Page 61 of How To Plot a Payback

The Pete’s Doughnuts box contains something very unsettling.

The set smells like roses, which isn’t surprising given the designers actually brought in live bouquets to adorn the eight or so tables around Kye and me. Extras are sitting at these tables, having spent the past two hours mouthing words with effusive hands in pretend conversation.

Kye/Lance sits opposite me, looking entirely out of place with his sweeping blond hair tidy and massive shoulders squeezed into a navy-blue suit that looks like it’s about to pop.

And here he is. Holding out that horrible box. To me.

I’m certain my temples have started to glisten. I can see Chloe in the corner anxiously stirring her makeup brush in powder, desperate to jump in and do a quick fix.

“Hang on.”

The second I speak and pause the shot, she rushes in.

“I’m just . . . ,” I say, talking over her and the brush tapping madly around my face, “struggling to see why we need a box of real chickens. This just seems so . . . illogical. I mean, Ashley lives in a shoebox flat in Seattle.”

I’m trying to keep it together, but Kye is sitting much too close for comfort, and the box in his hands is chirping. “I just . . . ,” I continue, working my words around Chloe and her makeup brush. I’m wringing the white tablecloth now. “I don’t see why he should be giving her poultry for Valentine’s Day.”

The room is hot.

The lights are brighter than usual.

I feel almost claustrophobic with the waistband of this dress cutting into my stomach and a powder brush suffocating me.

Hundreds of eyes are on me. Nothing new, but suddenly it’s overwhelming.

And all the while, my ears are pounding with incessant, bubbly little chirps that eclipse every other sound.

“Oh, they aren’t just poultry,” comes a singsong voice behind me.

And there Finn is. A warm, friendly smile fills his face as though to comfort me, but really, in this moment, between the pounding of my ears and these lights and the painful press of my heart against my chest, his smile looks almost gleeful. Almost as though he is enjoying my suffering.

His words, however, are clearly an attempt to comfort. “They’re chicks, Lavender. Just a couple of sweet baby chicks.”

“Twelve, actually,” Kye says. “I counted them this morning.”

“Twelve?” I gasp. And as if we aren’t going to believe him, Kye digs into the big box and picks them up one at a time, counting as he goes. I throw up my hands. “I believe you,” I say.

“The viewers will love it,” Finn says. “We’ve got a whole slew of scenes already in place with them. Really fun stuff.”

I would close the lid, except that would mean I’d have to go near them.

Which could lead to a pointy beak popping out from nowhere. And pecking me.

Which is not a big deal at all.

Except for pecking me.

I swallow. “Right. But my script said they were going to be”—I force myself not to sound too intense, and yet even I hear the tremble in my voice—“plastic. We practiced last week . . . with plastic.”

Finn is grinning. Pointing at me. “And this is why we reserved telling you until the last moment. This authentic look of surprise is perfect for the scene. It’s so perfect.”

My throat feels a bit like it’s stuffed with cotton. “Right. But. I was prepared for plastic.”

There’s a long pause. Finn looks at me for some time, then scratches the back of his head. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry if this ruffles your feathers.” He gives a self-congratulatory, breathy chuckle at his pun. But when he sees I’m not moving, he shakes his head a little. Adds, “No, but seriously, Lavender. My apologies if this is throwing you. It is challenging when your plans for how something should go are tossed about by someone else.”

He’s saying all of this like he’s very apologetic and wishes to be empathetic, but there’s something off with his face. He’s smiling. The whole time. Like he’s watching a very entertaining circus act.

Finn claps his hands. “Alright, well.” He swivels back toward the director’s chair, where he’s been guest directing all day. (Officially: Mark is sick. Unofficially, I hear Mark received anonymous coordinates to a very secret, highly romanticized, incredibly rare geocaching destination, and so off went the middle-aged, balding man on his Goonies adventure.)