Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood

by Abby McDonald

  “What do you mean?” Brandon asked.

  “What do you do?” Hallie pressed. “Are you home from college, or dropped out, or what?”

  “I never went to college.” Brandon kept his eyes on the road. “And, I’m not really doing anything right now.”

  “Hmmm.” Maybe he had issues, Hallie decided. Smoked too much pot and dropped out of regular life, like Kenny Mathers from her theater group. One day, he was all set for a sound-design course in Florida; the next, he’s locked up in his room playing first-person shooter games for twenty hours a day and subsisting only on cheez-based snack foods. Now that Hallie thought about it, Brandon’s eyes did seem kind of bloodshot. . . .

  Her gaze drifted to the puckered line of red skin on his neck. “What’s the story with your scar?”

  “Hallie!” There Grace was again with the wail of protest.

  Hallie twisted around and glared at her. “What? I’m just asking.”

  “No, it’s OK.” Brandon coughed. “I, uh, was in Iraq.”

  Hallie stared.

  “Like, the army?”

  “Yup.” Brandon rubbed his neck absently. “I served a couple of years.”

  Hallie blinked in surprise. She’d never met anyone who actually joined; most of her friends were the ones staging antiwar sit-ins and campaigning about the hypocrisy of American imperialism. “So what happened?” she asked.

  Hallie felt a sharp kick in the back of her seat. “You don’t have to answer that,” Grace spoke up quickly.

  “No, it’s cool.” Brandon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “There was an ambush, I got hit by shrapnel.” He shrugged. “I was lucky. Some of the other guys . . . they weren’t so lucky.”

  “Sorry,” Grace murmured from the backseat.

  Brandon shrugged again. “It happens.”

  Silence lingered in the car until Brandon turned the radio up, and they drove the rest of the way without any more awkward conversation. Hallie stared out the window, guilty — and embarrassed for feeling guilty. It wasn’t her fault! She’d been expecting a story about a bad surf wipeout, or a crazy stunt with his buddies, and instead, Brandon was, like, Captain America. Protecting and Serving. No wonder he was so awkward and withdrawn: the guy was probably wracked with post-traumatic stress, or survivor’s guilt, or something like that.

  But as they turned off the freeway, all of Hallie’s unease melted away. “Grace, look!” she cried, gazing at the ocean: clear and blue under the fading sunset sky. The road wound along the very edge of the beach, rocky shoreline and pale sand falling away on their left as they headed up the coast.

  “Pretty special, huh?” Brandon smiled over at her, but Hallie was too busy drinking it all in to respond. The horizon stretched, limitless, in the distance, a world away from the stormy San Francisco skies that always hung so low with fog. She craned around to see as they passed north into Malibu, past houses squeezed together on the side of the road — jutting out over the beach on spindly stilts.

  “Imagine waking up every day to that view,” Hallie breathed. She made a new promise: screw that Spanish compound in the hills. When she made it big, she’d buy a place here, with the ocean right on her doorstep.

  They followed the winding highway along the shore until Brandon eased off to the side of the road, opposite one of the modern houses: stacked cubes, all chrome and glass. “Here we are,” Brandon said. “The famous de Santos compound.” His voice seemed to have an edge to it; a faint curl to his lip.

  “Who is this guy?” Hallie asked, climbing out of the Jeep.

  “Girl. Her name’s Ana Lucia.” Brandon waited for them to grab their stuff, and then led them across the busy highway. “She was a couple of years below me in school. So, your age.”

  “Awesome!” Hallie strode on ahead. “I can’t wait to meet everyone.”

  Inside, the music seemed to shake the very foundation of the house with a heavy bass; the party spilling in from outside as girls in bikinis scampered through the hallways, and guys wearing expensive shades poured cocktails from a kitchen countertop covered in bottles of liquor. Hallie drank it in, glad she’d already perfected her nonchalant stare.

  “Everyone’s so . . . shiny,” Grace murmured beside her. “It’s like we walked into the middle of a magazine shoot.”

  She was right. The kids around them were all glowing with a Hollywood gloss that seemed to Hallie to be equal parts orthodontics and golden tan. “We did.” Hallie grinned. “Look.”

  Over in the lounge area, two girls were bouncing on a white leather couch as an older guy photographed them with an old-school camera. They clutched their chests to keep their bikini tops in place, shrieking with laughter.

  “Watch out for him.” Brandon paused to glare over at the photographer. “He’s a total perv. Has this website, Friday Night —”

  “United?” Hallie finished excitedly. “I read it all the time! He does the best party pics!”

  Grace screwed up her face. “All those girls collapsed in the bathroom with glitter all over them? Eww.”

