by Emme Rollins
Racks of clothes closed the trailer in on both sides, and a man who looked like he would be happier sucking turds looked up from his outfitting of another young woman and sighed.
“Find an outfit with your name,” he said, waving a hand. “See if it fits.”
Sonya, clearly having done this before, moved to a rack of clothes and began to sort through them. Each outfit had clearly been coordinated beforehand and swaddled in clear plastic. Sonya pulled one off the hanger and moved to the back of the cramped room where she started taking her clothes off.
Jesus. I looked at the rack of clothes. There were three with my name on them. I had no idea what to do, so I closed my eyes, ran my hands through the plastic-swathed fabric, and picked one blindly and pulled it out.
A gray tank top, a dark blue fitted blouse. Ripped jeans, relaxed. A bag of accessories. Pressing my lips together, I checked the sizes and was surprised to find that they would probably fit. I'm not sure what I thought would happen, but I'd been certain that wardrobe wouldn't have anything that fitted me since I wasn't Hollywood skinny like Sonya. I had to hand it to Turd Sucking Wardrobe Guy—he knew his stuff if he'd been able to eyeball my sizes from photographs. Or maybe Kent or Carter had told him my sizes. Ugh.
I took the outfit and wandered back to the changing area. Sonya was already almost changed completely, wearing a dark brown dress with a floaty skirt with an uneven hemline and a tight, skimpy bodice with a row of white buttons down the front. She looked amazing and I suddenly wished I'd picked out a dress, too, if there had been a dress there. But truthfully this outfit was more me. I hung it up and lifted the plastic up over the top before undressing quickly. I didn't want to show off my TV-fat body any more than I had to.
The tank top slipped easily over my head, and the jeans slithered nicely up my legs, but the fitted shirt was just not happening. I wasn't sure if I should try to button it or not, and the mirror in front of me wasn't giving me a good perspective. All it did was show me how bad my skin was and how un-skinny my body happened to be. Why did I eat all those potato chips? The front wouldn't even close over my chest, and the arms were tight. I felt my face growing hot as I tried to maneuver in it, pulling a thick belt through the loops of the jeans and lifting my arms to loop the necklaces that came with the outfit over my head.
“Hmph.” Turd Sucking Wardrobe Guy stood right behind me and I gasped, turning. He stared at me in the outfit for a long moment, then reached out and began to tweak it. “You have tits,” he said, as casually as someone might remark that it was raining. “No wonder Carter likes you.”
I stared at him in shock as he turned and studied Sonya, who was messing with the neckline. “You look fine,” he said.
She just grunted at him. “I need some shoes.”
“Got you covered.” He reached behind her and pulled open a drawer. She turned, looked idly into it, and then pulled out a pair of chunky platforms. TSWG glanced at me. “What size?” he asked.
“Um. Seven and a half?”
He reached in and pulled out a pair of pink Keds.
I stared at them.
“What?” he said. “You think you can do better?”
I shook my head. “No! I just... I could have bought those at, like, the mall. I just expected something more expensive.”
TSWG threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, god!” he said. “Fuck no, what do you think wardrobe is? I'm not your personal shopper.”
I glared at him and snatched the shoes from his hands. “I didn't say you were.”
He still looked amused. “It's not like this is some club video. Don't need anything greater than twenty bucks at a thrift shop.”
I wanted to ask him what thrift shops he'd been going to, because the ones I'd been to had all been t-shirts that you could have used as tents and old bridesmaids dresses in neon colors. I bent over and picked up my Chuck's. “I couldn't wear these?” I said.
If anything, his face twisted up into an even sourer expression. “Ugh,” was all he said, then flapped his hand. “Go, go to makeup. Get out of here. Send the boys in.”
We exited the trailer. The whole thing couldn't have taken longer than fifteen minutes.
