Star Bright

by Shelly Greene

  Leaving Brittany with her father, Julian and Rafi followed Helen to the other end of the house, where the safe was barely visible under a pile of collapsed beams.

  Julian walked a thoughtful circle around the situation. “This may take some doing.”

  Rafi shrugged. “I’ll lift the beams up, you two pull the safe out. Tell me if anything starts to shift around, we don’t want to cause a collapse.” Without further ado, he stepped forward, wedged his shoulder under the beam that most of the others were piled on—surely hundreds of pounds—and lifted.

  Julian stared up at him, mouth dropping open.

  “Any time now,” Rafi said. How could a smile that smug be charming?

  Julian and Helen pushed and pulled at the safe until they were red and panting, but without result. It was too heavy, and there was a broken floorboard beneath that was trapping it in place.

  “Well, it’s the contents I need, not the safe itself,” Helen said. “Rafi, can you hold that up long enough for me to get it open?”

  “Hmm…” Rafi was starting to shake a little bit under the weight, one drop of sweat trembling tantalizingly at the tip of a lock of hair. Very carefully, he dragged the beams a couple of feet away and set them down on top of another pile of debris—which, not being composed of barbarian-warrior muscle, collapsed in a spray of ash. Fortunately, the damage stopped there, without endangering the rest of the room.

  Julian knew he was staring again. Rafi raised eyebrows at him, as if inviting him to finish a sentence he’d started, but the only words in Julian’s brain weren’t the sort he could say in front of his elderly godmother.

  Helen knelt before the uncovered safe, wiped soot from the combination lock with her shirt-tail, and got it open. Inside were papers, mostly, along with some keys, jewelry, and what looked like a small external hard drive.

  Helen frowned, combing through the items and stacking them in a box Julian handed her. “There’s an envelope missing.”

  “What’s in it?” Julian asked.

  Helen glanced sideways at Julian. “Just…some old papers. The police are going to be interested to hear it. They wanted to know if anything was missing; I didn’t think we’d be able to tell.”

  “Police? Why are the police involved?” Rafi asked, and gave Julian an accusatory look. “I thought it was an electrical short.”

  “We’re playing it a bit close to our chests,” Helen said sheepishly. “On the recommendation of the police. We have security footage of a man setting the fire, but right now he doesn’t know that.”

  “Helen,” Julian said. “The old papers in the envelope. Were they my father’s?”

  Helen’s dropped jaw was enough of an answer.

  “My uncle,” Julian’s voice was soft and precise, “was in Los Angeles for the Gunpowder premiere, the night your house caught fire. He has an airtight alibi.”

  “I would expect no less,” Helen said, “from your uncle.”

  * * * *

  Helen gave Rafi a handshake, and Julian a heartfelt hug, as they parted in the driveway. Through the window of the minivan, Brittany looked to be showing her father her new coin trick. Rafi couldn’t help smiling at that. Where in the world had Julian picked up magic tricks?

  Rafi pulled his grimy shirt off as he climbed into the car, using it to wipe ash off his face, and folded all the mess to the inside before tossing it in the back seat. To his intense pleasure, Julian was staring again.

  “Feel free to follow my lead,” Rafi said. “It’ll spare my upholstery.”

  Julian just shook his head, turning his gaze—with some difficulty—away from Rafi’s bare chest and out the window.

  Rafi debated whether to say something to Julian about what he’d learned from Helen, about the loss of his family. Debated whether to ask him questions about his uncle. Debated asking why he’d wanted Rafi here today enough to lure him out with false assumptions. But the answer to that one, at least, didn’t seem too complicated; Julian was nervous about meeting his godmother again after so long, and wanted moral support.

  He considered Rafi moral support. Rafi was surprised, and touched, and more than a little sad, because shouldn’t Julian have someone in his life closer than a fake boyfriend of a couple of weeks?

  Opals and silver gleamed through an oily layer of soot on Julian’s wrist, sending light dancing across the roof of the car every time he moved his hand. Every now and then, it crossed paths with the similar reflection from Rafi’s bracelet, a peculiar imitation of a touch.

