Standing By

Harris, Fred, Kline, and Jav

(Mitch)

Avi was scaring the shit out of me.  As soon as he had my word that I'd keep my cool (how the hell I'd do that, I had no clue), he walked away with the brush he'd taken from me still in his hand and moved over to a mirror pausing a few seconds trying to smooth the damned powder on but only sending a puff of it drifting through the air.  I got the distinct feeling he didn't care about the makeup and was only putting forth appearances.  Trying to seem like he was cool and collected and on track while in actuality, he was a million miles away.  Probably with Esther, who he'd been on the phone with for so long.  I didn't know if there was a problem with her, if she was in dire straights or what, with him being on the phone for nearly a half hour, or otherwise.  He'd said he needed Smith.  Not Rick or Sandy or Lorenzo, like he had family issues and needed to leave, but Smith—head of security.  Why Smith? Avi slipped out quietly, leaving me with more questions than answers, and I was left to my own devices with the others.  Luckily, they were still wrapped up in their own things.  Kevin was sitting quietly by himself in his usual pre-performance prayer.  Scott, Kirstie, Austin, and Rob were cackling away in a corner about something Rob had said.  Tim seemed to be in a dither of sorts over his flyaway hair, and Adam was focused on some game on his phone.  Chance had finally pulled it together enough to be acting like his normal self instead of goofy Chance.  I nearly caught his eye by accident and glanced away.  Normal, Mitch, act normal, goddamn it.  What the fuck was normal anyway?  And what was a normal me?  Shit, was he still looking at me? I forced my lips up in a smile, but a quick glance told me he'd moved on.  I pulled my phone out, hoping to distract myself.  Twitter.  Nothing caught my attention.  I couldn't even think of anything clever to tweet, my mind still on Avi and what he was doing or what he thought he needed to do. What was going on?  Smith—why Smith?  Was he afraid of some sort of security issue?  Shit, I can't keep it together here, not when he left me here like this.  This was too much to ask of me! 

    Bathroom.  Maybe I needed to go to the bathroom again.  Maybe I could hide out in there until Avi got back.  With Smith.  I stood on shaky legs and turned back to the dressing room for a private freak out session.  He never said I couldn't freak out in private.  But no sooner than I'd taken three steps towards it, of all people, Tim grabbed me. 

    "Help me," he moaned, patting at the flyaway hair.  "I admit I may have over conditioned my hair, but now it's just all over the place!"

    Normal, Mitch.  Be normal.  Deciding against flat-out refusing (that'd be abnormal), I pushed my hands absentmindedly into his hair, forcing my brain to think about Mickey Mouse instead of the indeterminable worry that was settling in and clouding my thoughts.  God, his hair was feather light.  Strands kept slipping between my fingers and fluttering in just the air conditioning.

    I coughed and nodded to the hair and makeup table.  He agreed right away and followed me to the table.  I tried to push all my attention to his hair.  Mousse.  Hair.  Spray.  Hairspray.  Squirt, squirt, squoosh, squoosh, spritz, spritz, rub, rub, squoosh.  Hair. 

    "Mitch!" he snapped as the PA came on announcing a page for Lance Smith to come to his office, level yellow.

    I swallowed.  "What?  Am I not doing your hair to your satisfaction?"  Least that sounded like me, though my voice seemed a bit high, even to my own ears.  Course, it's naturally pretty high... maybe I could get away with it.  Modulate, Grassi!  You're an actor, now act like it!  There is nothing wrong, nothing going on, everything is just fine!

    "I asked you a question," Tim said pointedly.

    I jumped when the PA came on again.  "Tom Rupert, to your office, level yellow."