#famous(77)

“I’m glad I did it, really. I would have never known what I wanted if I hadn’t. But I’m done.”

She sat down on the bed. She looked tired but not mad. It was a start.

“Theater? Really?”

“I actually think I’ll be good. Or at least I want to be good.” I could have tried to explain about how alive I felt when I was about to perform, how every nerve ending felt like a blaze of light, but instead I just smiled. Mom: barely processing what I’d already told her.

“I suppose I’ll have to tell the Burger Barn people we’re not interested,” she said to herself, squinting up at the ceiling.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I was planning to tell you today. They called about some kind of partnership. You’d run their social media, I think? We hadn’t worked out details.”

“Do you have their number?”

Mom’s face brightened a little.

“You want to do it?”

“No.” I smiled at her apologetically. “But I know someone who might.”





chapter fifty-nine


RACHEL

SUNDAY, 5:15 P.M.

The screen of my phone lit up, a little bluish beacon in the darkened basement.

I ignored it. It would just be Kyle again, trying to explain why he’d been kissing Emma, trying to trick me into trusting him again so I’d play nice for TV tomorrow. Not happening.

Of course it could have been one of the thousand new “besties” I’d sprouted overnight feigning pity over whatever version of the rumor they’d heard, but eff. That. How they even got my number was beyond me.

The phone lit up again. Monique leaned across the table to grab it, looking at me questioningly. Even though we’d both seen What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? a million times, we didn’t talk through movies.

I shook my head no. She stared at the screen for a second, then typed in my password, which should have been annoying, but whatever, at least the notification wouldn’t scream at me once she left and I was alone in my bedroom.

Monique clicked the controller.

“Rachel, you need to look at this one.”

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“Okay, let me rephrase. I would like you to look at this one, then we can go back to the movie.”

“Yeah, well I’d like—”

“And if you disagree, I’ll keep pestering you until you do, and you’ll have to fight me for the remote, and we both know my crane style beats your tiger style.”

“I’m scrappy.”

“I’m serious.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the phone out of her hand.

“Kyle. What a surprise.”

“Just read them, Rachel, seriously.”

(From Kyle): I know you’re mad, and I get that you don’t want to talk to me, but could you watch the show tomorrow?



(From Kyle): If you never want to speak to me again after that I promise I’ll leave you alone.



(From Kyle): I told them you’re not gonna do the live chat, so don’t worry about that



* * *





(From Kyle): But please watch? I swear I’ll leave you alone if you say you will



* * *





“Well?”

“Who cares what he wants. Why should I watch his stupid show anyway?”

“You know there’s more to this, Rachel. If you just let him—”

“I know what I saw.”

“So do I.” Monique sounded annoyed, which was weirdly reassuring; Monique usually got to annoyed much sooner. “I saw him looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And I saw your face when you came by to tell me you guys had kissed. I know you always have to believe the worst, but why not at least hear him out?”

I frowned. I wasn’t being unfair, I was just right. Why wouldn’t Mo accept that?

“There’s nothing they can show that will change what happened.”

“Okay. So watch and you get an ironclad guarantee that Kyle loses your number.”

The idea that I wanted that still felt like a physical ache. Like a light turning out.

But of course, as usual, Monique was right.

“Fine.”

I typed in a text.

“You press send.” I flipped the phone at Monique’s lap. She sighed exasperatedly but picked it up.

(To Kyle): Yes.



True to his promise, Kyle didn’t respond.





chapter sixty


KYLE

MONDAY, 4:31 P.M.

My legs were starting to cramp up. There really hadn’t been any point to getting here twenty minutes before the show even aired, but I was so nervous of screwing up the timing that staying home hadn’t been an option.

I looked out the car window at the front of Rachel’s house. The house: totally unremarkable. White siding, neatly trimmed hedges under the windows facing the street, blocky two-car garage sticking out to the right, like an afterthought. The only thing that stood out were the flower beds lining the pathway up to the door, filled with strange, spidery red flowers and furry fronds and a bunch of other weird things I’d never seen in any other garden.