TweetyGram

10 - #WolfTheWolf

A girl in her late teens with haughty blue eyes and a preppy headband atop her lustrous blonde curls appeared on the screen, waving at the viewers.

"Hey, guys. So, I'm here in front of Starr Sis. Studios"—the camera tilted up to show the studio's iconic water tower behind her—"where our favorite TV show, Malibu, 90265, is being filmed as we speak. I've been personally invited by our queen, Eleanor Clarke, to a private studio tour. Cool, right?"

The smirk on the girl's face reminded me of Charity Mayberry's—smug, arrogant, exasperating.

"Alright, let's go!" The girl put her oversized sunglasses on, squared her shoulders, and hooked her twenty-thousand-dollar leather Griffin handbag in the crook of her elbow. Her sparkly Crestienne Leroux stilettos clicked against the pavement as she strutted toward the security booth.

A burly security guard stepped out of the booth. "May I help you, miss?"

"Hi, I'm Trish Nash, and this"—she gestured at the person behind the camera—"is my brother Fish."

Jake snorted with mirth. "Did she just say Fish?"

"Yep," I replied.

"We're here for the private Malibu, 90265 tour with Eleanor Clarke," the girl in the video continued, her voice saccharine sweet.

"Sorry, miss," the security guard said. "There's no studio tour scheduled for the day."

Trish's smile dropped. A few seconds later, she gave an awkward laugh. "There must be a mistake. You see, I"—she placed her hand on her chest for emphasis—"have been personally invited by Eleanor Clarke herself. She even told me I could film the whole thing for my followers on TG."

"Sorry, miss, but Eleanor Clarke never hosts a private tour of the studio," the security guard insisted.

Panic flitted across Trish's face as she glanced at the camera. She forced out another laugh and stepped closer to the security guard. Desperation began to seep into her voice as she lowered it into a whisper. "You don't get it. We're live on TweetyGram right now. Could you just check the list?"

A hint of sympathy flickered in the guard's eyes. He gestured for the two visitors to wait while he disappeared into the booth. A few moments later, he reappeared with a clipboard in his hands, his lips stretched into a sympathetic line. "Sorry, miss. Your name's not on the list."

She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers noticeably shaking. "Okay, okay. This is outrageous. Eleanor Clarke is my best friend. And I have been personally invited by her for a private one-on-one studio tour. I have proof, okay?" She pulled out her phone from her Rouge de Coeur Griffin, tapped the screen a few times, and thrust it in the security guard's face. "See?"

The security guard frowned, but he managed to keep his composure. "I hate to tell you this, but it looks like you just got wolved."

Trish blew out a derisive breath, her face flushing with rage. "Did you just say I got wolved? I am not stupid, you moron," she fumed, jabbing a finger into the security guard's chest. "I paid for this tour, you hear me?"

"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to step back." The man held his hands up in a placating gesture, but she planted her fists on her hips instead, ready to spew out curses. Before she could do so, a bony hand tugged her arm.

"Trish, come on." The boy's voice was hoarse. "Let's just go."

She stared defiantly at the boy holding the camera for a moment, but then she pursed her lips and huffed. "Fine. Let's go."

With her head held high, she strutted away from the security booth. Yet just as the security guard was about to go back into the booth, Trish spun around and dashed to the entrance, leaving her brother behind. Screaming like a mad woman, she tried to jump over the vehicle barrier.