Free We’ll Always Have Parrots by Donna Andrews

traumatized for life,” Mother said.
    Or perhaps the experience might teach him the folly of idolizing people on silly TV shows.
    “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
    Mother hesitated.
    “I was about to say get her to apologize, but on second thought, I don’t want her in the same room with Eric,” she said. “But someone should tell her exactly what we think of her. I would, but I’m not sure they’d let me anywhere near her again.”
    What had Mother done to make herself persona non grata in the autograph room? I decided I’d rather not know, though chances were I’d hear all about it before the end of the convention. And did she realize what she was asking me to do? Tell Michael’s boss exactly what my family and I thought of her?
    Then again, why not? Odds were the QB couldn’t afford to fire Michael right now. It might be a good thing if she did, for that matter. Right now, at the peak of his popularity with the series, he’d probably find it relatively easy to find other roles. Meatier, more dignified roles that did not require him to prance around in tight leather pants.
    And if not, well, eventually we’d find a house we could afford without the acting income.
    “But first, get her damned autograph on the program,” Mother said.
    “Do you have any idea why she wouldn’t sign it?” I asked.
    “She kept shouting that she didn’t want her signature on the same page as that imposter’s,” Mother said.
    Imposter? I glanced at the page. I only saw signatures from Michael—that looked genuine—and Maggie West. Who, from reading her one-paragraph biography, had played the Duchess of Urushiol, Walker’s on-screen mother, for the first half of season one. I’d only started watching when Michael joined the show, but she looked familiar. Then again, she was an actress; I’d probably seen her in lots of things, if she’d been in the business as long as the QB had. Of course, that didn’t mean whoever signed the program was the real thing. Maybe the convention had invited the wrong Maggie West, too.
    “I’ll straighten it out,” I said.

Chapter 12
    Straighten it out. Good idea. But how?
    Play it by ear, I advised myself. So as I strode toward the Innsmouth Room, where the autograph sessions were held, I let my anger at the QB build up. Not only for what she’d done to Eric, but for everything she’d done to anyone. Everyone. All weekend. Ever since I’d met her. Her whole life.
    I had a good head of steam by the time I reached the autograph room. Outside, I saw convention volunteers turning people away. Blast. I knew that my present mood would severely impair my ability to charm my way past security.
    But no, actually they were recruiting people. Drafting passers-by to stand in line for autographs. And distributing 8×10 black-and-white photos to the draftees.
    Okay, so breaking into line wouldn’t cause a riot.
    I moved along the side of the room. Michael wasn’t there. Probably just as well. But Nate, the scriptwriter, and Walker were. Nate was hovering attentively over the QB. Walker was waiting to take his turn.
    “Hey, Walker,” I said, slipping into place beside him. “Any chance you could sneak me to the head of the line? I want to get an autograph for someone who can’t make it.”
    “You sure you want to?” he said, surprised. “She’s in a lousy mood.”
    “That makes two of us,” I said. “Just do it.”
    He hesitated, no doubt suspecting that I hadn’t suddenly become an avid fan. I nudged him into motion, and then walked beside him to her table. Amazon security ignored us, as I’d anticipated.
    “Meg, how are you?” Nate said.
    Walker retreated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him heading for the other side of the room.
    “Wanted to get Miss Wynncliffe-Jones to sign a program for one of my friends.”
    “I’m sure she’d be happy to,” Nate said.
    He held out his hand for the program, but I didn’t surrender it to him. Or to the QB when the person she