Beneath The Skin(192)

I suck on my own lips.

“And what do I say to that?” Victoria presses on, her eyes on me. “Kudos to Dessie. And what a shame that her damn paparazzi-drawing family had to follow her. I mean, look at her poor face. Does she look thrilled with your news that her parents are here, Ariel?” She turns back to Ariel, needles in her eyes. “Truth, you wanted. Go ahead. Look in her eyes. The truth’s been there all along. The only one who’s lying to themselves is you.”

Ariel looks at me now. I wonder if she’s looking for any truth in my face, or if she’s just imagining ninety-nine ways to murder me. Her eyes are a completely unreadable mix of confusion and resentment, which is about the farthest from how she’d treated me so far in acting class. For a second, I catch myself wondering if she, in fact, was the one dumped by Clayton. I never saw this side of her until now.

Less the mermaid. More the sea hag.

Ariel finally parts her lips, though it takes her a handful of seconds to make any words. “I don’t trust liars. I don’t like liars. Clayton. You. You’re made for each other, a pair of liars.”

“We’re all liars,” says Victoria with a roll of her eyes, “or did you not hear Dessie’s song? I’m a liar. You’re a liar. Yay, let’s throw a big ol’ liar party and get the fuck over it.” She takes two steps toward Ariel. “This is the dressing room. Where the cast belongs. Seeing as you’re not part of the cast, I suggest you go throw yourself a not-in-the-cast party, and get … over … it.”

To that, Ariel lifts her chin, too proud to show how deep Victoria’s words cut her, and strolls out of the dressing room. The others start to break into murmurs and scandalized whispers, even chuckling.

And I’d risen from my chair and didn’t even realize it. My back pressed against the makeup counter, I feel dozens of eyes on me. I have no idea how to feel about what just went down.

Then Marcy, who plays Rebecca Gibbs, tilts her head. In a light and curious voice, she asks, “Who are your parents?”

I swallow, facing her. The others in the room seem to await my answer. Well, out with it. “My mother is Winona Lebeau.”

I don’t even get my father’s name out before three of the girls gasp with their surprise. “You mean the Winona Lebeau who opened Telltale off-Broadway?” asks someone across the room.

“Oh my god. She did Hair on Broadway. And Hairspray, too.”

“Chicago,” throws in another voice.

“She won a Tony two years in a row,” hisses someone else.

“Wait, wait. That Lebeau??”

“Holy crap. You’re Theatre royalty!”

“She’s Theatre royalty.”

“Can I meet her? Oh, please let me get her autograph!”

The murmurs of scandal quickly somersault into a wave of joyous laughter and excitement as my castmates start to share stories amongst themselves, bolstered somehow by the news.

And above all that noise and gaiety, my eyes lift to find Victoria’s.

I step away from the makeup counter, drawing myself up to her. She smirks knowingly at me while I stand there wondering where the hell her sudden reversal came from.

Well, I do have a mouth I can use. “Why’d you stick up for me?” I ask.

Every lick of bitterness that lived in Victoria’s eyes drains away, and suddenly she’s the fun person I met in our dorm hallway over a month ago. “I wasn’t being fair to you,” she murmurs quietly, but I still hear her through the noise. “You wanted to have a life down here that you could call your own. I get it. I totally do. And I’m just awful for holding that against you.” She sighs. “We make better friends than enemies. Reading scripts until 3 AM with Chloe just isn’t as much fun.”

I feel my heart swell. I think I needed this, after the fast-spinning carousel my emotions have been on lately. I put on a teasing smile, then say, “You just want my mom’s autograph, don’t you.”

She glances to the left, to the right, then leans in and whispers, “I totally fucking do.”





CLAYTON



I’m squinting through the glass of the lighting booth, curious what the hell’s happening in the front few rows. I can’t quite make anything out, so I pass it off as a bunch of rowdy freshmen, rolling my eyes and kicking my feet up, waiting for the show to start. Really, I don’t give a shit about anything until the part when Dessie comes onstage and lights up my fucking world.

I don’t care that I can’t have her. I don’t care that everything’s gone to shit, just as long as she’s focused, she’s happy, and she’s living the dream she wants to live.