A/N: A special thank you to MarisaWrites for her expert D&D knowledge and for helping me fix the class/race discord of my D&D characters in chapter 5.

So lovely to have you all here. Merry Christmas & thanks a lot for reading :)

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Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

7: Pinocchio Nose Vision

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Sunday, January 15

"A video recording and a camera lens cap may certainly prove that someone was trespassing but, unfortunately, because no damage was done to your property, there's nothing else we can do tonight." Officer Burke was a big man whose permanent frown was annoyed but not impolite. "If you come across damage or realize anything is missing, please file a report at the station."

"Thank you for your time, sir."

We locked the door after the two officers left and huddled around our round kitchen table. I felt frazzled. Dad microwaved hot cocoa for me as I pulled my legs on the chair and wrapped myself in my grey fleece throw. I bit my nails, or what was left of them, as I often did when I was anxious.

Mom added ice to her sweet tea before she, too, sat across from us, resting her chin on her palm and watching me with a sad smile.

"This is our fault," she said.

"Mom…"

"It is," dad continued. "This would've never happened had we already moved."

Mom hummed in agreement. "And there's nothing on Google? Nobody's leaked the teaser or anything like that?"

"Nothing," I replied. "And you know it would be all over the place had it leaked. I should… I think I might call Tanya tomorrow."

"That might be for the best." Dad sipped mom's tea. "Or would you prefer I did it?"

I hated calling people with a burning passion. It was such an intrusive, old people thing to do.

"If you don't mind," I replied. Dad squeezed my shoulder.

"The only good news is that whatever photos he took of you—if he did, actually, get to that—are probably unpublishable," mom said, assessing my face in silence.

"What, why?"

"Sweetie, you're fifteen in your tank top without a bra on your living room floor," she replied. "You're underage. It would be career suicide to publish those photos. The authorities would have to get involved."

"What if they do it anonymously?"

"Then we'll figure out a way to get them taken down," mom answered, touching my braided hair. Her light blue eyes were full of worry. "Honey, this will be uncharted territory for all of us, but we will always protect you as much as we can."

"Always," dad repeated.

Maybe it was the turmoil of the night, but their cheesy words made me feel emotional.

"I know," I replied. "Love you both. But… I'm sorry I ran into your bedroom like that."

"Don't be sorry, sweetie," dad said. "I'm happy you did. I would've shat my pants had I seen a man hovering behind our window in the middle of the night. You were quick on your feet, and we're both impressed with your reaction."

The glance my parents shared felt significant. Dad ran his hand over his bald head, took a giant breath, and I knew even before he started his sentence what he was going to say.

"We've also discussed—"

"No."

"Sweetie—"

"No."

"Honey—"

"Dad, I don't need a bodyguard until at least the teaser, and even after that we should assess the situation and see if one is even necessary. It was only a journalist, or a photographer, or whatever. I just… I overreacted. I'm sorry."

"You did not overreact. Never say that."

"I did, though. He was not dangerous."

"Oh what a relief," dad said, full of sarcasm. "It was only a peeping Tom journalist wanting photos of our underage daughter in the middle of the night. How happy are we."

"You don't know that he took photos. Maybe he was just camping out there to catch me in the morning. Maybe he wasn't even looking inside and that's why he didn't move when I noticed him."

"I don't like how you think that makes a difference," dad said, his voice elevating.

"But it does," I argued. "It looks like he had no intention of burglary or anything like that. In any normal family—"

"You are not normal, sweetie," dad near-shouted. He clenched his jaw, concern and frustration in his brown eyes as he stared at me. "And maybe it's time we stop pretending you are."

The marshmallow bounced on top of my cocoa as I blew air on it, avoiding dad's eyes. How could I argue against him? They were in just as much denial about my future as I was.

Denial was such a collaborative effort in my family we could've moved to Egypt.

"Guys," mom said quietly. "We're on the same side. We're tired. Let's continue this conversation in the morning."

Dad let out a frustrated sigh before he agreed, if reluctantly.

It wasn't a particularly cold night, and yet I pulled all the blankets I could find on top of me. Maybe it was the weight of them that felt reassuring, but even the knowledge that the man had probably been a journalist of some kind didn't make me feel quite safe. If he knew I was Nala, how long could I expect this news to be contained?

After fifteen minutes of hiding under a pile of blankets, I wrapped them in my arms, took my pillow and walked across the hallway to my parents' bedroom door. I hesitated. Their light was on, and I could hear my parents' quiet murmurs, so at least I wasn't about to be traumatized, but I felt so pathetic wanting to sleep near them.

