The Siren

by Katherine St. John

  This wasn’t normally the kind of thing that Price would come to me for. He would work it out, concoct a way to get her to set when the director wanted her. She must’ve really put her foot down. “That’s crazy. Lemme talk to her.”

  We were spending about $100,000 per day, which meant every minute of each twelve-hour day was worth roughly $138. I’d done the math. We simply couldn’t afford any diva antics.

  I plotted how to convince the woman to do her damn job as I trod toward the makeup room, tucked away into the darkest corner of the warehouse. Light spilled from underneath the closed door. The handle was locked. I took a deep breath and knocked more loudly than necessary. “Stella, Evelyn, Stephanie!” I called in a singsong voice.

  Nothing. I rapped again. “Ladies, open the door please.”

  “We’re still thirty away,” came Evelyn’s voice.

  I clenched my fists. “I know, I just need Stella for a quick blocking rehearsal.”

  “I told the AD already,” Stella snipped, “I don’t do blocking rehearsals until I’m ready. Use Felicity.”

  “Please open the door so we can talk about it.”

  The lock turned, and Evelyn’s assistant opened the door. “Sorry,” she mouthed. Stephanie was in the corner curling a wig, and Stella sat in the center makeup chair with her cocoa and honey hair in curlers, nursing a coffee while Evelyn contoured her face. She looked up at me, tired. The bright lights around the mirrors exposed the bags under her anxious red eyes, her uneven skin. Immediately I understood the big dark glasses and hat this morning, the locked door and camera-ready demands. I reached for the spiel I’d prepared about why she needed to stop acting like the Queen of Sheba and report to set immediately, but my tongue couldn’t find the words. “I’ll have Felicity do the blocking,” I said feebly.

  She nodded.

  Jackson was waiting with his arms crossed when I returned to video village. “Well?”

  “Not gonna happen,” I said. “Rehearse with Felicity.”

  He threw his script on the ground. “You’re fucking kidding me. Who’s calling the shots around here?”

  “Jackson,” I warned with a small shake of my head. “You want the best performance out of your lead actress, don’t you?”

  He stared holes into me, rage bubbling from his eyes.

  “It’s gonna be okay.” I patted his back like a baby. “You gotta let this stuff go. Inhale through your nose and out through your mouth.” Surprisingly, he obeyed. “Now count to ten.”

  He closed his eyes, again inhaling through his nose and blowing it out slowly through his mouth. I bent to collect his script from the ground, hiding my smile. Perhaps he’d turn out to be one of the good ones after all.

  I climbed into my director’s chair to watch as Jackson walked Felicity and Cole through the scene. Jackson obviously knew exactly what he wanted, but he had a natural way of guiding the actors to make the discoveries themselves so they felt empowered. Cole was so fooled he clearly thought he didn’t need any direction. After a minute, I noticed that Felicity wasn’t holding her sides in her hand as she ran through the lines and hit her marks without missing a beat. She had the script memorized.

  Felicity

  Thirteen Years Ago

  Iris takes a swig of her Dr Pepper and lights another cigarette. “Fucking gorgeous day.” She stretches out on the plastic lounger with her arms above her head. “Finally.”

  It is a gorgeous day, the first we’ve had after weeks of nonstop rain. I don’t understand why we’re the only ones enjoying it at the Super 8 pool, but we’re glad because it means we can do whatever we want. Iris sings along to Nelly Furtado, “Maneater” blaring out of the boom box between our chairs.

  I practice some of the moves I’ve been learning in the hip-hop class I finally got to sign up for last month, the concrete hot under my bare feet.

  Iris claps. “Whoo-hoo! Get it, girl!”

  I dance harder. “I’m gonna be a dancer just like you when I grow up,” I shout over the music.

  She laughs. “Don’t even think about it. You’re way smarter than me, girl. You’re going to college. You’re gonna have a real life with real money and never be anybody’s bitch.”

