally foreign to them and they love it. Fey without human Echoes just sort of . . . drift around like they’re in a dream. Don’t even really have memories.”
“Huh.”
“I’ll let Caryl do the rest of the lecturing. I need to make some lunch.”
While Teo went downstairs to rummage in the kitchen, I set up camp in the bathroom. After a quick shower and a cleaning of my prosthetics, I debated with myself: using the wheelchair would be a pain in the ass, but if I wasn’t dry enough when I put my prosthetics back on, I could cause skin problems that would put me back in the chair for days. Finally I decided to risk it: I used a hair dryer on both my stumps and the prosthetic sockets, praying that would be enough. I put them on, along with a nice skirt and a short-sleeved button-down.
Then came the hard part.
I wiped a clear patch from the foggy bathroom mirror and rubbed some styling wax between my palms, trying to tame the worst of my cowlicks without really looking. I didn’t like being reminded that I no longer matched the image in my head, that I never would again. But there was no getting around it; I was going to need to put on some makeup.
The ritual of application was like riding a bike, even after a year. Foundation blended out the slight pinkness of my scar tissue but couldn’t hide its cobbled texture. I could cheat with lip liner, redraw the left corner of my mouth, but I couldn’t erase the deep vertical slash through both lips where they’d split to the teeth against concrete.
Putting on eyeliner took a kind of scrutiny I’d come nowhere near since my fall; I noticed for the first time how the scarring had pulled the corner of my left eyelid out of shape. I tried to wipe the liner off and reapply, but then I had to stop because my eyes were too wet. I grabbed tissues and tried some of the imagery Dr. Davis and I had worked on: a snowy cabin in the woods with a crackling fire. Once I was calmer I took a deep breath, deftly created the illusion of symmetry with my eye pencil, brushed on some mascara, and called it done.
Down in the kitchen there was a sandwich waiting for me. Teo had already finished eating his and was poking around the fridge, muttering something about marinades and leftovers while Monty the cat wound figure eights around his feet.
I’d never have expected to like a sandwich with no meat, but the way Teo made mine, I didn’t miss it. Sweet cucumber, onion, buttery-fresh avocado, some kind of tart cheese, tomato, and crisp lettuce with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper. An ecstatic profanity escaped me; Teo snorted and told me to wash out my mouth.
“I am never washing my mouth,” I said. “I may keep the last bite of this sandwich in my cheek like a hamster.”
“Gross, and not necessary.” Teo picked up the insistent cat, who seemed to be made of elastic covered in rusty steel wool. “I can make you lunch anytime, if you stop hitting people. I love cooking.”
“That’s hot,” I said.
He responded with awkward silence, filled only by the cat’s loud purring. A bite of my sandwich went down sideways.
“So,” Teo said when the moment had passed. “Ever been on the Warner Bros. lot?”
“Not since I worked as an extra.” It had been an easy way to watch other directors work, requiring no résumé or references.
“I called ahead to let Berenbaum know we’re coming. If you need to do anything else to get ready, be quick.”
Mr. Yesterday’s Jeans was insinuating that I wasn’t presentable enough? “What about you?” I said. “When’s the last time you had a shower?”
Teo put the cat down irritably. “This isn’t a date, Roper. Get in the car.”
“No. If can manage a shower, so can you. This is a big deal to me; I don’t want you walking in there smelling like sweat and cigarettes.”
“For f*ck’s sake,” said Teo. But he slouched upstairs, picking off cat hair as he went.
? ? ?
The Warner Bros. lot, like all major studio lots, is a massive complex of buildings that dwarfs certain small towns. Every building has the same warm butterscotch-taffy exterior, accented with lush landscaping that gives the place a homey, welcoming feeling. It’s an illusion, but a nice one.
During my days as an extra, I had always parked in the garage across the road and waited for the WALK light to wheel my suitcase of clothing changes and supplies over to the main gate. This time, we got to drive the car right onto the lot. Teo gave the guy at the security booth his ID and got a pass for the dashboard of his crap car. The security guy didn’t look nearly as judgmental of us as I thought he should.