9781405968881

‘A whole lot of bloody fun’

C. J. Tudor

Will she survive the chop?

HEADS WILL ROLL

Josh Winning is the critically acclaimed author of Burn the Negative, which was long-listed for a Bram Stoker Award, Heads Will Roll and The Shadow Glass. He is a senior film writer at Radio Times and has written for Total Film, Gay Times and Den of Geek During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on The Walking Dead and sat on the Iron Throne on the set of Game of Thrones. Josh lives in Suffolk with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell ‘Goddammit!’ at him.

ALSO BY JOSH WINNING

Burn the Negative

The Shadow Glass

HEADS WILL ROLL JOSH WINNING HEADS WILL ROLL JOSH WINNING

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You are who you are. The only trick is not getting caught.

—Graham, But I’m a Cheerleader (1999)

HEADS WILL ROLL

Replies to a tweet posted by @ThatGurlWillow three weeks ago

@ThatGurlWillow Oh wow, girl, is this meant to be funny? You better check your sense of humor because this shit doesn’t ﬂy.

@ThatGurlWillow Let me tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go down to my tool shed. I’m gonna sharpen the biggest machete I own. And then I’m gonna slice a bitch up. That bitch? Take a wild fucken guess.

@ThatGurlWillow Canceled!

White Plains twenty minutes ago, driving in a black Beamer that smells like bleached lemongrass, and the road has showed no sign of letting up. It keeps going, like the winding Montana travelogue at the start of The Shining , tunneling endlessly into the forest dark of upstate New York.

The gloom is comforting, though. It feels womblike. Protective. Nobody can reach me here. Nobody can take my picture or yell at me in the street or slide into my DMs to tell me real quick just how they’re going to take me apart, piece by dripping piece.

I’m breathless with anticipation.

I need this.

I’m so ready to disappear.

Soon, okay? Willow says in my mind. Soon you’ll be free.

The car hits a bump and I only just keep hold of my phone.

“Sorry, ma’am,” says the driver—forties, jowly and bushy browed. “Only one road in and out of this place, and it looks like they haven’t resurfaced since the millennium.”

“Which millennium?” I ask. My voice is as cracked as the skin around my nostrils, but still he laughs.

Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I try not to shrink from his gaze, imagining what he must see. My Lululemon cardigan hangs off me, foraged from the bedroom ﬂoor this morning, and my white jeans are stained with the wine that I spilled last night while rushing to switch off the news. My shoulder-length auburn hair is scraped back from my face, tied in a messy bun.

I haven’t slept in three weeks.

My eyes hurt.

They beg to close.

“You’re on TV, right?” the driver says, and I ﬂ inch. Damn. I shouldn’t have engaged. I want to revel in the silence as we travel farther from reality’s reach. Besides, I’m afraid what I might say. My mouth has never been my friend.

“That show,” the driver says. “The one about the girl.”

I could pretend I’m getting a call—I’ve acted with fake phones enough to know I could pull it off — but the lie feels too big. He must have noticed that my cell hasn’t made a sound since the airport.

“Willow,” I say.

“That’s it! We Love Willow ! My daughter can’t get enough of you.”

A moth ﬂutters in my chest, beating a fragile kind of hope. I can’t help leaning forward in my seat.

“She’s a fan?”

“Yeah, she was so into you,” the driver says. “She had a poster on her wall. It got ripped or something a couple weeks ago, though. Teenagers, right?”

The moth crumples. I sit back, energy draining from my limbs.

“Right,” I murmur. “Teenagers.”

We Love Willow wasn’t a teen show, but it was popular with the sixteen-to-twenty-four demographic. It hit that sweet spot between youthful optimism and knowing realism. Despite a shaky fi rst year in which we struggled to fi nd our audience, the show’s title proved accurate by season three: everybody loved Willow McKenzie, the klutzy midtwenties New Yorker who was perpetually broke, single, and jobless but attacked every challenge with can- do enthusiasm, helped by her childhood imaginary friend, Eliza.

