Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,28
with the two solid aluminum doors. The doors are the kind with the long horizontal metal crash bars in the middle that you push to get the door to open.
The man works at the bar of one door with a screwdriver. At his feet a shabby backpack with a large Mickey Mouse patch spills other tools onto the floor. He’s not in a uniform, but he must be a maintenance guy.
Or something.
“Hello, dear,” a woman’s British voice says, and I look back at the table.
Janet O’Shea is smiling right at me.
I still turn around to look behind myself, like a fool. Ugh. Be cool, June.
Janet O’Shea’s eyes are lively, like they actually sparkle.
“You’re Janet O’Shea,” I say.
She knows who she is, June.
I wish the earth would just open up and take me down into sweet oblivion.
“You know you’re Janet O’Shea, of course,” I say quickly, waving my hand.
Oh God, did that make it sound like I think she has dementia or something?
Janet O’Shea laughs.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“I love Vivian,” I say. “I love Fight the Dead.”
“Oh good, me too.” Janet O’Shea leans forward. “I don’t understand it, but there’s always been a faction of people who simply can’t stand Vivian. They find fault with everything she does in the movie.”
“I bet mostly they’re men, right?” I say.
“Yes.”
Honestly, who would have a problem with Vivian? She’s just a girl doing her best, and she has the pragmatism to kill the jerk who gets bit at the window.
Well, okay, so jerks might take an issue with her, back in the day. Just like they did with the other lead—a black man in the sixties.
Racism and sexism, still here, still the same ugly story.
Some people just can’t stand it if anyone else ever gets to be the hero.
“Well, screw them.” My voice comes out firmer than I intended.
Janet laughs, and it just lights up her whole face.
Actors are something special, man. I think I finally understand what charisma is. I mean, I know Imani has it, but I also remember how she used to pick her nose in first grade when she thought no one was looking, so she has that to overcome, there.
“Screw them indeed,” Janet says.
With her posh accent, it actually sounds like a pleasantry. A bit of chitchat. Like Hello, good day. Cheerio, pip pip. Screw them indeed.
The guy at the end of the hall is checking one of the doors, jumping at the crash bar. It won’t open. He starts working on the other one.
Maybe he has to lock them both and then unlock them. To get them to open right or fix whatever the problem is.
“Would you like an autograph?” Janet O’Shea asks.
“Yes!” I yelp, and she laughs, this beautiful rich laugh like a Disney villain, except it’s nice, and I think she’s probably my favorite actress ever, now that I’ve met her.
I pull my autograph book out of my bag, and I dig out the autograph fee (less than James Cooper’s but still, it’s a service and she’s got to pay for this booth). As I reach out to hand it to Janet, this white lady just barges up from the table next to us and pushes in front of me.
Her backpack bumps into me, knocking the bills out of my hand.
My autograph book falls open to the ground, crunching two of the pages.
“Janet O’Shea!” the woman says, but she’s reading the banner and pretending to know who it is. Her lips are shiny, like they’re coated in grease, not gloss, and her whole look is a bit brittle, like her demeanor.
Janet smiles. “Hello, excuse me, but I was about to autograph for . . .” She holds her hand out at me, but I step back, shaking my head so my hair falls in front of my eyes.