“Thank you, Jesus,” Aunt Margaret said. She sat next to Callie and dabbed her Maybelline-enshrined eyes with a Kleenex.
Ahhhhh. Callie exhaled and her breathing returned to normalcy, thanks to the doctor’s news—or maybe it was because of that milligram of Xanax she’d chewed when the panic attack came out of left field. It had been months—a year, easily—since she remembered experiencing an episode. This one was particularly bad. No matter; things were under control. She swigged her bottle of Fuji.
“You see, honey?” Grandma Esme whispered, and patted Callie’s knee. “Everything’s going to be fine, dear. Just fine. Your mother has an angel up there looking after her, you can bet your little bottom on that.”
“Dad is watching over her for sure.” Callie flashed a broad smile and made her dimples pop. Was she ever flooded with relief! “I’m going to call Tyler, Grandma, and let him know. He wanted me to keep him posted.” She fluttered out of the waiting room and dialed his number.
“I’m glad it went well, skank,” Tyler chirped. “That’s one obstacle out of your mom’s way. I was wondering when you were going to call. Lord, my panties were starting to bunch up.”
“You and me both. The operation took longer than we anticipated.”
“I’ll say it did. About five hours instead of three.”
“So, what’s new with you and Hell-aye?”
“Nothing new, just holding down the fort and playing with my pussy,” said Tyler. “No one to play with it for me since all the men in Los Angeles are either insane or in the closet. Same old, same old. Had a shoot today with Elle and one of the male models tried to convince me he was straight with a girlfriend. What, do my eyes and ears look like they don’t work anymore? Just a big ol’ screaming bottom. Every one of those models—I mean everyone, even the girls—had an eight-pack, at least. Made me sick. Humpty Dumpty is going on a diet ASAP.”
“Please, Ty, you’re a rail.”
“Yeah, a rail with a spare tire and it ain’t too cute. Oh, I almost forgot, I have a question for you: Do you sing?”
“A little, I guess. I sang in a class play once.”
“That’s not saying much,” Tyler said. “I’m not musically inclined but when I bust a note in the shower you’d think Celine Dion was visiting. I mean can you sing reasonably well? Reason I ask is I have a client who manages an all-girl group and she’s looking to replace one of the bitches who dropped out.”
“An all-girl group? Tyler, are you kidding me? I’m an actress, not a teenybopper. Why would I want to join a band?”
“Heavens to Betsy, settle down. I just want to know if you can carry a tune, not carry my children. Victoria, the manager, mentioned she likes your look, that’s all. No reason to bite my head off.”
“Sorry, I’m just a little tense. Singing isn’t anything I’ve ever thought about pursuing, Ty.”
“I realize a Grammy isn’t most likely in your future, but you never know—it could be fun. Singing isn’t much different from acting—entertaining is entertaining. Money is money. It’s all the same.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”
“You big whore. So, when are you coming home?”
“Two weeks. I tried to get my hours rescheduled so I can be with my mom when she starts chemo but the powers that be aren’t exactly working with me on that.”
“You’re surprised? They’ve got you locked in and they’re not about to let their meal ticket call the shots. Is what it is, skank. All right, I need to clean up; I’m going out with someone after work. A date, I guess you could say.”
“Date? Didn’t you just tell me you didn’t have anyone because they’re all crazy or in the closet?”
“I sure did. He’s a writer, for one—most writers are hermits and crazy as loons—and two, he’s still legally married. So, technically, he’s both of those things. I’m not expecting much, trust me, but I am bored. What am I supposed to do, twiddle my twat by my lonesome every night?”
“That’s more than I’m doing these days,” Callie said glumly.
“Puh-leeze. You always end up with someone sooner or later, unlike yours truly. I find a man as often as a lunar eclipse occurs. Give your mother a kiss for me and hurry your rank ass back to Cali, where you belong.”
53
“Cut!”
Callie slackened her shoulders and cracked her knuckles. The first day of filming the new season was off to an über-slow start. It was Brant Van Zant’s tenth “cut” in an hour and only the first scene of the day. His style was much more relaxed than previous directors Callie had worked with and the polar opposite of Tom Johannesburg’s franticness. The cast and crew had walked on pins and needles around Tom but Brant had the effect of making everyone feel they were treading on ultra-plush carpet.