  In the end, Rafi said none of the things he was thinking. Julian rested his head against the window and fell asleep, rumpled and dirty and beautiful with his hair falling down around his face.

  * * * *

  “We’re here,” Rafi said, parking illegally in front of Julian’s apartment building. Julian woke with a start and a confused little groan, rubbing his eyes and thereby spreading the smudges on his face. It was adorable.

  Rafi came around the car and opened the door for him, helping him up with an exaggerated condescension that turned his help into a joke so Julian would accept it. That was a trick Rafi had learned with Carlos; his brother literally wouldn’t admit he needed help if his bone was sticking out of his arm. Anyway, Julian groggily let Rafi walk him up the stairs to the door of the apartment building.

  “I can take it from here,” Julian said then, gently unwinding his arm from Rafi’s.

  “Okay,” Rafi said. “I could come up, though. I don’t have any plans.”

  “I do.” Julian hesitated. “But…thank you. For driving. For coming. For all of it.”

  “Any time.”

  They were standing very close together. Julian had a black smudge on his nose, and Rafi wanted to touch it. He wanted to do more than that.

  Julian’s gaze dropped, almost imperceptibly, from Rafi’s eyes to his lips.

  Rafi leaned forward, almost unconsciously, and Julian—leaned back.

  “I’ll see you later, Rafi,” he said, and went inside.

  That was disappointing, Rafi thought as he turned back toward the car. A little confusing, too, because they’d kissed plenty of times before. Why had Julian shied away from it this time?

  Because this would have been a real kiss. There was no one to document it, no one to keep score. It would have been solely between them, kissing because they wanted to. And Julian knew it, felt it, even if he wasn’t ready to go for it yet.

  Maybe that wasn’t so disappointing after all.

  Chapter 6

  Julian Gault: Ready to Get Freak-y

  The actor is excited about his “first adult role”

  Posted August 15, 2019

  The highly-anticipated movie adaptation of acclaimed graphic novel series Freaks has faced a lot of challenges, including two director changes and at least one all-new script. But one piece of good news, according to most fans, has been the casting of Noble Blood star Julian Gault as one of the series’ most beloved characters, Frankie Walsh.

  “Frankie is not most people’s idea of a good mentor,” says Gault, “including his own. He’s barely keeping his own demons in check, and he’s not looking to take responsibility for anyone else. Then the fate of these kids who are like him falls in his lap, and he has the chance to give them the help no one ever gave him.”

  Gault’s success has mostly come by way of historical films like The Golden Crown, Noble Blood I & II, and the upcoming Gunpowder—and teen dramas like Bread & Butter or 2013’s modern Othello. Gault is now twenty-one years old; does he consider this science-fiction story, where he plays the oldest character rather than the youngest, the beginning of a new direction?

  “I do, in fact,” the actor says. “In some ways it started with Gunpowder, which might be the most serious film I’ve ever done. But while I loved being Lafayette, he was still the young upstart, going to war mostly for kicks. In some ways Frankie is my first adult role, the first time I’ve played someone who’s truly taking responsibility for himself and for those
who need him, just because it’s the right thing to do. It’s also the first time I’ve played someone who’s actually older than me—Frankie’s supposed to be 25—instead of younger. That feels appropriate.”

  Freaks is currently slated for release in April 2020.

  —interview with Entertainment Weekly

  * * * *

  The club’s too loud for talking but our hands are interlocking

  And I think we’re saying everything we really need to say

  You’re brushing up against me like you’re trying to convince me

  And when I kiss you on the shoulder you don’t try to move away

  Now my hands are on your hips and you’re looking at my lips

  And we’re communicating, baby, this is quite the Q & A

  —“Body Language” from Sword & Shield by Distant Kingdom

  * * * *

  When planning his visit to Julian on the Freaks set, Rafi had been surprised at how late Julian wanted him to come.

  “It’s not a nine-to-five job,” Julian had said with his usual hint of impatience. “Whatever shots you need to get that day, you stay until you’ve gotten them. Action scenes are the worst, I don’t anticipate we’ll be finished before ten o’clock. Unless you want to hang out at the set all day, which I assure you you do not, then driving me home will involve showing up no earlier than nine.”

