by N. K. Smith
Peter and I never discussed attending the ceremony together, but I know that’s what we’re going to do. It’ll be the talk of the town after all the gossip about winners and fashion dies down. And if we aren’t, we’ll at least be featured. Childhood friends hooking up years and years later is gossip worthy. I’m sure even Liliana will be asked to comment tonight as she’s standing on the press stage holding her Oscar.
The day speeds past in a whirlwind of foundation, diamonds, heels, and blue fabric. Peter looks amazing when he returns to my house. Whether it was coincidence or he did some last minute scrambling, his tux is the perfect companion for my dress. We look like a couple.
The limo ride is quiet because my jitters hold me hostage. He holds my hand, and the way he uses the tips of his fingers to stroke my skin lull me into relaxation. Fatigue always seems to get the best of me lately, so I close my eyes and don’t open them until I feel warm pressure on my cheeks.
Peter’s expression is soft, his face smooth and beautiful as he smiles at me. He’s stroking my cheek. I love it until I remember how long it took to get this makeup just right. I sit up and brush his hand away. Turning toward the window, I see we’re in the queue. What looks like a million fans, photographers, and journalists line the sidewalk. Up ahead is the red carpet that will take us into the auditorium.
I take my compact out of my clutch and flip it open to check my face. My makeup is fine, but my eyes show my low energy. Coke would be an excellent pick-me-up right now. “All I need to do is make it through another couple of hours.” I say it to myself, but Peter is so close he hears my whispered words.
“You’ll be fine.”
I nod, but I’m not so sure. The ceremony is a couple hours long, and the after-parties will take up most the night. If I wasn’t nominated, I could disappear, go home and not be noticed, but after losing to a good friend, everyone will want to console me, take self-portraits with me using their cell phones, discuss future projects, and all that.
“What’s that sigh for? You look like you’re going to your execution.”
I shift to face him again. “Thankfully not, but I am going to watch Lili win yet again.”
“You don’t know that.” Peter squeezes my hands.
“Everybody prefers her.”
“I don’t.”
The quick honesty in his words bring a grin onto my lips, but I say, “Maybe that’ll change when you see her holding that Oscar tonight.”
Peter shakes his head. A stray lock of hair falls onto his forehead. I push it back into place. “You need gel or something. Who did your hair?”
“I did; you like it?”
I bite my bottom lip to hold in a laugh and make my eyes go wide. “Aw, Peter. Do you not know how this Hollywood thing works? You hire people to make you look stunning.”
He laughs and brings his hand up to cup my face. His thumb strokes the bone underneath my eye, and this time I don’t care about my makeup. “I think you should do a comedy sometime. You have great facial expressions, and I’d love to see you smile more.”
I try to look out the window to avoid acknowledging his words, but he keeps me there with him.
“And, by the way,” he says, his voice rich with sincerity, “you don’t need anyone to make you look stunning. That’s a natural thing for you.”
His charm lifts my mood, and I know I should feel happier to have him, to walk the red carpet with him, to be nominated for this awesome award. There must be something wrong with me because I can’t manage to feel much at all anymore.
Thankfully, the car stops so I don’t have to address what he has just said. Instead, I paste on my smile. “Showtime.”
Chapter 47
I almost stumble up the stairs. I can’t believe this is happening.
Wait.
Is this happening?
When I’m up on stage, I pause and look back at the crowd of people. Not just people—stars, Hollywood elite, and legends. Peter pauses in his applause to flash me a thumbs up sign.
I have to find Lili, so I scan the sea of faces before me until I see her. She’s got a sweet expression on her face, a little one-sided grin as she claps slowly for me. But what is that look in her eyes? Is she pissed off I won? Is she—
Shit. I have to go make a speech.
I turn back to the presenters, Devon Maddox and Rachel Bishop. Devon’s got the statue in his hands. I cannot believe I’m about to get an Oscar from the hands of Devon Maddox.
