You're so Extra

You’re so Extra Finding You Angela Casella Copyright © 2023 by Angela Casella All rights reserved. Cover design: Cover Design by Jillian Liota, Blue Moon Creative Studio https://www.bluemooncreativestudio.com No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue Sneak peek at You’re so Bad, coming in August! Also by Angela Casella About the Author In researching this book, I worked as an extra in a made-for-TV film. So this one goes out to my extra besties, DeeDee and Lisa. Our feet may never be the same after wearing those shoes for hours in the freezing cold, but we did create some pretty epic backstories for our characters. (I’m looking at you, Lisa-slash-Mildred.) And a shoutout to my daughter, Frances, whose devotion to living a colorful life inspired Delia. Chapter One Delia “This says I’m supposed to wear ‘normal’ clothes, Mira,” I say, reading through the email again on my phone. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to be a movie extra. This is the something wonderful the universe sent me after I wished for it so hard I nearly popped a blood vessel in my eye when I blew out the twenty-nine candles on my birthday cake a couple of months ago. I would pretty please with a cherry on top like to not screw it up on the first day. “What does ‘normal’ mean?” She snorts and gives me a once-over from behind her bar, taking in my skirt with its design of little cats printed over a background of the universe. “Not what you’re wearing.” “I like this skirt.” “So do I,” my sister tells me, “but it’s not what someone else would classify as ‘normal.’ A T-shirt and jeans. A dress without five thousand colors. That’s probably what they’re getting at.” I sit at one of the stools in front of her. Her cocktail bar, Glitterati, just closed down, all of the tourists and locals in Asheville gone home for the night, so she has a few minutes to spare for my existential crisis. “I’m nervous about this.” She stops wiping the counter, slapping the lavender-colored towel down. We Evans girls have always liked color. Mira jokes that if you cut us open, you’d find twenty different shades of blood inside. Her bar is an expression of that, of us—full of glitter and color and fun, from the décor, which I helped with, to the drinks—and no one in our family is the least bit surprised by its success. She was born for this. I, apparently, was born to walk dogs, pretend I’m a mermaid at children’s events, and run errands for elderly people. I love what I do, but I’m aware it’s not the kind of life an adult is supposed to have or want. People never hesitate to tell me so. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Delia. You don’t have any lines to memorize. All you have to do is run around and pretend to have conversations with people.” She lifts her eyebrows. “The only problem is you’re not good at blending in.” “That’s a big problem,” I say, tugging on a strand of my long red-orange hair. “You told me the whole point is to blend in.” She laughs, her eyes dancing with it. “And that’s why I made you submit those boring-ass pictures for your application.” “Was it dishonest?” I ask. “I’ll bet Mom would say it was dishonest.” Our mother has a very rigid sense of right and wrong, and unfortunately, I have a tendency to end up in the wrong category more often than not. Mira rolls her eyes. “Our mother thinks too much for her own good. Besides, you’re going to show up wearing boring clothes, so what they don’t know won’t hurt them. You need to look out for yourself.” “I did this, didn’t I?” I ask, pivoting back and forth on the stool because I’m nervous, and heck, it’s also pretty fun. “Your cat-eye makeup is on point today.” “Thank you, and quit changing the subject.” “Do you think he’ll remember me?” She reaches across the bar to grab my shoulder, her grip firm and warm. Her eyes are a warm caramel, the color of our dad’s. Mine are blue in some lights, green in others, and sometimes, or so I’ve been told, nearly as golden as a cat’s. “You’re not easy to forget. I defy anyone to forget you. And, yes, I know you were less…yourself for most of high school, but you still weren’t forgettable.” I don’t like being a naysayer, but I’m not convinced she’s right. If she were right, then she wouldn’t currently be my only friend under the age of sixty. “He’s a movie star now,” I say. “And before you remind me, I know he’s only in made-for-TV movies, but that’s more of a movie star than I’ll ever be.” She smirks at me. “Untrue, sister dearest. You’re there for a week of filming. Seven days over the next month. Maybe more.” She’d know. I’ve made her read the emails multiple times. The first day of filming is tomorrow, Monday. Then Sunday. The following week, it’s Tuesday and Wednesday, then Wednesday and Thursday. “You may not have any lines in the movie, but you’re gonna be all over that screen.” Her eyebrows wing up. “And, if everything goes according to plan, all over him.” I can’t deny it felt