What's Luck Got to Do with Emma Lenford?: Emma Lenford, #4

By Kari Lynn M

Some people just don't know how lucky they are. Including Emma Lenford, who's just lucky enough to vomit on international television, win a trip to Wisconsin's worst-kept vacation hotspot, and even find out that she's related to some very infamous faces.

 

Despite her newfound "luck", Emma struggles to find a way to gain control of her life. She's fully convinced that she's been somehow cursed, and she has to figure out how stop the tragedies that keep befalling her before they get a little too out of control. Although, once you've been trapped and tortured via the ultimate atomic wedgie in a goat barn decorated with severed human body parts, maybe things have already gotten too far out of your control.

 

Emma Lenford is truly the unluckiest 17-year-old on the planet. She keeps her sense of humor, though, through this series of seriously ill-fated situations. Her life is basically a sit-com where one traumatic thing after another befalls her, and it's all out of her control. She's constantly kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and even arrested for things she honestly didn't even do.

 

Follow her as every supposedly lucky adventure turns south in the fourth book of the series that makes us all wonder, "what's luck got to do with Emma Lenford?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kari Lynn M
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227061669

Kari Lynn M

Hey there! My name is Kari, if you didn't guess already, and I'm a writer (surprise!). I also enjoy long walks on the beach and sipping on piña coladas. Just kidding! I'm really just a... small town girl, I guess you could say, with a semi-functioning laptop and a dream. A dream of becoming a 'real' author, that is. Which, actually, I'm not quite exactly sure how that is defined, so when and how I'll reach it, if I do at all, I don't really know. However, I'm working extremely hard on my writing these days. As in, like, EVERY day. Even after a long day of other mental and manual work (I'm also a college student, artist, and frequent nanny), I have to add at least something to whatever story I've currently got in the works, otherwise, I physically cannot sleep. But, I do love writing—I really do. And, apparently, it must have a thing for me, too. Now, really, y'all should get to reading more important things than an exhausted 20-some-year-old wishful author's bio. More important things like... the books she's actually written! Happy reading, all you homedogs. --Kari

Book preview

What’s Luck Got to Do with Emma Lenford?

Kari Lynn M.

Published by Kari Lynn M.

Copyright 2024 Kari Lynn M.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Psyched

French Toast Sticks

Unfairgrounds

Game Hoes

Whack Friday

Democrazy

Damnily Reunion

Hellbillies

Shot Machines

Bride and Doom

Bonus Content

Other Books by Kari...

Connect with Kari!

Author’s Notes

Psyched

Now, Emma, can you remember the last time you actually saw your mother in person?

I cleared my throat. 

Well, I started off. The last time I supposedly saw her physical form standing three feet in front of me was by the side of the Concord Corner Shopping Center’s centrally located concrete water fountain, you know, the one that’s been out of commission for two decades due to the accumulation of used Band-Aids in the jet stream spouts, and that event probably took place about four and a half weeks ago... but, as I’ve come to speculate, that day probably never really happened because, as all proficient conspiracy theorists know, some things are just way too bad to be true, much like the sequence of events that immediately followed when I did, indeed, seemingly see my mother in person.

The so-called therapist leaned back in his seat and tapped on a notebook in his lap. 

"Right... well, actually... He shook his head, then crossed one leg of his suit pants atop the other. I was trying to ask if you could remember the last time you saw your mother before that."

I leaned back in my own uncomfortably tall, non-reclining chair. 

Oh, I said. Well, then... no.

The shrink scratched at his mustache. 

Right... he went on. Okay, well, let’s indulge in your little ‘conspiracy theory’, then. Tell me what happened next, after you saw your mother at the mall.

I shook my head. 

