I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel. The mirror was foggy with steam, so I wiped it with a hand towel and brushed through my hair. The sound of my trailer door shutting startled me. The little trifold door to the bathroom didn’t lock, so I held it closed.

“Hello!” I called. “Dad?”

There was no answer.

“Donavan?”

Nothing.

“I’m not dressed. So don’t come in here. And I swear if that’s you, Amanda, and you jump out and scare me, I will never speak to you again!”

There was a rustling noise, but then the outside door shut again. I quickly dressed and slowly opened the door that led to the main part of the trailer. It was empty. I checked my table to see if maybe it was just Faith dropping off revisions. There was nothing. My fridge wasn’t newly stocked either. This was not cool.

I was not staying in my trailer today. I could do homework from home. I got my backpack and jumped down the metal steps. I turned to the left and headed for my car. Amanda’s trailer was just past mine, and I slowed outside of it. I glanced over my shoulder to see a new set of security guards blocking the way to Grant’s trailer. Why couldn’t they guard all of us? I remembered what the other guard had said the night before: Amanda had been in my trailer a lot.

I took a determined breath and knocked on Amanda’s door. There was no answer. I started to leave but changed my mind. I reached up and pulled on her door handle. It opened. I went inside and pushed myself against the closest wall.

Her trailer was dim, all the blinds closed. It smelled like rose petals, like Amanda. Anyone who smelled like rose petals couldn’t be out to get me. Right? The trailer looked a lot like mine—a rack of clothes in the corner, a couch, small kitchenette, and bunk area. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Incriminating evidence? A journal or something spelling out how she hated me? The thought made my eyes sting. She didn’t hate me. We were friends. I knew that. Maybe that’s why I was here, to put my mind to rest.

I closed my eyes, then pushed myself off the wall. Apparently I was doing this. I started at her cabinet in the corner. Like me, she had a script there. I riffled through all the pages, but it was just a script. Next to that was her phone. We weren’t allowed to bring them on set, so it didn’t surprise me that, like me, she left it in her trailer. I picked it up and pushed on the home button. It gave me the prompt for a passcode. I didn’t know how to break into phones like someone on set did, so I put it back down.

I spun around and went to her bunk. I checked under her pillow and blankets. Nothing. “You are a horrible person, Lacey,” I said, but that didn’t stop me from moving on to the kitchen drawers. I opened each one, reaching my hand all the way to the back. On the third drawer, my hand met with something hard. I pulled it out. It was a red plastic case. My breathing hitched, because I knew exactly what this was before opening it. I opened it anyway, hoping I was wrong. I wasn’t. The section of my zombie cheek that had gone missing was here. In Amanda’s trailer all along. My lip quivered, and I bit it, angry at the emotion that flooded through me.

I shut the case and shoved it back in the drawer. Then I stood there, not sure what to do. Did I take it and show it to Remy? Would he think I had taken it? And if he believed me, what then? Would he replace Amanda? I didn’t want him to. I liked her. She’d been my only real friend on set. But it was obviously one-sided. So I should just pretend this didn’t happen? I didn’t understand why she had done this, what sabotaging me did for her.

I covered my face with my hands. Did this mean she called into that entertainment site too, trying to trash my reputation with that article? Of course that’s what it meant.

I pushed the drawer shut and left her trailer, walking slowly until I reached my car. At home I found an empty apartment. Not that my dad was the first person I wanted to talk to about this. We still hadn’t spoken since our last fight. I had wanted an apology from him, and he’d probably wanted the same from me. We were at a standoff.

I thought about calling my mom. She’d be more sympathetic, sure, but she would also be more preoccupied.

I paced the living room several times before deciding there was only one person who might help me feel better right now. Donavan Lake.

Twenty-Eight

This time when I arrived on campus it was busy. The bell must’ve just rung, because it felt like every student in the entire campus was now walking to their next class. I went straight for the journalism department.

“Hey, isn’t that . . .” I heard as I walked by a couple of guys. I didn’t linger to hear how that sentence would finish.

Before I made it to my sanctuary, two guys came up on either side of me. One said, “Are you Grant James’s costar? You’re way prettier than that pic they posted.” That article must’ve been passed around online even more than I realized.

This is not how I wanted to become famous. I wanted to earn it with stellar performances. “No,” I said.

“You totally are,” the other guy said. He put his arm around me, held up his phone, and leaned in. I wanted to tell him not to touch me, but I was afraid he was recording. I didn’t need more bad press. I kept my head down, hoping that my face wouldn’t turn out well in that picture. At this point I was closer to the building in front of me than I was to my car, or I would’ve turned around and left. Finally, I couldn’t handle it anymore, I shoved the guy off me and they both left but not before yelling out to anyone who would listen who I was. I picked up my pace and ducked inside the building.

The journalism class that I’d been in before was halfway full and continuing to fill up. I scanned the room and the far office for Donavan. I saw him at the same desk he’d been sitting at before, his head bent over some papers. A new set of tears stung my eyes.

“Are you Lacey Barnes?” someone asked from beside me. “I’d love to get an interview.”

Right, now I was in the journalism department, where good journalists would be thinking that I would make a great story. “I can’t. I’m not.” Why did I keep saying that when it was obvious they knew exactly who I was? I stepped around backpacks and people until I was in the office where Donavan sat. I shut the door behind me and he looked up.

“Lacey?”

“I need to get out of here.”

Maybe he heard the tears in my voice or the desperation in my eyes, whatever it was, he didn’t question me, just stood. He took my hand, opened the door, and dragged me through the room as several people called out his name, including the teacher.

Outside, the halls were now almost empty, but he continued to hold my hand, like I needed a guide.

“I’m sorry to make you leave class. I didn’t know who else to go to,” I said.

“You chose well,” he responded.

The second he said those words, the tears I’d somehow managed to hold in began pouring down my face.

He clenched his jaw and squeezed my hand.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“I know. Where do you want to be?”

“I don’t know.”

He led me out to the parking lot, where I pointed out my car.

“Not spoiled, huh?” he said, obviously trying to make me laugh. The most I could manage was a smile.