Birds of California(42)
“There is no reboot,” she blurts, which is amateur hour on her part, because the absolute worst thing you can do is engage with these guys, and Fiona knows that. “I mean—”
“Frances?” That’s DeShaun, his voice soft and full of uncertainty; the rest of the cast is watching in silence. “Is everything okay?”
Fiona waves a hand. “It’s fine,” she says automatically, making a move to sidestep the photographer, but he shifts his broad shoulders so she can’t get by him on the sidewalk, the camera still stuttering away.
“You don’t need to play it so close to the vest, honey,” he tells her, continuing on as if it’s just the two of them having a conversation. “From what I hear, it’s already in production. You looked great in those pictures from Sam’s apartment the other night, PS. It’s nice to see you happy after all this time.”
Fiona shakes her head. She’d forgotten this, or tried to—the way these guys monologue, the way they act like they’re your friend. “Enough,” she says, her face flaming as she glances over at her castmates’ curious faces. “You got your pictures, can you just—”
“I think she asked you to stop.” That’s Georgie drawing herself up tall and regal; Pamela stands at her shoulder like a pale, goth bodyguard.
But the photographer shakes his head, teeth flashing in a lascivious grin. “Trust me,” he assures them. “She wants it.”
That’s when Fiona loses her temper.
Later she won’t remember consciously deciding to lunge for the guy’s camera, but she must, because the next thing she knows Hector and Larry are holding her back while she thrashes, her limbs flailing in every possible direction. She thinks she catches Hector in the nose. “Fuck you,” she’s yelling, and for a second she’s not even sure who she’s talking to.
“Frances,” Larry is saying, “take it easy, will—”
“That’s not my name,” Fiona interrupts—still fighting, shrugging them off once and for all. She doesn’t want any of them touching her for one more second. She doesn’t want anyone touching her ever again.
“Enough,” she says again, once they finally release her, reaching out and slapping at the camera one more time. “Enough! Is this what you wanted? Congratulations, I’m a fucking psycho! You win!”
It’s a hurricane, noisy and furious: DeShaun and Georgie are trying to soothe her. The photographer is yelling about a lawsuit. The kid with the cell phone got the whole thing on film. And here’s Fiona at the eye of it just like always, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction in her wake.
Finally she takes a deep breath, raking her hands through her hair and setting her shoulders. She is not not not going to cry. “I’m going to take a rain check on dinner,” she manages quietly. Then she gets into her car and drives away.
Chapter Twelve
Sam
“I mean,” Erin says the following morning, both of them staring wide-eyed at the grainy video on her laptop, “the girl’s got a flair for the dramatic, that’s for sure. It’s almost a shame she doesn’t act anymore.”
“Yeah,” Sam says distractedly, scrubbing a hand through his hair as Erin hits play one more time, Fiona’s wild-eyed face filling the computer screen. She looks feral—her hands flying around like demented birds, her hair enormous—but more than that, Sam keeps thinking, she looks scared. “I mean, she actually does still act, sort of, but—whatever.” He shakes his head. “Can we go out?” he asks abruptly, shutting the laptop harder than is probably necessary and standing up. “Let’s go out.”
Erin takes him for a breakfast beer at the dive around the corner from her apartment: cool and dark and a little bit grimy, the floor slightly sticky underfoot. It’s early enough that they’re the only people sitting at the bar, a friendly drunk scratching lotto tickets at a table in the corner and some daytime talk show carping away on the TV—a talk show, Sam realizes belatedly, on which they’re playing the footage of Fiona outside her theater over and over. Fiona St. James at It Again in New Viral Video, the chyron reads.
“For fuck’s sake.” Sam drains most of his beer in two long gulps. “Hey,” he calls, signaling the bartender before he quite knows he’s going to do it, “sorry. Would you mind turning this off?”
The bartender looks dubious. “You object to The View?” he asks.
“No, I don’t object to The View, I just—sports?” he begs. “There must be a sport on somewhere, right? There’s always sports on.”
The bartender rolls his eyes, but dutifully flips over to competitive bowling on ESPN2. When Sam turns back to Erin, he finds her staring at him, her eyes wide and triumphant. “Holy shit,” she says quietly, “did you catch feelings for Riley Bird?” She says feelings but it sounds like what she means is chlamydia.
Sam finishes his beer instead of answering. “Better not let her hear you call her that,” he says finally. “She’ll eat your heart in the fuckin’ marketplace.”
Erin shakes her head. “Don’t try to put me off.”
“I’m not trying to do anything,” Sam replies, knowing he sounds peevish. “We hung out a couple of times, that’s all. I barely know her.”