  Hitch-kick! Shoulder isolation! I can feel my belly jiggle as I hop, but if I keep dancing like this I’ll be skinny as my mom in no time. “We’ll see.” I parrot her favorite thing to say when I ask for something she doesn’t want to give.

  She sets her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and before I know it she’s tackled me and we’re both in the deep end sputtering water. “Gotcha!” She laughs.

  I splash her, joining in her laughter.

  She’s been a different person since the day I found the holes in her arm. Or I guess the person she had been before the drugs, only better. And not exactly since that day but a few days after. I’m not sure what happened, but the holes were gone and she was glowing, whistling in the shower, giggling every time she picked up her phone. I knew what it had to be.

  “You’re in love,” I declared one evening when she kept checking her phone even though we were watching our favorite show together.

  She looked at me wide-eyed and started to protest, then laughed. “You’re right. I think I am.”

  “With who?” I asked, though I could guess. Cole was the only man she’d seen in months.

  She smiled secretively. “I’m in love with a movie star,” she purred.

  I grinned, my mind swirling with possibilities. “And is this mystery movie star in love with you?”

  She nodded, her cheeks red. “I think so.”

  “Are you actually blushing?” I teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush before. Iris and Cole sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes—”

  “Stop it.” She whacked me with a pillow.

  “So when do I get to meet him?” I prodded. “If he’s gonna be my dad, I have some questions for him.”

  “All in good time,” she assured me. “It’s complicated right now.”

  Then I remembered. He was married to Stella Rivers. They’d just married when my mom met him, and I hadn’t seen anything about them divorcing in the tabloids, so they must still be married. “He’s gotta get divorced first, huh?” I asked.

  “Something like that,” she replied. “You don’t—you haven’t talked about this with any of your friends, have you?”

  I shook my head. “No, of course not. You told me not to.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “Don’t. It’s more important now than ever.”

  “I promise.”

  And I haven’t said a word to anybody. The thing I find weird though is that the big pile of money in the safe hasn’t been growing. In fact, it’s been shrinking. But I can’t ask her about it because I’m not supposed to know the code. I’ve decided it means that Cole is really in love with her. Maybe he’s even set up a bank account in her name or something. It’s the only explanation.

  It’s late afternoon by the time we get home from the pool, and I can tell I’m going to be sunburned. I’m usually so brown I don’t get sunburned, but with all the rain, I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. “Shit,” Iris says, looking at her phone. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I gotta hop in the shower. Can you handle dinner for yourself?”

  I nod. “I gotta go to the store for aloe anyway. I’m sunburned.”

  I’m in line at the 7-Eleven with my frozen pizza, aloe, and Coke, when I see the front of Celebrity magazine. It’s a picture of Cole and Stella that looks like it’s been ripped in half, a jagged black line between them. The caption reads “OVER ALREADY? Cole and Stella reportedly headed for Splitsville.”

  I grab the magazine and start thumbing through it, unable to hold back my grin. At the register I don’t have enough money for everything, so I choose the magazine over the aloe. Who cares about a sunburn. My mom’s gonna marry a movie star!

  I run all the way home and throw open the front door, panting. “Mom! Guess what?” I tear into the bat
hroom, where she’s curling her hair, and slap the magazine in front of her, doing a victory dance.

  But her response isn’t what I thought it would be. She frowns at the cover, sets her curling iron down, and lifts the magazine, studying the picture intently. Without a word, she takes it over to the bed with her and reads the entire article without looking up. I try to peer over her shoulder, but she bats me away.

  “Well?” I ask, holding my hand out for the magazine when she’s done.

  “I need it,” she says.

  “But I haven’t even read it,” I protest.

  She throws the magazine at me. “Give it back when you’re done.” She picks up the curling iron and turns her attention to her reflection.

  “Aren’t you happy?” I ask, confused. “He’s getting divorced.”

  She doesn’t look happy. “I told you,” she says. “It’s complicated. That’s all I can say right now.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

  “Sorry, honey,” she says. “I promise I’d tell you more if I could. Soon.”

