Free Agent to the Stars by John Scalzi Page A

I do,” Tea said.
    â€œTea,” I said. “Two words. ‘Boinking Grandpa.’”
    â€œFuck,” Tea said. “All right.”
    â€œThank you,” I said. “The second thing you’re going to do is trust me. Amanda isn’t much to look at at the moment, but she’s going to devote more of her brain to you than she does to
herself. Work with her. Try to be nice. In the comfort of your own home, you can stab life-sized dolls dressed up to look like her, for all I care. But give her something to work with. Understand ?”
    â€œFine,” Tea said. She was hating this.
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Off you go, then.”
    â€œWhat, you want me to apologize now?” She was genuinely shocked.
    â€œNo time like the present, Tea. She’s in the building, you’re in the building. It’s more convenient that way.”
    Tea got up, gave me one last glare, and exited the office, slamming the door on the way out. I sat there for a good fifteen seconds, and let out a tremendous whoop, and began spinning my desk chair around.
    Miranda came into the office. She had something in her hand. “Tea left looking like she was going to implode, Tom. You must have done a number on her.”
    â€œOh my God ,” I said, stopping the spin cycle. I felt pleasantly dizzy. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years . You have no idea how good that felt.”
    â€œSure I do,” Miranda said. “You left the speakerphone on.”
    She extended her hand to me. In it was a digital voice recorder.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I asked.
    â€œA memento of your special Tea time,” Miranda said. “Sorry. I just couldn’t resist.”
    Â 
    Michelle speared a sliver of chicken from her salad. “I’m thinking of dyeing my hair,” she said, and popped the chicken in her mouth.

    â€œBlue hair only looks good on Marge Simpson, Michelle,” I said.
    She wiggled her hand at me. “Ha ha, funny guy. No, I’m going to dye it brown. You know, for the part.”
    â€œWhat part are we talking about, if I may ask?” I said.
    â€œHard Memories,” Michelle said.
    Now I knew why I was sitting inside the Mondo Chicken in Tarzana. Michelle and I had met there years ago, when she was a waitress named Shelly, looking for an agent, and I was a newly minted agent looking to get laid. She turned out to be the more determined one; I never did have sex with Michelle, but she got me as an agent. She took it as a lucky omen (the getting the agent part, not the part about not having sex with me); since then, any time Michelle had a special occasion to mark or an announcement to make to me, she did it at Mondo Chicken.
    So far it had included six movie decisions, one double funeral when her parents died in a car accident, three engagements (and subsequent breakups), two religious epiphanies, and one pet euthanization. There were a lot of memories between us, packed into one moderately overpriced eatery in the Valley. The fact that Michelle decided to tell me about wanting Hard Memories here was a very bad sign. It meant that she was determined, and that there was going to be little I could do to change her mind.
    But, of course, I had to try. “ Hard Memories is already taken, Michelle,” I said. “Ellen Merlow’s been signed for the part.”
    â€œNot yet,” she said. “I called. It’s only an oral agreement. I think I can make them change their minds.”
    â€œBy dyeing your hair?”

    â€œFor a start,” Michelle said. “I mean, it would at least signal that I’m serious. And if I look more like the part, maybe they can see me in the role. Brown hair would change my entire look.” She stabbed at her salad again.
    I set down my own fork and massaged the bridge of my nose. “Michelle,” I said. “If you had brown hair, you still wouldn’t look a forty-year-old Eastern