Page 6 of Horror and Chill

She’s not her co-star’s.

She’s not her own.

She’s ours.

This weekend, she thinks she’ll be working a scene. She has no idea it’s already been written for her.

Time to plan.

Time to move.

Time to take what belongs to us.

3

Agatha

I haven’t gone livein two days.

Not that I’m ignoring my fans, it’s quite the opposite. I’ve been teasing them instead, feeding the hunger with little snippets of sneak peeks of what this weekend will hold. The first photo I posted was me covered in stage blood, screaming like someone's holding me at knifepoint. The second was me, completely naked in the woodsy area I’ll be filming in this weekend. Just enough mist and shadow from the water to make me look creepy, but still sexy.

The reactions have been appropriately rabid.

It’s Friday, and I’m on lunch while my kiddos are at recess. I take a bite of my steak and egg sandwich and shoot off a quick text to Jay.

Me: You still good for tomorrow? 10pm. Forest preserve across town. Also, don’t forget to send me what you’re wearing.

Jay’s my co-star for the weekend. He doesn’t work for Behind the Lens, which makes our collabs easier. No paperwork, at least nothing beyond the NDA Lorna makes all our co-stars sign.

No cut of the profits going to someone else. He posts to his own site, runs his own store. It’s cool in that self-made way, though he has to cover all his own overhead, which I don’t envy. At BTL, Lorna handles all of that. Cameras, lighting, props, crew if we need it, all taken care of. I only pay out of pocket for my outfits, my home setup, and any personal toys, especially the niche ones. The toy I used earlier this week? Came from Lorna’s chest of wonders. Once you take a toy from her stash and open the box, it’s yours. No take backs.

The hallway is alive with squeals and stomping feet as the kids return from recess. I wipe my hands and clean up my lunch, tossing the sandwich wrapper and tucking my phone away just as they start piling back in.

“Okay, my little monsters,” I say with a grin, “let’s settle down.”

We’re readingThis Book is Perfecttoday, and by the third page, they’re giggling like I’m doing stand-up. My frog voice is undefeated. Kindergarteners love this book every year, and today is no exception. When we finish, I hand out scissors, glue, and sequencing sheets so they can retell the story with cut-and-paste squares. Tiny hands go to work, chatter and laughter filling the room as I read each caption aloud.

After that, we do a Text Connections activity, talking about bad days, feelings, and how we manage them. The stories range from spilled juice to dead goldfish. I nod solemnly at each one.

We finish with a color-by-number frog craft and tape them all to our classroom door. Twenty-two frogs. Twenty-two personalities. Twenty-two sets of sticky hands.

By the time the final bell rings, folders are packed, shoes are half on, and I’m walking them out front like a tired parademarshal. They scatter into cars and buses, and I head back inside to reset for next week.

I print worksheets. Double-check supplies. Wonder if I need to make another Dollar Tree run for googly eyes and more glitter glue. I’m at the copier when she finds me.

Genny. Second grade. Moral crusader with a budget haircut and the energy of a bitter stepmom.

She crosses her arms, glaring. "Can’t believe they still let you work here. Filthy slut. The message you send to those young kids you teach."

I roll my eyes and keep flipping pages.

"Yes, Genny, because I hand out my channel name during story time. The kids have no idea what I do when I’m off the clock. As they shouldn’t. The only reason anyone knows is because someone—" I smile pointedly, "—sent an email to the entire district."

She huffs. "They deserved to know what kind of example their children are being exposed to."

I grab my stack of papers, turning to her fully. "Some of them did know. A few are really good tippers, actually. Thanks for the second income."

I wink and walk away.