Remembering myself, I start walking again. It felt like an eternity, but since no one’s looking at me like I’m a nutcase, I imagine my pause was only a few seconds at most. When I get to the couple, she embraces me, and then Devon kisses my cheek. “Congratulations!” he whispers as he passes me the award.
I stand still. This time it must be too long because he nudges me toward the microphone. “Holy sh—” I stop myself when I realize this is live, and I need to temper myself. “Sorry. My friend Peter told me I should write a Thank You speech, but, like usual, I didn’t follow his advice, so now I’m stuck here trying to remember who to thank and what to say.” I lick my lips. “So I guess, I’ll just say, oh, man, thank you to, like, everyone. I didn’t, holy crap, I didn’t expect to win. I mean, there are so many, you know, so many fantastic women nominated, and my friend Liliana is one of them.”
The lights nearly blind me from this angle, but I manage to find her again. She gives me a wave and what could be a genuine look of appreciation. “I mean, I feel just so—”
The orchestra begins to play, drowning out what I was going to say. I might have been blabbering on, but I wish I could have finished with something coherent. Heat rushes to my face and all of a sudden, more butterflies flitter around in my belly—way more than when I was waiting for Devon and Rachel to announce the winner. The butterflies are multiplying because that—what just happened, what I just said, and the fact that the music had to cut me off—is how I’ll be remembered. I’m going to be that incoherent, uneducated person who couldn’t keep it together when she won.
Thoughts of that being my defining moment overwhelm me as I’m led off the stage. I know I just won something huge and everything, but Oscar winners are remembered for the eloquence of their acceptance speech or lack thereof.
I am an idiot.
Everything happens so fast as I’m ushered through the wings of the stage to the press stage. To be truthful, I don’t honestly know what they ask or what I answer. It’s all just a whirlwind, and I guess I’ll find out how asinine my answers are tomorrow when I do a tour of all the gossip blogs, magazines, and television shows.
Things settle down once I get to my first after-party. There are, of course, tons to choose from, but the one I attend first is the one Peter, Lili, and I all agreed to go to months and months ago. I walk in clutching my Oscar and the little pink invitation in one hand and clutching Peter’s hand with the other. I’ve changed out of my Pierre Gardiner gown and into a simpler Mic Gutierrez dress.
“You are the star of the night,” Peter whispers into my ear.
“I’m freaking out.”
He laughs. “Social anxiety has never been your thing.”
I’m about to reply that he has no idea how anxiety-ridden I’ve become when I see someone across the room. Oh, my God, is that Katie Williams nodding at me? Jesus, she’s the pinnacle of Hollywood legends. I drop my gaze to the floor after giving her a shaky smile. I’m not worthy of her attention. She’s never bared her chest in a movie, and she’s always in such highbrow films. I doubt she’s smiling at me for any other reason than because it’s customary to be courteous to an Academy Award winner the night she wins.
Someone touches my shoulder and when I look up, I’m face to face with Collette freaking Stroud. “Congratulations! I saw This of All Things, and you certainly deserve more awards than just this one.”
I struggle for words for a second, and when I find my voice, I say, “That means a lot coming from you. I thought for sure you’d be betting
on Liliana since you worked with her on Tortured Desires.”
Cole laughs. “She’s a fine actress as well, but your performance had more depth.”
“Thank you.” I look at the ground, but look up when she touches my shoulder again.
“I hope we can work together one day. I have a few parts you’d be great for.”
“Oh, my God, seriously?”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, my God,” I say again and feel the blush rise for being such an idiot.
If Collette notices my nervousness, she doesn’t say anything. “Well, enjoy your victory party.”
Cole moves toward Devon Maddox, and Peter bumps me with his hip. “So how cool was that, Miss Big-Name Star?”
“Oh, my God.”
