Project 17 (Asya FF) Page 76 - Page 42

IMRAN IS AN absolute idiot.

And so is Tanveer.

The whole thing was a joke—the broken glass in his hand, the bleeding, the giggling, the whole Stay-away-Tanveer's-on-the-floor garbage.

Garbage.

Have I mentioned how much I absolutely hate B-rated actors?

And the truly bizarro part? Tanveer was in on it. Yeah, that's right. Little Miss Have-Some-Respect-for-the-Spirits-that-Linger herself.

So. Unbelievably. Lame.

Asad's about to blow. Honestly, if I didn't know better, it'd be like one of those cartoons where the top of the guy's head pops off and flames burst out. He's that mad.

"It was just a joke," Imran says, standing up. He wipes the fake blood off his hand with a rag. "I bought this stuff last Halloween. Thought I'd bring it along for the occasion. It looks pretty real, doesn't it?"

"Such an idiot," I say.

At the same moment, Tanveer opens the hallway door and pokes her head out, proving that she's completely unharmed. "It was his idea." She grins. "I don't know why I agreed to it."

"I don't know, either," Asad says, his jaw visibly clenched.

"You're not going to like, kick the shit out of me or anything, are you?" Imran asks, still wiping the faux blood from his hands.

"At least you can use the footage for the Bloopers section of the DVD," Ayaan offers. "But next time, I'd recommend using corn syrup for the blood rather than that ketchupy substance. It's more authentic looking on film."

"A good point," Imran says. "About the whole bloopers thing, I mean. We could sandwich the scene right between the commentary section and the making-the-movie extras."

"You're an a**hole," Asad barks.

"Come on, man." Imran holds his bloody hand out for a shake. "Let's make up and be friends."

He tilts his head and makes a frowny face, still having fun with this.

"You're an a**hole," Asad repeats.

"Lay off," Tanveer says. "It was my fault, too."

"We just got a little bored upstairs," Imran continues. "We wanted to go exploring, and you guys seemed a little intense up there."

"Did you not hear me when I said that we should stick together?" Asad asks. He balls his hand into a fist by his side.

"Did you see Ayaan and Humaira?" Imran asks. "They were sticking together enough for all of us."

"It was just a joke," Tanveer reminds us. "You don't have to get your panties all in a wedge."

"It was a stupid joke," I say, working myself into the drama. I stand "center stage," angling my left profile toward the camera, since it shows off my burlesque mole. "Some of us are trying to make a quality film, here. We don't need a bunch of wannabes screwing it up."

"Touch," Ayaan says, trying to steal my thunder. He grabs my hand and pulls me away from the camera just so he can take my place.

"Bug off," I snap, completely peeved with his lack of dramatic timing.

"Let's go," Asad says.

"Not until you check this room out." Tanveer nods toward the door she came out of.

Asad follows her in, making sure to film the sign printed on the door: ART THERAPY. I end up following along too, trying to work my way back in front of the camera. Only, once we get inside, Asad turns the other way, filming some majorly lame-o cow mural—all peeling now. I let out a sigh, tired of having to fight for the scenes I get. It's just like what happens in drama class. Even though I'm the most qualified, Mrs. Duncan will almost always pick someone else to play the lead roles. She says I try too hard and that's my downfall. But frankly, I'm sick of trying at all. Even whiney, pathetic Zoya gets more camera time than me. What, do I need to blubber all over the place? Will that get me noticed? I shoot her my most creepified look— squinty eyes and biting teeth—to spook her out. But it only makes her suck up to Asad more. The girl is total casting-couch material.

"I read online somewhere that they used to make the patients do art as part of their therapy," Asad explains, moving to the other side of the room to film more acrylic-paint hell—like patient artwork is more interesting than a live-action scene.

"What do you think of filming a scene with me creating something?" I ask. "We could simulate what it was like to work in here; I could act like I'm making a collage."

"Maybe later," Asad says, all but ignoring me—no different, I suppose, than Mrs. Duncan himself.

I'm so glad I agreed to be a part of this stellar indie film. Not!