A lighting complication prompted a thirty-minute delay and Callie helped herself to a cup of coffee at the craft service table. A sandy-haired, twentyish man of average height stood next to her and dumped packets of Sweet’n Low in his brew.
“You’re going to overdose on saccharin.” Callie grinned.
The man returned her smile. His teeth, while white, were crooked; the imperfection added a roguish quality that offset his pretty boy looks. “In the South, we like our spoon to stick straight up. Mitch Gracie, pleased to meet you. I’m the new kid, guess you could say.”
“Callie Lambert. Pleasure. So, you’re my new nemesis?”
“That’s right. I’m the resident asshole on the block.”
“Hmm. I see.”
“I’m here to make Layla’s life a livin’ hell—and maybe teach the cast a thing or two in the ways of acting.”
Callie scowled. Real funny, you big hick. Grow some manners.
Mitch continued. “I’m not used to scenes takin’ so long. My background is theater, where everything’s in chronological order.”
“What kind of theater?” she asked.
“Drama, mostly. I was Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for two years.”
“Broadway?”
“Off-Broadway. Been livin’ in L.A. close to six months now. Can’t say I’m too impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”
“Why is that?”
“Not my style. The folks here really feast on their own bullshit.”
“Not all of us do,” Callie said.
Mitch guffawed. “From what I’ve observed, ninety-nine point nine nine percent do. I don’t get off on makin’ people feel like hell just so I can pretend I’m swingin’ a ten-inch bat. What you see is what you get. Straight shooter. None of this phony Hollywood bullshit. What about you? You probably like your ego stroked, I bet. You’re used to everyone fawning all over you, tellin’ you how pretty you are.” His dimples gave Callie’s a run for their money. She was just as struck by his brashness as she was by his impressive biceps.
“That’s a little presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?” she said.
“Not at all.” He downed his coffee and tossed the Styrofoam in the trash. “You’ve been in L.A. awhile, now, haven’t you? Obviously you’ve been successful so I’m sure you’re used to lots of brownnosers. But just to let you know, I don’t play that way. I don’t plan on kissin’ your ass and I don’t expect you to kiss mine.”
“Good,” sniffed Callie. “Because the only thing I was thinking is what a prick you are. It must be a Southern thing.”
“No, darlin’, it’s a Mitch Gracie thing. I just don’t give a damn.” He sauntered off.
Callie’s lip curled. You cocky motherfucker. A cocky motherfucker with a mighty tight ass. She wondered how many scenes she had the displeasure of filming with the Hick Prick and was thankful he was only a guest star. She whipped around and collided with a tall blonde.
“Whoops, my bad,” the girl said.
Callie did a double take; the hazel orbs and high cheekbones resembled those of a certain infamous and deceased blonde Callie had known well. The face was squarer and her features lacked refinement, but nevertheless, the likeness was uncanny. “Wow,” C
allie muttered. “You look just like—”
“Gabby Manx, right? I know. I get that all the time. Ever since I dyed my hair.” Her voice dripped of the Midwest.
“Are you an actress?” Callie asked.
The girl tucked her bleached extensions behind her protruding ears. “Kinda. I was a model and now I’m crossing over. The typical model-turned-actress thing. Let’s just say I’m working hard at establishing myself.”
A model, really? With those ears and that jaw? “Good for you.”
“Yeah. I’m blessed, I’m very blessed. But I got nothing on you yet. I remember reading all about you when the whole Manx murder went down. And every time I log on to Diva Dish with David, there’s always some tidbit about you. I feel like I know you already. I love your show.”
“Thanks.”
“Your delivery is incredible. You’re the best part of Cheerleader Chronicles.”
Callie’s cheeks reddened. “Aww, thank you so much.”
“But I pictured you prettier in person.”
Callie’s smile froze. “Come again?”
“Some people are just more photogenic than others—and then some people have the best of both worlds—they’re photogenic and stunning in person. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just…” She cocked a hand on her hip and jutted out a bronzed leg. “I guess it’s just the model in me. I notice the small things, the details. I expected something a little different after seeing so many pictures of you, that’s all. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Callie’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t say.”