  Hallie ignored Grace, and filed the photographer’s face away for future reference. One of the last big stars of his site now modeled for Prada and Gucci, and had a column in some style magazine about her international jet-setting adventures with the fashion elite. Not bad for a girl whose main claim to fame was wearing a lion hood — and not much else — in a series of gritty club-hopping snaps.

  “The guys are probably out back.” Brandon nodded ahead. The whole rear of the house was sliding glass panels, pushed back to reveal a multilevel deck crowded with people. “I can introduce you around.”

  Hallie felt a flutter of nerves. “Just a sec.” She stopped at a mirror in the hall and quickly touched up her lipstick. New city, new scene to conquer. And conquer it, she would.

  She made to follow Brandon out, but Grace caught her arm. “Please don’t drink too much, or go off with strange guys, or do anything stupid.”

  Hallie gave her a withering stare. “What do you take me for?”

  “You,” Grace replied.

  Hallie pulled free. “I’ll be fine. You’re the one who needs to not embarrass me.” She caught up with Brandon as he stepped outside. The deck was even more crowded: kids lounging in groups, splashing in the hot tub, and clustered in front of a makeshift stage area as a group of guys set up speakers and sound gear. A rickety wooden staircase led down from the deck onto the beach, where more people were partying on the sand; a volleyball game in progress.

  “So these are your friends?” Hallie asked, following Brandon through the crowd. It looked like she was wrong about his beach-bum look: the guys here all wore designer polo shirts, or skinny denim, or were bare-chested over board shorts.

  “Not exactly,” he replied. Hallie barely had time to wonder what that meant before Brandon stopped by a group in the corner. It was the prime spot, Hallie quickly noticed: loungers and canopies, with a full view of the rest of the party. Two shirtless guys with artfully mussed hair were trying to rouse a trio of girls clicking at their cell phones with matching distracted expressions.

  “Hey.” Brandon approached, low-key. There was a beat, then one of the guys laughed.

  “Brandon Mitchell, what the hell?” He enveloped Brandon in a backslapping hug. “We haven’t seen you in forever! Thought you’d run off to Mexico, or, like, rehab or something.”

  “Nope. Still here.” Brandon had his hands bunched in the front pockets of his pants. He turned to Hallie. “This is Hallie, she and her sister just moved to town. They’re Auggie Jennings’s nieces, or cousins . . . ?”

  “Something like that.” Hallie switched on her brightest smile. “Hey!”

  “Hellooo . . .” one of the guys drawled, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously. The girls looked up from their phones, and Hallie realized suddenly that they were the ones from the boutique in town. The dark-haired girl beside him smacked his stomach.

  “Ignore him. Welcome to L.A.” She flashed a warm smile.
She was wearing bright-pink lipstick, and a high-fashion swimsuit constructed from so many straps and cutouts and metallic rings that Hallie wondered how exactly it was held up at all.

  “I’m Ana Lucia,” she introduced herself, moving close enough to give Hallie a faint air-kiss on each cheek. “And that’s Tai, Carter, Brie, and Meredith.” She nodded to each person in turn.

  Hallie smiled back. “It’s great to meet you all.”

  Carter turned to Brandon. “We were just heading out for a game.” He jerked his head toward the beach. “You in?”

  Brandon looked toward Hallie, almost as if he were asking permission. “Go ahead,” she said quickly. “Please, I’m good here.”

  “We’ll take care of her.” Ana Lucia laughed. “Come, sit.” She patted the lounger beside her.

  “See?” Hallie took a seat. Brandon still looked reluctant, so she shooed him away. “I don’t need babysitting. Have fun!”

  He nodded, still looking reluctant. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  The guys hustled off, Carter and Tai charging down the staircase with Brandon following slowly behind. Hallie settled back, feeling relieved she’d had such a warm welcome so far. The shiny TV shows had lied: nobody was throwing her into the pool and telling her, “Welcome to Malibu, bitch.”

  “So, tell us about you.” Ana Lucia turned to Hallie with an inquisitive smile. She pushed a handful of hair back from her face; it slowly slithered over one shoulder in a move Hallie made a mental note to practice herself. “Where did you move from?”

  “San Francisco,” Hallie replied, making herself comfortable. “We’re living with my mom’s cousin, Auggie Jennings, over in Beverly Hills.”

  “He’s a producer, right?” Ana Lucia paused, brow furrowed.

  “Yup. He makes movies.”

  “TV movies,” the blonde called Brie corrected. She had a face that was all narrow angles, and she was wearing one of the designer dresses from Hallie’s red-carpet fantasy list — damp and crumpled over her bikini like it was a cheap cover-up.