  I sigh and flop on the bed with the magazine, flipping to the article about Cole and Stella. The page features a picture of the two of them in front of a chapel, their clasped hands raised. She’s in a white sequined minidress holding a bouquet of roses; he wears a cream linen suit and a shit-eating grin.

  Is Hollywood’s hottest couple divorcing after only ten months? Stella Rivers and Cole Power were already stars when they met on the set of their hit film, Faster, but their PDA-filled relationship has made them the most talked-about couple in Hollywood. After a quickie wedding in Vegas on Friday, July 13 (bad luck, we all said!), Stella reportedly moved into Cole’s home in Miami [picture of mansion]. It’s no secret “Stole” likes to party, and true to form, the two have been photographed together out and about in South Beach, Los Angeles, New York, and Paris. But after photos surfaced of Cole with a mystery woman in Miami [grainy photo of Cole leaning into a woman whose long blond ponytail spills out the back of a baseball hat] and reportedly getting cozy with his Bloodhound costar Noemi Calderon at a bar last week in Los Angeles, Stella was spotted out with a girlfriend, no Cole in sight [blurry photo of a woman that may or may not be Stella on a dance floor]. Now a source close to the couple confirms there is indeed trouble in paradise. Stella’s reportedly jealous of his continued flirtation with various women while she’s ready to settle down and have a baby. Cole already shares an eleven-year-old son, Jackson, with his Israeli model ex, Bar Salmaan. The source tells Celebrity that Stella’s been wanting to start a family for some time and thought Cole was on the same page, but he seems more interested in continuing his bad-boy ways. With his philandering past and her reported jealous streak, we give this relationship a grade of FAIL!

  “Mom, is that you in the photo with Cole?”

  She grabs a powder-blue sundress from her messy closet and pulls it over her head. “No.”

  “But I don’t understand. Is he seeing other women?”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. Especially that shit.” She nods at the magazine. “Can you grab my perfume out of my purse for me?”

  I paw through her giant white shoulder bag in search of the perfume, but my fingers brush something soft. Curious, I pull it out. It’s a rainbow rabbit’s foot attached to a key chain with a solitary key. I turn it over in my hands, noting the initials CS burned into the paw. Suddenly it’s last Christmas, and Jewel’s mom is once again alive, chasing us around her apartment with this same rabbit’s foot while we squeal in terror.

  “Why do you have Crystal’s rabbit foot?” I ask.

  Iris spins from the open closet abruptly, her eyes flicking to the rabbit’s foot. “She gave it to me before she died.”

  I drop it on the bed, remembering how disgusted I’d been that Crystal carried some poor rabbit’s amputated leg on her key chain. I also remember Jewel saying how attached her mom was to it and how much trouble she got in when she took it off the key chain once, because her mom never went anywhere without it. “But wasn’t it, like, her good luck charm?”

  “I guess she didn’t need it anymore.”

  I snort. “Boy was she wrong about that.”

  “Phoenix. Not cool.” She gives me a dark look before turning back to the closet.

  I pick up the rabbit’s foot again. “Why do you have her key?”

  “She, uh…she gave it to me,” she says, continuing to rummage in the closet, “in case she ever got locked out or whatever.”

  My mom doesn’t lie to me much, but when she does, I always know. “You promised you would never lie to me.”

  “Phee.” She takes a deep breath and turns to meet my gaze. “Some things are grown-up things that are hard to explain. So I have to leave it at that for now, okay? Please don’t mention it to Jewel.”

  I drop my eyes, stroking the rainbow fur. “Phee, I need you to promise.”

  “I promise,” I mumble.

  “Good. Thank you. How about that perfume?”

  I toss it to her, still mad about her lying to me. She spritzes herself, then holds up two different strappy flats. “Silver or gold?”

  “Gold,” I say.

  I’ve hardly ever seen her wear flats or dresses that aren’t short and tight until the past few weeks. Another sign Cole must really be in love with her for who she is and not only what she looks like. But what was that in the article I just read about him cozying up to some actress in LA last week? I know Iris saw him last week. At least she said that was where she was going. But who knows. She could be lying to me about that too. She better not screw this up by seeing some other guy behind his back while he’s out of town.

