Read Online The Real Real by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus
Tags: Fiction
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bars of Spoon’s “Way We Get By,” before I realize I’m leaving a trail of conditioning avocado blobs behind. Placing my hands under my neck like a tray, I book it to the bathroom and carefully strip down to rinse off the contents of our Friday Night Spa Date. I’m smashing 70
guacamole chunks into the drain with my toes and debating whether we should actually bake the frozen cookie dough like grown-ups when the shower curtain rips open to reveal a bug-eyed Caitlyn.
“What the hell?!” I scream, wrapping the other side of the curtain around myself.
“XTV,” she whispers, her face white at the edge of her congealed mask.
“Huh?” I wipe the water out of my eyes with my free hand. But she’s already in motion, kicking off her socks while tugging at the Saran Wrap. Giving up, she jumps into the bathtub behind me, the spray soaking her clothes.
“XTV is in your living room ,” she whispers frantically as I whip a towel off the wall rack and exchange it for the curtain before the whole bathroom gets soaked.
“On a Friday night?” I ask as she moves me aside to frantically shampoo her sticky hair, the bottle flying out of her hands and ricocheting off the tile before I can catch it. “But I thought they want to film us together. We’re not together on the weekends. For all I know, Nico locks herself in a cryogenic chamber from Friday to Monday. Cay, just stop for one second and tell me what’s going on.”
“I was lip-synching. Using the glass patio doors like a mirror and . . . and I guess I couldn’t hear the front doorbell over the music. They must’ve come around to the backyard—the next thing I know I’m not seeing me in the reflection, I’m seeing that woman from the show with her hand raised to knock, just looking in at me like . . . like I’m 71
a freak .” Her hands pause above either side of her sudsy head, her eyes flitting as she relives the horror. I share her cringe, flashing to what they must’ve seen with the lights ablaze—Caitlyn’s American Idol broadcast in high def to Mom’s Hummel figurines.
“Okay.” I step out of the tub and pull the curtain closed. “Were the cameras on? Was the little flashing light green or red?”
“No cameras.” A ball of sticky Saran Wrap lobs over the bar, and I catch it to drop in the wicker waste bin. “It was just that woman—the short, dark-haired one with the glasses.”
“Kara?” I jerk my jeans up over my damp legs. “In my living room?”
Caitlyn turns off the water with a squeak and darts her arm out to feel for a towel. “You have to lend me jeans.
And earrings.” She climbs past me, already reaching for the hair dryer. “Plug in the curling iron.” Her voice cracks as she catches her scrubbed raw appearance in the fogging mirror.
“Wait, Cay, this is good!” I grab her wet shoulders. “Fletch must be back! She must be here to tell us you’re in!”
“Before my Floor Show of Crazy changed her mind.”
She tugs open my drawer and grabs a round brush.
“Did she say that?” I whip on my henley. “Did she say she changed her mind?”
“She didn’t tell me anything. She just said she needs to talk to you.”
72
“Right! Because I promised entertaining and you delivered!” I pull my dripping hair up into a bun and reach for the doorknob. “See you out there, costar!”
A wide smile spreading across her face, she pauses her manic primping to throw her arms around me, and we both let out a mini-scream before I dart out to jog down the stairs.
Unpeeling my shirt from my damp bra, I round the corner as Kara turns from the wall of family pictures.
“Hey, Jesse! What’s up?” She smiles warmly.
“Hey. Not much.” I plop down on the couch, aiming for casual.
“I like your enthusiasm.” She laughs.
“Do you want some soda or water or something?”
Realizing she’s not joining me on the couch, I stand back up. “We just ordered a pizza, so . . . ”
“Oh, that’s sweet.” She drops a
guacamole chunks into the drain with my toes and debating whether we should actually bake the frozen cookie dough like grown-ups when the shower curtain rips open to reveal a bug-eyed Caitlyn.
“What the hell?!” I scream, wrapping the other side of the curtain around myself.
“XTV,” she whispers, her face white at the edge of her congealed mask.
“Huh?” I wipe the water out of my eyes with my free hand. But she’s already in motion, kicking off her socks while tugging at the Saran Wrap. Giving up, she jumps into the bathtub behind me, the spray soaking her clothes.
“XTV is in your living room ,” she whispers frantically as I whip a towel off the wall rack and exchange it for the curtain before the whole bathroom gets soaked.
“On a Friday night?” I ask as she moves me aside to frantically shampoo her sticky hair, the bottle flying out of her hands and ricocheting off the tile before I can catch it. “But I thought they want to film us together. We’re not together on the weekends. For all I know, Nico locks herself in a cryogenic chamber from Friday to Monday. Cay, just stop for one second and tell me what’s going on.”
“I was lip-synching. Using the glass patio doors like a mirror and . . . and I guess I couldn’t hear the front doorbell over the music. They must’ve come around to the backyard—the next thing I know I’m not seeing me in the reflection, I’m seeing that woman from the show with her hand raised to knock, just looking in at me like . . . like I’m 71
a freak .” Her hands pause above either side of her sudsy head, her eyes flitting as she relives the horror. I share her cringe, flashing to what they must’ve seen with the lights ablaze—Caitlyn’s American Idol broadcast in high def to Mom’s Hummel figurines.
“Okay.” I step out of the tub and pull the curtain closed. “Were the cameras on? Was the little flashing light green or red?”
“No cameras.” A ball of sticky Saran Wrap lobs over the bar, and I catch it to drop in the wicker waste bin. “It was just that woman—the short, dark-haired one with the glasses.”
“Kara?” I jerk my jeans up over my damp legs. “In my living room?”
Caitlyn turns off the water with a squeak and darts her arm out to feel for a towel. “You have to lend me jeans.
And earrings.” She climbs past me, already reaching for the hair dryer. “Plug in the curling iron.” Her voice cracks as she catches her scrubbed raw appearance in the fogging mirror.
“Wait, Cay, this is good!” I grab her wet shoulders. “Fletch must be back! She must be here to tell us you’re in!”
“Before my Floor Show of Crazy changed her mind.”
She tugs open my drawer and grabs a round brush.
“Did she say that?” I whip on my henley. “Did she say she changed her mind?”
“She didn’t tell me anything. She just said she needs to talk to you.”
72
“Right! Because I promised entertaining and you delivered!” I pull my dripping hair up into a bun and reach for the doorknob. “See you out there, costar!”
A wide smile spreading across her face, she pauses her manic primping to throw her arms around me, and we both let out a mini-scream before I dart out to jog down the stairs.
Unpeeling my shirt from my damp bra, I round the corner as Kara turns from the wall of family pictures.
“Hey, Jesse! What’s up?” She smiles warmly.
“Hey. Not much.” I plop down on the couch, aiming for casual.
“I like your enthusiasm.” She laughs.
“Do you want some soda or water or something?”
Realizing she’s not joining me on the couch, I stand back up. “We just ordered a pizza, so . . . ”
“Oh, that’s sweet.” She drops a
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