"Actually, if you had been listening to what I just said, mister ‘doctor’, you’d know that my conspiracy is that that day never happened, and, actually, indulging it would mean just leaving it alone instead of, actually, making me repeat the events of that supposed day over and over again like beating a dead horse six feet into the ground twenty hundred times over and over again. I could feel my pulse getting a little elevated. And, anyway, I’m starting to form another conspiracy theory, and that is that you really don’t want to help me because making me relive, literally, the worst day of my life again and again doesn’t really seem like the way to make—"

The worst day of your life? The man leaned forward, raising his nearly nonexistent eyebrows up his bald forehead. "How does gaining a sister and re-gaining a mother make that the worst day of your life? He cocked his head to one side and laughed. You know, for a lot of kids your age, that sounds like the best damn day they could ever ask for. He nodded now. So, you know what? I think you may just be a selfish, undeserving brat that’s too wrapped up in herself to see that she’s got two brand new family members just dying to be her best friends!"

Suddenly, a rapture of applause overcame the wide, almost auditorium-sized room. And, at the same time, I narrowed my brows, first at the therapist sitting across from me, then to the right, where a studio audience of at least eighty-three individuals sat, standing and clapping at him. 

Now, after the break... the man continued, shutting the crowd quickly down. We’re going to talk to Emma’s new sister. And, boy, she’s gonna win your heart with her incredible kindness... but, will Emma finally accept her into her life? We’ll just have to see.

I glanced left, where an oversized television screen sat with the text ‘Dr. Chill: The Only Therapist without a Bill’ slapped across it in thick script lettering, then to my backside, where two jumbo black cameras were sitting on tall stands, a couple of guys in baseball caps and tee shirts standing behind them, a can of lite beer in each of their right hands as they ‘operated’ them. And, right after the ‘doctor’ spoke, the crowd erupted in thick applause once again, and then a dude in a pink and blue floral button-up and a leather fedora came jogging onto the miniature hardwood stage area, carrying an oversized briefcase with him. Soon enough, he slammed it onto a tiny stand, flipped it open to reveal an excessive array of makeup palettes, one for every shade on the color wheel plus twenty-two extra, inside and whipped a jumbo, pancake-shaped sponge out from his pocket, using it then to slap some yellow-colored powder all over Dr. Chill’s hairless scalp. 

You know, I said, crossing my arms. "I’m sure, with all the money you make off of this show of yours, you could probably afford to just, perhaps, buy a wig or a toupee or, well, maybe some hair growth treatment supplements, which would cost just a fraction of whatever you’re probably paying Conner Conceal-It-All over here."

The guy slathering makeup all over his head gave me a glare from over one rail-sized shoulder. 

It’s Patrick, actually, he snapped, his hand still patting the powder in huge clumps all over the doctor’s head. And I’ll have you know that I get paid by the minute, not the hour.

I nodded. 

Yep, that’s my point exactly, I commented. 

"That’s enough, Patty, Dr. Chill said, shoving the guy abruptly to the side. Now, Emma, listen... I really do want to help you out here, but I’m gonna need you to help me out, too..." 

Suddenly, Patrick, or Patty, or whoever the makeup artist was, popped back in between us, a pencil-shaped object in one hand, his hand reaching right for Dr. Chill’s left eyeball. 

No, not that, Pat! the doctor yelled, pushing the guy to the other side of his chair, making him stumble down to his knees. Now, listen... He pointed a finger as Pat, I guess we’re going to go with, ran around his back to return to his overflowing briefcase. I like where you’re going with the sarcastic, know-it-all attitude, but I need you to—

Just then, Pat snatched up the doctor’s hand, going for his index finger with a neon pink nail filer. 

No, stop! Dr. Chill raised his voice even more, making it echo off the already chattering walls around us, right before he stood from his chair, reached for Pat’s shoulders, and then shoved his back so hard that he fell, butt-first, on the floor. And then, of course, he grabbed the edge of the makeup case, thrust it to the side, and flung both it and all of its contents down onto the guy splattered on the floor. "I told you that I’m growing my nails out to get clear acrylics put on next week, you inconsiderate, inattentive son of a gun!"

