Hallelujah 2

As he ran lines, he tried to remind himself why he cared. Why he wanted this girl so bad. If Urleen was right (and he suspected she… wasn't quite right), then he could have any girl he wanted. Why her? Why the histrionic party girl who wore leopard print exclusively and spent all of her free time texting, probably texting Jake Gyllenhaal lookalikes. They had nothing in common and she was the exact kind of girl he'd spent twenty-eight years avoiding. So why her?

And then she waltzed in, the spotlights seemingly aimed right at her. She brushed her bangs back and smiled sweetly at the director and he remembered why he liked her so much. She was so beautiful. Charming. Everybody turned to look at her.

"All right," Darlene, the director shouted. "Almost Paradise! Time for the big kiss scene." He could have sworn Darlene was looking right at him when she said that.

Right. It was time to pick his jaw up off the floor.

The two got up on their perch, surrounded by Styrofoam cacti, and sang. Or rather, she sang and he warbled. He was so nervous he thought he was going to throw up. She'd really love that.

"I swear that I can see forever in your eyes… paradise…" The music trailed off. Oh, shit. The moment had arrived. He prayed for a tornado, a power outage, anything that would allow him to run away and curl up in a nervous ball.

She leaned in first, her expression clearly saying, "Lean in, stupid." So he did, giving her a chaste peck on the lips. Holy crap. He still felt like he was going to throw up.

Around them, the other actors cheered and made suggestive noises. Willard even turned around and rubbed his shoulders, mimicking a passionate make-out. He was going to kill Willard later. Finally, Urleen chimed in. "Shhhhh! Everybody shhhh!" When everybody had quieted, she shouted, "Needs more tongue!" He was going to kill Urleen too.

A low, throaty chuckle rumbled in the back of her throat. Much to his shock and everyone else's amusement, she grabbed his shoulders and made every effort to shove her tongue down his throat. Everybody cheered even louder, and Willard made moaning noises. He was going to kill Willard later – violently. He knew he was supposed to do something, but – what?

Suddenly, the ground seemed to fly up toward him. It took him a minute to realize he was falling – and dragging her along. He hit the ground and she collided with him. Both of them groaned in pain, and, just loud enough for everyone to hear, she said, "Nice going!" He prayed his face didn't turn as red as it felt.

Of course, everyone else lapped it up. Chuck made some remark about them "really falling for each other," while Willard, not to be outdone, made a suggestive pelvic thrust.

"Have I mentioned I like your shirt?" she whispered in his ear, still on top of him, making no effort to move. "It looks nice on you."

She was being sarcastic. She had to be. The shirt he was wearing could best be described as '80s clubber on acid.' (In fact, that's exactly how she had described it earlier.) It was a bluish-purple color, or at least he thought it was. The blue, red, white, green, pink, and yellow geometric pattern made it impossible to focus.

"No," he managed to say.

She pulled herself up and dusted herself off. She offered him her hand, which he gladly took. As she pulled him up, she yanked him closer to her and whispered, "It'd look better on my bedroom floor." And then she sauntered off.

He stood behind and blinked rapidly. Had she seriously just said that?

"YO!!!" one of the stage crew boys shouted. "The next scene's about to start! Get your ass off the stage!"

He did as he was told, replaying the last scene's events in his mind. "Sweet Jesus."