The exhaust fan in our only bathroom switched off, leaving an eerie silence in the dark hallway, and I stretched my neck to see out of the living room window.

There was nothing.

I turned back to my room only to stop at my own doorway, watching the shadows of the tree branches dance on my moving curtains.

Spinning on my heel once more, I grimaced, feeling the shame of my fear as I knocked on my parents' door so quietly I could barely hear it.

"Honey?"

I cracked the door open.

"What's wrong?" dad asked.

I half-hid my face in the blanket pile in my arms, refusing to look at them.

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Of course," dad answered as they both scooted to the edges of their bed.

"No, I'll take the floor." I threw my pillow on the carpet. "I'm too old to share a bed with you."

"But not too old—" dad started before mom gave him a death glare, and I was happy for it. If dad made fun of me for wanting to sleep near them tonight I might've sat on the living room couch all night without blinking.

Dad inflated the flimsy pool mattress that he got from the pantry slash storage room, and I pushed my pillow on the floor as I wrapped myself in a pile of blankets. Mom switched off the lights.

"Either of you ever breathe a word about this to my friends and I will tell everyone in my Oscar speech that you taught me to talk like Baby Yoda when I was three."

Mom barely suppressed her laughter. "I would love to see that. We will definitely tell your friends."

"Dad will be locked in a roomful of tarantulas while watching my speech."

Dad paused.

"Mmm, honey, maybe there's something to not telling Bella's friends after all."

"Good."

As we prepared to have our regular Sunday brunch in Waffle House, we were all a little bit unsettled. Mom googled me and checked the news (nothing), I checked Instagram, Facebook and TikTok (nothing), and dad put Tanya on loud speaker in the car, which resulted in… not nothing.

Vince Inthavong, mononymously known as Vince, our main screenwriter of Polish and Laos heritage (and fluent in both), was a short, pony-tail-wearing, joke-cracking, bohemian-looking man whose quips at the lunch table could've easily been movies of their own. He was brilliant, and totally incapable of not boasting about his latest projects. When Tanya delivered her spiel about how important it was that Mike and I take our NDA seriously, she made a few comments about keeping Vince on a leash, and to the best of my knowledge, Vince had made a deal to earn a few percentage points of Underground Memories' profits which was rumored to be lowered if he leaked anything.

Apparently, on Friday night, at a party where he got fabulously drunk with his husband, Vince slipped to his brother-in-law's sister that he was working on Underground Memories. Tanya had no reason to believe Vince had revealed our names to anyone, and fortunately, claims of my involvement wouldn't do much yet without proof—a clip or a teaser. Red herrings of any actress' involvement in the project were a weekly occurrence on the celebrity gossip sites, so a Georgian nobody from Willie W. Smith would hopefully not draw too much attention, which calmed us all somewhat. But Tanya and Vince had been seen to be working together quite closely with our producer Rose, which made everything else a ticking time bomb depending on how many people knew of and took claims of Vince being involved seriously.

This was good news because Tanya could, at least partially, trace down who she suspected could've been informed that I, too, was involved. She took claims of a man behind our window in the middle of the night incredibly seriously, and made not-so-subtle comments to my parents about their reluctance to move.

I knew why they were reluctant. A part of it was pride, certainly, because we'd have to use my money to buy another place. While Coogan Law didn't technically apply in Georgia (the state didn't have its own Coogan Law) and my parents didn't have to create a mandatory Coogan Account to put 15% of my earnings into a trust, NorthDust Studios was a company registered in California, which made my salary 100% mine—that was, after paying income taxes, 10% to my agent, 4% to a business manager, 6% to my lawyer and all kinds of other details my parents were technically responsible for. They always took me to (exceptionally yawn-worthy) meetings with my financial advisor.

But we were all terrified of that much money and even more terrified of getting it wrong. As I signed the contract to star in the first season of Underground Memories, my parents and I agreed to set up a trust that would earn interest until I was eighteen (and hopefully beyond). Until I turned eighteen and had been coached by my financial advisor for a few years, I could only withdraw money from my trust to pay for emergencies, education, health or safety.

My parents were not ready to use a part of my earnings to buy a house or an apartment.

To them, that was admitting failure, which was totally ridiculous because only money could buy the kind of safety I'd (hopefully not) need, and that sweet, sweet dough could only come from my salary. Not only that, but my parents were also technically acting as my managers who should've earned a cut of my salary.