Peter leads me farther into the room. I have to let go of his hand to take a flute of champagne. More people congratulate me, but it is all a blur. After a solid hour of hugging legends, stars, and people I’ve never met or seen before, I say to Peter, “You know, I’ve always wanted to be noticed, but good God, I don’t know what to do with all this attention.”
“Relish it, Adra. You’ve earned it.”
I down my second flute of bubbly and grab another in the hope that it’ll dull my senses enough for me to calm down a bit.
Peter is quite popular. He’s always been a very extroverted person—someone who both gets along with people and sort of gets off on the interaction. I, on the other hand, tire of people easily. I smile just like he does, and I schmooze with all of the same people he’s schmoozing with, but at the end of it all, I’m tired.
More than that, the excitement wears off, and I’m fucking numb.
The stunned disbelief of winning an award like this fades, and I’m left with this casual daze. It’s an emotionlessness that borders on the frightening.
“So you did it.”
I shake myself into awareness, into being present, and find Lili right in front of me, her latest co-star, some green actor, on her arm. Did she sign another contract to faux-date him, or is she really interested in him? I have to think that she wouldn’t date a nobody unless she got something like money or a movie trilogy again, but then I feel like crap for thinking such horrible things about my friend. I’m a terrible person.
“I did,” I say.
“You don’t sound thrilled.” She leans in closer. “You don’t look thrilled either. Adra, people are taking your picture left and right, the least you can do is smile and act happy.” Critical. Always critical.
“I am happy.” I can’t tell if she believes my lie, but the further away we drift from it the better, so I say, “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”
Lili laughs, waves her hand like it’s no big deal, and then nudges the man on her arm to go away. “I’m not sorry.”
At first I think she’s being modest, and then I think she’s being kind, but when she threads her arm through mine, and turns us away from Peter. She takes a long drink of wine, and I know there’s some other reason.
“I’m happy I didn’t win.”
“Why?”
“Because people would think I’ve already reached my peak at twenty-five. I mean, I know I’ll win an Oscar one day, but I want it to be closer to thirty. I want producers and directors to know that while I’m talented enough to earn a nomination, I’m still young enough to learn.” I hate the airy way she says all this. Like she’s given it so much thought, and I’m stupid for believing an Oscar at twenty-five is a good thing.
She shrugs and begins walking us to the bar for a refill. My glass is empty and I have an urge to get drunk all of a sudden, so I don’t object. I glance back at my Oscar, which is on the tall table next to Peter’s elbow as he laughs at something Richard Jackson says. “I mean, you’re twenty-five, Adra. I know it’s exciting to win awards, but I wonder if people won’t typecast you now.”
“What do you mean?”
Liliana waits to answer until her wine and my champagne have been refilled. “Well, you won an Academy Award for a movie you got naked in, right? I mean, most of your—”
“I played a girl with moderate spina bifida. I was naked for a locker room scene to showcase bullying, Lili.” While I’m not super proud of my tits being on screen, this was one case where I can say without a doubt that it wasn’t gratuitous or unnecessary.
She rolls her eyes and waves her hands at me again. “Don’t take it personally, sweetie, I was just thinking out loud.” Liliana grabs my hand in hers. “I’m really proud of you.”
I don’t know if she’s being real or fake. It’s so hard to tell with her.
“Remember when we used to practice our speeches in our trailers? We’ve come a long way.”
Again, her voice is light and airy, but I don’t know how to take it. True nostalgia or another backhanded dig? I slip my hand out of hers. “I guess I really screwed mine up tonight, didn’t I? Should’ve spent more time practicing.”
She shakes her head. “It came off quite lovely. Everyone loves shocked, speechless winners. You know, the ones who fumble and stumble.”
I don’t know if I’ve been smiling during this exchange, but I do know that if I was, I’ve stopped now. Lili wouldn’t have messed up her acceptance speech. She would have been flawless. She would have thanked every cast and crew member, the Academy, God, her agent, and her parents. She would have totally killed it. And what did I do? I fucking bombed.
