Tabitha’s face is hovering six inches above mine. She is spraying a fine mist of ice water over me. I startle hard and wrestle with the hammock fabric as I bolt upright, almost flipping over onto the grass.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Tabitha!” I admonish her. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I can’t believe I fell asleep. And not just a slight snooze. We’re talking full-on snoring, no clue where I am, coma.
“I was afraid you were getting overheated. I wanted to wake you up before they started passing out the food,” she hiss-whispers, looking a little wounded. “You were out pretty hard.” She gestures at a trail of drool on my cheek and looks over her shoulder, stepping closer to block me from view. From the depths of her old-lady blazer pocket, she retrieves a plastic-wrapped packet of tissues.
“Sorry,” I mutter, wiping the spittle off my cheek. “I never sleep well the first few nights in a new place.” Tabitha hands me the monogrammed water bottle that came with the cast gift bags. I take a swig. “Was I talking in my sleep?”
“A little.” She confirms my fears.
“Oh, shit. Did I say anything incriminating?” I ask.
“I don’t think anyone noticed. And even if they did, I doubt anyone understood you. You were muttering in another language. I think it was Russian. And you said something about troll toe?”
“Kyrgyz,” I say. “I learned a bunch of proverbs for my role. I practiced them so much, I could literally recite them in my sleep.”Apparently, now I do.
“Oh. What’s a troll toe?” Tabitha asks.
“No clue,” I lie. Rafe Barzilay’s secret is safe with me. Titanium Man is very self-conscious about his feet. He has super-hairy big toes.
“Who’s hungry?” Dean Riley calls out. The handsome, auburn-haired, blue-eyed owner of the theater cuts a striking figure as he heads down the hill from the gate, followed by a delivery girl walking alongside a heavily laden adult tricycle. The red-faced girl is wearing a pink apron that says “Coffee Witch,” and her curly, blonde hair is sticking out all over her head. She’s shyly looking around as she rolls her ride down the hill, chatting with Dean. Probably another local hoping to catch a glance at Rafe. It’s almost embarrassing how the man draws admirers. They swarm like flies.
Not that I don’t have my own share of fans. They just tend to be a little less mainstream than Rafe’s. Mine fall into two camps—fans of the character I played as a kid, or Ember fans who are mostly goth girls and guys who like to cosplay as the villain. The Ember camp also includes many foreign fans. Learning all those proverbs paid off. I have a standing invitation to the Nomad Games in Central Asia.
A couple of the stagehands rush up the hill to unburden the delivery girl of her load, parking the bike and pulling bags out of the insulated containers in the oversize back basket. My stomach growls, and I stand to join the cue that’s forming.
“Want me to go wait in line for you?” Tabitha offers.
The sun is high, and it’s gotten a lot warmer. I consider this for a moment—risk a sunburn and get all sweaty making awkward conversation with the locals, or park myself in the shade and get labeled as an entitled princess?
“Hey! Lorelei!”
Before I can make a decision one way or the other, I hear Dean Riley calling my name. He’s headed toward me with a couple bags of food and the delivery girl in tow. Uh-oh. I sigh and snap for Tabitha to fetch my tote. I usually carry a few photos or Titanium Man items to sign in order to satisfy fans. A cheap price to send them off quickly on their way.
Which will it be? Moxie McAllister or Ember? She doesn’t seem the goth type. So maybe she’s an OG? To be honest, I like the Moxie fans much better. They’re smarter, and they’ve always had my back. Most of the original fans scattered when the show was canceled. But the ones who stuck elevated both me and my character to cult status.
It all started when I carelessly told an interviewer that I always thought that Moxie might be on the spectrum. And queer. I was fifteen. I’d thought I was being super progressive. The network thought otherwise.
The social media campaigns that kicked off were the beginning of the end. Conservative picketers protesting outside the studio nearly came to blows with LGBTQ fans gathering signatures. They wanted the writers to end the season with Moxie asking her (female) bff to the eighth grade spring fling dance.
The funny thing about this girl, I notice as she gets closer, is that she looks a lot like Moxie. There’s something about her unadorned and fresh-scrubbed, freckled look. Of course, her hair is more of a strawberry-ish blonde than Moxie’s flaming red, but she’s got the corkscrews framing her sweaty face.
“Hey Lorelei! This is Kenna!” Dean is shouting. “Remember I told you about her? I sent you a photo when we were going over the contracts? Stay there, I have your order!”
I think back, trying to recall. Deanhadtexted me a photo a few months ago of a girl in a diner. This must be that girl. Complete with pigtails and an apron. She’s the small town, low budget version of me.
The girl stumbles as he pulls her forward. She slides the rest of the way down the grassy slope on her butt, coming to a stop a couple of yards in front of me and my PA, who’s just returned with my bag.
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Tabitha glances from me to the girl, back to me, back to the girl, back to …
“What are you gawking at, Tabitha?” I ask her.
“Are you kidding me? She looks just like—”
“Just go get your lunch.”
“Oh my God, Kenna!” Dean catches up to his charge and helps her up. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you over!”
