Chapter 26 Heckling won’t stop the inevitable.
Heckling won’t stop the inevitable.
Sean
WE SLIP OUT of the party.
“Wait,” Josie says, halting in front of the gift shop so suddenly that I boomerang into her. “Let’s go in here first.”
“You want a souvenir?” I ask.
“A disguise. We’re going out among the masses, after all.”
“Your Quantum Leap glasses aren’t enough?”
“Hardly.” She tows me through the shop, nose forward like a bloodhound until we find the small seasonal section. There are a couple of bins full of Halloween masks, fake beards, eye patches, and the like. She grabs a clown nose with a rubber band and shoves it at me.
“We’re going to need to cover up that lock of hair, too.” She rips a Las Vegas branded knit hat off a display.
While I would never for the life of me purchase a kitschy tourist hat like this one, I comply.
She dons a fake beard. There’s a little mirror mounted on the gift shop wall, and we admire our quick work.
I look like a homeless clown somebody took in and cleaned up.
She looks like the bearded lady from a solarpunk circus.
I pay, and we tumble into the Las Vegas night, where she points up to the High Roller Ferris wheel glowing bright blue against the sky. “Do you want to ride that?”
I want to do anything she wants to do, and that’s the truth. “Why not?”
I think the disguises actually make more people recognize us than would have otherwise as we flag down a taxi and make our way to the Ferris wheel.
When it’s our turn, I slip the ride worker a hundred-dollar bill so we can get a private gondola.
A moment later, we’re in a blue-tinged bubble all our own.
I pull off the nose and hat and set them aside. “No need for these in here.”
Across from me, she tugs off her glasses and beard as we rocket upward. The Vegas skyline is the opposite of a sunset; the sky is as black as the ocean, and it’s the world below that’s all lit up.
“I’m sorry,” Josie says, and I’m surprised to find her looking at me rather than the view.
“For what?”
“I never even asked about Seamus. How’s he doing?”
I squirm and tug at my collar. “He’s great. Losing himself in TV and unlimited alcohol. You know, living the black sheep dream.”
“If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”
I don’t. Our gondola crests the zenith of the ride. It’s like we’re floating in a Lost Star ship, hovering silent and watchful over alien lands. “I’d rather talk about you.”
She focuses on the lights below. “Why would you want to do that? I’m not very interesting.”
“I bet the real you is.”
Her gaze jumps to mine, wary. This evening has been fun, but I’m tired of all the misdirection and sleight of hand.
On the plane ride over, I looked Josie Days up—just a cursory Google search, nothing weird or intrusive—and no results came up from before 2010.
No high school photos, no old Facebook accounts. No Mexican TV shows. Nothing.
“Why don’t you start by telling me your real name? You changed it, didn’t you?”
Her shoulders hunch in. “It changed itself. It had a midlife crisis and said, Screw it all, I’m pivoting!”
“I can hire a private detective, you know,” I say, regretting the words before they even finish coming out of my mouth.
Her dark eyes flash with fear. “You wouldn’t do that.”
I scoff. “Of course I wouldn’t do that.” Shit, that was so stalkerish. What was I thinking? “But I would like to know who you really are. Please?”
I can almost see the circuits clicking in her head before she says, “I can’t. Emmy doesn’t even know.”
I pull out my phone. “I bet I could figure it out. If I figure it out, will you admit it?” I thought about doing this on my own, but it felt icky and wrong. But if I had her permission…
“There’s no way you can figure it out. You’re not that smart.”
“Is that a yes?”
She folds her arms across her chest with a smirk. “Fine. You have sixty seconds. Ready, set, go.”
A clever and wholly unfair move, but I don’t complain, instead diving right into my search.
I swipe around, muttering my thought process out loud.
“Let’s see. You were an American actress in Mexico, worked at your stepdad’s studio in Mexico City.
His name was Juan Ernesto. You hate puppets, so you must have worked with one of those little assholes… ”
Her eyes get big.
“Oh dear. Am I getting close?” I tease. “Also, I didn’t see you set a timer.”
“I’m counting in my head. And why do you swipe with your ring finger? That’s so psychotic.”
I stifle a chuckle. “Heckling won’t stop the inevitable.”
I find Castillo Studios, owned by one Juan Ernesto Castillo.
A little more digging and I uncover a list of shows from the early 2010s.
There’s a teen variety show on the docket—The Bilingual Club.
The list of actors includes a bunch of Spanish names and one English name: Savannah Bateman. That’s got to be her.
“Time’s up!” she cries.
“That wasn’t even close to a minute,” I argue, still digging. I’m looking for a photo. Proof.
“I said time’s up!” She dives across the gondola to my side and grabs my forearm where I’m holding the phone.
A picture is loading—the cast photo of The Bilingual Club with six smiling teens on a set.
One of the two girls has long, shiny black hair and golden skin.
The other one is tall and fair with blond waves cascading over her shoulders. Neither one of them looks like Josie.
Maybe I got it wrong.
Then I see Josie’s horrified reaction, and I know I didn’t get it wrong. And now that I look closer, the blond girl’s eyes are deep-set. And it’s hard to tell because she’s smiling, but I do believe there’s a full upper lip on that teeny-bopper mouth, with the slightest overbite.
Holy shit, I was right.
Josie Days is Savannah Bateman.