“Blah, Julian. You sound as paranoid as Cate Collins.” Shoshanna kicked her feet up. “Why haven’t they called us yet? Did something else go wrong? There has not been a single seamless day on this production.”
“Yeah, and talk about the lack of press interest,” Julian muttered.
This was my chance to drill up some negativity, which according to my dad was my specialty—but he wasn’t here and I wasn’t actually Jaded Iris. “What’s the special skills section on your résumé?”
“Well, normal stuff like riding a horse, juggling, foreign languages,” Shoshanna said. “And also odd stuff. Like the ability to flip your eyelids inside out or speak pig Latin.”
“I can make my pecs dance to ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’” Julian said. “I got a commercial once because of it.”
Shoshanna sat up, way too excited. “Show us. Now.”
“Only if you sing,” he said. And that’s how Eamon and my little brother found us, sitting in the dark in Julian Young’s trailer, singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Light Star” while a shirtless Julian made his pecs dance. Eamon clapped a hand over Ryder’s eyes.
Julian clicked on the lights and started texting. God, he was a ninja texter. One minute he was talking, the next: BAM. Forty messages fired.
“What, Ryder? We’re busy.” I braided my hair, hopefully looking less conspicuous.
“They’re filming out on the west end of the island. Cate said we could go watch. I got these out of your bag.” My brother held up my hiking boots—and my heart stopped.
A pair of lacy underwear was stuck to the Velcro of one boot. Not just any pair either.
I lunged, but Shoshanna was faster. “Julian!” she shrieked, thrusting the skimpy cloth in Julian’s still-texting face. “Your face is on Iris’s undies!”
Julian dropped his phone in his lap and grabbed the lacy abomination.
“Those aren’t mine!” I shouted. “My school friends gave them to me as a joke because they knew I’d be hanging out with you. See? The tag is still on them. I wouldn’t wear them!”
Julian and Shoshanna slumped on the couch in hysterics while I died of embarrassment. I closed my eyes, picturing my headstone:
IRIS MAE ELLEN THORNE
2001–2018
KILLED BY NOVELTY PANTIES
After a minute, Julian surprised me by handing the underwear back. “This is not the first time I’ve seen underwear with my face on it, Iris. It’d only be a problem if you were wearing them and wanted to show me.”
Oh my God.
I turned fast, pushing Eamon and Ryder out of the trailer. Shutting the door behind us, I threw the underwear in the nearest trash can and stomped toward my brother.
“Say, take a breath, Iris. He didn’t mean to do that,” Eamon tried.
“Shut it, elf.”
“Certainly, mistress.” He bowed, and I almost kicked him in the shin. Ryder did have a rather paralyzed look on his face; he hadn’t meant to embarrass me. That didn’t help though. And something else caught my eye. I ruffled his hair back, finding fake elf ears. “Ryder! You did not ask to do this. What if you have a reaction to the chemicals?”
“They’re not glued!” my brother said. “I told Roxy about my skin sensitivity.”
“He did,” Eamon said. “It’s double-sided tape.” I cooled; that actually was rather responsible of Ryder, even if he was now the spitting image of yesterday’s Eamon. Today’s Eamon pointed at one of the production vans. “We’re headed to the west end. Come with us.”
I looked back at Julian’s trailer. “Ryder can go, but watch him. I’m staying here.”
“But it’ll be brilliant,” Eamon said. “You’d trade that in for Hollywood brownnosing?”
Aghast. I believe that’s the right word, Dad.
Even worse, Eamon was holding a small camera. “What is that?” I asked, pointing.
“I’m making a video blog of the production. Cate said it will help get fans excited. I’ve already got twenty thousand subscribers on my YouTube channel.”
I got closer to him than I’d ever been. Not face-to-face. Face-in-face. His eyebrows rose up into his tousled hair, and I was glad I’d stunned him. “My brother and I don’t show up on your blog or you will learn the wrath of Henry T. Wittmeijer, my family’s lawyer.”
Eamon’s scowl was his cutest look. I could give him that. “What is your problem?”
I grabbed my little brother’s chin. “He’s not an actor, Eamon. He’s eight. He’s trying to have a normal life. Don’t put an X on his back for all the crazy fans to target.”
Eamon understood. Maybe. He stepped back at least.
“Does this mean I can go?” Ryder asked.
“Only if Eamon promises to watch you,” I said.
Eamon gave a stiff nod.
I pretended like I was inspecting Ryder’s ears, adding, “Remember what Dad wants you to think about while we’re here?”
He nodded and sighed like a forty-year-old.
They headed for the vans, and Ryder regained his bounce after a few yards. Eamon dropped his camera in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. From behind, Eamon was so skinny I couldn’t figure out what was holding up his pants. And then I had to chastise myself for spending any amount of time contemplating Eamon’s butt. Where’s your head, Iris?
• • •
I couldn’t step back in Julian’s trailer after the underwear nightmare. I went to mine instead, where a short nap made me feel even worse. I turned to Annie.
My all-black Martin was the best thing I owned. I’d tuned each peg down three turns for the plane ride and fixing her back into singing shape took a little fussing. Annie felt hesitant, but then, I knew that was my hesitation. Two things always happened when I picked up my guitar.
One: I felt at home. Two: I felt like an impostor.
Logic might say these sentiments don’t coexist, but logic is useless when it comes to art. My dad had been demonstrating that for me since birth. I was younger than Ryder is now the day my dad sat
