nine

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nine

           “Just like you rehearsed,” Fred told us sternly, “please don’t go off script.”

           “And if you do,” Robby added, playing bad cop, “I’ll be mandating your Twitter accounts for the next week.”

           Mason and I both cringed at his warning, and I mentally reviewed the script that we had been given for this evening’s interaction. It was an easy scene that basically consisted of dancing, drinking, partying a little “too hard,” and one too many kisses on the dance floor. When we had first gotten it a few days ago, it was safer than the Hokey Pokey, but we turned it all around, so now it was a little bit more in the twerking-esc genre. It wouldn’t be that hard to follow, and I didn’t really feel like having Rob take over my Twitter for the next seven or so days, because all of the tweets would be like, “OMG! Go buy @MasonGrey’s new album! It’s so good!” and boring promotions like that. For the sake of keeping my fan base, I could definitely spare to slut it up in public with Mason for a night. Besides, it would be fun.

           Since our little red carpet screw up, Fred and Rob (and Bethany, who was literally fuming when she got her hands on us) weren’t exactly the most understanding in the world. “This is why you have scripts to follow!” they had said with a shake of their heads. Mason’s fans thought we were adorable, but every adult on the planet was on a campaign to “educate the youth so that they didn’t end up like that Mason Grey or Natalie Perry.” So, Fredward and Roberto had given us strict instructions that we were to follow the scripts to a T. We couldn’t even stroll on the freaking sidewalk together without it being scripted.

           The whole concept of our current “relationship” was absurd, mainly because while it had started out as something fake, it was becoming realer and realer every day. We didn’t need a script to tell us how long our kisses needed to be, or how to act out a perfect dose of flirting—we could do that on our own, sans even the notion of a script. Also, it was a bit confusing for both of us on the emotional front, for we were trying to act like a couple, when we practically were one, anyways. Mason’s people were concerned about his “sexuality” leaking the newsstands, whereas I was worried about his sincerity. I didn’t know what was genuine, and what was just acting. Everything was a blur of scripts and reality, but at the end of the day, I just had to remind myself that we were having fun. That was it. No strings attached.

           “No need to get hostile, Robert,” Mason said in the most professional tone he could muster.

           “Just follow the script, kid,” his publicist told him with a shake of his head.

           “I am. On Twitter,” the addressed party joked. “The Script is a lovely band. Not as good as me, but who is?”

           “Actually, I can name a few people,” I mused, biting on the edge of my lip to conceal my smug grin.

           Mason’s eyes widened, and he pouted. “Take it back, Natty! You didn’t mean it!”

           “Sure I did,” I said with an easy shrug.

           He frantically turned to Rob and Fred, who both quickly assured him that I was “only joking” and that he was clearly “the best singer to ever grace the planet.” Though their job titles were “manager” and “publicist,” I often wondered if two terms were merely synonyms for “bullshitters.” When working with Mason Grey, one had to be adept in the realms of bullshitting up a storm, for the boy needed constant validation and praise, or his ego would deflate considerably, and we couldn’t have that, now could we?

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