Between You And Me

14~What's Your Problem?

Director Cross left us on a somber note as he explained to everyone that a copycat killer was roaming Hawthorne Peaks, mimicking Ezra’s seven deadly sins murders. As expected, many of the crew members felt uneasy at the thought of a serial killer on the loose, and knowing the production of the killer's predecessor would warrant unwanted attention would make them sitting ducks. However, Director Cross emphasized the killer has been focusing on prominent figures who run the city and there should only be one person on set who should truly be afraid.

He didn’t have to say my name for the members' eyes to cut through the air over to me, knowing I was that ‘one person’ who should be afraid. I’d been on the previous list and anyone who studied this movie, and listened to the story of Ezra to the very end, knew I was a prize to be won by his aper.

“We are tightening security for everyone and if you’d like to request a bodyguard, we will secure one for you. Are there any questions?”

Hands shot through towards the ceiling hastily, murmurs now leaking towards eager ears. Director Cross pointed to someone in the back and the crowd seemed to part to view the first questionnaire.

“What if the killer tried to kill one of us trying to get to her?” Rosemarie asked, ‘her’ falling from her tongue with a venomous tinge. Her eyes shot daggers at me, which I rolled my eyes at. She continued. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to step off this project for the safety of everyone else?”

I couldn't tell who agreed but I heard the tiny whispers of agreement. Now that had pierced me so deeply, it’d be foolish to try to ignore the pain. Although she had a point, I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging my existence in Hawthorne made them all vulnerable. Instead, I kept my face blank and held everything in. No point in causing even more of a commotion but the thought of leaving the set—not on my own accord but being pushed out—felt menacing and lonely.

Director Cross stared at her for a long moment before glaring, which made her shudder. “If you or anyone else feels as though your life is in danger here in Hawthorne, please, save us all the trouble, and don’t show up tomorrow.” Rosemarie looked visibly shocked at his statement and I tried to hold the sudden jolt of glee at her reaction. “Those who stay, as I stated earlier, will have the highest security to the end of production, day and night if need be. The local officers have also offered their services and protection. Any more questions?”

There were fewer hands, and less eagerness to be called out as he’d done to Rosemarie, who now escaped through the comfort of her phone. Someone in the corner by the door had been picked to ask a question, a crew member with bleached blond hair, probably fresh out of college. “Are there any suspects?”

Director Cross shook his head. “At this time, no,” he lied.

Like a flash warning, my mind cried ‘L-L-E-G’ while looking at him, wondering why he didn’t warn them about the group as he’d done when the dummy appeared in the study. Then the gears in my brain started spinning. He didn’t announce them because he suspected a few members were a part of the production crew and would run if they felt he suspected them. Did he do this on his own or did the police from earlier tell him not to say a word about them?

Director Cross asked and answered a few more questions which slowly distanced themselves from the topic of killers and to the topic of production itself. Questions such as the timeline for filming, which he estimated to be two months, a month and a half if everyone cooperated. Did he secure the church for filming? I’m still working out the details with the church members. Would the film cover the expenses for this security or would it come out of their pockets? The film and local police will take care of everything but you’re also welcome to hire a bodyguard, all expenses paid. After the last questions started morphing into spending costs and taxes, most people started to lose focus and the thought of leaving for the day became more appealing.

“If there’s nothing else to discuss, you should leave for the day. And great work.”

With a few muttered words, everyone gathered their things and started to depart. This had been a very interesting first day on set, from the initial filming to the police interrupting and the announcement of a serial killer. I knew everyone was ready to get home, lock their doors, and rest for the rest of the evening.

Dad, upon hearing about the request for bodyguards, had already called up Ralph, the family bodyguard, who stated he’d be flying down immediately. I also noticed his eyes on Rosemarie, glaring at him while she walked to her car, her little red beetle, ready to escape the set herself. “Make nice with her,” he told me with a nudge.

“What?” I scoffed. There was no way I was going to make nice with her. She, for some reason, found problems with me and I knew I wasn’t going to change that by ‘making nice’ with her.

Then he shot his glare in my direction. “I wasn’t asking. It’s obvious she has it out for you.” He scrolled through his phone and showed me a paused video of an audition tape with Rosemarie in her natural dusty blonde hair before dying it a sable brown such as mine. “She auditioned for the role of Lilah before it was given to you and now she’s out to ruin you—and me. And this role isn’t something you can afford to lose to some childish popstar.”