I loved Willow, too. I loved being that version of myself. Upbeat, smiley, and open. Most of all, I loved what she gave me. Not just steady work and fi nancial security for the fi rst time in my life, but a best friend in the shape of my co-star, Jenna. We became inseparable within a couple weeks of fi lming, real-life roommates by the time season one wrapped. We lived together for two years, until my fiancé, Matt, convinced me to move into his Santa Monica beach house.

In so many ways, Willow made me a better person.

But now she’s gone. The show’s canceled. All because I can’t keep my mouth shut.

In so many ways, Willow made me a better person. But now she’s gone. The show’s canceled. All because I can’t keep my mouth shut.

I check to see if the driver’s still looking at me, and I’m relieved that his focus is back on the road. Still, the fact that he recognized me is unnerving. I should have made more of an effort to change my appearance. Dyed my hair and got a home tan kit. I haven’t exactly been thinking clearly, though, and tomorrow never seemed certain. Suddenly I feel as exposed as a raw nerve.

There must be something in my carryall. I root around inside it, dragging out clothes, sandals, and books. I tug out a gray bucket hat that I don’t remember packing. It’s ugly and shapeless and perfect. I put it on, pulling it over my auburn hair as far down as it’ll go. My reading glasses are oversized and ridiculous, an impulse buy that I never wear in public. Also perfect.

Adding these layers makes me feel stronger. Less exposed. If you’ve got no place to hide, hide in plain sight.

“There’s the sign,” the driver says, and I look up, just as a wooden placard passes the window, too fast for me to read. “Couple miles left. What is this place, anyway? Some kind of summer camp for adults?”

“Something like that,” I say.

He looks at me a moment too long in the mirror.

Even after three weeks, it turns out I still care what people think. Every hate-fueled headline has left a bruise, so many of them that it hurts to breathe sometimes, and a part of me still can’t believe that the terrible things people said were about me.

The scariest thing is how quickly it all fell apart.

The day after tweetageddon, Matt ﬂew to New Mexico to shoot location work on his show, Crime: L.A. Nights, and he told me I should be gone by the time he got home. I’m still wearing the engagement ring, can’t bring myself to take it off. Jenna was there for me for five days, brought me donuts and takeout while I ranted and dry-heaved, and then she ghosted me when it seemed she’d get canceled herself simply for associating with me.

I found myself alone in a house I’d always hated. I never understood why a couple in their twenties needed six bathrooms.

Dark thoughts crept in like rising damp.

Sitting in the back of the BMW, I feel the churn again in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t tell if I’m going to throw up or cry.

The tweet was meant to be a joke. I didn’t want to offend anybody. I was living in my cozy little Willow bubble, safe in the knowledge that I was loved and understood. That people knew me. They’d get what I was saying.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I force an inhale and remind myself where I’m headed. Into the calming arms of nature.

As I start to repack my carryall, I notice the tattered color pamphlet sticking out of it. The paper is as thin as silk, but it’s all I have. There’s no website for Camp Castaway. No Twitter account. No online footprint to speak of. That’s sort of their deal.

“This place is so underground, Jason Bourne couldn’t fi nd you,” my agent said as she handed me the literature two days ago, right after she found me lying facedown in the pool.

I don’t remember how I got there. There was a cut on my forehead. I must have fallen and hit my head, then ended up in the water. The empty bottles on the counter were proof enough that I’d been drinking at four in the afternoon. It was sheer luck that my agent had decided to drop by with a care package and found me ﬂoating.

Even my lowest moment is a BoJack Horseman meme.

When the paramedics were gone, I sat at Matt’s breakfast bar with its Victoria Arduino coffee machine and its Vitamix 5200, realizing that nothing in the kitchen was mine—nothing in the whole goddamn house— and clutched hold of the Camp Castaway pamphlet like a lottery ticket before the numbers are called.