The whole auditorium-like room started to quiet, and another guy in a black hoodie with a clipboard and a headset jogged onto the scene.

Sixty seconds, Dr. Chill, he said, holding the microphone piece attached to his head with one hand. 

He’s fired. Dr. Chill pointed at the guy with the mic, then down at Patrick. Get him off my floor.

I sat back, eyes a little widened, as the guy scooped up Patty’s arms and dragged him down the stage stairs right by the beer-guzzling cameramen. Then, from seemingly out of nowhere, a trio of more people in black sweatshirts came onto the scene to gather up the thrown makeup and case with blue gloves already on their hands. And, of course, the various powders had kind of exploded into a rainbow of loose particles on the wooden floor, too, so two more sweatshirts next appeared with a broom, a mop, and two buckets with the Dr. Chill logo plastered on them.

Anyway, Emma, sorry about that, but... Dr. Chill went on, brushing the front of his suit jacket off. Like I said, I’m gonna need you to really step your game up here. He turned to slowly crawl back into his stool-height chair. You know, the viewers always need someone to hate, and, well... He picked up his notebook from his tiny side table once more, fanning it out. "We all know that Miranda’s certainly not going to be the one to hate."

I narrowed my eyes at him as he looked over his supposed ‘notes’.

Um, actually—

Before I could even say my, well, say, though, somebody behind me yelled, Rolling!, and then the television to my left blared to life, beginning to showcase some clip of, well, Miranda Lively herself. 

When I found out that Emma was actually my sister... her voice began. "Well, I think I must have started crying... because, of course, I was so, so happy!"

I flared my nostrils at the screen as it showed Miranda first sitting on a generic white sofa then walking down some random street, nearly skipping in a black floral dress with, naturally, a beyond-plunging neckline. 

"I mean, I’ve known Emma for ages, and there’s just... so much to love about her, she continued. There’s so many things to love, in fact, that I definitely don’t have time to tell you all of them!"

The video whipped to another shot of Miranda posing in front of some random metal horse statue in what looked like a metropolitan-sized art museum’s lobby, all while her voiceover went on. 

"I think the thing I’m most looking for in my relationship with my new sister is a tight, unbreakable bond. Like, we are bonded by blood, now, so I really hope we can become even closer than ever!" 

Abruptly, the screen flashed to a dramatically different scene, this one being a shot of me, actually, sitting on the porch of my and my father’s run-down city-side homestead, the wooden boards under my bare feet in the video nearly snapped in two from years of neglect and weathering. The camera then twirled halfway around my head to show a darkening storm cloud approaching overtop the house’s also extremely withered, moss-covered roofing shingles. 

I do think Emma is going to resist our fresh sisterhood, Miranda’s voice pushed on. Like I said, we’ve known each other for a very long time, and I know that she’s always been hesitant to change. I mean, you should have seen her when they changed the brand of peanut butter used in the PB and Js on the lunch menu in tenth grade! She obviously forced a laugh. "She’s also someone who likes to think that she’s the victim in a lot of situations, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to take this as a chance to make me look like the bad guy so that she can get sympathy from other people."

The video switched back to a picture of Miranda, her hair loosened from her traditional high ponytail so that it could hang low enough to at least somewhat cover the top edges of her entirely traditionally pushed-up boobs. 

However, I really hope that Dr. Chill will be able to bring us together! she finished. 

Immediately, the crowd on my side erupted in clapping yet again, and then a loud clicking came from the backside of Dr. Chill’s seat. I looked toward it, then, and watched as a hidden door in the middle of two audience stands slid up from the floor and as a cloud of foggy mist swarmed up to the ceiling rafters from behind it. And then, emerging from the smoke was Miranda, her body leaning onto one hip, her arms on her hips, and a pair of thigh-high black boots covering the bottom half of her leather catsuit. 

This is a daytime talk show, I grumbled. Not Ariana Grande’s entrance onto the red carpet at the Video Music Awards...

