She took in my dark-brown hair and pale skin, and then her gaze lingered on the scars on the right side of my neck. Usually I wore my hair down, like a shield against this kind of attention, but Shelby had convinced me that my dress called for a good updo. That no one would pay any attention to or care about my scars, which had faded to a light silver color. And somehow I’d both believed her and convinced myself that they weren’t that noticeable.
“Did you hear me? I said, throw it away!”
I hated that I let people make me feel self-conscious about the scars, and it made me angry. So after carefully removing the toothpick, I popped the food into my mouth, maintaining eye contact while I chewed. There were only two people in my life who got to tell me what to do, and she was neither one of them.
She made a sound of outrage when I ate my pilfered mini-sandwich (which was not all that great, but I was not about to let her know that) and stalked off to join another group of women, where she kept pointing at me and shaking her head.
I should have grabbed the entire tray. I was certainly hungry enough for it, and as an added bonus, it might have made Sandwich Monitor’s head explode.
Harmony would have really been upset then.
Allan waved us over. He had light-brown hair and was as tall as I was, six feet. He had dark-brown eyes that were always smiling. I wondered for the millionth time if there had been an as-yet-undiscovered mix-up at the hospital, because I had no idea how he could be related to his mother. He had on a headset and was holding a clipboard. “Okay, Shelby? You’re in row fifteen, seat J. You’ll be climbing over some people. Don’t run away with some movie star while you’re out there.”
“I’ll try not to,” she said with a giggle and kissed Allan quickly before going out to join the crowd.
“And Juliet?”
“Reporting for my first official assignment,” I told him, saluting.
He smiled back. “You’re going to be in row two, seat B. That’s some prime seating, just so you know.”
“Thanks!” I told him. I shot one final glance of annoyance at that know-it-all veteran seat filler before I headed into the auditorium. Glamorous and formal-clad people talked all around me; some were sitting, others standing. Lots of air kisses and handshakes as I made my way carefully through the crowd. I recognized a number of actors and actresses but remembered that I was not allowed to stop and gape at them with an open mouth.
Seats A and B in row two were both empty. I sat down in the B seat, wondering who had been sitting here before me. Shelby had mentioned that the award nominees and their dates sat on the ends of the first few rows. So probably somebody very famous.
There was a woman to my left who I almost bumped with my elbow as I removed my badge. The badge was attached to the front of my dress and said, “I’m temporarily filling this seat for camera purposes.” I hadn’t wanted to run afoul of another rule—I had to take the badge off so that it wouldn’t be seen on camera. I put it in my small clutch, which also held my cell phone, my keys, and an emergency Snickers bar.
A Snickers bar I was seriously considering eating, given that I was still hungry and still annoyed.
Since I was tempted to observe everyone around me, I stuck to staring straight ahead. Like I was wearing blinders. I figured that was safest, considering that I was the kind of woman who lived for celebrity gossip. I had subscriptions to, like, three different tabloids. Fortunately Shelby shared my obsession, and we had spent many hours of her chemo poring over trashy magazines. I’d signed a very serious and very thick nondisclosure agreement for this event, and because I was already poor, I didn’t need to make things worse by having Harmony sue me.
A man sat down next to me in seat A. I noticed that he was tall, as he was forced to turn his legs toward the aisle because he didn’t quite fit. His hands were large and he was wearing an expensive watch that somehow seemed vaguely familiar.
“You’re in the wrong seat.” His voice was deep and, again, familiar. I was tempted to glance at him, but I fought off the urge. But that meant I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me or someone else. For all I knew, he might have been on his cell phone. I kept my eyes pointed toward the stage as the lights came back up and everyone hurried back to their own seats.
“The security is terrible at this venue,” he mumbled as he shifted in his seat. “This should be one of the few places where I’m safe from stalkers.”
Wait. Did he think I was stalking him? By sitting here and not interacting with him at all, carefully following Harmony’s stupid rules?
Again, I was jumping to conclusions. He might have been talking to someone else. Maybe even himself. Out loud, where I could hear it.
They were presenting an award, but I couldn’t hear what it was for, because the tall man in a black suit next to me was still muttering under his breath.
A winner was announced and a tiny actress I recognized from a TV show I used to watch went up to the stage to accept. The last thing I could remember reading about her was that she was bearding for a director in order to advance her career.
Huh. Looks like that worked out for her.
She started tearily thanking a long list of people for helping her win the award. That was some industrial-strength waterproof mascara she had on. I was kind of fascinated by how tears could stream down her face without marring any of her makeup. I would have looked like an oversize, drunk raccoon if it had been me up onstage.
“Are you seriously going to sit there and ignore me?” the man asked me.
“I’m trying real hard to,” I finally responded, mostly because this actress was going on and on, despite the fact that they were playing music to get her offstage and she was in the midst of thanking every person she’d ever known, including her eighth-grade PE teacher, I kid you not. “So please be quiet.”
“Did you . . .” His voice trailed off in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just told me to be quiet. You stole my date’s chair and I’m the one who should be quiet?”
I’d reached the end of my douchebag rope. The cameras were still pointed at the stage, where the hosts were now tugging on the actress’s arm to get her to leave. I figured I could risk it. I turned to glare at him.
And my mouth dropped open.
It was him. The man who had played Felix Morrison.
And Malec Shadowfire.
He was the actor Noah Douglas, star of my favorite TV show growing up, and he had recently starred as the villain in a billion-dollar fantasy franchise about fairies. He was at this awards show for his most recent role as a young husband and father whose wife was dying of cancer in a film that aired exclusively on InstaFlicks. The movie was really good, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember his character’s name. Toby? Charlie? Phillip?
I was staring at him. In a very stalkery way, so maybe he’d had a point earlier. My heart was beating so fast I was afraid it might break free from all the veins and arteries that were (I think?) currently trying to tether it in place.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .” My mind had turned completely off. Of course, when I was twelve years old I had daydreamed more than once about what I would say to Noah Douglas when we met. Of how I’d win him over with my wit and natural charm.
That was not happening. I was floundering badly and couldn’t even figure out a way to finish the sentence I’d started.