The photographs of the forest are soothing. The cute little

9

rough-hewn cabins look joyful in their simplicity. A woman laughs in a carefree way that makes my body ache. There’s a map on the back— a rudimentary sketch of the lake, which is shaped like a kidney, squeezed in the middle. It talks about hiking, yoga, and games. It talks about disconnecting in order to reconnect, and right at the bottom there’s the biggie, the single line that sealed the deal: You will be invited to hand over all electronic devices at check-in for a total digital time- out.

Sign me up, buttercup.

Because this is the thing. Camp Castaway isn’t just a port in a storm—it’s a lifeline. A retreat in the truest sense of the word. I’m already jobless after being fi red from the show, and now I’m homeless, too, thanks to Matt. After tweetageddon, the studio took back a lot of the money I had left, cited breach of contract, and I used up the last of my rainy- day savings on Camp Castaway. Five thousand big ones for two weeks of isolation.

I reach under the brim of the bucket hat and touch the slowhealing scab on my forehead.

I reach under the brim of the bucket hat and touch the slowhealing scab on my forehead. It was an easy decision.

It was an easy decision.

I knew that if I didn’t get away, I wouldn’t make it through another rainy day.

Ping.

My phone vibrates in my lap, and I jump. I changed my number two days ago and my cell has been pretty much dead ever since. That hasn’t stopped me from clinging to it like a junkie, praying somebody will reach out.

Ping. Ping.

I fumble with my phone, heart beating fast. It could be a text from Jenna. It could be Matt. It could be—

A number I don’t recognize.

I frown, hunching over my phone, opening WhatsApp.

As I read the messages, I stop breathing. I feel the trees crowding

HEADS WILL ROLL

in through the windows. They whisper and press against my face, pushing branches into my mouth, and it’s suddenly too quiet in here.

Too unbearably quiet, aside from the thud of blood in my temples.

Nice try, but you’ll have to do more than that to get rid of me.

You’re going to beg to die.

See you soon, Red.

HHey there, you’re early,” the man says, smiling as he approaches the car. He has olive skin and is mid-twenties, wearing a light green shirt and cutoff jeans. His black hair is buzzed short, and his dark eyes are sharp but friendly.

ey there, you’re early,” the man says, smiling as he approaches the car. He has olive skin and is mid-twenties, wearing a light green shirt and cutoff jeans. His black hair is buzzed short, and his dark eyes are sharp but friendly.

I’m not sure how I managed to stand, but somehow, I’m out of my seat. One hand rests on the car door, the other presses my stomach. The scent of pine and dirt fi lls my nostrils.

“I heard there was an early-bird special,” I say. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong.” The lame attempt at a joke works. The man laughs and shakes my hand, doesn’t appear to notice I’m quietly freaking out.

“I’m Tye, camp groundskeeper. Great to meet you.”

The human contact is a shock. Nobody’s touched me since my agent dragged me out of the pool. Warmth ﬂoods my face, but I feel protected by the oversize glasses and the bucket hat. Eat your alien heart out, Clark Kent.

“Bebe apologizes for not being here to greet you herself,” Tye says. “She’s preparing for the party. But you’ll meet her there. You’ll meet everybody.”

“Can’t wait,” I say, remembering that Bebe is the “Camp Mom” who’s in charge of the place.

As much as I try to focus on Tye, I’m distracted by the knowledge that some threat-happy psycho has my new number. It’s not the fi rst death threat I’ve received. In the days following tweetageddon, my

DMs fi lled up with graphic rants. My email and old cell number leaked online, and I watched as my safe spaces were swallowed up one by one. The majority of the messages were unrelated to the content of my tweet. People just wanted somebody to hate.

And now one of them has my new number.

I could report it to the police, but I can’t risk the chance that they’ll tell me to cancel my trip. I can’t go back. I can’t go home, and not just because there’s no home to go back to.

“I’ll grab those.” Tye takes my suitcase and carryall from the driver.

“It’s chill,” I say. “I’m used to handling my own baggage—travel and otherwise.”

Tye looks at me like I’m a college friend on vacation. “Please, let me. We’re going to look after you here.”

The kindness in his tone makes me tremble. Either my disguise is working or he’s an even better actor than anybody I’ve ever worked with. There’s no hint that he recognizes me from TV or the internet. Maybe even the staff here are off the grid.