The crowd cheered on as Miranda strode up to the stage, and I saw a sweatshirt-ed person come quickly up from behind my back to slam another stool down right beside Dr. Chill and across from me. After that, the doctor literally stood and offered a hand out to help her up the two miniature steps that sat between the audience and our seats, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as she paused to wave to the crowd before taking her seat. 

Okay, well... Dr. Chill climbed into his own chair, then smacked the top of his notebook, which was opened to a basically blank page, by the way, before looking from me to Miranda. "Wow, right? He raised a brow at her. That’s your sister, huh?"

I know. Miranda smiled, surprisingly, without also smirking. I can hardly believe it, too. I mean... She gave me a glance as she crossed her legs, squeakily under her leather jumpsuit. Look at her! 

I had to scratch an itch upon my nose, and, in the same moment, an ear-rupturing laugh came over the whole room. So, naturally, I looked over at the people in the audience seats with a squint, and then I looked down at my outfit, which consisted of, really, my best tee shirt, one with a graphic of a pineapple in shades that was only halfway rubbed off of the white, ketchup-stained material, and a pair of overly baggy men’s brown cargo pants combined with cheap blue flip-flops that showed off my toenail fungus in all of its green glory. As soon as the laughter died down, Miranda pointed at me and spoke directly to Dr. Chill. 

No, really, I just meant that we have such different hair colors, and eye colors, and—

"And true colors, right?" Dr. Chill finished for her. 

The crowd clapped, as to be expected. 

"Okay, well, I interjected, raising my voice over the applause and pointing back at Miranda. She’s no angel, actually, and, if you’d like, I can list at least fifteen different things she’s done to prove it."

Miranda’s head snapped toward me, over her shoulder, since she was, apparently, permanently fixed into the doctor’s direction. 

Oh, really? she asked. Go on, then; I’m sure we’d all like to hear them.

I raised a brow, then rubbed my hands on top of my thighs. 

Okay, then. I nodded, raising up a hand to start counting fingers on. First, there was the fact that you stole, literally, all the clothes I hardly had to my name, which caused me—

Oh, wow! She cut me off already. "You’re still blaming that on me? She turned a little toward me, leaned forward, and placed a hand on the center of her chest. Emma, I told you... all the clothes you gave me during the end-of-school fundraiser were going to go to the patients of the children’s cancer research hospitals in Milwaukee and Chicago. She sighed and looked back to Dr. Chill. She keeps saying that I stole the clothes by giving them to the kids instead of sending them to her... She made air quotations. Nigerian princess girlfriend that she met on Craigslist."

Dr. Chill raised his invisible brows. 

Wow. He took a pencil out of the ring on the edge of his notebook. Well, now that’s something we’re going to have to look into later, but...

He started to scribble something or another, and I piped up. 

"Okay, yeah, that’s a falsehood and a half, but, anyway, what I was going to say was that she’s—"

"If you were going to say that I was the reason you were impregnated, too, Miranda began, switching her eyes from me to the crowd. That was certainly not my fault; I told her that pregnancy tests should never have to be inserted anywhere."

Dr. Chill blew out a low whistle. 

No, no, no... I shook my own head toward the crowd, jolting a thumb over at Miranda now. "She actually tried to impregnate me with, and I quote, 'a cup of all the rejects from the sperm bank', plus, as I was trying to say, she’s the—"

And, if you’re planning on blaming your financial instability on me, too, Emma, then you should remember that one time that you spent all your college savings on expired lottery tickets and a—

Now, I cut her fully off by standing so fiercely that my chair shot back from under me. At the same time, I threw both of my pointer fingers up to, well, point right at Miranda’s nose, though I faced the crowd the whole time, making eye contact with a group of middle-aged women in ‘Dr. Chill’s MILFs’ shirts in the front row.

"She’s the reason I look like this!"