Lili sets down her glass on the bar and places a hand on my forearm. “Honey, you look like you’re going to cry. What’s wrong?”
There’s nothing to do but blink at my onetime friend and all-the-time competition. She looks sincere, but I can never tell with her. I can’t figure anything out anymore and it’s driving me crazy. “Nothing,” I say in a whisper. “Just been a long day.”
I want to believe her smile is one of genuine friendship, but my paranoia says otherwise. “The night’s just getting started. Maybe you just need a little pick-me-up. Switch to an energy drink or coffee for a little bit. You know how sleepy you get when you drink too much.”
“Yes. Thanks for the advice.” My nose itches in a familiar way, and my mind zings. I scan the crowd and then point. “Your date looks lost.”
She laughs, and she slides her hand off of my arm. “He is lost, but let me tell you, sweetie, he is an animal in bed.” Lili hugs me.
I’m so thankful when she leaves. I’m so confused. Either our friendship is real and I’ve just screwed everything up into this pseudo-competitive frenemy thing, or she’s really just a bitch that has it out for me. Either way, I’m exhausted. I down the last of my champagne to avoid thinking about it further.
I should find Peter.
There are so many people here, at every turn someone’s congratulating me or wanting to make small talk. I constantly have to stop, chat, and network. I know this is something that will further my career, and we all have to do it, but I’m drained.
Liliana was right. I need a pick-me-up, but it’s not coffee or an energy drink I want. Peter has to be around here somewhere, so I try to refocus my thoughts. If I can just find him, he’ll give me strength to make it through without any chemicals whizzing through my veins.
When I finally extract myself from well-wishers and drunken celebrities, I find Peter, but he’s talking to Shyla. The monarchs in my tummy, who have been flapping their wings like they’re migrating to Mexico, turn into lead mechanical toys whose hinges have rusted and whose wings can no longer flap. The butterflies are lying dead, heavy in my belly as I watch Peter and his ex-girlfriend.
Shyla doesn’t look devastated that Peter broke it off with her, and she doesn’t look hopeful like he’ll take her back. She looks content, like maybe they’re still a happy couple, and I just don’t know it.
Come to think about it, I never did get the full story of the break up. Peter never told me what happened. So maybe . . . maybe they’re together, and he’s playing me. Maybe I’m the other woman. Maybe Peter loves her but couldn’t pass up his
weak, needy friend. Maybe all of this is just a game. Maybe I’m a joke to him. Maybe I’m the joke of Hollywood as I hang onto an already taken man who is playing me.
Those heavy dead things in my body weigh me down, and I feel like I’m drowning.
Shyla laughs at something Peter says, then swats at his chest. “Oh, Peter, you’re so bad!” I can hear her from all the way over here.
I turn away from them and stumble toward the bathrooms. Before I get there, I drink another flute champagne and slam the glass down on one of the tables nearby. My hands are empty, and I remember the statue. I left it on the table Peter and I were standing next to when Lili came up.
I feel so sweaty and gross, but I have to keep calm as I turn around to retrieve it. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to have it in my hands. I’m not a twenty-five-year-old has been. I’m Adra Willows, Academy Award winner.
People are patting me on the back, touching my arms, shouting words of celebration, telling me to call them, but I just keep focused on that table. Peter and Shyla are still deep in conversation a few feet away. I manage to reach the statue without alerting either of them to my presence.
A little peace washes over me when I wrap my fingers around the golden man, but it’s shattered as soon as I stand up straight. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Hey, Peter.” My legs shake, just like the fake happiness I push onto my face.
“You okay? You look a bit—”
“I’m fine. Gotta go to the bathroom.” I manage to evade his hand as he tries to grab hold of my arm.
“I can keep an eye on that for you, you know.” He nods down at the Oscar at my side.
I chuckle, but it’s not genuine. “Yeah, I just . . . you know, want to hold it.”
“It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?”