Date With A Rockstar Read Free Page A

doesn’t want to be mauled.”
    He writes down more on his pad of paper and I want to leap up and read whatever the hell it is. My answers suck so far. I shuffle my feet together and try to sit up straighter. My socks are itchy wet. Come on, confidence. Don’t fail.
    â€œHow about personal upkeep?”
    â€œWhat exactly are you asking me here?” I try to subtly wipe the smudge off my arm. Am I not clean enough for the show? Give me a shower and a hair dryer. I could look better tomorrow. I force my lips into a pleasant smile. Damn nosy questions, but since I’ve been in line for days, I suppose they have no way of knowing whether or not I normally bathe.
    â€œHobbies?”
    I should’ve thought this out ahead of time. I have a hobby. I work for the Metal Preservation Society. I’m not high up. I’ve only met my one contact, but the society’s been around my whole life. The year I was born, China demanded our country pay back the debt we owed them and bam, the government came together to confiscate all the precious metals. I’m not sure how much they made, but China didn’t declare war. Since that moment, the Society has been hidingeverything they can before the government melts it. They hide it, and me and a bunch of other artists make it into new jewelry. All highly illegal and not a hobby I can mention.
    I smile and tuck my hair back, trying to think of a good lie. There is my rough-edged design on the back of the concrete foundation in the bank cafeteria. I had to dig my knife in so hard to make marks. I can’t think of any other hobby to make up. “Graffiti-style scratching…uh, but not anywhere illegal. Oh, and I draw.”
    He raises his eyebrows and I shift nervously. When the state joined with private companies to install graffiti-proof panels ten years ago, most street artists turned to chiseling designs right into the walls, but it’s not exactly a socially acceptable hobby. His head tips, listening to something I can’t hear. He’s probably about to end the interview. I’m fairly sure he won’t bother to mention my name to the authorities.
    â€œAre there any particular buildings where your work is displayed?”
    â€œNot right now.” He looks slightly bored and I get the impression the question didn’t come from him.
    â€œHow about cancer?”
    â€œHuh?”
    He narrows his eyes in irritation. “You are aware that a quarter of the proceeds are being donated to the Global Skin Cancer Initiative, located right here in the heart of Boston.”
    Wow. He sounds a little pissed about that. I wonder if that’s how they bribed Jeremy into doing the show. Skin cancer’s common with the depleted ozone, but I don’t think much about it. “I remember Jeremy speaking about his family’s struggle with melanoma, but I personally haven’t been affected.” Would I stand a better chance if I had a friend with cancer?
    He shrugs a shoulder. “Uh, huh. Well, you sound pretty good and rate high in overall appearance. Let me get you a few more forms to sign.”
    What does he mean? Am I in? I try to finger comb the snarls out of my hair. Maybe whoever’s behind the glass feels bad for me. Which is fine by me. Whatever it takes to get on the show.
    â€œWe’re going to start filming the interview now in case you’re selected later on. These papers are just your agreement to be filmed and other formalities.”
    I nod. I’m doing well. Cameras are good. Even if they’re right in my face, exposing me to the entire world. I can do this. No big deal. I glance down. The word disease is written on the bottom of the sheet of paper right next to the line for my name. Shit. I’m signing a declaration that I’m disease free. Sweat coats the back of my neck. I sign and hand the papers back. I realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek and relax my jaw. A hiccup pops into