Chapter 1 : Part 1

Catch a Rising Star: A Novel
by Tracey Bateman

When thirty-something Tabby Brockman has the opportunity to reclaim her role as a killed-off character on the nation's #1 daytime soap opera, she figures this must be God's reward. But back on the set, she's faced with the same hateful head writer who killed off her character in the first place, kids who drive her crazy, a stage dad who rubs her completely wrong, and and an unwanted boyfriend who can?t seem to get the message.

Faced with this dizzying rollercoaster of challenges, Tabby has to wonder: is she finally a star on the rise or just on the brink of another spectacular fall?

Chapter 1

A girl should always count the cost before diving into blind dates, suspicious-looking sushi, and/or rabbit suits.

Especially rabbit suits. Well, especially weird sushi, but the rabbit suit is an incredibly close second. Case in point: at the moment I'm squirming around in itchy fur and sporting long, black whiskers that twitch when I talk and tickle my nose like crazy. Plus I think I feel a sneeze coming on.

My inner voice warned me, "Call in sick," and I completely ignored it because, you know, a girl has to make a living. Although, I should point out that some jobs are better than others. A great job, for instance, is a starring role in a highly ranked daytime drama. That is, until a person gets unjustly canned - like a poor dolphin - for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But, oh well. I'm over it. You know . . . mostly.

Which brings me to the opposite of a great job - dressing up like a rabbit and getting ready to read to all the kids lining up outside the bookstore's children's section, for instance. Yep, there must be a hundred of them (or maybe twenty or so) just waiting for a big furry bunny - a.k.a., me - to thrill them with a stunning tale from the Beatrix Potter collection.

I'm trying to psych myself up for the ordeal, but honestly? All I want to do is run away from the impending and inevitable humiliation. I stare at my muted reflection in the glass display window. The case holds a first edition copy of Charlotte's Web and a few photos of my manager, Mary, standing next to various famous authors like John Grisham and Stephen King. I usually pause for a moment of respect when I pass the case, but right now I can't concentrate on anything but the need to get out of this suit. Gee whiz, if real rabbits itch this bad, it's no wonder they're always hopping.

I yank on the fur at my neck and rake my paws across my collarbones, hoping for relief. I mean, sure, I make an adorable bunny. But that's not the point. This thing is murder.

Teresa Shewmate, our resident - and self-appointed - room mother, slides across the floor with all the grace of a ballroom dancer. If I'm not mistaken, she's got donuts in that bag. My donut radar rarely fails. And it truly has nothing to do with the fact that she brings Krispy Kremes every Saturday.

"Morning!" she says a lot more cheerily than anyone has a right to on Saturday morning when her friend is wearing a suit like this one. But Teresa's such a nice lady, I instantly smile.

She raises the bags. "Food!"

My stomach responds like Pavlov's dog and lets out a growl. Due to a faulty alarm clock, I had no time for breakfast, so I'm starving and I can't fight the magnetic pull of all those carbs. True, the treats are technically for the kids. But, I ask you, do they really need all the sugar? And besides, a nibble or two isn't going to hurt me and as a matter of fact might actually help the situation. I mean maybe if I feed my brain . . . Plus, I think I deserve a bit of chocolate since I'm stuck in the itchy suit from you-know-where.

I know I probably shouldn't complain. Acting is my life, is it not? So, I can act like I'm having a good time. True, I didn't attend NYU as a drama major with the lofty ambition of playing a bookstore reading bunny, but you know . . . it's a living. And there's something about wearing a bunny suit that sort of reminds me of my dad.

I can't help but smile at the thought. Dad has called me bunny since the day I made my first appearance in this world. He says it's because he was fixated on my pink ears when I was a baby. Mom says it's because of the way my nose scrunched up right before I let out a loud wail. Whatever the reason, I have a soft spot for the animals. And for Dad.

The cow suit, on the other hand, was a completely different story. There are no fuzzy memories, nor is there a smidgen of affection associated with the thought of wearing that humiliating thing. Mary tried to get me to wear it last week, and I was forced to put my foot down. No way was I sliding into that thing and parading around in front of a room full of kids. The big pink udder was downright indecent, if you ask me, and not entirely appropriate for children.

Oh, brother. This darned suit is really starting to get on my nerves and, oh, please help me, Lord, is something crawling up my leg?

The curse of having a creative mind is that . . . well, it doesn't take much for your imagination to run away with you. In my mind's eye, I see little spider legs inching along my skin. The itsy bitsy spider . . . Stop it, Tabby.

Teresa taps me on the shoulder, effectively pulling me out of my arachnophobic panic. "What's wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" I fire back, slipping one hand out of my paw and snatching a treat from the box.

Teresa gives me her slightly crooked smile and opens the box of donuts.

"You're squirming like a three-year-old waiting for the potty."

© Tracey Bateman, 2007

About the Author

Tracey Bateman is a slightly neurotic mother of four, wife of one, and owner of three dogs, two blue bloods and one mutt (the mutt is the only one who will come to her when called). Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream, and frantic late night Instant message chats with friends, who are only slightly less neurotic, keep her moving forward when deadlines loom and insanity is nipping at the heels of her mind. When not franticly pressing toward deadlines, Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream and frantic late night instant message chats with pals give her inspiration for the next project. Being president of American Christian Fiction Writers gives her the chance to give back to a community of writers who have helped shape her career and her writing style.