Instantly after my overly intense shriek, the room fell to complete and utter silence. And it stayed that way for a good fifteen straight seconds, that is, until Dr. Chill spoke up. 

"Wow. Just... wow." 

I slunk back into my seat, giving him a glance as I crossed my arms. 

If you’re really about to blame all of... He pointed the mechanical pencil he had been holding toward my nose. "This on... He switched it toward Miranda. Her...  He stopped to make a sound of disgust. Well, then, sweetheart, you’re in for one heck of an eye-opener. I mean, do you realize how delusional you sound right now? Blaming your sister, who you just found out was your sister, for things like... your own adolescent pregnancy?"

I shook my head, wrapping my arms tighter around myself. 

I was never pregnant, I mumbled. I took Plan B...

Dr. Chill clicked down on the end of his pencil, then began writing something else on his papers. 

"No, now you, young lady... He held up his index finger on his opposite hand as he wrote. You are what we like to call in the business... spiraling. He finished, then stood, turned to the side, and placed his notes on his chair. Actually, can we get that list pulled up, please?" 

He walked over to the side of the TV screen beside me, straightening his red tie all the while, and then he snapped a finger at one of the sweatshirts standing off behind me. 

The ‘list of Emma’s faults, shortcomings, wrongdoings, delinquencies, and acts of general irresponsibility’? he asked.

I looked over my shoulder, loosening up my self-hug, and then saw the head of the sweatshirt cult, the dude with the microphone and clipboard, point at the television from beside the pair of camera operators, whom I could now see were both suddenly wearing sunglasses as they drank their ‘jobs’ away. 

Okay, thank you... Dr. Chill continued. Now, Emma... 

I squinted over at the screen now, and then I saw that it was, literally, a 2005-era PowerPoint slide with the title ‘Emma’s Faults, Shortcomings, Wrongdoings, Delinquencies, and Acts of General Irresponsibility’. And, below that, there was a three-column bullet-point list that filled the entire blue and white, wave-inspired background. Among just a few of the many points were ‘wrecked a car during driving test’, ‘cut off a factory coworker’s finger’, and ‘drove a school bus off a bridge’. 

You actually want to blame Miranda, again, who you just found out weeks ago is your one and only sister in this world, for the time you were arrested for possession of drugs nearly a year ago? Dr. Chill turned sideways and crossed his own arms at me. "How in the heck of all that is mighty could that have been her fault?"

I flipped my eyes between the TV and him. 

Because she planted the drugs in my purse while I was visiting an ex-friend in the county prison, and she could have easily done it since she was actually a prisoner in that very prison at that very time, I stated. "But, I guess you didn’t care to check on her criminal background prior to today’s date of filming, did you?" 

"I think part of his point, Emma, Miranda butted in. Is that today is supposed to be about getting you the psychiatric help you desperately need..." 

I snapped my head over at her, flaring my nostrils, but she kept her hands stacked on top of her crossed knees and gave me nothing more than the raise of one half of her eyebrow. 

"And, if you didn’t remember, I was only in the prison back then as part of a research study for my own dual-credit high school-to-college level physiology course," she added.

I dropped my jaw at her. 

No, you were in there because you had been locked up for robbing the Chase bank of Monheeti County with your five and a half step-brothers, and, in fact, I was the one that helped the police identify you by your crotch on a blurry, outdated security camera! I stopped, turned to Dr. Chill, and made a rolling gesture with my hands. I mean, literally, she had been wearing nothing but a G-string, and the cops recognized—

I really do wish you’d watch what you’re saying, Miranda said over my last two words. "Because, you know, those are your step-brothers, too, now..."

I scrunched up my face and turned my head to see her place her hand onto her chest once again, right before she slid it off and began twirling a piece of hair with it instead. 

No, they’re... I twisted back to the doctor. "They’re not... or... no... are they?"

Dr. Chill stepped over to the backside of his vacant chair, placed both his arms over the top of it, and leaned forward, clasping his palms together. 

