Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  I shrug. “I do. So what are these?” I open the folder and pull out the top script of four, skim the first few pages. “Reads like a political spy intrigue sort of piece.”

  “It is. But I’ve got people attached to that script that you wouldn’t believe. I like you for the villain, actually. You need a turn as a villain, you need to flex your chops as something other than the good guy, the heartthrob, the twinkling smile and great hair.”

  “So tell me about the role.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, read it first. I want your take on the script, I just wanted to let you know what I’m thinking. You could read for the hero, but that’d be the obvious angle.”

  I skim a few more pages, nodding as I read some of the villain’s dialogue. “I can see it. A different look for me, maybe a little bit of a rasp. A scar, maybe.”

  He grins, gesturing at me animatedly. “Exactly!” He points at the folder. “Read the rest. Tell me what you think. But I’m sold on the idea of you as a villain. Chicks dig the villain.”

  I laugh at that. “Chicks dig the villain, huh?”

  He snorts. “Maybe you kids say something else. What did I hear my kid say the other day? Something about someone named Stan? It was weird. But he says weird shit. He said the pork chops I made slap. Like, they slap? What does that mean?”

  I laugh. “It means he liked them. They were good.”

  “Oh, I thought so.” He pauses, eyes me. “So. Changing the topic. Alessa Howell.”

  I shake my head, hold up a hand. “Nope.”

  “Wes, come on. You need a name attached to yours. Some shots of you kissing a girl. Not a scandal. Just some tabloid gossip. Some talk. Alessa is perfect—she’s not famous enough to steal the spotlight from you, and she’s got that edge. I know you went out once. Just go out with her again. Get seen. Plant one on her.”

  I sigh. “Marty, no. The dance video, sure. But I’m not dating anyone just to start the gossip machine going on my love life. I want to be known for my talent, my work, not for who I date.”

  “It’s about relevance, Wes.”

  “I know. But I don’t want relevance that way. Get me good roles and let my work speak for itself.”

  “I could get you a date with Mackenzie Danvers.”

  “I don’t know Mackenzie Danvers.”

  “You will when you go on a date with her.”

  I lean forward and pin him with a glare. “Marty, stop. You’re not setting me up with anyone. Not Mackenzie, not Alessa, not anyone. My love life is not for sale, and it’s not a tool for popularity or relevance. If I go out with someone, it’ll be because I want to.”

  “She asked me about you. I represent her, you know. She’s freaking gorgeous. And funny as hell. You could do a lot worse.” He wipes his mouth, takes the check from the server, glances at it, and tosses his card onto it; that’s part of what I like about Marty—he doesn’t assume I’m paying just because I’m the star.

  “Marty, for real. Focus on the work. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “You’re ignoring a huge opportunity, here.”

  “The opportunity is the roles, not the social drama. And I’m certainly not about manufacturing the drama for the tabloids. That’s not me, and it never will be.”

  He holds up his hands. “Fine, fine, fine. Message received.” He taps the folder as he stands up. “Read them. Give me your feedback. Yes, no, maybe.”

  “Will do.”

  Part of me wishes I was capable of taking Marty up on his offer to set me up with Mackenzie—she’s talented, beautiful, and she’s getting roles that are going to put her on the map for Oscars, soon. I really could do a heck of a lot worse than a blind date with a rising star like her. But…that’s not me.

  If it happens, I want it to be organic. Real. I just don’t know what that looks like, in my current life.

  I just hope I’ll know it when I see it.

  Last Chance

  Jolene

  “Jo, this is crazy,” my best friend, Bethany, says.

  She’s my twin, except where my hair is red, hers is platinum blond. We’re both built short and slender, petite. When I first lost my hair to chemo, she buzzed her head, and now, every time I’ve lost my hair, she’s buzzed her own. I never asked, and never would have. It was just her way of showing me she was with me, no matter what. So our hair is always the same length. Right now, our hair is growing out, Pixie cut short, boyish and easy to take care of.

