by Amy Patrick
The driver takes a left and we begin our ascent into the Hollywood Hills, finally coming to a stop in the drive of an expansive multi-level home that follows the contour of the jagged cliff it’s built upon.
“Wow—this is amazing.” I open the car door and head for the trunk to get my bag, but the driver has already beat me there.
“I’ll take care of these,” he says, nodding toward Ava, who’s already at the home’s modern wood and glass front door and waiting for me with a big anticipatory smile.
“Wait till you see the view.”
She leads me inside where I wander through the open floor plan with my mouth gaping. Our houses in Atlanta and D.C. are actually bigger, but this place is way cooler. It’s decorated in a sort of retro-seventies style with modern touches. All the furnishings are white, and it seems the entire place is illuminated with light from the floor-to-ceiling window wall, the California sunshine dancing around the room like a Beach Boys song.
I cross over to the window, taking in the view of the valley stretched out below us. “Okay, now I really feel like I’m in a movie.” My childhood home in L.A. was large but homey, with a swing set in the back yard, and a treehouse, and colorful letter magnets on the refrigerator door. This place is unreal.
“We can visit a set while we’re here—if you’re interested. My roommate Serena is filming this week. She totally wouldn’t mind if you want to go watch,” Ava says.
“Really? I’d love to. You think we’ll have time? My dad made it sound like I’ll be booked every minute with the whole agent and photographer thing.”
Ava gives me a knowing eyebrow lift. “Your dad isn’t here. You are pretty tightly scheduled, but there’s always time for fun. You just have to know how to work things.” She skips off to the kitchen and throws open the door of a huge sub-zero refrigerator. “Want anything? I’m famished.”
“Sure. Whatever you have is fine.” Unlike what I’ve read about human models and their starvation diets, Elven girls eat often and eat well. We have much faster metabolisms than humans, and we’re tall. Our bodies are naturally thin and athletic—no wonder so many fashion shows and magazines are dominated by our race.
Sometimes I’ve wondered why the designers and photographers don’t get tired of working with the same body type day after day, year after year. Maybe they think it’s a good thing, since they basically see models as little more than human clothes hangers or blank canvases for their art.
Speaking of art, I’m dying to get on a computer here and look up the location of the art school in Santa Monica. Pappa uses a parental “spy” software program to monitor my laptop, tablet, and phone, so I’m reluctant to type in the potentially damning words using any of them.
But he doesn’t have the same sort of access to Ava’s computers, does he? I can’t stop a grin from stretching my cheeks. I could get used to this freedom thing.
Eying her backpack, I glance over at Ava, who’s setting out pita chips and hummus as well as some fruit. “Mind if I use your laptop to look up some L.A. touristy stuff? I know it’s cheesy, but I do want to see some things as long as I’m here.”
“Go for it. It’s not locked. But Alfred will give you a driver to take you anywhere you want to go, probably, so you don’t need to print out directions or anything.”
Alfred. Right. My father’s friend and the super-agent behind the stellar careers of the world’s top actors, musicians, models, and athletes. I read an article about his astonishing rise to prominence thirty years ago, seemingly out of nowhere. What the human writer of that article didn’t know is the story behind the story—that almost all of Alfred Frey’s clients are Elven and that glamour plays a huge part in their celebrity.
I’ll be meeting him first thing Monday morning, to launch my own career, I guess. The whole idea still seems very foreign to me. I can much more easily imagine myself behind the camera than in front of it. I love capturing beauty, expressing it with a paintbrush. I can’t picture myself as the subject of someone else’s art.
And I’m not sure how this whole modeling career thing is supposed to work if Pappa is so determined to marry me off in a political bargain a few months from now—to a reclusive Light Elf.
Ava plops onto the white leather couch beside me, where I’ve opened her laptop and clicked onto a search engine. She’s holding a bowl of the biggest strawberries I’ve ever seen in my life. As if she’s read my mind, she says, “So I heard you’re getting married. That’s cool.”