Sonya stomped around to the other side of the trailer and ripped the door open. “Go get dressed!” she hollered inside and then stood to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at nothing in particular. Sonya seemed to run on rage. If her endless depths of hatred could have been plunged for fuel, we'd never have another crisis.
I fiddled with one of the rings on my finger—a huge lumpy thing that would never be practical in real life—and waited for the boys to come out. Finally, they did.
First came Carter. Carter was a good looking guy, but now his hair was done, his eyes lined with dark kohl, and his face almost—but not quite—made up to look natural. Manny was next. His wild mane of curls was even wilder now, and his eyes were also lined. He looked strangely handsome. He noticed me staring at him and flashed me a grin.
Then came Kent.
God, he looked amazing. Wild dark hair, half-tousled and held in place with hair spray, fell around his cut face. His skin, usually pale, was now luminous with make up, and his kohl rimmed eyes were smudged, giving him a messy, post-coital look that had me licking my lips before I knew what I was doing.
His eyes caught mine and he flicked his gaze up and down my body, and suddenly I was glad for the tight blouse thrown over the tank top. The wardrobe guy was right—I had tits, and with the way Kent's eyes settled on them, it seemed like not just Carter might like a girl with some curves on her. Dresses hung beautifully on girls like Sonya, but last I checked guys didn't give a shit about dresses.
Then he looked away and I was left breathless as Sonya swept past me into the makeup end of the trailer. Change places! I thought, somewhat giddily. It was now starting to sink in that Carter had decided I was going to be in the next music video for The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things and once I stepped into the brightly lit mini-styling salon I felt the beginnings of a major freak out start up.
Sonya had already seated herself in one of the chairs and was staring sightlessly ahead as a woman immediately dissolved into a flurry of activity around her, applying foundation and powder with a rapidity I thought was only available to meth heads.
There was another woman standing there glaring at me. “Move it!” she barked, as though I were holding up the line to the last helicopter out of Saigon. I jumped and did as I was told, settling into the chair in front of the mirror and catching my own gaze.
Immediately I wished I hadn't. Next to Sonya and the guys, I looked like a homeless person who'd accidentally wandered on set. This did not seem to faze the woman. She took one look at me, sighed, and immediately began to go to work on my hair.
Brushes flew. Hairspray filled the air. A flat iron flashed inches from my face. Picks and combs and all sorts of crazy implements and serums and goops that I didn't even know the words for were applied with expert dexterity to my hair, and after ten whirlwind minutes the stylist stepped back and changed places with the makeup artist. Meanwhile, I could only stare at the incredible transformation she had wrought.
I'd spent years trying to tame my hair. I'd done all sorts of shit to it, spent hours in the bathroom trying to figure out how to get the little kinky wave out of my bangs, whatever. I had spent years. And suddenly I now had rock star hair. Runway model hair. Beautiful hair.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
“Don't move,” the makeup artist snapped. “And close your eyes.”
I obeyed.
Again I was assaulted by beauty products, this time directly attacking my face, and it took all my willpower not to flinch every time a new brush or stick of goo landed on my skin. My eyes were poked and prodded, painted and then glued, my lips drawn and lined and glossed, my cheeks highlighted and lowlighted, my eyebrows plucked and redrawn.
“Good,” the makeup artist finally said. “I've done all I can. Open your eyes.”
That sounded ominous. With trepidation, I lifted my suddenly longer lashes and looked in the mirror.
The girl who stared back at me was... well, she was a rock star girlfriend.
I barely recognized her.
“Stop admiring yourself,” Sonya said, passing me. “We're burning daylight.
Starting, I leapt out of the chair and followed her outside, where I heard the distinct sound of Kent Being Angry.
I looked around and finally pinpointed him—in black leather, oh god, I wanted to suck his cock through those leather pants, what was wrong with me?—arguing with some guy wearing a baseball cap. Carter stood a few feet away, grinning. Manny stood even further away, his hands shoved into his ripped jeans, watching the proceedings as though they were high art.