  I shrug. “I know. But I’m dying, so screw it, right?”

  Bethany snorts. “Yeah, but you can still embarrass yourself.”

  “It’s not going to be embarrassing, because no one is going to see it. I have a hundred followers on TikTok, Bethie, and most of them are cancer kids like me. They’ll get it.”

  “Well, I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t want to die a virgin. He’s my crush, the person on this planet I like more than anyone else. I’m dying, and soon, so what do I have to lose? So what if my ninety-eight followers see me embarrass myself with this one last desperate, last-ditch ploy to get his attention? It’s for me. No one else.”

  She stares at me. “Okay, well, that I understand.”

  “So, you’ll help me?”

  She snorts. “I was always going to, you big dumb dork-a-potamus. I just wanted to understand exactly what it is we’re doing here, and that you understand that this is, objectively speaking, a little crazy.”

  “Yeah, I know it is.”

  We’re in my backyard. I have my ukulele, and I’ve practiced the song I want to do alone in my room at least a hundred times, until I know can nail it.

  I give Bethany my phone, and she readies the camera on the tripod. I sit crisscross on the thick, lush green grass my dad spends so much time cultivating. The sun is shining, the sky is clear blue, and I feel as good I have in weeks. I’m ready.

  She hovers her finger over the red circle. “Ready when you are.”

  I shift my weight a little, ready my fingers on the correct chords for the opening, and nod. Bethany holds up three fingers, then two, then one, and then she presses record.

  I strum the strings, pick out the melody. Within seconds, I can feel the music pulling me in. I close my eyes, and my fingers carry on, playing the song. It feels good, feels flawless. The words emerge, and I know I sound good. I’m not thinking about the video anymore—there’s only the music, only the song. My fingers know the chords, and my lips know the words. I open my eyes for a moment, and stare into the camera. Imagine him, Westley Britton, hearing me. Imagine, just for a moment, that he knows me, that he cares. That this is the last entry in our ongoing relationship. I’m his, and he’s mine, and this is the natural progression. I let my crush on him seep out of my soul and into my eyes.

  Because it’s not just a crush.

  It’s more, for me.

  It’s a mental game. A way out of the harsh, painful reality. I can pretend I have a chance with him, and that’s something to think about other than…everything. I can watch his YouTube channel and look into his eyes and feel like I know him. I can watch his movies and see bits of his soul. I can watch his early boy band performances and laugh at how silly it all is, and be amazed at how hard he tried, even in that.

  Having a crush on Westley Britton means something to me. It’s deep. I don’t know that I could explain it, even to Bethany. But I understand it, and I’m putting it all into this one last, crazy idea.

  When the last chord fades and my ukulele is silent, Bethany taps the record button again to stop it. “Damn, Jo.” She swallows hard and shakes her head, blinks. “You really went after it.”

  I shrug. “I mean, yeah.”

  “That was amazing. I don’t think you’ve ever sounded better.”

  “So should we just post that as is, like that?” I ask.

  She thinks. A grin crosses her face. “You know what? No. I have a better idea. If you’re really going for it, with this, then let’s really go for it.”

&nbs
p; I set my ukulele aside. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, let’s make it epic. I watched this tutorial on how to edit stills into videos with a musical overdub. Let’s make it, like, a movie montage. Really tell your story. Use all those photos and videos you’ve taken.”

  She whips out her iPad Pro and sends herself the video from my phone, and then we spend the next several hours going through my whole camera roll and hers, and Mom’s. It’s a weirdly nostalgic trip down memory lane.

  Paris, St. John’s, Florida, the Grand Canyon. The oncology ward—the infusion center, being wheeled from radiology back to my room. Days in bed when everything hurt. Mom and Bethie making me laugh. The awful gowns they make you wear, as if being sick isn’t undignified enough.

  Bethany cuts it all together, with my song over top.

  When she declares the project finished, we watch it from the top.

  Bethany wipes at her eyes. “Girl, I’d marry you. Shoot.” She leans against me, blond hair tickling my nose. “I love you, Jo-Jo.”