I glance over at her to see if she’s being sarcastic, but there’s no indication of it on her face. She seems sincere.
“Yeah, I guess so. Who told you?”
“My mom. She says it’s all important and whatnot ‘for the people.’”
Her dead-on imitation of her mother’s hoity-toity regal tone cracks me up. “Right. That’s what my dad says. What about you?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m old.” She grimaces. At nineteen, she should’ve been married for a year now already. “But my mom wants me to wait a little longer until I get my career more established and get a good fan pod going. I guess the humans aren’t as interested if you’re already ‘off the market’ or whatever.”
I hesitate before speaking again. I don’t know Ava well. We’ve seen each other many times over the years, but we’ve never spent much time talking. I don’t know how much I can trust her, how much she buys into her mom’s ideas and the mission of the Council. But she seems to be an awful lot like me—very much integrated into the human world, and someone who enjoys her freedom.
“I’ve been wondering about that—for myself. You know, like, how I’m supposed to marry this guy and have a modeling career? He lives in Altum. Rural Mississippi isn’t exactly a fashion mecca. Is he going to move out here so I can work after we’re married, or what? And he’s a Light Elf, which is weird.”
She shrugs and pops a berry into her mouth, speaking between chews. “Who knows what the parentals are thinking? I try to steer clear of all their schemes for world domination and just live my life. Maybe he will, though. Maybe he’s going to cross over to the Dark side and have some kind of performing career and a fan pod as well.” She grins at her joke. “Is he a musician or anything? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” I say on a heavy sigh. “Pappa won’t tell me anything and says it’s not for me to know about right now—that he’s an ‘excellent match’ and I shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Wow. You are a good girl, aren’t you? Mama’s always saying, ‘Why can’t you be more like Vancia Hart? She always does what she’s told.’” Ava laughs. “You’re making me look bad, girl.”
Heat fills my cheeks, though her jibe is good-natured. It’s just that I’m embarrassed by how true it is. I do always do as I’m told. And her teasing reminds me of Carter’s comment in the art room yesterday after school, about how it’s my life and that maybe I should start making some of my own decisions.
Ava rises from the couch. “Well, I’m going to lay out by the pool. Come on out when you’re done. You can bring your food with you if you want to. There’s saol water and stuff in the fridge, too.”
“Great, thanks.” I turn my attention back to my computer search with renewed interest. Finding the website for the art school, I do write down the address, in spite of what Ava said. I won’t be asking for a ride from any driver assigned by Alfred Frey—might as well call Pappa and tell him what I’m up to.
No, I’ll find my own way to the school. And maybe in some other areas of life as well.
Chapter Eight
The Agent
Alfred Frey’s office occupies an entire floor of a Century City high rise. I guess I should have expected no less from a legendary Hollywood agent.
I’m escorted to his door and cross what feels like miles of marble flooring before reaching his desk. He doesn’t even look up before muttering, “Sit down.”
When he finishes doing... whatever he’s doing... he finally lifts his head, moves his eyes
over my face and hair, and grunts, “Yes. Yes, it’ll work,” then drops his gaze back to his paperwork.
Though clearly not human, Alfred doesn’t look exactly like the Elves I’ve seen all my life. He is shorter, less attractive, and yet his face is so interesting it holds its own brand of appeal. If he’s really been a top agent for the past thirty years, then the Hollywood crowd undoubtedly assumes he’s keeping a plastic surgeon on standby for regular touchups—like all of the Fae, he has an ageless quality about him.
He wears a well-cut suit that has an expensive-looking sheen, a large shiny watch, and several rings. A beautiful turquoise tie matches his eyes and contrasts well with his thick, black hair and deep California tan.