I sidled over to him. Between him and Sonya, I figured I was more likely to get a straight answer from him.
“Hey,” I said.
He put his finger to his lips reverently. “Shh,” he said. “Kent is not getting his way.”
He said this as though it were as rare as the Holy Grail. Actually, it probably was. I clammed up and listened to the argument, but I could barely make heads or tails of it. Something about the storyboard and the music.
“Not ready,” Kent was saying. “It's not ready and none of us have looked at the script...”
“Actually Manny and Sonya helped me write it,” Carter interjected, rocking on his heels like a little boy with a big secret.
Kent didn't even deign to give him a glance. “It's not the song the studio commissioned,” he said.
The man, who I now assumed to be the director, shook his head. “The studio gave me the go-ahead on it. It's last-minute, but everything's in place for this video. Now would you kindly shut the fuck up and get down to that fucking beach? We only have a few hours before sundown, and you'll be doing your sunset shots today.”
For some reason, Kent's shoulders tensed. “I don't think—” he began.
“No,” the director said, “you don't, I do. Now get your ass down that cliff to those fucking tide pools.”
I watched as Kent clenched his fists once, twice, three times, and for a moment I was terrified that he was going to punch the director in the face. But then he whirled around.
Our eyes caught again and for a moment I thought I saw... fear?
Then he was turning away and stomping off to a small golf cart sitting a few feet away. He climbed in the back and commenced scowling at everything around him as thought he could correct the deficiencies of the universe by sheer willpower.
“What was that all about?” I asked Manny when it was clear the drama was over.
“Oh,” he said. “Nothing much. Come on, you want to watch Sonya do the first verse?”
Not sure what else to do since no one had handed me a script yet, I followed him to the lighthouse.
We stepped inside. It was cramped and crowded, but to my shock the museum had been opened up in a big way for us. Sonya and a camera man were actually inside one of the portioned-off glass rooms, one whose windows faced west and the slowly sinking sun. The lighthouse, aside from being... well... a lighthouse, had also been the living quarters for the lighthouse keeper and his family, and Sonya was currently sitting in one of the old rooms, surrounded by ancient furniture. The floor around her was littered with fake dead leaves, and a small fan in the corner rotated, sending fresh fake leaves from a pile across the floorboards. Settling herself against the window frame, Sonya stared out into the west, at the Pacific Ocean. Extra lights and reflectors almost blocked her completely from view, but the way she was framed by the camera meant her face would be painted in light and shadow while her hair flamed around her. It would be a stunning shot, no doubt about it.
I watched as people set up and tried to look like I did this every day.
Finally things seemed to be in order. The director tapped on the glass separating Sonya and the cameraman.
“Ready?” he said. “Let's roll.”
Then someone flipped a switch and music flooded the room.
I froze, turning to see the powerful little boom box blaring the song for the video, and for a second I couldn't place it. Then it hit me as a haunting piano melody flowed from the speakers, one that I'd heard Kent and Carter picking out in Carter's room over the past week.
The new song. The one they'd been recording in the studio not two days ago.
I turned to Manny. “I thought this was for the most recent album?” I whispered.
He grinned. “Carter decided that we're going into the studio immediately after this. He wants this on as many airwaves as possible for the next month.”
Suddenly, everything made sense. “And he didn't consult Kent about this?”
Manny just gave me a little look that I couldn't interpret, and his grin grew wider.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, and as the creeping melody began to wrap around us, the old place seemed to take on a sinister air. I peered at Sonya as she took a deep breath and realized that while she was beautiful, bathed in this music she became almost ethereal, an imprisoned ghost within this house, unable to escape.
Then Sonya began to sing along with her own voice, her green eyes piercing the camera, her beautiful mouth caressing the words, and I heard for the first time what Carter meant when he said he was going to write an album about revenge.