  “Love you too, B.”

  “You think it’ll work?” she asks.

  I laugh. “If this doesn’t, nothing will.”

  “What if it does?”

  I cackle. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just wanted to do it.” I sigh. “I may still die a virgin, but at least I tried. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you, Bethany.”

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Everything that might need to be said between us has been, by now.

  “Post it?” She hands me the phone.

  I cover my face and push it back to her. “You do it.”

  A snort. “Fine. Ready?” She hesitates. “Last chance to change your mind. Then it’s on the internet forever.”

  Face still covered by both hands, I nod. “Do it.”

  I hear the melody start, and my voice singing: “Forever can never be long enough for me/

  To feel like I've had long enough with you…”

  Marry me…say you will.

  The Smart Thing vs. The Right Thing

  Westley

  “…And it was like, so hot. The costume had like eight layers, and it weighed about twenty-five pounds I think, and I just absolutely hated wearing it.” Shania Knox, my opposite in Singin’ in the Rain, is a dead ringer for young Debbie Reynolds. It’s eerie, actually. But she’s…not a great conversationalist. She tends to just ramble and ramble and ramble. “I loved the character, you know. She was just so real, and I had a ton of fun playing her, but I’ll tell you what, I’m looking forward to this role because the costume will be so much easier. Not spending an hour and a half in costume and then another two hours in the makeup chair every single day will be just wonderful.”

  A pause, but it’s brief, just long enough for her to take a sip of her sweet white wine and nibble at a piece of mahi-mahi.

  “The dancing is killing me, though. I mean, I thought the stunts for the Marvel movies were hard? God, I was so naive. That’s wires and jumping around and stuff. Compared to all the dance moves I have to learn? I wish for something as easy as stunts.” She finally turns the conversation over to me, for the first time in the past fifteen minutes. “What about you? We’re going to start working on our choreography soon. Have you been practicing?”

  The past couple of months have been prep—ever since I got the role eight and a half weeks ago, I’ve been cramming dance lessons in and spending hours a day in the studio, learning dance. Tap, jazz, ballroom, contemporary, hip-hop. All of it. I want it to look natural. Real. Not just learned for the role, for the scene, but real.

  Something tells me, though, that I don’t need to say any of this to Shania. I just need to respond and turn it back over to her.

  “Yeah,” I say. “A bit.”

  “Well that’s good. I have a little dance experience from high school theater, and my first paying role was in the chorus of a stage play in Boston. But that’s nothing compared to what we’re going to have to do for this shoot. If only I had a Gene Kelly to teach me.”

  “He was a pretty brutal teacher, from what I hear.”

  “I know. But look at the results.”

  “True. But I think Debbie Reynolds once said that Singin’ in the Rain was the hardest thing she’d ever done, along with childbirth.” I grin. “Honestly, I’ve found learning to dance to be a lot of fun. A hell of a lot of work, but fun.”

  “Oh, me too! I wouldn’t have even auditioned for the role if I didn’t know I could learn the dance. But god, It’s so much harder than I expected. If they were going to be using some of the original choreo, it’d be easier because I started by learning that. But no. They have to do all original choreo, because of course they do.”

  “It’s not going to be the same kind of dancing, though. I heard they’re getting Nappy-Tabs to do a couple of numbers.”

  She leans forward, clapping and grinning. “No way, really? I love them.”

  “That’s what I heard from one of the ADs.”

  “I’ve been focusing on tap and the classical early Hollywood musicals style,” she says. “Do you think I should start learning hip-hop too?”

  I shrug. “I mean, I am. I’m trying to learn as much of everything. I might be going overboard, but…better over prepared than under prepared. Especially because this is Singin’ in the Rain we’re talking about. Only one of the most famous movies of all time. And I have to do that famous scene. I have to get it right. I have to. Or I’ll go down in history as the asshole who ruined Dean Lockwood.”