I follow Tye to the wooden building nestled amid the trees. It resembles a ski lodge, part timber, part glass, with a peaked roof that points at an immaculate blue sky. As we climb the steps, I hear birds calling to each other, the faraway sound of laughter, and the hire car reversing out of the lot, leaving me behind.

Even here in the small clearing fringed by trees, I’m struck by the sense of space. The roominess of the great outdoors. The trees reach up, up, up into a limitless sky. I’m so accustomed to the congestion of L.A., the constant battle for air, it’s easy to forget that L.A. isn’t normal. It’s a choice.

I take in my new surroundings and understand that this is it.

Civilization ends here.

I can’t wait to get farther into the camp.

To forget and be forgotten.

“Have you been anywhere like this before?” Tye asks.

I ﬂ inch, try to focus.

“No. Well, we did summer camp as kids. But nothing this intense.”

“Don’t worry, Camp Castaway is the opposite of intense. You won’t want to leave.” He’s such a picture of vitality that I become painfully aware of how I must look. I tug at my cardigan, feeling hot and awkward.

He opens the door into a small porch. A bank of sage green lockers fi lls one wall, and through the glass of the next door I see a large foyer where a woman lounges on one of three super-size sofas. We stand in the porch, which seems airless now that the door has closed, and I’m aware of how close we’re standing, me and this gorgeous stranger, crammed into the liminal space between outside and inside.

“Have you settled on a name?” Tye asks.

“A name?”

“Sure, a camp name. We don’t use our birth names here. It’s all part of disconnecting from our lives.”

A name. My mind’s blank. I stare at the lockers, unable to think of a single name other than my own, and I wish I’d paid more attention to the prep letter sent in the lead-up to my stay.

You had a lot going on, Willow says in my mind, right as I become so aware of Tye’s gaze that I feel my mouth opening, blood thumping in my temples as I blurt out, “Willow.”

Shit.

Did I say that?

You sure did , Willow says, and I almost laugh. I’m trying to go incognito and the only name I can come up with is my famous-as-hell sitcom character?

I want to take the name back, but Tye’s face lights up.

“I like it. I don’t think we’ve ever had a Willow here. One fi nal thing. We’ll need you to deposit that in a locker.”

I look down. I hadn’t realized I was holding my phone. It presses into my stomach, warm against me. My gaze goes to the lockers, half a dozen of which are keyless, must already be in use. That means half a dozen campers. Half a dozen people who could hate me on sight.

I look down. I hadn’t realized I was holding my phone. It presses into my stomach, warm against me. My gaze goes to the lockers, half a dozen of which are keyless, must already be in use. That means half a dozen campers. Half a dozen people who could hate me on sight. My gaze goes back to the foyer, seeing the woman on the sofa.

My gaze goes back to the foyer, seeing the woman on the sofa.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m out of my mind. The one drawback of Camp Castaway is that there will be other campers. My breathing shallows as I wonder how many there are, what their deal is, if they’ve ever watched We Love Willow. If they’ll make the connection when I introduce myself using my not-at-all-moronic camp name.

“Don’t worry,” Tye says, “the keys are stored in a secure location. You’ll get your phone back on checkout—if you want it, that is.”

“There are people who don’t take their phones back?” I ask.

“Quite a few, actually. This place is magic like that. Here, you can take any locker you like.”

My phone shows the sky.

I didn’t think it would be this diﬃcult.

No contact with the outside world for fourteen days.

No email. No social media.

No cataloging every minute of the day.

No strangers judging me.

No guilt.

Nobody threatening to kill me.

Telling me what they’re going to do with my torn- out heart.

I open the nearest locker and set my phone inside.

“So long, sucker,” I say, trying for bravado, but my voice is uncertain. Strained. I turn the key, which is attached to a polished bronze disk engraved with the number seven.