Long, slow, drawn out notes. Shivery, shuddery. Dark and quiet and full of evil intent. Sonya's angelic voice fell from heaven into hell as she sang Carter's words.
“I am deep inside you,
you can't feel me but I'm here,
I'm buried in your bones,
you don't know I'm what you fear,
your love was bitter poison
and you made me disappear
Now I know you...”
Holy shit, I thought.
“I will bide my time,
you won't remember my name,
but I will ricochet
like a bullet to your brain,
you reached down deep inside me
and you only gave me pain,
now I'll show you...
I'll give it back again.”
Shivers raced up and down my spine. The music clicked off and I heard the director telling Sonya they should get everything they needed in two more takes, but all of that seemed far away. If I'd heard the song on the radio, it would have blown me away, but hearing it here, and knowing it was written for me, written as revenge against the guy who used me for four long years... it chilled me in ways I couldn't describe, and I loved it.
When Carter wrote about revenge, he didn't fuck around.
Someone touched my arm and I jumped about a foot in the air. The spell of the music shattered, and, annoyed, I turned and saw a young man staring at me impatiently.
“We need you on the cliffs,” he said. “We'll probably only get one good sunset, so we have to get everything in today.”
“Everywhat in today?” I asked, but he was already striding off. Casting one glance back at Sonya, I followed him out of the lighthouse.
“We need multiple shots of you standing on the cliff,” the guy was saying as he led me across the scrubby grass and mud. He glanced back at me and frowned. “You're not wearing a dress?”
I scowled back at him. “No,” I said. “I don't look good in dresses.”
He looked at me critically. “Well,” he said at last, “at least you have long hair. Need something to flow dramatically in the wind while you stand there contemplating suicide.”
Oh god.
The whole time it took to walk to the cliffs I was trying to figure out what was going on here. Obviously Carter had wanted to spring this on me without any warning, which was a very Carter thing to do, but I couldn't figure out why. It seemed like he was just inviting drama for no good reason. If he did have a good reason I wished he would share it with me.
“Ah, good,” my escort said as we reached the edge of the cliff. An elaborate
set up of equipment, including a camera dolly, seemed to perch precariously on the precipice. I wondered if they knew these cliffs weren't safe. I'd never come up here even when I'd lived in San Diego because a woman was killed by the crumbling of a cliff beneath her feet the year before I'd moved here and shit if I wasn't scared of getting smashed on a bunch of rocks.
The whir of an engine had me turning around, and saw another little golf cart driving up to us. It held the director.
Oh shit, I thought. Carter hadn't been kidding—I was actually going to be in this music video. Like, for real.
My palms began to sweat.
The director popped out of the golf cart and bounced toward us. No seriously, he bounced. There's no other way to describe it—he was clearly excited about the shots with Sonya inside the lighthouse. He clapped his hands and shouted, “Okay, people, let's get these shots in before the sun starts to go down. We have some nice cloud cover right now, so the lighting is going to be nice and soft, so let's make the most of it. Rebecca, dear, come here.”
I looked around, hoping against hope that there was some other Rebecca hanging around, but to my chagrin he seemed to mean me. Chewing on my lip I stepped forward.”
The director took one look at me and yelled, “Makeup!”
A woman leaped forward and batted at my mouth with her hand. Shocked, I released my lip from between my teeth and she touched up my lipstick.
“Don't bite your lip, dear,” the director said. “It screws everything up. Okay, your motivation in this scene is that you have been witnessing your boyfriend, Carter, sleeping with other women and cheating on you. You are extremely unhappy, you don't know what to do. You're up here to think and look very lovely and wistful, got it?”
“I can look wistful,” I said. I wasn't so sure about the lovely part, but maybe they'd smear some Vaseline on the lens of the camera. That was supposed to make you look good, right? Or at least cover up the fact that you looked bad...
The director didn't notice my omission. “Good, good.” He gripped my shoulder and maneuvered me toward a spot on the cliff. “See this chalk?”