Listen, Emma... he began. "Do you have proof that your sister was arrested for burglary?"

I immediately nodded, rubbing my kneecaps. 

Well, yeah, I mean, I was there.

But... He looked me up and down, lowering his vocal tone. "Do you honestly have solid proof?"

I leaned back and pursed my lips, glancing from him to Miranda, who was cocking her ear toward me. 

Well, uh... I started. I... You know, I’m sure it was in the newspapers or something...

No, Emma, it wasn’t. Dr. Chill pushed off of his chair’s back, making it wobble side to side for a second. I had my people check out Miranda’s background, and they found nothing but a clean slate. He walked back over the the television slapped onto the tan wall to his right. But they found a whole slew of stuff on you... He held out a palm toward the ‘Emma’s Faults, Shortcomings, Wrongdoings, Delinquencies, and Acts of General Irresponsibility’ slide. And yet, you refuse to take responsibility for any of the things that you have done, and we have solid proof for each one of them. He stepped in closer and pointed a finger at the point ‘killed a child’s dog with a golf cart while at the child’s ninth birthday party’. "Now... honestly, Emma, please explain to me how something like this, which is so obviously your own reckless fault, could be pinned on Miranda? I mean, murdering a child’s dog on her own birthday? How can you not see how sick and twisted that is?"

I breathed out a half of a sigh, rolling my shoulders back. 

It was an act of manslaughter, actually, and the... um, girl who had the dog and I worked out that whole situation a few chapters of our lives ago, and, you know, it actually turned out to be a good thing, or so she said, that I killed—I mean—manslaughtered the dog completely by accident because now her mom—

"Emma, stop! Dr. Chill stepped forward and yelled at me, making a vein pop in the side of his bald scalp. I don’t care how the dog died; the fact of the matter is that you caused it to happen, by accident or not, and you’re still not taking any accountability for your actions! He gestured his arm, sprung straight out from his side, from the screen of the TV to me. Now, grow up and apologize for all these things you’ve done, or give us all genuine proof that you didn’t do it!"

The crowd erupted with clapping, wooing, and, oddly enough, a bit of tooting on the side. 

Well, I... I started, but the crowd just wouldn’t shut up, so I had to jump off of my chair and raise my voice back at him. Sure, I did those things, okay! But... But they were still Miranda’s fault because she... 

I pointed at Miranda and bit my tongue for a moment. 

Because I what? she asked, eyeing me. 

Because... I shrugged my hand back down, slapping it on my side as the audience quieted. And then, carefully, I looked from her to Dr. Chill, both of them now giving me pure glares. Oh, hell with it... I shrugged, then pointed at her once again. "She’s a witch!"

Instantly, the audience burst out with laughter, and Miranda and the doctor both, naturally, joined in. 

I—I mean it, people! I jerked my finger at Miranda one more time. She’s a black magic, spellbinding practicer of Voodoo, Hoodoo, Yahoo, and whatever else I don’t do!

Nobody stopped laughing. 

I’m not kidding, guys, she’s... I lowered my hand, then watched Miranda cross her arms and flash me a classic smirk. I mean, look at her!

Dr. Chill suddenly cut in, silencing everyone. 

Okay, Emma, now... He patted his tie. You do realize that witchcraft isn’t real, don’t you?

Yes, I said, but then shook my head. Or, uh, no... 

He sighed and walked up to my side, then placed a hand on my shoulder, which was uncomfortably hot and covered in, hopefully, sweat. 

Sit back down, please. He pushed me backward. Now, apparently... 

He turned back to the cameras as I wrapped my hands on the plastic-feeling armrests of the chair behind my back and climbed my way onto the scratchy blue fabric cushion. 

"Emma believes her new sister must have put a curse on her or something to make her do such awful things, he went on, rubbing his hands together in front of his chest. Now, someone’s gotta pull this gal back down to earth... Perhaps, could her lost mother of fourteen years might be able to talk some sense into her? He shrugged. We’ll see, right after this."

