Chapter 1 #2
I don't care that he's already done this sixteen times. I don't care that this is just another Tuesday for him. A fire ignites somewhere deep in my gut, hot and unexpected. I'm suddenly struck with the desire to prove myself to him. To make him remember who I am, that I matter.
My spine straightens again, this time not out of nervousness but out of sheer, stubborn determination. The bouncing of my knee stops, replaced by a stillness that feels more powerful than any nervous twitch could ever be. I pick up my script, the papers suddenly feeling lighter in my hands.
I will make him see me.
"Action!"
"Hello, I'm Andrew Parker."
"And I'm Vince Vickers. Welcome to Relay, the game show where you could win $25,000."
The realization hits me like a physical blow, a sudden clarity that makes my stomach churn.
I'm not just an imposter anymore—I'm a prop, a human laugh track, a target for Vince's effortless wit.
This isn't just a screen test; it's an audition to be the straight man in someone else's comedy routine.
The script in my hands suddenly feels heavier, each word a potential landmine in a game I don't even know how to play.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the paper, the crisp edges digging into my skin.
I can feel Vince's presence beside me, a warmth that seems to mock the cold dread spreading through my veins.
He's probably done this a hundred times, knows exactly how to deliver his lines, when to pause for effect, when to improvise a joke that will leave the audience in stitches.
I force a smile, my lips stretching into what I hope looks like enthusiasm rather than the grimace of panic it actually is.
The words on the page blur together, a jumble of black ink that might as well be in another language for all the sense they make to me right now.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden silence that falls between us.
I take a breath, the air catching in my throat. I'll stick to the script, follow the rules, play the part they've cast me in. It's all I can do, really, in this world of practiced indifference and invisible games.
"We have a handful of top contenders in the game right now, Vince. We are starting with twelve contestants, but they have already proven their athletic abilities simply auditioning to be here tonight. It's really anyone's game."
"That is on point, Andy. It's anyone's game."
My shoulders tense at the nickname, a knot forming in my stomach. "Andy." The name lands like a punch to the gut, taking me back to middle school hallways where older boys would corner me behind the gymnasium, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls.
It's juvenile, condescending, and I hate it more than I hate my own neurotic tendencies, more than I hate these leather shoes that are slowly turning my feet into swampy messes.
I try to push past it, to continue with the lines, but my voice catches in my throat like a fishhook.
"Well, I was told we had a very competitive group through trials this round.
.." The words trail off, the name Andy echoing in my mind like a bad pop song I can't shake, one of those earworms that burrows deep and refuses to die.
My eyes dart toward Gary, standing behind the camera like some kind of vulture waiting for roadkill. I raise a hand, motioning for his attention until his eyes lock with mine across the studio floor.
"Hey, I go by Andrew, or Drew if anything, but not Andy. No one calls me Andy anymore... I hate it, actually. Can we do a retake? I'm not being called Andy."
The words spill out of me, desperate and pathetic, but I don't care. In this moment, I'd rather be labeled difficult than be reduced to a name that makes my skin crawl.
My voice shakes with a conviction I didn't know I possessed, cutting through the studio's artificial silence.
Every pair of eyes suddenly turns to me, their collective gaze a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Vince's practiced smile falters for a fraction of a second, a crack in his perfect facade that sends a jolt of something—triumph?
terror?—through my veins. I can feel Gary's glare from behind the camera, hot enough to burn holes through my skull, but I hold his gaze, my hand still raised in the air.
Silence. The crew continues bustling, adjusting lights and checking monitors, as if I've said nothing at all. My hand rakes through my blonde hair again, a nervous habit I can't seem to control. I turn to Vince, who remains seated beside me, his expression unreadable.
"Hey," I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips before I remember the microphone pinned to my collar is still hot, still broadcasting every shaky breath to the entire studio. "Can you stop calling me Andy? It's really throwing me off... I hate it."
The confession hangs in the air between us.
I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape.