  Now I’m worried. I could ask her about it, but I don’t trust her anymore. She obviously hasn’t been straight with me about any of this, and I need to know what’s going on. It’s my life too.

  I’m gonna find out for myself, and I know exactly how to do it. It’s risky—she would kill me if she found out—but it’s for her own good.

  “I didn’t have enough money for the aloe because I bought this stupid magazine,” I say. “Can I have some money to go back to the store?”

  “Sure. Grab a twenty out of my wallet.”

  “Thanks, Iris.” I pocket the cash and give her a hug. “Have a nice night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She kisses my forehead. “Love you, little bird.”

  “Love you.”

  Leaving her in the bedroom, I quickly grab a bottle of water and a protein bar from the kitchen and roll a blanket from the couch under my arm before bolting out the door. I hurry down the stairs to her beat-up hatchback, which she always leaves unlocked. She’d rather they steal whatever old towels and T-shirts she has in the trunk than smash the window trying to break in again. I lie down in the way back, arrange the blanket on top of me, and wait for her to get in the driver’s seat.

  Stella

  Wednesday, June 19

  I’m pregnant.” I tried to remember my next line without looking at the sides. “I know this isn’t what we planned; it’ll turn our lives upside down and probably ruin my career, but it’s what I want.”

  Our script supervisor, Kara, held my gaze expectantly. She was of Japanese descent, with exquisitely delicate features and a face as symmetrical as a doll’s. I’d always wished I had a face as symmetrical as that. “Aren’t you going to say something?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Your line…It’s ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’” she said.

  “Oh! Right. Sorry.” I’d skipped my A-pill this morning because I wasn’t actually feeling all that anxious for once and I wanted to be clear, but I still had a little residual fogginess from the S-pills I’d been taking before bed in order to ensure a good night’s rest.

  It was Wednesday, our third day of filming, and so far, so good. Cole and I had great chemistry (we always had) and were getting amazing feedback on our performances. It was wonderful to be working, and I felt such a connection
with my character, Marguerite. It hadn’t been all smooth sailing, though: Monday we’d done the scene where Marguerite and Peyton first meet as he’s shooting photos of her, and suffice it to say Cole was not comfortable behind the lens. We’d ended up running an hour late because the set photographer had to give him a lesson in how to use a camera, which meant we had to rush the second scene of the day, where he proposes on the beach. Even so, it worked out in the end, because the sunset was fantastic. Then yesterday we shot a series of short montage scenes that took us through the rise of Peyton’s career as a photographer and the decline of Marguerite’s as a model, here on the soundstage. There were a lot of setups, but it went smoothly, besides Jackson and Cole arguing over every little stupid thing. They were always arguing. At any rate, the kinks were getting worked out, and I liked Jackson as a director, regardless of what Cole thought.

  I cleared my throat and glanced at my sides to confirm my next lines. “Aren’t you going to say something?” I read.

  Kara slouched against my dressing room mirror and ran a hand through her short black hair. It was a boy’s haircut, but it looked sexy on her. I could never wear my hair like that, but she was so dainty, it really suited her. “It’s great news,” she read Cole’s line.

  “But you don’t seem happy,” I returned.

  She approached me and put her hand on my hip, looking deep into my eyes as she lowered her voice, imitating Cole’s. “Perhaps we should celebrate.”

  We both laughed. “And then we kiss,” I said.

  A rapping at the door and she abruptly dropped her hand from my waist, returning to her post against the mirror. “Come in,” I called.

  Price opened the door. “Ten-minute warning,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I gestured to Kara. “Kara was just helping me with my lines.”

  He nodded and left without closing the door. I grabbed my pack of smokes and a lighter. Kara raised an eyebrow. “I know, it’s a disgusting habit,” I admitted, “but better than some other habits I’ve had. Thanks for helping me.”