Chapter 1 : Part 3

Catch a Rising Star: A Novel
by Tracey Bateman

(Page 3 of 5)

Her frown deepens, and she walks away, shaking her gray head. That woman has no sense of humor. I swear. Hello? I'm a rabbit. I say "doc." That was worth a little bit of a smile. But no such luck. I just can't win.

"Forget her," Teresa says. "The woman's made of stone."

"Tell me about it," I mumble, eyeing the donuts and seriously considering snagging another one.

But it's too late. Teresa nods toward the door. "Here they come."

Deep breath. Happy place. Find the happy place.

But it really is hard to find that place when Janice and Kristin keep smirking. And they both seem to get a kick out of the fact that I was once a glitzy red-carpet-goer, and now I'm reduced to this.

Okay, I can rise above this even with a slight touch of donut-induced heartburn. Just my luck.

"Children," Mary says, putting on that happy face I know is totally for the sake of all the mothers in the room who will most likely leave the store in an hour carrying a bag of books - including the one we're about to read. The smile to launch a thousand dings of the register. "Give a big hand to Peter Cottontail."

This is it, Tabby. You're on. Time to get into character. Discover the bunny. Be the bunny.

I am the bunny.

"Hello, children," I say in my perky rabbit voice. I throw in a couple of hops just to make the character more real. "Who wants to hear the story of Peter Cottontail?"

A rather unenthusiastic whoop goes up into the air. I have to say their lack of exhilaration doesn't do much for my bunny confidence.

"Oh, come on," I prod. "Peter Cottontail? I'll tell you all about how I - you know - " What did Peter do? Get thrown into a briar patch? Turn left at Albuquerque? Wait! He lost a mitten. Shoot, no that was the kitten, wasn't it?

"You can't be Peter Cottontail."

In the midst of my brain-wracking, I look down until I find the source of the first annoying comment of the day. Less than a minute into the story hour. That's got to be a record. The little girl has blue eyes, curly blond hair. Honest, she looks like a child actress. But she's not acting very sweet, I must say.

I draw in a long, steadying breath. Perky. Stay perky.

I give another couple of hops. "Of course I am."

"No, you're not." She puts her chubby little hands on her chubby little hips. Clearly a challenge.

My teeth grind. I feel myself sliding to a bad place here. But wait. I mustn't argue with the children. I replay Mary's words from the last time I entered into a "discussion" with someone under nine. "One more time and we're going to have to let you go." True, this isn't much of a job. But it gives me the hours I need and pays - well, pretty poorly, but it does pay. I force a smile. "What makes you think I'm not Peter Cottontail?"

"You're a girl," she says matter-of-factly and with all the wisdom of a know-it-all twerp. "Peter Cottontail is a boy."

I look down my black bunny nose at her and focus on being condescending - one of my better acting traits if I do say so myself. "Maybe I'm in touch with my feminine side. Ever think of that?" Oh, I probably shouldn't have gone there. I glance guiltily around and kids are staring, maybe a little fearful of the crazed bunny.

The hideous child folds her arms across her chest and gives me a smug stare down. "You're still a girl. And you don't even know the story of Peter Rabbit."

"Yes I do. I just don't want to brag."

Okay, that was bad even for me. The kid gives me a know-it-all sneer. Suddenly I realize who she reminds me of. "Didn't you play the little girl in Interview with the Vampire? You know, the one who gets burned up in the sunlight while clinging to her mother-figure?" The little bloodsucker.

© 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.