Uncomfortable with the silence, I try to make conversation. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from my fa—”
“Your father wants this done as quickly as possible,” he interrupts in a no-nonsense tone. “From what I understand we have no time to waste in getting you launched. I’ve got you booked on go-sees every day this week, but first you’ll need a portfolio. It won’t be easy to whip one up so quickly. You’ll be working with Stephen Dutton all day—perhaps into the night to get it done.”
“All day?” I repeat dumbly.
My online research last night revealed the art school isn’t too far from the address of the photography studio listed on the itinerary I was given. I’m hoping to finish the shoot in time to walk the few blocks to the school and check it out before my driver comes back to pick me up.
It might be my only chance to visit the school in person this week. My go-sees could be in different counties or even the other side of the city for all I know—Los Angeles is huge.
“Yes—all day.” Alfred’s tone is withering. “You’re not here for a vacation. We all have to do our part—even Davis Hart’s daughter.” The way he worded it and the disgust in his voice makes me wonder—is this guy my father’s friend? He doesn’t sound all that “friendly.”
Chastened, I nod and mumble my thanks then follow the secretary who’s come to escort me out. I let out a long, shuddering breath as I leave his office. Whatever Alfred Frey is, he is not an ally.
* * *
The Santa Monica studio is cold, with immensely high ceilings and vents that seem to blow from every direction. Shivering in the bikini I was instructed to put on, I try not to wobble too much in my towering heels or squint in the overly bright lights.
“You’ll warm up in a minute,” the photographer, Stephen, informs me with a deep chuckle that says he’s hosted many a shivering girl in this studio. “We have to keep the temperature down in here because of the equipment, but the lights will have you sweating like you’re in a sauna pretty soon. So, Alfred says it’s your first time in front of a camera, huh?”
I nod, forcing a small smile in his direction, though I can’t really see his face with the glare in my eyes.
“You’ll do great, don’t worry. Alfred knows what he’s doing. He’s never steered me wrong yet.”
I shudder again, but not necessarily from the cold. Alfred sort of creeped me out. He wasn’t a lech or anything—he’s got a fan pod full of sweet young things if teenaged girls are what he’s into. No, it wasn’t the way he looked at me, but the way he didn’t. Though we’d only just met, I got the distinct impression he didn’t like me.
Stephen’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “Hey, Sofie, can you powder her again? Thanks.”
The photographer was right. I am warming up, and apparently, getting shiny as a result. A small Latina woman steps forward and dusts my face with sneeze-inducing translucent powder, adding another layer to the already thick-feeling makeup on my skin. One more new thing to get used to.
“All right. Give me some movement.” Stephen gets behind the camera and starts clicking.
Suddenly movement seems completely beyond my physical capabilities. I have no idea what to do. I feel stiff and super uncomfortable, like my arms and legs aren’t actually parts of my body anymore, but these strange unwieldy things hanging from my joints. I shift from side to side, tilt my head in different directions, but I can sense the disappointment in the room.
In my peripheral vision, the makeup artist and hairstylist lean their heads together and whisper. I’m sure they’re talking about how terrible I am. To make up for my lack of “moves,” I smile wider and wider until my face aches.
“Maybe vary your expressions for me, Vancia? We’ve got plenty of smiling,” Stephen says. I can almost hear the grimace in his voice.
“Oh. Sorry.” If he wants expressions of mortification and dread, then he’s getting a lens full now.
So I try to look serious, or fierce like that model show on TV talks about. I should have watched that more often.
Stephen steps to the side away from the camera. “Um... let’s take a break everyone.” Motioning to me with a finger, he says, “Come here Van.”
The nickname reminds me of Carter and triggers a sudden bout of homesickness that surprises me. “Are we done?”
His answering expression is a mixture of pity and if-only-we-were longing. “Listen kiddo,” he says in a gentle tone. “Let’s get out of the studio for a while. We have to do some location shoots anyway, and you’ll probably have more fun with those.”
My shoulders fall. I knew I’d suck at this. “I’m sorry I’m so terrible. I’ve never—”
“I know. Don’t worry about it. It’ll come together. You just need to relax a bit. Ever been to Venice beach?”