But my parents were proud, and it was just as obvious to them as it was to me that their second reason for stalling was the fact that they, like me, didn't want to admit our lives were about to change.

We were more silent than usual eating our toast and hash browns before mom gave me a bittersweet smile and scratched dad's impeccably-trimmed beard.

"Your dad and I would like you to meet somebody," she said quietly.

I arched an eyebrow. "A good somebody or a bad somebody?"

"A security detail."

"A security detail?" I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It's a man we'd like to hire as your security guard until we move… and maybe after."

I crossed my arms, throwing my head back as I groaned.

"He wouldn't follow you around in school," dad rushed to explain. "He'd take you to and from school and accompany you to the mall or wherever you spend time with your friends outside of school or home."

"Inconspicuous," I replied. "That will definitely not make my friends believe something big is up."

"Sweetie, just… just meet him. At least meet him."

The looming prospect of not only having to move and get a security guard but also being revealed (prematurely) as Nala dimmed my sadness over Edward, so much so that I grew to believe that maybe my crush on him was entirely in my head. Did I make myself like Edward because I desperately wanted Mike not to be my first kiss? If I'd made up a guy called Jasper, would I have approached him with the same idea and developed a crush on Jasper? Maybe Alice would've seen that the blonde one was taken and set her sights on Tyler.

Unfortunately, that idea was thrown out of the window on Monday morning when I was putting my jacket in the locker and caught sight of Edward across the hallway. Tall and lean in blue jeans, he stood, typing into his phone with his thumbs peeking through the sleeves of his black hoodie. He wore that disarming, adorable smile that transformed his intimidating face into one that made my palms sweat and my heart somersault out of my chest.

Be still, my beating heart.

His mouth fell open before he bit his lower lip, gently, let out a laugh, and just like that, a cold bucket of water ran down my spine as I realized he must've been texting with Lauren.

Why couldn't cute guys have secret crushes on me?

Without warning, he looked up, and our eyes locked. Embarrassed to be caught staring, I improvised, closing the distance between us.

"Hi," I said, as if his mere presence didn't make my stomach drop into my shoes. "I was looking for you. I owe you something."

Pocketing his phone, he leaned against his locker and smiled.

My heart felt too big for my chest when he gave me his undivided attention like that.

"You owe me something?" he asked in a rich baritone with no sign of a death virus, and I was taken aback by his healthy, attractive voice. Even on Saturday, his voice wasn't as normal as it was today.

Unzipping the side-pocket of my backpack, I took out his rolled-up ten-dollar bill and, before he had time to react, tucked it between the collar of his hoodie and his neck. My fingers tingled from touching his warm skin, and I was careful not to let my hopeless crush on him show on my face.

Edward shivered, a visible, funny-looking adjustment before the money (of course) fell through his hoodie and on the floor. He picked it up before he took a step closer to me and narrowed his eyes.

"You are not seriously returning the money to me."

"I am," I replied, refusing to take it when he held it out in front of me.

"You can't be serious."

"I am," I repeated, lifting my leg and sliding my open palm along the front of it as if I was presenting a trophy. "Because… ta-da!"

"No way," he near-whispered, his gaze following my hips, thighs and legs in such a way it gave me goosebumps.

Calm down, you idiot. He's not checking you out.

Edward reached out to touch my shin before he snapped back his hand. "Sorry. Nearly made you dirty again." He rubbed his palm with his thumb (his index and middle finger were still wrapped in fresh gauze), showing me the grey-brownish patterns covering his scuffed-up skin. "It's kind of permanent now," he apologized. "No amount of washing takes care of it."

I think I may have lost my mind because he was standing oh-so-close, a head taller than me, showing me his large, dirty-looking hands and all I could focus on was his scent, all man and motor oil and deodorant I couldn't place.

Suddenly, Edward squinted at me. "You bought new jeans, didn't you."

His tone was accusatory but playful, and I couldn't help my smile.

"How dare you," I replied, slightly too loud. "I did no such thing. I will have you know that my dad used to work at a dry-cleaners. The seventeen-step procedure I went through full of pre-soaking and WD-40 does not lend itself to kind thoughts about your implication."

"Oh, yeah?" The corner of his mouth rose. "Is that a secret recipe or something because it sounds like I need some of that." He turned his foot to the side to reveal a long brown stain along the seam of his jeans.

