Page 2 of Wandering Wild

I frown, since that much is obvious.

But then he continues, “And we only have two weeks to do it.”

My heart skips a beat. “Twoweeks?”

Gabe nods, then places his coffee on the small table between us, swapping it for his tablet. “Val tried appealing to the producers while you were away?—”

He makes it sound as if I took a vacation, not like I was fulfilling my court-ordered rehab and community service hours—both of which were a slap on the wrist compared to what they could have been.

“—but they’re eager to get the cameras rolling, which means if they have to recast, they needed to do it yesterday. A fortnight was the best she could manage, but she also warned that you’re going to have to pull off a near miracle to convince them to keep you on.”

I lean forward and rub a hand over my face. Valentina Martínez—the director ofTitan’s War—is one of my biggest advocates, and also one of the reasons why I won the lead in what is already being hailed by the media as a “movie of the decade” despite it only being in pre-production. Val doesn’t care about gossip; she cares only about her creative vision. Apparently, she took one look at my audition and demanded that the casting director have me return for a chemistry read with the female romantic lead. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was the only actor who Val personally requested for a callback. She envisioned me as Titan Wolfe from the beginning. If I end up losing the role, she’ll be almost as devastated as me.

But only almost.

“Did they offer any suggestions for how I can... prove myself?” I ask Gabe, stumbling over the words. How can I show that I’m not the person they think I am, when the entire world believes it to be true?

“Nothing specific,” he answers, swiping at his tablet. “But Val and I spoke at length about this and, well...” He taps the screen, before looking up at me again. “She has an idea.”

At his prompting, I glance toward the side of his office where a television is mounted to the wall, the screensaver showing rolling waves breaking onto a sandy shore. Another tap of Gabe’s finger and the waves are replaced by footage of a young teenager seated on a blue couch, laughing at something his interviewer is saying. The sound is muted, but I remember that day like it was yesterday.

The boy is me, four years ago, on the press tour promoting the secondLost Heirsmovie. I’d just turned fourteen and, thanks to the success of the first film, all the major talk shows around the world had invited me in, mostly as an individual but sometimes with my castmates.

My gaze remains locked on the television as the interview continues playing. I find it hard to believe how innocent I seemed back then. How...wholesome. It’s strange watching myself; I almost have to think of the person on the screen as someone else. As a kid who wins the audience with a flick of his unusual silver hair and a well-timed wink of his startlingly blue eyes, aimed straight at the camera. I nearly snort at his attempts to charm the viewers, but I manage to resist. Partly because I’m aware of Gabe’s intense focus on me, and partly because I’m too busy beating back all the emotions that are vying for my attention. It doesn’t make sense that I’m envious ofmyself, but that’s my predominant feeling right now.

“We need to get you back to that,” Gabe says quietly. “Or an older, more seasoned version of it.” He pauses the footage on my fourteen-year-old self grinning brightly enough to melt hearts all over the globe. “We need to recapture that human side of you. The innocence, the sincerity, the inherent goodness that made people fall in love with you. That’s what we have to show everyone—we want them to seeyouagain, not ‘Zander Rune: Hollywood’s Bad Boy.’”

The title has my hackles rising. “I’m not?—”

“Iknow, Zan,” Gabe cuts me off, losing patience. “But it’s not me who you need to convince.”

I blow out an aggravated breath, reminding myself that he’s trying to help. “You said Val has an idea?” I wave to the television screen. “What does this have to do with it?”

Gabe shifts in his seat, a nervous movement that puts me on edge, and then he fast-forwards the footage. He pauses it again when the interviewer reveals a photograph of an even younger version of me, seven years old, standing shin-deep in a bubbling creek and holding a fishing rod. The camera had a timer function, so both my mom and dad made it into the shot, their arms wrapped around me, all three of us beaming.

I school my expression as I turn back to Gabe, knowing he’s watching me carefully. I remember why the interviewer showed this particular photo, just as I remember every word of our conversation that came after it was shared with the world. What I don’t understand is why Gabe has brought it up now.

“I lied before,” he admits. “Technically, it’s my idea, not Val’s. But I did ask for her help since we’re strapped for time and she has the contacts to make it happen. She’s worked with his production team before, so she can cut through the red tape and get things moving before your fortnight is up.”

Gabe stops speaking, as if waiting for my response, but all I can do is repeat, “Hisproduction team?” My confusion is clear. “Whoseteam? And forwhat?”

It takes a moment for Gabe to answer, during which time he sips the dregs of his coffee. “This idea... you’re not going to like it.”

The hesitation in his voice is enough for me to brace, especially when he sighs, long and loud, before continuing, “You’re too talented as an actor for the studio—and the public—not to question if you’re just faking your way back into their good graces, so that means we need someone else to bring out the ‘you’ they want to see. Someone who will remind them that you’re still the same boy who made the world fall to its knees, and that your recent notoriety is nothing more than a passing blip. Someone who will help prove you’re still worth their investment and adoration.”

Every muscle in my body is tense. “When you say ‘someone,’ what does that mean?” I recall his mention of a production team and warily ask, “Who else have you suckered into this plan to redeem my image?”

Gabe’s response is to offer a slow grin that sets off warning bells. “That’s the brilliance of my idea.” He begins tapping at his tablet again. “No one can say we rigged it, because no one will be ‘suckered in’ unless they choose to be. And as long as you keep your head together and offer your best manners for a few days, you’ll be in the clear just in time for your end-of-fortnight deadline.”

I’m more confused than ever, but at Gabe’s look, I smother my questions and wait for him to explain. He doesn’t use the main television to share from his tablet this time, keeping the photo from my family’s one and only camping trip on the screen. I should have realized it was a forewarning, Gabe’s way of softening the blow of what he was about to reveal, but there was no way I could have anticipated that it was his inspiration for saving my career. Instead, comprehension hits me like a freight train when he flips his tablet around so it’s facing me.

My eyes travel over the drafted media announcement, and all I can do is utter a quiet expletive, knowing Gabe is right on two counts:

His ideaisbrilliant.

And I absolutely hate it.

The soulful lyrics of Randy Newman’s “You’ve Got a Friend in Me”wake me from the dead of sleep, the chorus growing incessantly louder until I roll over and fumble around on my bedside table for my phone. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who’s calling—that ringtone is only allocated to one person.

---