  “All right then, nine,” Rafi said, throwing his hands up in surrender, though of course Julian couldn’t see it over the phone. “Can we still count on paps being around at that hour? I’d hate to waste our time on a publicity stunt without publicity.” He made sure to inject that last sentence with teasing good humor, but he wasn’t sure how well it came across, since Julian’s reaction was a displeased huff of air.

  “It won’t be wasted. I have no ulterior motives this time, Rafael.”

  “Last time was fun, actually,” Rafi said. “I mean…to the extent that anything involving a house fire is fun. Anyway. I could bring you coffee?”

  “I’ll text you my order,” Julian said, haughty princess that he was, and hung up.

  Whether by Julian’s doing or not—paparazzi weren’t that uncommon in Rafi’s life—a few shady figures with cameras dogged his steps from the moment he left his condo that evening. He walked to the nearest Starbucks, picked up Julian’s insanely-complicated coffee order, and had a cab pick him up there. The paps followed it, on motorcycles, all the way to the studio.

  They were doing green screen, Julian had said, which meant they were inside, always a plus during the summer. Rafi followed Julian’s directions until he found his way to a huge room full of cameras, booms, lights, scurrying people of all sorts—and an entirely real-looking stone and steel bridge, arching over nothing and surrounded by walls of neon green.

  “Aaron, Emmie, I want you more aggressive on this take,” called a bald man in a tall chair, assumedly the director. “You’re done with this nonsense, you’re ready for blood. Really ramp it up for me. Got it?”

  “Got it,” chorused two of the actors. Rafi recognized Aaron Pratt from the Gunpowder premiere, but barely—here he was decked out in some kind of gleaming armor, his hair loose and wild. He swished an implausibly large sword back and forth, snarling to himself; working up the proper aggressive mindset, Rafi supposed. The woman beside him was—oh, that was Emilia Clarke!

  After only a moment of distracted staring, Rafi turned his gaze away, scanning for Julian amongst the crowd of actors and swarming makeup artists. There was a cherubic little black girl, twin Asian boys, a blonde girl with an alarming gash across her eye that a makeup artist was delicately adjusting…

  And Julian, standing head and shoulders above his young co-stars and wearing a glittering velvet catsuit of cobalt blue. His hair was loose except for one slender braid on the side; a woman, laughing at something Julian had said, disentangled a sapphire earring from the fiery waves. One of the twin boys ran chattering up to them, showing them something in his hand. Julian, looking impressed, gave the kid a fist-bump.

  He wasn’t spitting on anybody here.

  Rafi tried to catch Julian’s eye, holding up the coffee, but Julian didn’t look his way; the director had come over to speak to him and the kids briefly. Before Rafi knew it, they were filming again.

  A couple of extras crept up to Rafi and asked for autographs, which he granted with as much panache as he could while keeping one eye on Julian. The scene seemed to involve Julian’s character shouting and pleading with some many-headed monster. You would never have thought, from his performance, that he was acting against a variety of sticks and green balls; emotion radiated from him in near-visible waves. Rafi moved around the edge of the set, trying to get a better view through the flock of cameras circling Julian at various distances.

  “I won’t let you hurt anyone else. You’re right, I can’t change what’s done, and I’ve let you go unchecked too long. But no longer.” Julian cast a hand out at the monster, a sign of Frankie using his telepathic powers, and the monster reacted, its many parts thrashing and recoiling. Julian cried out and shifted his stance, as if the thing had fought back somehow; Rafi couldn’t find it in him to doubt that Frankie’s powers were real, and hurting them both.

  What space did Julian go to, in his head, to do this? Was he seeing the green balls at all, or was he seeing the monster? And of course he was not reacting in any way to the booms and cameras, the other world of idle watchers and dashing workers just out of frame. Rafi was no stranger to performing, but when he gave a show, the idea was to connect to the people around him, not block them out or pretend they were something else. He wasn’t sure it was healthy to be able to alter your own reality like that, but it was still incredible to watch. Which was Julian in summary.