Tye takes the key and tucks it into his back pocket, and the

moment the cool metal leaves my grasp, I feel a lightness in my body that is so powerful, it makes me dizzy. I laugh. Loud, surprised, and relieved. A tingle shivers down the backs of my arms. A huge tumbling avalanche of relief.

My phone and everything terrible about it is gone.

“Holy shit,” I say, “that feels good.”

Tye chuckles. “We get that a lot.”

“Seriously, you could bottle this feeling and make a fortune.”

“We’re working on it. Here.” He opens the door into the woodpaneled foyer, and I walk inside, buoyed by that feeling of lightness. The air is different inside. Fresher. And now that I’m in the foyer, I see that the window is panoramic, fi lling the entire back wall like a living photograph. The view of the lake is breathtaking. It sparkles in waves, cradled by the forest.

Tye punches numbers into a keypad at the door. The light on top blinks green to white.

“We keep the place locked,” he says, noticing me looking. “Not that anybody’s ever come out here uninvited. We want our visitors to feel completely at ease.”

“Right, summer camp in the middle of nowhere. You must get a lot of Jason jokes.”

“Not as many as you might think.”

I binge the even-numbered Friday the 13th movies every Halloween. They’ve planted an image of summer camps as seedy hunting grounds where death lurks behind every sleeping bag, but this place couldn’t be more different.

Tye leads me across the foyer. “This is the clubhouse. Bebe’s oﬃce is just over there, and there’s a game room through that door. The canteen is on the lower level. We’ll pass it on the way to your cabin.” He stops at a chalkboard that is fi lled with activities, written out in so many different colors that they form a rainbow.

Tye leads me across the foyer. “This is the clubhouse. Bebe’s oﬃce is just over there, and there’s a game room through that door. The canteen is on the lower level. We’ll pass it on the way to your cabin.”

He stops at a chalkboard that is fi lled with activities, written out in so many different colors that they form a rainbow.

“We have classes and workshops every day. Sometimes we go on hikes or hold swimming competitions. There’s canoeing, archery, forest bathing, stargazing, sing-alongs . . . you name it, we got it. It’s pretty outdoorsy, but there’s no pressure to join in with everything. There’s no judgment here. The only mandatory activities are stone circle, which is our version of group therapy, and family dinner. We eat together here.”

“It sounds great,” I say, but the truth is, it sounds better than great. It sounds perfect. For just a moment, I really feel what Camp Castaway is promising. A real-world time- out.

“Hey, Tye,” the woman on the sofa says. She has a Jersey accent, looks to be in her fi fties. Her bare feet are up on the coffee table, and frizzy brown hair frames her narrow face. She wears an oversize purple blouse and a lot of eyeliner. “Ready for a rematch?”

“Right after I settle in our new resident. Misty, this is Willow. Misty’s our reigning mahjong champion. For now.”

“You play?” Misty asks me.

I search her expression, but there’s no edge to it. No glimmer of recognition.

“I’ve seen old ladies play in the park,” I say, then quickly add, “I mean, not just old ladies. Young ladies, too.” I swallow. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

Misty considers me a moment, her eyes narrowed, and then she shrugs.

“If you gotta learn, learn from the best.”

Tye leads me down a wide wooden stairwell and back outside. The fresh air clears my head and I vaguely remember calling Misty old. Great. My fi rst attempt at human interaction in weeks and I’m leading with the insults.

We’re on the other side of the clubhouse now. It feels like another world. Trees make shushing sounds as the wind ruﬄes leaves that are

a dozen different shades of green, and birds wheel above us, making distant pleas that echo across the camp.

“We eat most of our meals here,” Tye says, gesturing as we pass a collection of picnic benches, and we keep walking, heading onto a boardwalk that winds between the trees. I feel like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale. Goldilocks meets The Parent Trap. I half expect baby Lilo to pop out wearing a fencing outfit. Cabins nestle amid the woodland, set apart from each other, small and cozy-looking. They’re not new, but they’re not old, either. Pre-loved, I guess.

“We have thirteen,” Tye says as we reach the fi nal cabin, and he opens the door. It wasn’t locked. “We never fi ll them all, though. We like to keep the numbers as low as possible, for optimum relaxation.”