He didn’t have to repeat himself before I took the initiative to head towards Rosemarie before she could get in her car. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she lifted her eyes and scowled when she realized it was me walking towards her. “What do you want?” she grumbled. Her body slumped in agitation at my presence, already prepared to enter her car if she didn’t like what I said.

But despite what Dad wanted, I couldn’t play nice. Too much happened today and my body was yearning for the warmth of a nice, long bubble bath. “What is your problem with me?” I asked.

She knitted her eyebrows at the blatant question. “Want me to go down the list? I have seven of them.” Seven deadly sins. I flinched at her choice of words, which made the corner of her glossed lips lift. “You’re a charity case, for starters. You only have the role of Lilah—despite being way too old to pull it off—without any kind of merit.” Her voice heightened as she continued, tears starting to gather. “You flirt with the director every chance you get. You came here hardly prepared, wasting everyone’s time, and you…” She paused, catching herself before she could spiral out of control, her emotions overwhelming her. Her nose wrinkled, looking me over in anger. “You took someone I love and you don’t even…urg!”

Childishly, she stomped her foot before prying the car door open and sliding inside with a slam behind her. I jumped back, scared she might try to run over me as she started her car, took a few breaths to calm herself, and then rolled down her window.

The tears had spilled over against her will. “I just hate you, okay? And that’s never going to change.”

And with that, she drove down the driveway, honking furiously at a crew member's car before she tried to turn, then finally pulled up and sped away.

Without another word, I walked back to Dad as his eyes widened on her car drifting down the street and disappearing around a corner. “What was that?” he asked, for the first time baffled at what conspired.

“That was me making nice.”

That night and the morning after, Rosemarie’s words simmered in my mind like a boiling pot forgotten on an open flame, on the verge of spilling over. “You took someone I love and you…”

I took someone she loves. I tried to comb through my mind for who she loved so much that I took away from her. At first, I thought it could have been Director Cross who she loves and I’d taken away, which is why she thought I flirted with him every chance I got, according to her. The knot in my stomach didn’t want to believe it was him. I hadn’t stolen him at all. He wasn’t something I could steal from her in the first place. From what I can gather, they had a simple director-actor relationship, not something that garnered rage at the sight of his talking to other people.

It couldn’t be him, could it?

Then I started to think about her relationship with other co-stars on set. Most recently, L.J. had asked me out on a date that I’d been forced somewhat to accept by Director Cross. The only joy I derived from that was the fact that Director Cross would be there, I assumed. He did accept on my behalf. And Rosemarie was seen hanging out with him during our breaks. Maybe she was in love with L.J., maybe keeping their relationship a secret, as many celebrities had done before, keeping their private lives a secret. But I had no interest in L.J.

Only…

I sighed before the forbidden thought could take over, tossing and turning in bed until I finally decided to get up before sunrise. Sleep came on and off with thoughts of Rosemarie, of her possible relationship with L.J., the dread of her love being for Director Cross, and how she would hate me before even giving me a chance. Pushing the sheets off, I put on my slippers and headed out of my bedroom and downstairs to start brewing a cup of ginger mint tea for myself. Maybe I’d make myself some scrambled eggs since this was probably the earliest I’d ever way up on my own without the blaring of an alarm clock by my head.

Ding, dong!

Looking at the time above the stove—5:44 a.m.—I wondered who could be here so early. I could already hear multiple voices and clamoring outside before I even headed towards the door. Then the familiar whispers of tapping on the door by nails. My heart dropped into my stomach at the signature sound, already knowing who waited for me on the other side.

Opening the door to the colorless sky as the moon still dwelled in the sky, I was greeted with a morning hug before I could even look at her face.

“Oh, my sweet Daffodil,” she smiled, calling me by the family nickname, her London city accent slicing her words into digestible pieces. “I missed you.”

Cindy Royce Mardas, my stepmother, pulled away, tossing back a strand of overly dyed platinum blond hair with a manicured finger. She always carried the most luxurious of brands; a Louis Vuitton handbag, Gucci suitcases, and Balenciaga sunglasses, despite the sun still beneath the horizon. Behind her stood our bodyguard, Ralph, standing over six feet in height and the width of a tree trunk in a dark black suit and sunglasses as well. And my half-brother, Dylan, who kept his eyes on his cell phone, was only a head shorter than Ralph since his growth spurt. The curse of puberty at fifteen had his face breaking out with acne and a glow of a mustache above his lips.

“I thought you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow,” I muttered, my voice rough with slumber, directing my words to Ralph.

Nonetheless, Cindy spoke for him, already entering the condo with a dissatisfied curl of her lips. “It is tomorrow, love.”