His imperfect grin really works with his twinkling brown eyes, and suddenly I do feel a bit more relaxed. “Not since I was a kid.”
“Well, grab your cover-up and let’s go. I’ll even buy you a snow cone when we get to Ocean Front Walk.”
“Not a cherry one!” The makeup artist warns as she rushes to pack her case and follow us out the studio door.
Chapter Nine
Field Trip
Things go a little better on our location shoots. As we move from the beach to a bricked alley, to a colorful mural wall, a rooftop, and back to the studio, changing outfits, hair, and makeup each time, I gradually relax.
Stephen says we got enough usable shots to make a decent portfolio and that he’ll print them tonight and have them ready for my go-sees tomorrow.
“You did it, kiddo.” He offers me a quick hug.
“If we got anything good, then you did it. Thank you for everything. Sorry again for being such a challenge.”
“Nah, you’re a natural,” he says, then laughs, probably because we both know he’s lying. “But seriously, you’ll get the hang of it, and you’re going to have some good luck this week—I can feel it. Just believe in yourself. And don’t let the other photographers intimidate you. They’re not all as charming as I am.”
I laugh, too, and hug him again. “How could they be?”
Leaving the studio, I check my phone, eager to follow its navigation app to the art school. Shoot. It’s later than I thought. The clock in the corner of the screen reads five-thirty. Is the school closed for the day already?
I’m supposed to call my driver and let him know when I’m finished, but I stuff my phone back into my purse instead. As far as he and Alfred know, our photo session could go on for several more hours. This is my best chance to visit the school, and I’m going to take it.
I speed-walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the lingering sun and the sound of seagulls flying overhead. I’ve ditched the ridiculous heels for my usual flip-flops and my long stride helps me make good time. As I pass one guy on the sidewalk, I hear him mutter, “New Yorkers,” under his breath. I guess in his laid back, Southern California mind, everyone in a hurry is from New York.
By the time I reach The Dowrey Center for Arts and Design—a square building with lots of windows—my phone tells me it’s five-fifty. And of course the hours of operation etched onto the school’s glass front doors are eight am to six pm. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
Testing the door han
dle, I’m relieved it swings open. But as I walk down the central hallway, my heart falls again. The place looks basically deserted. The doors lining the hall are all closed, and through the small windows in the center of each one I can see that the lights are off.
I’ve missed my chance.
The click of a lock and the jingle of keys draw my attention to the end of the hall. A man stands on the outside of one of the rooms, shifting the items in his shoulder bag. He looks too old to be a student. Is he a professor?
I’m so hoping the answer is yes when I call out to him. “Excuse me. Excuse me, sir?”
He looks up and jumps as if startled. “Can I help you?”
Rushing toward him, I speak quickly, putting as much pleasantness into my voice as I can. “Hi. Yes. Do you work here? I was hoping I could see the school. I’m visiting from Georgia, and I was hoping to take a look around? Maybe get an application?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I teach here—Professor Gould.”
He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Vancia Hart.”
“Unfortunately, we’re closing for the day, as you can see. I’m probably the last one in the building.” A tiny notch forms between his brows as he studies my hopeful expression. “An application, you said? What semester are you thinking of applying for? The admissions process for this fall is almost completed.”
“I know. I—well I just got up the courage to, you know, um check it out. I know I’m kind of behind.”
He gives me an understanding smile, starting to walk. “Well, it’s never too late to follow your dreams. There might still be a few openings—if not for the fall semester, then the spring. If you come back in the morning and visit the admissions office, they’ll give you the forms and set you up with a tour. You can also apply online.”
Actually, I can’t apply online. Not with Pappa monitoring my computer usage. Maybe I can borrow Ava’s computer again. Or... I could just use the Sway, something I’ve avoided in my everyday interactions with humans back in Georgia. But I don’t want to.