* america's sweetheart !

chapter two

I know as well as anybody that the moment your life changes, it doesn't give you fair warning. One minute, you're dirt poor, and the next, if you're lucky, you win the lottery. It's a shower of gold and celebration like no other, triumph encapsulated, like a scene out of some heart-thudding Panic! at the Disco music video. You go from nothing to everything faster than you can bat an eye, and then it's your turn to take the reins and go from there. It's change at breakneck speed. It's like if fate got high.

Or, if you're me, it's like the principal finally finds out you've been wearing leggings to school for the entirety of senior year so far. Dress code never really seems to apply to me, anyway, so I'm not sure why it should now.

"Cammie Morgan?" Dr. Mosckowitz says, his bald head glinting in the fluorescent lights. He's wearing one of the seven shirts he owns, and I've counted; it's my second year taking AP Chemistry, and I can afford to slack off. I like today's outfit, though, all blue and beige, although I'm not exactly what you'd call fashion-savvy.

"You're wanted in the administration office," he finishes, eliciting a murmuring of sarcastic whoops from the class as I slide my backpack onto my shoulder and try (and fail) not to freak out.

"Damn, Morgan, back at it again--"

"See you in juvie."

"Good girls are bad girls who haven't been caught..."

I give my snickering classmates an obligatory teenage eye roll, picking up my hall pass from the hook near the door. "See you, Dr. M," I dismiss myself, ducking into the hallway without so much as a look back.

Out of sight of my classmates, I start to spiral.

Maybe they've finally caught me cramming extra Rice Krispies into my pockets in the lunch line. It isn't my fault the lunch ladies were stingy, right? How's a girl supposed to survive on cardboard steak fingers and greasy fries alone, anyway? Or maybe it was that time I figured out that the culprit behind the cartoons appearing the bathroom stalls was Chandler Reedy, who was actually plotting a brilliant promposal, and I hadn't told anyone. I won't take the fall for that, even though it was a noble cause. I haven't worked my butt off in Dabney's second period APUSH to get stuck with an expulsion for protecting Chandler's schoolboy crush on Poppy Alvarado.

I reach the school's admin office much too quickly for a walk that takes me five minutes between classes. The receptionist smiles at me from behind her ridiculously messy desk. I can't fathom how she manages to keep such excellent track of tardies in that sea of papers. "Hey, Cam!" She chirps, brown eyes lined with a pale yellow liner I've only seen attempted by Instafamous beauty gurus. I have to admit, she's pulling it off incredibly well.

"Hi, Grace," I reply, as cheerfully as I could without exposing my mind-numbing anxiety about being called in to the principal's office. "Why do they need me?" I ask, feigning indifference.

She cocks a perfectly shaped brow, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "That's none of my business, but you don't need to stress, honey. I see those frown lines already."

I feel my forehead self-consciously, but Grace waves me off with a manicured hand as the other picks up the phone. "It's fine, sweetie, they've got creams for that now, and you'll need 'em when you're all over our televisions-- Hey, Rach!"

Grace begins chattering with the office aide, who's also wearing leggings-- unfair-- and I let out a slow breath to calm down. Clearly having been dismissed, I turn toward the principal's office and took a deep breath. My shoes, all too sensible, click satisfyingly but not soothingly. My ears are ringing a little, and I momentarily picture passing out and waking up in the nurse's office with my mom standing over me, doubly pissed because I'd made her leave work and I'd gotten expelled for whatever I'd been called to the principal's office for--

"Hello, Cameron!"

It's like I've accidentally brought my nightmare to life, because my mom is sitting in the chair beside Mr. Pryde's desk and... beaming at me? 

Mr. Pryde smiles at his screen and says, "All right, she's here."

I stop in my tracks, immediately plotting my escape (window? door? spontaneous combustion?), but I'm halted when my mother takes my hand. "Hey, Cam," she greets me, probably elated about something, but only managing to fry my nerves more. What the fresh heck is going on?

"Come here, Miss Morgan," Mr. Pryde says, nearly vibrating with glee. You can understand why I'm already apprehensive. He stands and gestures to his chair, offering me the seat, and I smile weakly. I feel my hands fiddling at the belt loop of my jeans, my telltale nervous tic, but don't bother to stop myself.

When I sit in the chair, I find myself looking into a familiar but unnameable face on the other side of a video call. The bubbles of what the heck forming in my mind pop into all caps. "Hey, Cameron," the man says, smirking conspiratorially. "I'm Joe Solomon. We met in New York two weeks ago."

My vision clears as I identify him-- casting agent for my second-to-last audition. The one I actually cared about. A few days after I auditioned for him (got a callback, by the grace of the universe), I also managed to weasel my way into the lineup for some weird British show called Panic Moon. Apparently a time travel thing. I did really well-- actually, I was really optimistic about a callback, but it turned out I was a little too young.

They'd gotten in my head, though. Now every time I look in the mirror I have to wonder if I look like a prepubescent twelve-year-old boy.

I ended up almost forgetting about my first audition, even though I'm probably the biggest fan of Gallagher Girl on the planet. The majestic tale of Kat Donovan, teenage spy. Kat Donovan, covert operations master, queen of cover stories, femme fatale. I'd grown up dreaming of being her, dressing up every Halloween, imagining myself as the leading lady of GG. When the casting call went up and Abby called with the news, I had never said yes faster.

"You remember?" Mr. Solomon asks, snapping me back to the present. I nod, feeling an automatic smile rise to my face. I'm still sort of out of it-- am I in trouble?

Out of my periphery, I notice my mom hold up her phone, recording, but don't register its significance.

"Yeah, I do!" I confirm with a cheerful nod. I feel a chunk of my hair fall in my face and dread to think what my hair looks like-- could no one have warned me that I'd be facing someone important?

Mr. Solomon nods, that smirk still on his face. "Well, we've been debating for awhile and studying your performances--"

I flash back to that awful time I was Fiona in Shrek: The Musical and pray to god that Mr. Solomon hadn't been inflicted with that kind of torture. No one deserves that, no matter how much my mom insists it had been a great performance for a girl who had to become an ogre.
"--and we have some important news," he finishes, sitting forward. I know that tone. Waving the bait in front of me. I don't dare hope. I don't dare breathe. All I can do is nod dumbly.

"We'd like to offer you a part."

Cue the internal screaming. I feel my eyes blow wide, and bite down hard on my smile. Stay cool. Don't scream, at least not out loud. "Wow, thank you so much!" I gush, my voice trembling with excitement. This time, it's real. No more plastic, perfect Cam. I vaguely realize most of the office staff have poked their heads in the door. My entire body seems to be on the edge of collapse. I can't breathe at all.

"Are you interested in knowing the role you've landed?" Mr. Solomon teases, his smirk growing. I hate that he already knows exactly how I'm taking this-- like a kid getting Disney tickets and front-row seats to Hannah Montana.

I bite the other side of my lip and nod. At the same time, my long-suffering belt loop finally comes loose in my hand. Without distraction, my hand starts picking at stray threads in my jeans.

He lifts his head, knowing he's got me on the literal edge of the seat. I breathe in, lungs hardly able to resist hyperventilating.

"We'd like to offer you the part of Kat Donovan."