  And speaking of being incredible to watch, the way that catsuit hugged Julian’s figure deserved an Oscar all on its own. What was this movie going to be rated again?

  Julian, turning to address another of the monster’s heads, caught sight of Rafi—and flubbed a line. For a solid second, he stood there, looking at Rafi, a completely unexpected smile blooming across his face.

  The director swore into his megaphone. “Really, Julian?”

  Julian shook himself, took a few steps back to his previous position on the bridge. “Sorry.”

  Aaron groaned. “Some of us want to go home before midnight.”

  The little black girl, ranged with the other kids behind Julian on the bridge, put her hands on her hips. “Then some of us shouldn’t have flubbed eight takes in a row this afternoon, huh, Pratt?”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It’s your name!”

  “You’re saying it differently and you know it—”

  “Children, really.” Julian adjusted his position again. “Pick it up from ‘I won’t let you hurt anyone’?”

  “Yeah, that’ll do,” the director said, and they resumed.

  Cringing a little at the problem he’d caused, Rafi stepped back a little and took a swallow from his own cooling coffee.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the paparazzi who had followed him getting escorted out of the building, still sneaking a few desperate shots in Rafi’s direction. At this angle they probably had Julian in the background too. It was clear Rafi was Visiting Him On Set, so, mission accomplished.

  They filmed another take, and got all the way through it this time. Julian and the children defeated the monster (or so Rafi interpreted all the shouting and leaping around in front of the green screen), and as Julian—or rather, Frankie Walsh—was pulling himself upright, shaking and bloodied, two more figures arrived. Aaron Pratt and Emilia Clarke swooped in on wires, showing as much aggression as the director could have wanted. They crowded around Julian, weapons drawn, expressions fierce, Aaron punctuating his lines with shoves against Frankie’s chest. Panting and exhausted from the fight, Frankie tried to be conciliatory, though anger glittered in his eyes. The moment he resisted a shove, throwing Aaron’s hands
off of him, Aaron backhanded him across the face. Julian cried out and tumbled down the steps of the bridge.

  Rafi surged forward, rage and concern mingling into a single flash of heat through his body.

  The children rushed past Julian to stand between him and Aaron, the little black girl shouting what might have been a spell or battle cry.

  “Cut!” called the director. “Fantastic, that was absolutely fantastic! Let’s get some blood on Julian’s lip for the shot where Ming helps him up.”

  It was part of the scene. Julian wasn’t actually hurt. Rafi took a deep breath and let the tension out of his shoulders.

  “Aaron, that was perfect,” the director was saying.

  “It was.” Julian was gingerly poking at his cheek as the makeup artist tried to apply fake blood to his lip. “How very Method, using your genuine dislike of me to power the character. I approve. ‘Strike me down in all your hatred, and your journey toward the Dark Side will be complete’!”

  Muffled snickers drifted across the set; Aaron sneered at Julian, the expression much less attractive than probably he thought it was.

  Blood successfully applied, they filmed the brief shot of Ming helping Frankie to his feet, Julian seamlessly transitioning from wise-cracking actor back to strained and injured character. After a few takes (why, Rafi wondered, was it so important to get just the right take of that two-second bit?), they had a breather while the director walked Emilia Clarke and the little girl through their upcoming fight.

  Julian walked over to Rafi, a flirtatious feline quality to his stroll that made Rafi’s mouth dry out, and took his coffee from Rafi’s hand.

  “Ugh,” he said after one sip.

  “What, did I get your order wrong?”

  “No, it’s gone cold.” He sipped again, more thoughtfully. “You actually did get the order right.”

  “You sure? Here, let me taste it.” Rafi tipped Julian’s chin up and leaned in for a kiss.

  He’d given this some thought, last night, and the conclusion he’d reached was that he liked Julian, and wanted to kiss him for real. That was as far as he’d gotten in terms of introspection, but it was enough for now. If Julian only wanted performance kisses, that was fine. Rafi was going to give him the performance kisses of his life. Call it verisimilitude; he was going to kiss Julian exactly the way he would if they were dating for real.