The crowd picked up its clapping yet again, and I looked at the television screen as it switched back to the Dr. Chill logo. Right after that, though, I turned my head toward Miranda, and then I noticed that she and the doctor were both getting powdered up by another random guy in another random floral shirt. 

Great work out there, kid, Dr. Chill began, reaching a hand out to Miranda as he leaned against his abandoned stool. "Just don’t be afraid to sass that one back; you know, put her in her place a little more. He nodded. We might even have you give her the psychiatric retreat package at the end of today, too..."

I rolled my eyes from left to right, but then, out of the corner of my vision, I saw a lady with a can of hairspray, herself in a knee-length floral dress, jump up the stage, bounding toward Miranda. She then took a comb out of one pocket and began to groom her long, dark curls with it. 

Oh, really? I groaned, then reached behind my head to fiddle with my own ratty ponytail. Hey, uh— I raised my voice at the woman. You think you might have time to lend a hand to me, the main character of this episode, too, after you get done playing with that Barbie-doll styling head over there?

The lady looked up from her work on Miranda’s head just once, wrinkled her nose, and turned back down to finish before next stepping around Dr. Chill’s side, beginning to simply spray his bald head with her can. 

"Okay, now, really? I called out, gesturing to him. He doesn’t even have hair..." 

The woman started to rub the top of his scalp. 

Well, okay, I went on. "How about after you finish up Barbie and Ken, then, huh?"

Suddenly, the woman tossed me a glare, her eyebrows obviously furrowed, and, at the same time, her fingers, apparently, slipped on the can of hairspray she held, and it crashed to the floor with a clunky bang. And then, Dr. Chill spun toward her, put his hands on his hips, and, well, suddenly stamped his shoe. 

Does someone need to show you how to do your job? he yelled, that big vein beginning to bulge again. "Because you sure as heck almighty just showed us all how not to do it!"

The woman scrambled to scoop up the can, then stood. 

I—I’m sorry, I—

You bet your damn bippy you should be sorry! He cut her short. And I’m sorry, too, for hiring someone as clumsy and unprofessional as you, you incoherent, bumbling brat! He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, then shoved her into my direction. Now, get off my stage and go back to cosmetology community college!

I had to hop up and scoot back with my chair as she came bounding toward me, tripping over her own two feet. Luckily, though, I guess, she merely stumbled past me, just grazing my shoulder with her cold hairspray can. 

"Now, Emma..." he went on. 

I stood, frozen, with my hands holding my chair’s armrests to keep it from tipping back behind me, and looked up at him with two wide eyes. 

"I thought your name was Dr. Chill for, you know... I began. Uh, a reason."

Oh, it is. He smiled, clapping his hands together. Which is why, Emma, I wanted to check in on you; make sure you’re... He paused, then leaned forward a tad. "Remembering your role, here..."

I lowered my brows, then dropped the chair I held onto its four stubby legs. 

My—

"Now, that line about that one being a witch— He stopped me by pointing over his shoulder at Miranda, who creaked her butt side to side in her seat. That was pretty great, yeah. He chuckled. But this next part might get kind of tough on you, what with your mom and all... He pressed his palms together in front of his nose. It might get emotional, and that’s okay, because, at the end of the day, we really are here to help you... He nodded, then flattened his hands against his tie. Literally, though, just at the end of the day, once we get off set and all. He pointed one finger up. So, until then, remember that you’ve just got one job."

He stepped back.

Ten seconds! someone behind me yelled out. 

"Which, um, is, exactly?" I asked of Dr. Chill.

However, the doctor then spun around and flopped back in his chair, and I caught glimpse of one more sweatshirted person tossing a vacant stool matching each of ours on stage right beside Miranda. And then, of course, the screen to my left began to change colors, and I started to hear a distant voice. 

"I’m Chelsea, and Miranda is