I laughed. "You may have to bribe him."

"How does one do that?"

"Tell him that you've always thought bald men with beards should rule the world, and he might divorce my mom."

My heart stopped when he laughed.

"For the witchcraft of removing motor oil and blood from white jeans, he may just be worth it."

I looked up at him in silence, grinning, melting under his focused gaze, and I realized that what made him most attractive was the undivided attention he gave me when I spoke to him. He was totally present and undistracted in a way I wasn't used to (not that I was used to talking to any boys, mind you).

He tapped the back of my hand with the curled-up bill.

"Take it," he said. "Seriously. Buy yourself new shoes."

My jaw dropped with comic exaggeration as we looked down at my scratched brown leather lace-up Chelsea boots. But his broken old sneakers certainly gave mine a run for the money.

"Speak for yourself."

He narrowed his eyes but kept tapping my hand with ten bucks.

"So the dead-bunny-ear look is intentional?"

"Very," I lied. They were mom's old shoes, and I should've been polishing them regularly, but… somebody was not doing it. (Certainly not me. I'm perfect.)

A thill ran through me when I realized I hadn't made a total fool out of myself in front of him yet, and I was just about to ask how the rest of his weekend went when he lifted his chin, looking behind me, and suddenly, he hid his hands in his hoodie pockets and turned away.

"I'll catch you later, okay?" he said, dismissing me, and he didn't even see my half-hearted smile before I returned to my locker. I kept him in my peripheral vision, watching as he met with Lauren in the middle of the busy hallway. Even from this distance, he was visibly uncertain around her, his intimidating face softer and full of longing.

I knew this, I knew he had a crush on her, and yet, I still felt like my heart squeezed until it burst and dipped into a bucket of ice.

He was probably only casual and chill around me because there were no stakes to his interaction with me. Now, talking with Lauren, he was hiding his hands, and I couldn't help but wish he'd been like that with me.

"I thought you said you'd avoid him for a while," Alice said next to me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"I did," I replied, not giving her much else. I pointedly didn't look at Edward or Lauren when we passed them.

Alice and I met up with Kate, Jane and Skylar in our usual spot. We shared our D&D weekend and listened to theirs, but I didn't feel like telling them about my run-in with a possible journalist, nor how unglued I felt at school today. Everything felt a little bit off. I was dreading my meeting with a potential security detail, a Mr. Emmett McCarthy, more for what it meant for my everyday life than what he'd be like. I also knew that moving could mean a different high school district, which I desperately didn't want, and I'd really hoped that since I developed a crush on a random guy in a few days I'd also grow out of it with the same speed, but apparently life didn't work that way and it pissed me off.

He didn't like me. It wasn't rational to feel giddy and lightheaded around him. And yet, suddenly, it felt like Edward and Lauren were on every floor of every corridor I walked through. I gave them a nod and a smile when I passed them while slowly dying inside, and I wished I could take it back. I wished I could go back to when I didn't notice boys and especially cute tall ones with a buzz cut and a barbell and beautiful, permanently stained hands with long fingers.

Boys whose sights were set on a beautiful classmate.

It was just before lunch when I realized that I didn't just feel like Edward and Lauren were on every floor of every corridor I walked through, they were. Alice was texting with Jasper and guided us through corridors that would make us bump into them, and I swear I could've strangled her when I figured it out.

A warning would've been nice.

We were headed for lunch, bumping into their group of friends just as I made sense of Alice's game plan. This time, though, Edward excused himself and walked up to me, assessing my face.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Alice gave me a quizzical look when Edward and I stayed behind from the rest of them. I dropped my backpack on the floor and jumped on the window sill, which, in spite of its popularity among students, was strictly not allowed by teachers.

My heartbeat quickened as I watched Edward, frowning and uncharacteristically nervous, standing with his arms crossed and legs parted, staring at his fingernails.

"Déjà vu," I said, trying to lift his spirits, but the smile he gave me didn't reach his eyes when he glanced at me ever-so-briefly.

He cleared his throat.

"Listen, I heard that you had a… thing, for—" With pain in his eyes, he motioned at himself and laughed without humor. Time slowed down as my heart fell into my boots. "It's a dick move from me, and… I'm really flattered, but if I, if I did anything to lead you on then I'm sorry."

A hot flash of pain sliced through me, which made no sense at all because I knew he wasn't into me.

"It's okay," I whispered, heart in my throat.

