Girls Save the World in This One - Ash Parsons Page 0,29

up my book.

The woman turns her chicken-grease smile at me. “Thanks!” Then she’s pulling out about five collectible figurines, miniature Vivians in unopened, plastic packaging.

She slaps money on the table to cover the cost as Janet O’Shea signs her name on each.

The woman picks up the memorabilia and moves down to the next table. Without saying thanks. Or goodbye.

Janet shakes her head at me.

“She’s going to sell them online. I guess that’s her prerogative, but she’s not really here as a fan, you see.”

“That’s cool, though, that your autograph sells the figurine better.”

“I used to ask if they wanted anything inscribed, but now I just try to get it over with,” Janet says. “Listen to me, I sound awful. She paid for my autograph, she got my autograph.”

But I think I understand her anyway, or at least I know why I wouldn’t like it. Something about it just felt gross, just a transaction, with no humans underneath.

As the autograph lady makes her way down the line, you can see that some of the actors know the drill. They don’t even stop talking to each other, just take the money, count the items, sign the items.

The guy at the double doors is packing up his tools. He’s dressed in a faded Nike T-shirt that shouts JUST DO IT. There are pronounced circles under his eyes, and he’s unshaven; not in a deliberate way but more like he’s been working too hard, and is too harried.

He doesn’t really strike me as a maintenance guy, actually. He just seems . . . ill at ease. Jumpy, somehow. Hurried.

The guy drops his Mickey Mouse patch backpack, spilling screwdrivers and a water bottle, a massive sheaf of paper bound in black binder clips, and a wide, double-sided breathing mask—the kind with two filters set at either side of the mouth.

He stoops to shove his things back in his bag and then he looks up, and sees me watching him.

He makes this strange expression at me, partway between a wince and a smile, almost like an apology.

Or like guilt.

What’s he doing with the doors, anyway?

“Well, she’s gone now, and it’s just us Vivian fans again,” Janet says in a bright voice.

I turn back to Janet and smile. She helps me smooth the crunched pages of my autograph book on the table and then she signs it, remarking over the collage of Vivian. Then she asks about me, what grade I’m in, what my favorite subject is.

I love her even more, because she doesn’t ask what my plans are after graduation, like everyone else does these days.

Then, because she is so cool, she offers to take a selfie with me, and doesn’t even charge me for it. Then she gives me a hug.

“Do you know the thing I always loved about Vivian?” she asks. “She wasn’t a badass. She was just a girl in this world. But she trusted herself, when it came down to it.”

Janet O’Shea puts her forefinger under my chin, giving it a little lift, and I don’t even mind. I feel like a little kid, and I’m fine with it.

“You’ve got to trust yourself, all right? Trust yourself.”

“I do. And when I don’t, I will.” And like everything I want to say, it comes out a mess, with the jumbled-up syntax of a Martian. But it makes sense to me.

And I’m going to trust that it makes sense to Janet O’Shea, too.

9

When she sees me walking back up from meeting Janet O’Shea, Siggy stands and does a little victory dance for me, pretending to spike a football on the ground, waving her knees in and out, holding up a number one finger and making a crowd-goes-wild cheering noise.

She rushes up to me, pretending to be speaking into a microphone.

“June Blue! You’ve just met one of your favorite actresses of all time,” she says.

“Correction: my favorite actress,” I say. “She’s my favorite actress.”

“You’ve just met your favorite actress ever! What are you going to