Scripted

eleven

eleven

I glanced down at the bound series of papers I was holding and flipped the page, my face instinctively scrunching up at I looked at the article printed. It was a picture of my beautiful self in a certain red dress by Kit Lawson from a few weeks back. I was standing on the red carpet with Mason by my side, and there was an edited speech bubble attached to my mouth that read, “A dress,” in response to the title of the article, which was, “What are you wearing, Nat?” People were still obsessing over my little misstep, but thankfully Mason had taken some of the heat off with his whole viral-video-of-punching-a-dude-in-a-club thing. I closed the magazine and set it down on the coffee table before me.

           My eyes began to roam around the cramped room, and I finally decided to pull out my earplugs and face the music. What met my dear ears were the sounds of a million (or, like, sixty-five thousand) girls screaming, music blasting, and Mason Grey singing. But those noises were subdued, so what my hearing really focused on were the many conversations that were going on within my vicinity. Rob was talking on the phone (shocker), Fred was chatting with a bodyguard, Wendy was eagerly watching Mason on a monitor, and Bethany was having a nice intimate conversation with her boyfriend.

           Because I happened to be in the bored mood, I elected to go poke the dragon. I heaved myself up off of the sofa, and then strolled over to the Brit and her Midwestern boy toy who was currently sporting a beard longer than Dumbledore’s. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, and while he may have been going for the whole indie vibe, the only thing I sensed from him was major creepage. But this was Bethany, and she was same chick who was now wearing lime green leggings and a wool turtleneck. All the evidence pointed to her not being the best at making life decisions—except when it involved Mason’s wardrobe. That shit she could do, and I wasn’t about to deny her the credit she was due.

           “Bethany!” I greeted with a large smile and crazed eyes. She cast me a side-glance, and completely snubbed me, continuing to talk to the homeless man that had somehow conned his way a place in her heart. “Harsh, Beth. Really harsh.”

           “Natalie, for the last time my name is Bethany, and can you go away?” she snapped, her accent not being able to compensate for her rudeness and blatant disinterest.

           “Real sweetheart, isn’t she?” I joked to the bearded dude. His girlfriend shot him a look that kept him from replying, so all he could was stare at me with a blank expression mandated by Bethy.

           “Natalie, leave. Go make fun of Mason’s head or Rob’s neck. I don’t care. Just go!” cried the stylist.

           “Why?” I blinked densely.

           She let out a strangled screech, and then shook her head. Thankfully for her, Fred decided to save the day and coerce me away by the prospect of my job. “Natalie, c’mere, please,” he called from across the room. My eyes flicked over to him, and then shifted over to the guy wearing a cotton scarf and fedora standing next to him.

           “Bye, Beth,” I bid with a breath. She sighed in relief as I retreated, but I didn’t really care. I was just curious to see what Freddy had in store for me with the scarf dude.

           When I reached the manager, he acted as if we were BFFs who ate pizza together every Thursday night. “Nat!” he cried with a tentative grin.

           “Natalie,” I corrected sharply, sounding like the bitch I had just left.

           “This is Joshua, and he’ll be doing an interview with you and Mason,” Fred told me, gesturing to the other person.