Page 35 of Let’s Make a Scene

Never mind.

First I’ll prove Jack Turner-Jones wrong about me, and then I’ll enact some vigilante justice. He won’t know what’s hit him.

Chapter 13 JACK

“What. The. Fuck?” I stand, stunned, staring through the open door of my trailer. Instead of the soothingly uninteresting beige interior that usually greets me, the entire space is so stuffed with balloons that I can’t get inside.

This is only the latest indignity in what I now recognize is full-out prank warfare. It started small, last week: a few misplaced pins from the wardrobe department on my chair; salt in my coffee instead of sugar (I drank a worrying amount before that registered, but in my defense it was very early); an influx of spam emails from companies promising to increase the size of my genitals.

At first, I thought the sporadic incidents were a coincidence, but now… now, as a muscle begins twitching under my eye, I see the truth.

I take a deep breath. The first thing I’m going to do is to start popping all these stupid balloons, then, when I can actually get inside my trailer and make myself a cup of coffee, I will begin to plot my revenge. She may not have signed her name, but I’m confident I know who’s behind this… After all, the woman has swiftly become the bane of my existence… even if she’s not a total disaster in front of the camera anymore.

“Whoa.” My assistant, Scott, arrives behind me, with Arjun alongside him. “What happened here?”

“Well,” I say slowly, “if I had to guess, I’d say someone filled my trailer with balloons.”

Arjun stifles a laugh. “Why would anyone do that?”

My eyes narrow. “Because they’re a vindictive shrew with the sense of humor of a three-year-old?” I suggest.

Scott blinks, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to work out this particular head-scratcher. He’s a few years younger than me, a relative of Logan and Jasmine’s who smiles a lot and always carries the light, earthy scent of weed with him. Despite these unpromising details, he’s surprisingly good at his job, and he makes an excellent cup of coffee (when he’s not being sabotaged by insane pranksters).

“I guess we should… burst them?” he says, finally.

“Yeah,” I agree with a sigh. “I need to get a pin or something. I was just going to head back to wardrobe.”

“We could stamp on them?” Scott suggests.

“We can use the prongs on our belt buckles,” Arjun advises, with the air of a man who’s had to burst a lot of balloons, and I have no idea why this would be the case… Maybe I’m just convinced by his quiet air of competence.

My eyes narrow. It’s actually possible he knows something about this—Arjun’s gentle, easygoing nature means he makes friends easily, and he and Cynthie seem to get on pretty well. Of course, that could be because he finds any opportunity to haunt the hair and makeup trailer where Cynthie seems to have established a little gang: his crush on Patty is astronomical. I swear I saw him doodling their names surrounded by hearts yesterday.

Either way, what he suggests makes sense, and so without further conversation the three of us unbuckle our belts. As we stand on the threshold of the door, brandishing them, I can’t help laughing. Obviously, it’s an annoying practical joke, and I’m tired after a long day of filming, but still, there’s something about three grown men about to go on a balloon-bursting frenzy that feels… fun.

Not that I’d ever admit that to the architect of this particular piece of nonsense.

“On your marks,” Arjun says, clutching his buckle.

“Get set,” Scott adds.

“Go!” I yell, and the three of us charge forward into the trailer, stamping our feet and jabbing into the balloons, which pop easily enough once the sharp prongs dig in.

Immediately, it becomes clear we’ve made a huge mistake.

“SHIT!” I yell.

“Ack!” Arjun sputters.

“Is this… glitter?” Scott asks ponderously.

As the cloud of multicolored sparkles settles over the three of us, I decide this question is rhetorical. Unfortunately, Scott elects to pop a couple more balloons, just to make sure.

“Stop, stop!” I am literally spitting purple glitter as I grab his arm. “She’s filled all of them!”

There’s a choke of laughter from behind us, and I swing round to find Cynthie, Hannah, Liam, and Patty cracking up outside.

There’s a flash as Patty takes a Polaroid of the three of us, shell-shocked and sparkling like a trio of fucking magical unicorns in the doorway.