Chapter 9
The week blinked by as I hurried to prepare everything I needed for Soul Harvest. My mom had called me on Tuesday with some bad news.
She wouldn’t be able to visit at Thanksgiving, but I was too busy to dwell on my disappointment.
If I wasn’t at school or sleeping, I spent my time hunched over a workbench in the garage, bringing my portfolio to life one piece at a time.
The shelves above my industrial table were filled with all the supplies I needed: boxes of alginate, silicone, and latex; plaster bandages; buckets and mixing sticks; clay; jars filled with brushes, sculpting tools, scissors, and X-Acto knives; a hot glue gun and the clear sticks that accompanied it; and so much more.
My top priority was creating the prosthetics, which wasn’t a simple undertaking.
The first step typically began with life casting, which was the process of taking a mold of whichever body part you were creating the appliance for—in this particular case, the boys’ faces—so it would fit perfectly against the model.
The resulting negative mold would be filled with gypsum cement to produce a positive mold, a copy of the body part.
Then I could sculpt the prosthetic directly on the mold using clay.
But if I were to life cast all four members of the Heartbreakers, it would be a long, tedious operation.
They’d already agreed to give up an entire day to be my models, so I wouldn’t ask for any more of their time.
Instead, I sculpted the shape of the prosthetics onto mannequin heads and hoped for the best.
Once that was finished, I stippled thin layers of latex over the clay using a sponge, careful to leave the edges as thin as possible.
After the latex dried, I peeled it off the sculpture, and voilà!
—a homemade prosthetic. I didn’t finish them until Wednesday night, which only left me two days to make all the wigs, teeth, horns, and the other props I needed.
By Friday morning, I’d transitioned into a state of full-on panic.
How the hell would I get all this done? Better question, what had possessed me to think I could get all this done?
Homeroom started in less than an hour. If I came straight home after school and worked until midnight… No, that wouldn’t be enough time. Which meant I probably had to pull an all-nighter.
Or, I thought, as Dad passed my room on the way downstairs, already talking on the phone, I can just stay home…
Work consumed Dad’s life. He wouldn’t notice if an alien invasion was taking place, let alone if I cut one day of classes.
I’d never skipped school before, but if there was ever a reason for me to do so, this was it.
Rather than packing my book bag, I waited until I heard Dad’s office door close before heading down to the garage and getting down to business.
I’d just finished constructing the horns for the Beast when my phone buzzed.
Galaxy Rider:
Ready for tomorrow?
Indie:
Not even close.
Galaxy Rider:
Anything I can do?
Indie:
Wish me luck? I’m up to my neck in hot glue and spray paint right now.
Three dots appeared on my screen. I waited for Xander’s reply, but it never came.
The bubble vanished, but I couldn’t spare another moment to consider what that meant.
I buckled down, forgetting our conversation, and when a car door slammed in the driveway an hour later, I was so engrossed in my work that my ears didn’t register the sound.
“Hey,” someone shouted over my music.
With a backward jerk and what was most likely an unattractive squawk, I dropped the scissors I’d been using to thin a brunette wig.
“Jesus,” I exclaimed, clutching a hand to my chest. Xander stood at the edge of the garage door, awash with early afternoon sun.
Flashing me a bright smile, he twirled a set of car keys around his finger before disappearing them into his jeans.
“Sorry,” he said. He wore a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses instead of his usual frames, which made it impossible for me to see the look in his eyes, but there was a note of amusement in his voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, turning down the music.
Back at Zap Zone, we’d decided it would be easier for me to do the boys’ makeup here at the house instead of lugging my supplies to another location, and I’d given Xander the address so he could make travel arrangements with the rest of the band.
But he wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow morning.
“It sounded like you need help, so I, ah…came.” Jamming both hands into his pockets, Xander glanced away from me before adding, “Is that okay?”
The gratitude I felt for him in that moment was so overwhelming, I could barely manage a response. “Oh.”
His gaze darted back to mine. “Is that a good ‘oh’ or a bad one?”
“A good one,” I reassured him, my composure snapping back into place. “And it’s definitely okay. I’m in serious need of a second pair of hands.”
