Fame, Fate, and the First Kiss(38)

Sixteen


Donavan hadn’t moved from his position on the couch; he was reading my book. But when I continued to stand there, he looked up. “What’s wrong?”

I put the ink and quill on the table and tossed my kneepads into the corner. “I heard someone talking in the hall to my director about how they think I suck. I kind of do right now.”

“Someone said that? Who?”

“I have no idea. What if my director listens to them? What if they’re someone who has a lot of influence?”

Donavan stood and walked over to where I was standing by the window of my trailer. He took my hand and led me to the couch. “Sit down.”

I did.

“How do you take this off?” He pointed to my face. “Is there a special method?”

I nodded toward the vanity. “There’s some Q-tips and a bottle of solution. And there are some makeup wipes up there.”

He gathered the things I’d mentioned and brought them back to the couch. Then he handed them to me and sat down.

I turned toward him, pulled my legs up onto the couch and crossed them. I dipped a Q-tip in the solution and held it out for him. “You use this when it doesn’t come off easily.”

He hesitated as he stared at me, and I realized he hadn’t meant that he was going to take it off. He’d brought it over for me to do. My mind was a mess. I started to say as much when he took the Q-tip from me and asked, “I . . . does it hurt?”

“No, it’s fine.”

He reached for a section and gently tugged. After freeing that piece, I held out an upturned hand and he dropped the latex onto my palm. Then he turned more fully to face me, matching my cross-legged position. He leaned in, his eyes as intent on my face now as they’d been on that book moments before, while he carefully removed more sections. My heartbeat picked up.

I shifted, hugging my knees to my chest.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a makeup-remover person,” he said.

“I know, what kind of second-rate joint is this?” Our position made it so I couldn’t look anywhere but at him. He was close, his brown eyes studying each section he removed as if this was the most important thing he’d done all day. His hair that I had messed up earlier flopped forward. I pushed it back for him, out of his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said. Then he brushed a finger over a bare section on my cheek. “Why are you always missing this big part? Have you not fully transformed yet?”

“It’s the only section that’s premade, and Leah, my makeup person, takes it off before I leave the set for the day. She doesn’t trust me with it.”

He nodded like this made perfect sense. Like he wouldn’t trust me with anything valuable either.

He was quiet for a moment and then said softly, “You don’t suck. You deserve to be here.”

I shrugged. I hadn’t been feeling like that at all lately.

“You landed a movie with the Grant James,” he said.

I smiled a little.

“Not to mention, every episode of The Cafeteria was near perfection.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You’re a fan of The Cafeteria?”

“I am.”

“So you saw my episodes?”

“You were brilliant.”

I was used to getting compliments, but from Donavan—the critic, the guy who seemed to disapprove of half the things I did—it felt bigger somehow. It made my cheeks go pink. I wondered if I still had enough makeup on to mask it. My eyes dropped to the collar of his shirt. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No . . . well, yes, I am. But I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“What happened to being objective?” I asked.

“I am being objective. I don’t think you need to worry about people gossiping in the hallways. You were hired because you’re good.”

I bit my lip. “I didn’t realize you knew me before . . .”

“I didn’t know you before.”

“I mean, I thought this was how you saw me for the first time.” I held up the handful of latex in my palm.

“No.” His eyes slid to mine. “I’d seen you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s the only reason I took the job.”

“So it was one of the reasons?”

“What? No.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Fine, it didn’t hurt.”

I smiled. “So what was the main reason you took this job?”

He hesitated, like he didn’t want to tell me but then finally said, “I took it because your dad had submitted an ad to the paper, and I read it but didn’t want to print it because that seemed . . .”

“Super embarrassing?” I finished for him. My dad was going to put an ad in the school paper? Anger surged through my chest. “Does the paper have other ads?”

“Yes, it has a classified section. People sell instruments and cars and promote yard sales, so don’t be too mad at him. Like I said, he seemed desperate.”

I sighed, trying to take his advice but failing. “What did it say? ‘Come help my daughter, who’s a bad actress and even worse student’?”

“No. I don’t really remember what it said, but not that. And we already established you’re a brilliant actress.”