The blonde laughed again and adjusted the waistband of her short shorts. Her legs were ridiculously long and out of proportion—like a giraffe, Callie thought. She desperately wanted to slap the smile off the girl’s Juvederm-stuffed lips.
“So, blondie, are you hanging out on set because you have an actual part or do you just like being the token bimbo?”
“Neither. I’m visiting my boyfriend, Brant.”
Callie didn’t know whether her sarcasm had sailed clear over the girl’s head or if she was adept at playing it cool. “Brant Van Zant?”
“Yep, we’ve been dating for a couple weeks now.”
Jesus Christ. How original. Dating the director. “Lovely. Maybe he’ll give you a part.”
“Oh, you can plan on it. He promised me a role. Obviously he’s not much to look at, but neither was Tom Johannesburg and if it worked for Gabby…”
If it worked for Gabby. Bitch, please. This wasn’t the first time Callie had met a Gabby imitator. Manx mania was still thriving, from the silliest gimmicks (“The Great Gabby Look-Alike Pageant”) to the crassest (The Gabby Halloween costume, complete with a ridiculously large padded bra and stick-on bullet wound) to somewhere in between (a line of Gabby-inspired blond wigs). “Gabby had talent, though,” Callie said. “Most copycats don’t.”
“Oh, trust me, I have talent, too. Many talents, actually. Just ask Brant. Ha ha.”
“What part of the Midwest do you hail from?”
“Aww, man, do I really have an accent? I’ve been working hard on getting rid of it but I’ll have to work harder. Toledo.” The blonde grabbed a Twizzler from the craft service table and bit the tip off. “My talents have taken me all the way from the toilet bowls of Toledo to the beds of Bel Air. Ha ha. No complaints from anyone, either, I may add. I guaran-fuckin’-tee that one. Ha ha.”
What’s so funny? Callie wondered. She prayed the giraffe would choke on her licorice. Who did this tacky slut think she was, anyway? “What’s your name?”
“Stephanie.”
Stephanie Schueller. Of course! That explained it. No wonder I smell garbage.
“Wouldn’t it be amazing to work together?” Stephanie continued. “Maybe you can put a word in for me. Not that I haven’t sealed the deal with Brant. But it can’t hurt, you know?”
Callie pointed her finger like a pistol. “Great idea. You can count on it.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. Thanks! I’ll see ya around.” Stephanie skipped off, all six feet of her, Twizzler dangling from her mouth.
54
Callie curled her legs up on the living room couch and read her script with a snarl.
EXT. Forest—NIGHT
Layla and Wade face each other, both prepared for a smack-down. She does a high kick but he blocks her with his arm and flips her on her back. She drops to the ground with a thud. Wade stands over her, chest heaving. He catches his breath while staring into her eyes and then, without a word, kneels beside her and kisses her. Layla protests but he doesn’t care. He hungrily devours her lips until she fully surrenders. He unbuttons her blouse and it’s clear by her arched back that she desires him as much as he desires her. They paw each other, feverishly.
Ugh! Really?! She pictured Wade, aka Mitch Gracie, smelling like hay and tasting like soot, or worse, manure. Did he really think that aw-shucks, I’m-a-take-no-shit-kind-of-good-ol’-boy attitude was charming? She’d have to set him straight on that, just in case it wasn’t clear during their first meeting. Another self-important head case with a bloated ego.
Tyler stormed in the house wearing a white tracksuit and an ear-to-ear grin. “I just had the most fantabulous workout. Look at this.” He exposed his waist and pinched the skin. “The fat is melting away and this bitch is bulking up. Yes, it’s true, ladies and gentleman, Tyler Bragg is actually—dare I say it—gaining muscle.”
“Your abs looks amazing. That trainer is really working you.”
“She sure is.” He plunked down next to her. “Really knows her shit, too. Between my new body and my new man—this skank is one happy camper.” Tyler’s first, second, and third date went so well with Timothy, the writer, they decided to become exclusive. “It works out perfectly. Timothy plays hermit writing his screenplays all day while I’m busy slapping on gloss and lashes. Seeing each other after work is the perfect amount of time together. Normally I’d get sick of seeing someone nearly every night but with him it’s different. I just can’t believe how well we mesh together.”