My eyes dart around the room, taking in the frozen expressions of the crew members, the way Gary's face has turned an interesting shade of purple, the way Vince's practiced smile has finally, completely vanished.
In this moment, I'm painfully aware of how much I've just revealed—not just about a stupid nickname, but about the fragile shell I've built around myself here in Los Angeles, a shell that's now cracking under the pressure of studio lights and my own desperate need to be seen.
Vince doesn't even look at me when he responds. "Thanks, Andy, we get it. I appreciate the feedback."
"It's Andrew, Vince." I grit out, my jaw tight. I sit up straighter, glaring at him from the corner of my eye. I dare him, just once more, to say it again.
Then it happens. The tension in the room shifts, and Vince turns to me fully.
The smile that spreads across his face isn't the camera-ready, practiced one he's been flashing at everyone.
It's real. It's a grin that reaches his light brown eyes, crinkling the corners, and it's aimed directly at me.
As if, in this moment of cameras rolling and crew watching, we're the only two people who exist in this entire studio.
Vince sees me. Actually sees me. Not as a prop or a secondary character, but as a person. And somehow, in this bizarre power play of nicknames and defiance, I've won.
His gaze shifts back to the camera, his fingers tracing his jawline thoughtfully.
"Toy Story was always a favorite for the kids—Andy being the little boy's name, right?
The boy who owns the toys that come to life?
" Vince flashes his trademark smile again, the moment of authenticity vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"My youngest, Tina, always had a special place in her heart for Bo Peep.
Had her own little Bo Peep doll and everything. "
My mind empties out, the synaptic connections that usually fire at lightning speed suddenly fizzling like wet fireworks. "I'm sorry, what?" The words stumble out of my mouth, clumsy and graceless, the sound of my own voice foreign to my ears.
A few chuckles ripple through the studio, like stones skipping across a pond.
I can feel the vibrations in the floor, in the chair, in my very bones.
But no one stops Vince. No one seems to find this strange at all.
They just watch, their faces illuminated by the harsh studio lights, their expressions a mixture of amusement and indifference.
It's as if I've stumbled into a performance where everyone knows the script but me, where the punchlines are delivered in a language I've never learned.
"Bo Peep. You know, the one with the gorgeous blonde hair always tucked under that little bonnet?
Big, round, baby blue eyes that could stop you in your tracks.
Carries that shepherd's crook around everywhere she goes.
" Vince's eyes light up, a sudden flash of inspiration that sends a jolt of dread straight through me.
"Hey actually, take a look at this... Andy here is a dead ringer for Bo Peep.
" His voice carries across the studio, sharp and clear, each word a tiny needle pricking at my skin.
"Can we get the title to read 'Bo Peep' when panning to Andy?
Look at this, Todd, zoom into his face real quick. "
My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a frantic plea for this to end.
The camera lens suddenly feels like a giant eye, staring into my soul, exposing every insecurity I've tried so hard to hide.
I can feel the blood rushing to my face.
My fingers tighten around the script, the paper crinkling under the pressure of my grip.
Vince's words hang in the air between us, a cloud of humiliation that I can't seem to breathe through.
Vince leans across our table, his expensive shirt rustling against the wooden surface as he motions to the cameraman.
My face, frozen in confusion, is suddenly magnified on a nearby monitor as Todd zooms in.
I can see the title card appear beneath my image: "BO PEEP.
" The crew erupts in laughter, and I feel my face flush with heat.
My jaw locks tight, teeth grinding against each other as I stare into the black abyss of the camera lens.
The glass eye stares back, unblinking, capturing every micro-expression of humiliation that flashes across my face.
My thoughts race, a frantic scramble for some semblance of control in this situation that's spiraling completely out of my hands.
How am I supposed to play this off? The question ricochets around my skull like a pinball machine gone haywire. Is this actually funny? I search the faces of the crew members, their expressions a mixture of amusement and indifference that tells me everything I need to know.