Xander visibly relaxed at my answer; the tension in his shoulders melted, and he crossed the garage to join me at my workbench. “Is that all I am to you? A pair of hands?” Grinning, he wiggled his fingers at me. They were long, slender, and dusted with freckles.
For a single, breathless second, I imagined how they would feel against my skin. Then a burning surge of mortification tackled my hormones into submission.
With a cough, I turned away so he couldn’t see the blush on my cheeks. “Of course not.”
Hell, I thought, running a hand over my hair.
I probably look like the world’s hottest mess right now.
My blond mane was piled on top of my head in an arrangement that more closely resembled a bird’s nest than a bun, and I was covered from head to toe in spray paint, glitter, and glue.
My outfit wasn’t much better—an old pair of athletic shorts and an oversize T-shirt my dad received for running a marathon, clothes I didn’t care about getting dirty.
“Because I’m also your laser tag shield and favorite model?”
I spun back around and pointed a finger at him. “Hey, I didn’t use you as a shield. You jumped in front of me of your own volition, like some kind of obnoxious, self-sacrificing knight in shining armor.”
Xander pressed a hand over his heart. “Are you calling me your hero?”
“You wish.”
Laughing, he pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them on the collar of an olive-green T-shirt. The color made his eyes pop. “So aren’t you supposed to be at school?” he asked as he took in the tornado that was my workspace.
“Technically, yes, but I’m channeling my inner Ferris Bueller today. Skipping is good for the soul.”
“Pretty sure Bueller didn’t spend his day off working,” Xander pointed out, still surveying my mess. He looked like he was about to add something else, but then his gaze landed on the row of finished prosthetics. Frowning, he picked up the one on the end. “What’s this for?”
Last Saturday, Xander and Felicity had watched as I sketched out potential appliance designs.
At the time, there had only been four. I didn’t need a prosthetic to turn Xander into Jack Sparrow, just makeup, facial hair, and a wig.
But when I came home and googled reference pictures for each character, a new idea came to me.
“It’s for you,” I told him.
His frown deepened. “This looks like a skull.” I nodded and waited for him to understand. “Ohhh!” he said after another moment, a mixture of realization and excitement spreading across his face. “Cursed Jack Sparrow? From the first movie?”
“Yeah, I hope you don’t mind, but I thought it would be more in the spirit of Halloween and a nod to your classic monsters concept. If you don’t like the idea, I can stick to the original plan.” It would certainly be less work but not as fun.
“No, I love it. It’s way more badass.” He gently set the prosthetic back in place and grinned at me. “So what do you need me to do, boss?”
“I just started on your wig,” I said, gesturing to the one in front of me. “Wanna help?”
He hesitated. “I don’t need any actual skills for this, do I? I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“Nope. Just a willingness to get your hands dirty.”
“Dirty?” He winked and added, “I think I can handle that.”
* * *
Thanks to Xander’s help, I was fully rested Saturday morning when the doorbell rang.
We’d finished making every wig and prop I needed for the photo shoot, no all-nighter required.
I scarfed down my last bite of toast, slid out of the breakfast nook, and hurried to let the boys inside.
Xander warned me that they might be late, but a glance at my phone revealed it was eight o’clock on the dot.
Perfect, I thought as I made my way down the front hall. I would need at least five hours to transform all four of them.
But when I answered the front door, it wasn’t Xander or any of the other Heartbreakers.
Instead, a girl who looked around my age stood on the front porch with a camera bag slung over her shoulder.
She wore beat-up Chucks, a pair of faded jeans, and a tour T-shirt for a band called the Sensible Grenade.
A small strip of her brown hair was dyed aqua, and a diamond stud sparkled in her nose.
“Hey,” she said, offering me her hand. “You must be Indie. I’m Stella, Oliver’s girlfriend.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said as we shook. Then I peered around her. “So, ah…is it just you or…?”
“Oh, no. The guys are here. They’re just being their usual immature selves.” She jammed a thumb over her shoulder at something out of view. I stepped onto the porch to see what she was pointing at.