Scripted

eight

eight

I stared out the tinted window, and turned to my partner in crime. There was a gleam in his eyes that he always got before events like this. It was a mixture of adrenalin and fear, combined into a single glance. He always acted like a natural, but as I had learned, that was all it was—acting. Regardless, he was good at it (far better than me), and was always able to retain a sense of class and clashing impishness that made him all the more charming to everyone who interacted with him.

           He leaned over and gave my hand a small squeeze of encouragement. “Ready?” he asked softly. I nodded, allowing him to take my hand as the door opened and we stepped out onto the red floor that marked the battlefield of chaos and celebrity.

           I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. When I reopened them, I wasn’t the same scared girl who was once shy and unwanted, but rather a different person entirely. I was the person I had grown into over the past few years, and as the screams and cheers flitted into my ears, I knew that I had gone down the right path. A confident smile made its way to my vividly shocking red lips, and an arm snaked its way securely around my waist. I looked to the masses of excitement behind the metal barricades, not as the girl from Boston who was lost in a sea of Hollywood, but rather as Natalie Perry—the one and only.

           “You look gorgeous, Nat,” the boy beside me whispered right into my ear.

           “And you look dumb with those sunglasses on. It’s seven o’clock at night, loser,” I mumbled back, a certain ease passing through me as I uttered the mockingly belligerent words.

           With a sigh, the boy flicked his darkened glasses to the top of his head, exposing his eyes and ruining his hair. The crowd roared as he flashed a dazzling smile all around. Then, we began to walk. I was in a pair of four-inch heels, but they paled in comparison to what I had been subjected to wearing throughout my days as a model. The two of us went about three feet from the limo we had exited, until we paused, allowing cameras to flash and capture how perfect we both looked.

           “Mason! Nat!” fans shouted. “We love you!”

           Mason discreetly smiled down at me, and I returned the gesture, but it wasn’t for the photographer’s pleasure—it was a silent message sent between the two of us. We kept walking, and then Mason steered us over to a clump of teenage girls who were literally crying as he got closer. He grinned at the girls, and all they could do was shriek and continue to leak water from the edges of their eyes. I offered up a small smile, but they couldn’t even see me due to the megastar to whom their hearts belonged.

           “Ohmigosh! Ohmigosh! OHMIGOSH!” one of the girls cried.

           “Ohemgee!” another screamed.

           “Mason, I love you!” blurted out someone else.

           “I love you, too!” Mason said, causing one of them to collapse. IPhone’s were being shoved everywhere, and a security guard nodded to us, signifying that it was time to move on. Mason waved at the girls, and then we went on our way, as if nothing had happened.

           When we reached the very end of the entrance carpet, it was time to pose. First, we stood together, being the exemplary cutesy couple that people couldn’t get enough of. Mason kissed me on the cheek, and I took it a step further, pecking him on the lips quickly and gently. I was really proud of Mason (and myself) for keeping it PG. Then we split up, getting individual shots of our gorgeousness.

           After the pictures, Mason’s arm returned comfortably to my diaphragm, and we were escorted off to a zoo of individuals who also had over a million followers on Twitter, like us. Mason’s grip tightened as all the celebrities came into view, and I tensed. While Mason may have been the biggest star on the planet right now, that was just in the pop sphere. We happened to be at a movie premiere with other people who were also the biggest stars in their respective fields. Mason’s name still held some weight, but meeting him was just a formality to some, so that they could say, “Yeah, Mason Grey and I chat occasionally.”