Page 62 of How To Plot a Payback

Finn addresses the group. “Let’s just keep cracking on, shall we? At this rate, I think we’ll be done by lunch.”

Chloe’s makeup case snaps shut like a gunshot, and she gives my elbow a little squeeze. “Doing great, Lavie,” she whispers, then scurries back to the shadows.

I, however, am not doing great.

I clench and unclench my fists, though, and try to focus. To get into character.

I am Ashley Krane. On a Valentine’s date with Lance Lewis.

And I can do this. I can. I take a huge breath, my rib cage expanding until it presses against the satin bodice of this black dress that feels three sizes too small. Who picked these outfits? Kye and I are both suffocating here!

I can pick up a chick.

Sure.

It’s just a chick.

I am a professional.

“Scene 3, take 2. And”—I hear a long pause offstage—“action.”

Kye’s demeanor immediately shifts. The difference is almost indistinguishable to the eye, yet it’s there. His temples smooth. His eyes hold mine. Without moving a muscle, his expression is all emotion, all romantic tension. He carries on with his line. “You said for so long I’d never commit. Consider this our start.”

I pause.

Give an intake of surprised breath.

“Lance, you didn’t!”

“Cut!” calls Finn. He hops out of the director’s chair. And surprisingly, he looks positively ecstatic as he stands, hands on hips. “Lavender, you gotta run your line.”

“I did do my line.”

“No. You’ve gotta take the box.”

I look down and realize my hands are stiffly at my sides. Like a sitting mannequin. Or that extra they dismissed this morning for staring at the cameras with a frozen smile while gripping a steak knife and fork over his plate of fake steak.

Gingerly, as if they might crack, I bend my elbows. Slowly. “Right,” I say. Shake it off. “Okay.”

“Let’s do it again. Take three.”

Kye jumps into position. “You said for so long I’d never commit.” He holds out the box. “Consider this our start.”

Against every primal instinct, I force myself to take the box. A series of chirps rings out like little snapping scissors. I hesitate, then with two very cautious fingers touch the top of the box.

Lift.

I’m supposed to be sucking in my breath, but what also comes out is a squeal as one fat brown bird climbs atop the others, chirping madly as it callously sacrifices the lives of the others in its desire to get to me. To bite me. With its tiny disease-ridden mouth attached to its soulless, beady eyes.

“Ohhh, Lance, you didn’t!” I cry shrilly.

“You always say you miss home in this great big city.” He takes the box as the camera hovers over one shoulder, closing in.

“So I wanted to bring a little bit of home to you. Welcome to the first step toward our rooftop garden. I was thinking we could care for them. Together.”

“Cut,” Finn calls. He pulls off his glasses and rakes a hand through his short brown curls. He hops up the four stairs to the stage as if his legs are made of springs, taking them two at a time.

“You know, it’s missing something. Here. Hold this.” And all of a sudden Finn sets the box in my hands. He swivels around and motions for the comedian to come onstage. I’m frozen. A box of tiny winged terrors chirps in my hands.