“Cabin seven,” I say, noting the number by the door. Tye looks at me blankly.

“The same as my locker,” I add. “Sort of spooky?”

Tye cocks his head as he sets down my bags. “Funny coincidence. Here, I’ll give you the tour. This is the living room, and through that door is the bedroom . . .” He faces me and takes a bow. “Here endeth the tour.”

I smile, peering around the room. The walls are bare timber, shag rugs covering the ﬂoors. The kitchenette has a couple of drinking glasses, some cutlery, and a fruit bowl containing apples, lemons, and limes. The bedroom has a single bed, a nightstand, and a closet.

It takes me a moment to realize what’s missing. There’s no TV on the wall. No refrigerator under the counter. No digital clocks or aircon unit. There’s nothing electrical at all, aside from the lights. It’s like we’re in the 1920s, if the 1920s looked like Scandi minimalism. The quiet modesty of it, the simplicity, is soothing. Inviting. I want to collapse into the sofa cushions, pull the blanket around me and turn myself into a human burrito. It’s a million miles away from Matt’s echoey Santa Monica complex.

Then I notice what else is missing.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.

“Communal showers are by the lake,” Tye says. “Restrooms, too.” I swallow. What if I need to pee in the night? The thought of having to go through the woods in the pitch dark makes me antsy.

Tye must read my expression. “You’ll get used to it. Here, check out the veranda.”

We step through a sliding door on the far side of the room, emerging onto a small patio with a table and two chairs. The lake isn’t far from here. It twinkles between the trees.

I take a breath, fi lling my lungs with country air, and despite my general state of anxiety, a fraction of the tension I’ve been carrying for the past weeks shifts.

I’m here.

I made it.

I’m unreachable at last.

TThe We Love Willow producers never let me cut my hair. I was forbidden from so much as putting it in clips for the fi rst five episodes of the show.

he We Love Willow producers never let me cut my hair. I was forbidden from so much as putting it in clips for the fi rst five episodes of the show.

“Your hair is your brand,” one producer told me. “If you change it too soon, the viewers’ whole perception of you will be shaken. Besides, why mess with perfection? Your hair is beautiful.”

I don’t have to tell you the producer was of the male variety.

Standing alone in the cabin bedroom, staring at my shoulderskimming auburn hair in the mirror, I think about all the ways I’ve been controlled by other people over the years. The show was a gift—A hit! People love you! etc. — and nobody ever let me forget that. If you’re tired, you better not complain, because there are five thousand starving actors who’ll eat you alive to take your place.

I don’t have to tell you the producer was of the male variety. Standing alone in the cabin bedroom, staring at my shoulderskimming auburn hair in the mirror, I think about all the ways I’ve been controlled by other people over the years. The show was a gift—A hit! People love you! etc. — and nobody ever let me forget that. If you’re tired, you better not complain, because there are five thousand starving actors who’ll eat you alive to take your place.

My image was managed to the point of insanity. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror, and I’d only see her. The person I played on TV. Well, screw them. And screw my hair.

I pinch the razor blade between my thumb and forefi nger and bring it up to my face. I don’t have scissors. My wash bag contained my regular plastic razor, which I snapped in half to free the thin metal blade, so sharp it nicked me as it came loose.

The driver recognized me in the car, and it was sheer luck that he had no clue about the scandal. I can’t risk it again. I don’t have long. Tye promised to come back to collect me in a little while for the beach party, and I need to do this before he returns.

I hold the front section of my hair with my left hand and scratch

at it with the razor, around my eye line. Long strands come loose, floating to the wood floor. It’s so quiet in here without the background hum of electricity that the sound of fraying hair is like teasing wire. I keep sawing, puffi ng hair out of my face, jaw set in concentration.

at it with the razor, around my eye line. Long strands come loose, floating to the wood floor. It’s so quiet in here without the background hum of electricity that the sound of fraying hair is like teasing wire. I keep sawing, puffi ng hair out of my face, jaw set in concentration. My fi ngers bleed, are sliced to shreds, but fi nally I’m done.

