Page 1 of Take 2
Chapter One
Noenvelopeinhistoryhas ever taken this long to open.
J.K. Simmons’ words hang in the air, echo through the theatre, and replay in my mind, driving me insane as I watch him open it.And the Oscar goes to…
My manicured fingernails dig into James’ knee. My cheeks ache with the smile plastered on my face.Mirabelle Sheridan. When Stars Fall. Say it. Say it. Say it.
The card comes out, and Simmons shows it to Elliot Page. Another second delay—I want to scream; they stand there aware of my fate while I sit here dying in anticipation. My heart is a time bomb, ticking in the final countdown.
The screens show the five nominees for best original screenplay.
And Elliot Page finally reads the winner. “Preston Greene forEnter the Night.”
My lungs, sounds, and the idiotically hopeful organ in my chest all grind to a full stop.
Not again.If I could rewind time a few minutes, I’d revise my plea to the universe. Not Preston. Anyoneexcepthim. Please and thank you. But it’s too late for that.
My arm shakes, and James lays his hand over mine in a surprisingly gentle way, considering his leg is being severed by my grip. I blink so fast my fake lashes might fall off. My smile is still in place, but when I turn my head to face James and his eyes bulge, I gather I look manic.
He mouths something. Or says something out loud. Sound has returned; however, I can’t hear him over the thunderous applause and the hurricane in my head.
I rub my lips together and take a deep breath in through my nose. Preston reaches the podium and hugs the trio fromJunowhose writer won this award fourteen years ago. They step back as he approaches the podium, award in hand.
The way he looks at that godforsaken statue, I’d think he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Like he can’t gaze lovingly at two of them every day in his home. He scrapes his hand through his dark waves and looks out over the audience. “Thank you so much.” His ‘I’m surprised’ voice is spot on. With those acting skills, it’s a wonder he’s on this side of the film industry. “This is an incredible honor, especially among such amazing nominees.” His eyes land on me, and his smile boils my blood.
I wish he would make the switch to acting. He’s got the body for action movies. Watching him die in IMAX would be glorious.
The folded-up speech in my bra is going to be soaked. Why did I let James talk me into this dress? I’m melting. The sequins have mated and reproduced. There have to be thousands more weighing me down now than when I put it on. The cinched waist was comfortable enough before but grips me in a sparkly fist now. The open slits on the long sleeves are lessventilationand morewindows to the sweaty mess I am. This is disgusting, and I want to die.
James leans toward me and whispers, “But you look better.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Shut up. I know you think he’s hot.”
“Obviously, I would be slightly more likely to sleep with him than you—” My grip tightens. “Which is still no chance in hell!” He pries my fingers off him now. “Mirror ball, that’s just an anatomical truth.”
“Well, the only truth that matters is that he is the enemy, and I need you to see past the façade and recognize the bloodthirsty monster within.” My hair sticks to the sweat on the back of my neck. There isn’t any reason for menotto twist it up and stab a pen through it anymore, but James patted me down for any object I might tie my hair up with.
“At the moment, the façade is dressed very well, so that’s a tall order. Kristen obviously had that suit custom-made for him, and”—he registers my expression and averts his eyes—“I’ll just shut up now.”
I direct my attention to a point on the stage’s backdrop. I don’t need to look at the custom suit, the cocky smile magnified on the screens, or the green eyes. Seriously, if a writer created a character with the last nameGreeneand gave him green eyes, they’d be raked over the coals. Fiction has higher standards than real life. Preston Greene is like a character fromClue.The game version of Mr. Green was bald, though, with a mean scowl. Preston could use some male-pattern baldness. And a frown. Even when I’ve seen him less thancompletely content with his own magnificence, the closest he gets is a sardonic smile. It’s like his mouth can’t tip downward.
My limit for that smile and everything else about him was reached two years ago—when he beat me for my first nomination.
I clap along with everyone else, only because he’s getting off the stage. If I were lucky, this would be the last time I ever have to see him. Clearly, my luck is shit, though.
Only seven more awards to sit through before I can have my meltdown.
I twist my hair and hold it up off my neck as we make our way through—kill me—winners’ lane. This secure, camera-free passageway to the hotel is where they herd the happy people with their shiny new trophies and anyone of notoriety. Somehow, I count as the latter.
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air from where the losers hide on their way out. Those are my people. If the smell didn’t make me want to gag, I might join them. Fortunately, the Oscars had plenty of tea for James to distract me with.
‘Best documentary feature’ seemed like a good time to sneak away to the restroom, but apparently, I missed the thing this show will probably be most known for.
“It was staged, right?” I ask.
“No, it definitely wasn’t staged.” James is already on his phone in search of footage. My own phone will be staying in airplane mode until I crack and submit to the condolences of my friends and family … or the world ends. Whichever comes first.
“That’s why he said the stuff about protecting people in his best actor speech!” James says. It’s already all over the internet, so I get to seethe slapas we get to the elevator. Our escort, Courtney, remains dutifully silent on the subject, probably disappointed she’s stuck walking me to my room rather than an actor.
