Agnes takes over. “We’re happy to announce thatUpside Clownis the sixth and final nominee in the docuseries category. Yet before we play the clip from the series, and before the winner is announced, we’ve got to find out what’s going to happen with Libby and Nick in Rah, Rah, Saw. What’s your guess, Buffy? Do you think Nick is an innocent little half-Z or do you think he’s hiding a deadly secret?”
“Did somebody say secret?” Buffy says. “Because I have a fun little secret about the guyplayingNick.”
You’ve got to be kidding!Forget the flyswatter. Let’s bring out the stage cane and yank her off.
Agnes flings her head back dramatically. “Not again.” The crowd laughs. “Can we just get on with this? These peopledohave to get home sometime tonight.”
“When he kisses,” Buffy says, dumping lighter fluid on my inner flames. “He does this breathy little moan, like he’s about to lose consciousness. It’s so cute.”
Wow. Isthatwhy Dawson asked Buffy to help with the docuseries—so the two could share late-night kisses that made him moan? It’s exactly how my dad’s wandering ways began. Late-night sessions with his new, pretty promoting specialist.
"Here’s your apple,” someone whispers to me, placing the apple in my hand.
“Thanks,” I manage, gripping the apple and wishing I could throw it at Buffy.
Agnes is saying something to the effect that kissing Dawson Cain summons words other thancutein her book, but soon she turns the topic back to our screenplay.
I can barely keep up. Layers of insult build in my mind, each offense gunning for the lead.
“Now,” I hear Agnes say, “let’s get the stars ofRah Rah Sawout here so they can answer thefirstbig question on everyone’s minds—just what is Nick?
“We’ll have to wait for Time Warp’s Celebrity Edition to answer the second question—the one pressing on everyone’shearts—will Dawson Cain rekindle this love connection with the one who got away? Tune in this Sunday at eight for the first episode, right here on Channel Thirteen.”
As the women clear the stage, the massive screen behind them lifts silently, revealing a larger version of our fourth scene set. Suddenly the stage looks like a moonlit night with a dirt ground, surrounding trees and shrubs, and a stack of freshly chopped wood in a clearing. A hush falls over the crowd as crickets begin to chirp.
Dawson saunters onto the stage, earning catcalls of appreciation as his muscled abs and contoured pecs glisten with silver moonlight.
I can’t help but see my dad in him now.I bet he loves this.
Sure, Dawson wants me back for now, but he just wants his cake and to eat it too. I doubt he had the slightest intention of missing these awards. He probably knew he’d be here all along, ready to soak up all the glory and compliments that would come his way.
He narrows his eyes and glares in my direction. I’m not sure whether he sees me or not, but I can’t get myself to move. Too bad pinwheel arms isn’t here to do his thing.
“Okay, Brinley,” a woman beside me whispers. “You’re up.”
CHAPTER21
Dawson
It takes everything in me to walk onto the stage. What I want to do is hunt Perry down and wipe that Botox-hindered grin off his smug face. I can’t help but think he upset Brinley on purpose—the guy thinks dating the likes of Buffy would be much better for my career.
Still, as much as I’d like to wring Perry’s pasty neck for his little stunt, I inwardly know that the fault lies with me. I should have told Brinley that Perry clued me in on the details.
To add insult to injury, Buffy had to stake her ridiculous claim on some mystery piece of my past. I want to assume that Brinley wouldn’t give it any merit, but I can’t be so sure.
And that’s just the problem, isn’t it?
Because, while I can admit that Brinley has reason to be angry, the fact is, I do too. Heck, she’s the one holding onto the same false narrative about who I am, which is why I didn’t dare tell her about Perry’s reveal in the first place.
I watch the shadowed entrance on Brinley’s side of the stage. I can only guess what’s going through her head right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if she up and left.
Simulated moonlight glistens off the sharp-looking blade of the axe. Even close up, it’s hard to detect the clear, plastic coating along the edge. With a firm grip on the wooden handle, I swing it over my shoulder, wondering if I’m about to get stood up on live TV.
Is Brinley actually going to join me on stage, or is she already darting out the back exit, hoping to catch a cab and leave the madness behind?
I know better than to look out at the audience—unless it’s part of the show, it’s adon’tin the theater world—but the mere thought of the crowd makes me wonder if Brinley’s sister and dad are out there.
Instantly, I vow to absorb any and all embarrassment if she doesn’t show. What I won’t absorb, however, is the shadow of doubt Brinley stubbornly casts my way.