My fi ngers bleed, are sliced to shreds, but fi nally I’m done.

For the fi rst time since high school, I have bangs.

They’re spiky and uneven, make me think about memes celebrating that weird moment in the early aughts when everybody in Hollywood got the “Scream 3 Courteney Cut.”

I tousle the tufts with my fi ngers. Exactly what I need. The bangs age me. They make my face seem smaller, rounder. They render my cheekbones obsolete. I both hate the way I look, and love it, because I look less like Famous Me, and more like Teen Me. The person who existed before everything went to shit.

It’s not enough, though. I need to complete the transformation.

I plait my hair in pigtails. Awful. Perfect.

I pat foundation over my face to ﬂatten my complexion. My freckles are another Willow trademark, but the makeup eradicates them. Dulls my appearance. I look pale, sort of unwell, which suits me fi ne.

If I can pull this off, maybe I really can start fresh.

Why the hell did I say my name was Willow? I’m practically begging to blow this whole thing up.

I change into the baggy JADE DANIELS shirt that I usually sleep in. It’s shapeless, swamps me, and when I add my oversize glasses, the make-under is complete.

“She’s not all that,” I say, appraising my new look.

I may be Willow, but I’m not Willow.

My wardrobe on the show was high fashion meets clown school. It was all primary colors, loud prints, and pristine white sneakers. So ﬂamboyant that, when I wasn’t fi lming, there were times people didn’t recognize me on the street until I’d already walked past them in my black gym gear.

I may be Willow, but I’m not Willow. My wardrobe on the show was high fashion meets clown school. It was all primary colors, loud prints, and pristine white sneakers. So ﬂamboyant that, when I wasn’t fi lming, there were times people didn’t recognize me on the street until I’d already walked past them in my black gym gear.

Would they recognize me now?

I step back from the mirror, taking it all in, wondering if I can fool half a dozen campers for a full two weeks.

A sound disrupts the silence of the bedroom.

A creak of wood.

I wonder if I made the noise myself when I stepped back from the mirror. But then I hear it again, on the other side of the room, and my gaze travels to the closet.

I swear the sound came from there.

My pulse picks up as I think about the people I saw around Matt’s house after tweetageddon. Shadows in the backyard, cameras ﬂashing, the word spray-painted in black on the oak front door— CANCELED — accompanied by a cardboard box on the doorstep.

A box full of dead baby rats.

The memory of those poor, dead, pink creatures in the box ﬂushes through me as I walk toward the closet, and the words from the text I received before check-in repeat in my mind.

See you soon, Red.

My hands shake as I tug open the closet doors, dragging them wide to show the interior of the space.

The closet is empty.

The back is solid wood. Hangers rattle on the rail, and I shudder with relief as I realize that must be what I heard. Not somebody crouched in here watching me, but wooden hangers gently knocking against one another in the breeze.

Nobody’s watching you, sillyhead , I hear Willow say, in the mischievous way she would speak on the show. You’re not on TV anymore, rememberrrrr?

She’s right. This is going to be fi ne.

Welcome to Camp Castaway, Willow.

Home sweet middle- of-nowhere home.

StreamThis! Q&A with [actor name redacted], star of We Love Willow

When did you ﬁrst realize you wanted to be an actor?

I was babysitting a kid who lived down the street, and Fight Me came on TV. The moment I saw Juniper Brown shooting a drug dealer in the face and then using the smoking gun to spark up a cigarette, I knew I wanted to be just like her. *

Was it tough getting your big break?

It’s a jungle out there, I cannot tell a lie. Luckily, my family is really supportive.† They helped keep me sane when things were rough.

What’s it like dating another actor?

It makes life so much easier, because we just get each other. Matt is such a loving, caring, sweet-natured guy, and he’s not at all bothered by my success.‡ [laughs] I can’t imagine being with anybody else.

What’s your favorite movie of all time?

Clueless.§ Alicia Silverstone deserves way more credit for, like, being the ’90s.

