Chapter 1
Freddie
I nearly eat shit as I step off the bus in Silverlake, just managing to catch myself before I become inspiration for the nextFinal Destinationfilm. It’s these damn heels. I would have rather worn my boots, but as much agony as it brings me, I’m attempting to look professional.
I straighten my too-tight pencil skirt and use my blazer sleeve to wipe away the embarrassing layer of sweat clinging to the back of my thighs. It’s always hot on the Eastside of Los Angeles, but July is a special sort of miserable. Sunlight beams off the pavement and parking meters, making me squint.
“You good?” the bus driver calls after me.
“Best day of my life,” I say with a wave, ignoring the weird look he gives me as I tuck my notepad under my arm and hurry across the street. The hot yoga and pumpkin spice latte crowd are always talking about manifesting these days. Maybe if I speak it into existence, it’ll come true. At this point, I’d summon the Wishmaster if it meant getting my failing film career off the ground, consequences be damned—though I’m highly skilled at self-sabotage, so I doubt he’d even need to intervene. As it stands, I’m late for the most importantmeeting of my floundering film career thus far. I swore I wouldn’t be, but it’s not my fault America refuses to invest in public transportation, and since I’m still driving the convertible coup my parents bought me for my sixteenth birthday, I opted to take the bus rather than show up to an indie film production meeting in that gaudy thing.
The pretentious little Silverlake cafe is just as packed as the 101 when I step inside. Everyone looks like a would-be screenwriter, wearing normie glasses, septum rings, and clutching their craft cold brews. Scriptwriting software beams from more than a few laptops. I shoot Miles a quick text.
Freddie
Here. So sorry I’m late.
Miles
Table by the bathrooms.
I venture into the bowels of the coffee shop, smiling when a man, roughly my age and wearing anExorcistshirt, waves me down. He’s average in height, with brown eyes, unruly brown hair peeking out from under his hat, and the shadow of a neckbeard—in other words, your garden variety Los Angeles film bro.
I briefly wonder how many of his screenplays pass the Bechdel test, but then remind myself that I am currently begging, not choosing.
“Frederica?” He extends a hand, highlighting a full sleeve of vibrant American traditional tattoos with a Wild West theme. The coyotes, cactuses, and cowboy hats contrast with the fading stick-and-poke on my left forearm: a sheet ghost bearing the wordstrick-or-treat.
“Only to my mother. Freddie’s fine,” I reply, shaking it. His grip is a little on the limp fish side for my liking.
I’ve always hated my full name. Frederica Elise Hearst. It’s the sort of name that belongs on a dusty mausoleum somewhere in NewEngland, not in a credit roll. In my opinion my little sister has it worse—Elinor Frances, but unlike me she takes pride in our family’s stuffy traditions, so her name never bothered her.
“Freddie it is. Freddie Krueger,” he adds, making finger claws.
“That’s what they called me in prep school.”
“Because you wore ugly sweaters?”
“Because I gave the other kids nightmares,” I say.
He doesn’t laugh, his features instead twisting in uncertainty. Kill me.
“Joking. It was because I was always falling asleep in class,” I reply in an attempt to recover the situation.
“Makes sense.” His laugh is awkward.
I’ve already managed to make my would-be producer uncomfortable. Great.
“Anyway, thanks for meeting me.” He takes a seat. I do the same. “You weren’t waiting long, were you?” The bathroom-adjacent air smells like a dingy mix of cleaning products and coffee grounds—a far cry from the gentle incense and designer hand soap my mother keeps at home.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I appreciate you coming. A lot of people don’t trust Gregslist gigs.”
“You don’t look like an ax murderer,” I reply, sizing Miles up—though I don’t tell him he’d be hotter if he did. He grins, blissfully unaware of my questionable kink for men covered in blood.
“I save the axes for set,” he says, snapping my focus back in place. “So what do you like about the project?”
I hesitate, imposter syndrome suddenly choking me in a Michael Myers grip, even though I’ve rehearsed this hundreds of times. Channeling the energy of Jamie Lee Curtis with a butcher knife, I force myself to swallow the fear.
“Well for starters I’m a huge horror fan. Especially found footage.The Blair Witch Projectchanged my life, and to think they did it with that budget.” How fucking original. I didn’t sound this idiotic in the mirror, I swear. My fingers curl against my skirt. “Paranormal Activity, too. I’d love to pull off something like that.”