"You're funny and, and, easy to talk to, I just don't—"

"It's okay," I repeated, interrupting him, not wanting to hear all the reasons why Lauren was prettier and smarter and better than me.

My chest ached, almost like breath had been knocked out of me, but as I began to recover from the shock of him just telling me he didn't like me, I forced my most convincing smile at him.

I didn't want to be the embarrassing, pathetic sophomore who had an unrequited crush on a senior, and worse, I didn't want him to distance himself from me even if that's exactly what I'd planned to do myself.

It would've felt too much like rejection vol. 3 if he'd just started ignoring me.

Not that we were friends or anything, but, you know.

"It's kind of you to clear up your feelings, but I think you've misunderstood," I said, desperate to make him feel better. "I don't have a thing for you."

He squinted at me, and I couldn't blame his skepticism.

"I mean, I'm sure you're a nice guy but that's not what happened."

He stepped closer to me as a group of students passed us, and he rested his hip against the side of the window sill. I swear he had the prettiest eye color, a forest green, and it was surreal that he could make me feel like a burning inferno grew inside me just by observing my face in silence.

"You… don't have a thing for me," he repeated, tasting the words.

"No."

I laughed, almost light enough to convince even myself.

His chest rose as he took a breath and shook his head. "Good," he replied, exhaling, before we locked eyes and he backtracked. "I mean, not that—I've just never had to let someone down easy. I don't like being a dick."

"You're not," I assured, not used to seeing pain in his eyes.

"So… care to share what happened, then?" he asked.

I slid my fingers under my butt, sitting on them, and gave him an embarrassed smile. I hadn't intended to tell him the truth, or even a part of it, but the NDA had made my vision full of Pinocchio noses wherever I went, and I wanted to gain some semblance of sanity.

"Alice never believed me when I told her I didn't have a crush in school, so I made one up," I started, feeling sheepish. "Chose your name at random. There's, like, three Edwards and even more Eds and Eddies in our high school, so even if my crush was real, it might've not meant you, but then Alice saw you with your motorcycle and got it into her head that it did mean you. Then, on set, my director told me that a scene that's supposed to happen in the next season has to happen this Friday, which is… a kissing scene. Before I've ever had my first kiss. Pretty pathetic, isn't it?"

Edward, listening, scooted a bit closer to me so that our voices didn't travel as much, and his eyelashes moved as he assessed my face. It was such a shame he couldn't be my first kiss because his pink lips had the cutest shape to them, especially when they curved into a smile like they did now, and I could just imagine his hands sliding under my cropped sweater and pulling me oh-so-close.

Ugh, I am pathetic.

"I don't think so," he disagreed, quietly. "Most of our high school experience has been during the corona. You're fifteen. I'm pretty sure more of the school is with you on this than anyone would ever admit."

I could've cried at his kindness.

"My trouble is that I have a deadline for it, and I don't want my first kiss to be my co-star. I don't really care who it's with as long as it's not him, so… technically, I approached you last Thursday to ask if you were up for being my first kiss. Not because I liked you. Not even because I knew who you were. Just because I'd already told Alice I had a crush on someone called Edward, and you were the one she was thinking about, so you were an easy pick."

Regret flashed in his eyes. "I'm sorry I—"

"It's fine. It's okay. But—do you know if Tyler is single?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Tyler? Tyler Crowley?"

"Yes."

"You can't be serious."

"I assure you I am."

He searched my eyes for a joke he couldn't find.

"Bella, he's a good friend of mine but his track record with girls is… not great."

"That sounds perfect. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am." I paused. "Or, I guess, sir in this case."

Edward's eyes narrowed as if he was trying to catch me in a lie.

"You don't want your first kiss to be special? With someone you care about?" he wondered, almost rhetorically, and I gave him my best bite-me look. I would've loved for it to have been special, but the guy I had a crush on (ahem) was pining for someone else, so… that was never going to happen.

It was a shame, too, because in my head he had the firmest grip, the softest lips and the most toe-curling taste.

"You really don't care who your first kiss will be," Edward repeated in disbelief.

"Nope," I replied. "And if you think Tyler would do a bad job of it please send word out that I'm up for any and all offers to be kissed senseless. Well, maybe not all offers. Personal hygiene is a perk."

Still evaluating me as if he didn't quite believe me, Edward paused, and if I didn't know any better I would've said he was intrigued.

"Who is your co-star that you want to avoid having him as your first kiss so desperately you're willing to have it with just anyone?"

…