  She smiled at me. “You’ll do fine.” Her gaze turned…speculative. Mischievous. “We, um, we could start practicing together. You know. Do our own choreography. Work off the original. Just to get a head start on our…chemistry.”

  I should have my head checked.

  Because even though Shania is undeniably beautiful, a talented, successful actress, and super sweet…I’m just not interested in her like that.

  Which means there has to be something wrong with me. She’s perfect, by any measure. Sure, she rambles. Sure, I’d probably get fed up within a month. But…she’s stunning. Naturally beautiful, and insanely talented. Her turn as X-23 in the X-men universe reboot has been a real game-changer. For her and for superhero movies. She gave the character an aggression and physicality that no one expected from an actress hitherto known more for playing the sweet and sassy love interest in B-grade rom-coms.

  I should be drooling over her. I should be jumping all over her hinted invitation to turn this co-starring gig into a chance to hook up with one of the most desirable women in Hollywood.

  Something stops me, though.

  I smile at her. “Yeah, for sure. We can dance together. Have your people call my people.”

  She laughs at the joke, but her smile is a little forced—she picked up on my subtle redirection. “Yeah, it’ll be good. Where, um—where do you work out?”

  The rest of the date is like that. Forced and awkward. Hopefully we’ll be able to pull out the chemistry for dance, even though the spark isn’t there in real life.

  But hey, that’s why they call it acting, right?

  A few days later, I’m home in my long-term rental, enjoying a rare late morning alone.

  My phone rings—Jen. I answer it on the second ring. “Hey, Jen. I know I’m not scheduled to be anywhere till one, and I’m enjoying it. So I really hope you’re not calling to tell me I have to suddenly be somewhere.”

  “No, I’m not. Put me on speaker and check your notifications.”

  “Um. Okay?” I put the call on speaker and swipe to my notifications screen—apparently I missed something, because my socials are blowing up; I have literally tens of thousands of notifications, mostly from TikTok. “Wow. Okay. What’d I miss? I was enjoying a nice peaceful morning not on my phone.”

  She sighs—it’s a complicated sound, frustrated, annoyed, confused, worried, angry. Something of all of them, all at once. “Just…god, Westley. It’s
a mess. It’s everywhere. E! has even done a post on it already, and you haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “On what, Jen? Just tell me.”

  “There aren’t words, Wes. You have to just…you have to see for yourself. I’m hanging up. Call me after you’ve watched it so we can figure out what to do.”

  I don’t even have time to end the call before it’s ringing again—this time it’s Marty.

  “No, Marty, I haven’t seen it,” I say by way of greeting. “Jen just called me about it. I haven’t been on my phone today.”

  “Son, it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. And I honestly don’t know how to have you respond, Wes. I really don’t. And buddy, I always know what to do. I’ve just…I’ve never in my life seen anything like that.”

  I groan. “I have to see it, I guess. So I’m letting you go, Marty. I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t call me later, call me soon. We have to get in front of this.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I hang up and open Tiktok.

  Outside, in a backyard. It’s evening. Just past sunset. The sky in the background is a wild profusion of puffy cotton clouds painted red and gold and pink.

  The girl is nineteen or so. The first thing I notice is her hair: true ginger, bright orange-red, pixie cut short. Just slightly longer than a buzz cut, enough to style in a messy, spiky look. It suits her, somehow. Her cheekbones are pronounced, sharp. She has pink lips, which she licks nervously as she settles into a cross-legged position on the roof. No makeup. Freckles galore, dotting her cheeks, throat, forehead, and neckline. Her eyes are green—emerald green, the color of oak leaves in the summer sun. Her eyes are weary, but confident. There’s pain in her eyes, but also pride. Sadness, but a deep, abiding joy.

  I somehow…know these eyes, even though I’ve never seen this girl in my life.

  She’s wearing cutoff khaki shorts, baring slender, pale, freckled legs. Her toes are painted a periwinkle blue. Her shirt is a plain white tank top, clinging to her slender torso. It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra, but there’s nothing sexualized about it.