“What’s going on with the wife?”
“Who? Oh, her.” Tyler waved his hand in nonchalance. “Their divorce will be final in six months. They’ve been separated for years but never bothered legally calling it quits. I can’t help thinking a certain tall, good-looking makeup artist must have influenced that. You know, it’s bonkers, I don’t even feel like going out and partying anymore; it’s like I’ve transformed into my grandmother overnight. All that’s missing is my Metamucil. But hey, I’m not complaining. Even our names fit well together—Tyler and Timothy. Cute, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Callie said absently.
“Why the long face? Did your vadge finally dry up?”
“It’s been dry awhile now, I don’t know where you’ve been.” She tossed her script aside. “My new love interest is this cocky hillbilly who makes my skin crawl. We’ve only filmed one short scene together so far, we barely spoke a word on set. But tomorrow we have a sex scene and I’m not exactly looking forward to it.”
“With your salary, I’d have no problem doing that. Matter of fact, if he’s hot, I’d do it for free. Let me rephrase that—I would have done it for free, back when I was on the market. Just suck it up and pretend the hick is Matthew McConaughey.”
“He’s hotter than McConaughey. A little on the short side, but hot. As soon as he introduced himself, though, I wanted to run for the hills. He grates on my nerves. Have you ever met someone you can’t stomach, right from the get-go?”
“Yeah, Candice,” Tyler said with a wrinkle of his nose. “That crazy needs a serious dose of Ritalin. Have you spoken with her since her last flip-out?”
“No. And I don’t plan on it, either. I swear, all those drugs must have deep-fried her brain. She’s totally unreasonable and I just can’t win.”
“I’ll second that one. If you told her, ‘Hey, girl, Prince Albert is sending a private plane for us at noon, be ready,’ she’d have a hissy it was
n’t arriving at eleven thirty. She’s impossible. Don’t think the spots on that leopard are going to change just because she cut out her extracurricular activities.”
“Yeah, I’ve come to that realization. Anyhow, I’m dreading this sex scene, Ty.”
Tyler turned his head so quickly, his hat dipped over his brow. “Ummm, come again? You bump uglies with Gabrielle for the camera—all the money in the world couldn’t pay me to do that—but you can’t fake a little hetero action for cable TV?”
“With Gabby it was different.”
“I’ll say it was different—it was lesbian. Who am I speaking with here, Martina Navratilova?”
Callie shrugged. “It felt natural.”
“Nothing natural about lesbianism. It’s against God’s will.”
Callie chuckled. If Tyler had only known about her Christmas rendezvous with Gabrielle. He’d likely birth a cow. “It’s easier when you’re comfortable in someone’s presence, that’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Think of basking in the presence of that check, skank—that should make it real easy for you. Cha-ching! Fake it till you make it. Do your job, cash the check. Another day, another dollar.” Tyler’s reasoning was practical, as always. Kicking ass and kissing hotties—not a shabby way of earning a living, she thought with a smile. So maybe she’d have to plug her nose to get through making out with the Hick Prick—big deal. It couldn’t be that bad, and it could be a lot worse. She made a mental note to make sure there was a bottle of Listerine on set.
55
Tony wiped his eyes. His tears mixed with the grime under his nails produced an inky film on his hands. “We did the best we could,” he said. “Your mother really put up a fight.” Callie had never seen her stepfather weep before—ever—and his voice shook with emotion. “She was a helluva woman. The toughest woman, bar none, I’ve ever known.”
Callie stood in front of him. Silent. She couldn’t find the tears to cry or the words to express any feelings—she couldn’t feel any feelings. Her lips were rubbery and when she moved them no sound escaped; her vocals had abandoned her, like a deaf-mute. Frozen. Her motor skills were nonexistent and so she remained still, like an upright mummy.… Why am I not upset? I feel nothing. In fact, I don’t even care. Why wouldn’t I care? My mother is dead and I don’t care?
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