* True. I’ve never had to lie about my love for Juniper Brown.

† Bullshit. What was I supposed to say? “After my grandma kicked my brother out of the house, I couldn’t live under the same roof as her, so I got the next bus to L.A. and showed up on the doorstep of our dead parents’ friends, who work in Hollywood and helped me get a job as an assistant, and the more I watched actors doing their thing, the more I realized it wasn’t that diﬃcult, you just had to pretend, and actors get paid a lot more than assistants, so I started going to acting classes and I landed a commercial that went viral because it involved me eating a whole box of Krispy Kremes in a single unbroken take, and that got me an agent, and finally, because I never quit, not ever, I landed my own Netﬂix show.”

‡ Because it meant he could coattail me to get better gigs for himself.

§ As if. I’m an Evil Dead fan to the gooey core.

HHalf a dozen people have already gathered on the beach when I approach with Tye. Sometime after he showed me to my cabin— maybe an hour later, I’m already confused without my phone—a gong sounded, a low chime that fi lled the forest, and the handsome groundskeeper came to collect me. I feel better now that I’ve gone “Charlize Theron in Monster ” on my appearance. Less nervous that I’ll be recognized, but still nervous, because no plan is foolproof.

alf a dozen people have already gathered on the beach when I approach with Tye. Sometime after he showed me to my cabin— maybe an hour later, I’m already confused without my phone—a gong sounded, a low chime that fi lled the forest, and the handsome groundskeeper came to collect me. I feel better now that I’ve gone “Charlize Theron in Monster ” on my appearance. Less nervous that I’ll be recognized, but still nervous, because no plan is foolproof.

On the beach, I see Mahjong Misty with her wild brown curls, which I notice are gray at the roots. She sits on a log at the campfi re, chatting with two men. One looks early twenties and wears a pristine white polo shirt; the other is an Arnold Schwarzenegger clone in designer glasses and a Hawaiian shirt. Another man and a woman sit on the other side of the fi re, laughing and punching each other, and a third woman stands at the grill, spatula in hand.

My hearts thuds behind my ribs.

Six strangers.

Six people to deceive.

Six people who could hate me on sight.

As we approach, everybody turns to look at me, the chatter ceasing. Even the woman at the barbecue stops rotating hot dogs. The bonfi re spits and cracks in the pit twenty feet from the water’s edge.

“Hey, new girl,” Misty says, voice scratchy. “Ready to party Castaway style?”

I scan their faces for a scowl. A frown. A snarl.

When nobody says anything, I shrug.

“Just point me to the dance ﬂoor,” I say. Easy breezy.

“We promise not to make you sing ‘Kumbaya,’ ” says Polo Shirt Guy, ﬂashing a timid smile.

“But fair warning, man, there is the obligatory howling at the moon at midnight,” says the shaggy-haired man on the other side of the campfi re. His grin makes him look like Animal from the Muppets.

Misty says, “Come on over and join us.”

“Play nice, guys,” Tye says.

He gives me a reassuring wink and then jogs back up into the woods. I wonder brieﬂy where he’s going, then approach the group sitting around the fi re. The lake laps drowsily at the shore. Above the trees, the sky bruises violet, the fi rst stars pricking through. Even though the thought of mingling with strangers makes my teeth ache, I tell myself to get it together—I’m Willow now, Willow 2.0 — and I join Misty and the others.

“Hope you brought an appetite,” Misty says. “The grill’s locked and loaded.”

“Yeah, Dani knows how to sear stuff real good,” adds the Muppet guy, shifting round to sit beside me. He wears a military jacket covered in badges and a sloppy grin full of mischief. “So tell us, what are you running from?”

I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Sorry?”

“Everybody here’s trying to put something in their rearview mirror!”

“Buck, dial it down,” Misty says.

Buck looks annoyed, then laughs again. “Sorry, man, I’ve been out of the world for two weeks and I forgot about the rules of polite society. Small talk makes me want to tear out my spleen and chew on it.”

I can’t help smiling. He reminds me of the crew guys who worked

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