  “Oh.” Ana Lucia’s nose wrinkled, just a bit. “And your parents, what do they do?”

  “My mom’s an artist,” Hallie answered carefully. “And, my dad is a stockbroker. Was,” she added dramatically. “He just died.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” Ana Lucia gasped. There was a chorus of agreement from the other girls.

  “That’s awful.”

  “You must be wrecked,” Meredith added, eyes wide with sympathy.

  “It’s been hard.” Hallie had, by now, perfected her “so brave, and yet so vulnerable” look. She gave a courageous smile. “But, it’s behind us now. I’m looking forward to making a fresh start out here.”

  “That’s great.” Ana Lucia squeezed her hand. “So will you be BHH-ing it?”

  Hallie stared blankly.

  “Beverly Hills High,” Meredith explained. She was dressed the most casually of the girls, her hair caught up in a beachy braid, with a Missoni-style print bikini and long draped skirt.

  “Oh, no,” Hallie said quickly. “I graduated in May.”

  “Nice! Me too,” Meredith said. “Brie’s a year ahead, she just dropped out of UCLA —”

  “I’m taking time out,” Brie corrected her. “I’ll go back soon.”

  “Uh-huh.” Meredith shook her head slightly at Hallie. “Sure you will. Anyways, I start at USC in the fall, and Ana Lucia is a sophomore at Harvard.”

  “Only because Daddy insisted.” Ana Lucia rolled her eyes. “He says I need a backup plan, in case acting doesn’t work out.”

  “You’re an actress?” Hallie brightened. “Me too! You’ll have to tell me everything, I want to know all about the audition scene.”

  “For sure!” Ana Lucia agreed. “Who’s your rep?”

  Hallie was confused.

  “Representation,” Ana Lucia explained slowly. “Agent? Manager?”

  “Oh, I don’t have anyone yet.” Hallie shrugged. “Like I said, we just got here.”

  “Huh.” Ana Lucia’s smile dimmed slightly. “Any credits?”

  “Tons,” Hallie said quickly. “Theater mainly, but also some short films, TV . . .” Hallie didn’t add that the films were all shot by her friends, and the television spot had been more accidental than anything, but still, appearing in the back of a live news broadcast totally counted! “Why, do you have . . . reps?”

  “Of course.” Ana Lucia flipped her hair back. “I’m with WME,” she said, naming the biggest and glossiest of all the agencies as if it were nothing. Their security hadn’t even let Hallie past the door when she tried to deliver her portfolio.

  “Wow.” Hallie blinked. “That’s amazing.”

  Ana Lucia shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m thinking about moving. They don’t seem to get my brand, you know?”

  Hallie didn’t, but before she could reply, Ana Lucia saw someone across the party and suddenly brightened. “Oh, my God, they came!” she squealed, suddenly sounding like a starstruck teenager.

  “Who? What? Ooh.” Brie exhaled.

  Hallie turned. A group of guys had arrived on the other side of the deck: a mess of skinny jeans and leather jackets and artful rocker facial hair. Ana Lucia scrambled up, adjusting her many swimsuit straps for optimum cleavage display.

  “I got, like, this close to talking to Reed at their show last week,” she said, breathless. “Come on.”

  “You go ahead.” Meredith yawned, but Brie obediently followed her across the deck. Hallie watched as Ana Lucia tried to insert herself into the group — leaning in close to one of the tattooed rocker guys and bursting out with laughter. Interestingly, the guy seemed unconcerned; barely paying any attention to her, no matter how often she pressed up against him and flipped her hair around.

  “Take Fountain,” Meredith explained. “They’re, like, this close to a major label deal. Ana Lucia’s been stalking them ever since they said no to playing her last birthday.”

  “She’s not used to being turned down?” Hallie watched as the guys sauntered into the house — and Ana Lucia followed eagerly behind.

  Meredith laughed. “Not at all. Oh, and don’t worry about the agent thing,” she added, getting up. “Ana Lucia forgets to mention that her dad is one of the execs over at Universal. Every agent in town would represent his dog if they thought it would help them set up a deal.”

  “Oh.” Hallie felt relieved. The way Ana Lucia had been acting, it was like Hallie was a failure for not already having an agent, manager, and publicist lined up. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Meredith gave her a conspiratorial smile. “This scene can be kind of crazy. My dad’s a writer — he dragged us out here from New York my junior year of high school, and I swear, I thought I’d dropped into a reality show.” She looked around the party. “I’m going to go say hi to some people. Want to come along?”

  “Sure.” Hallie bounced up. “That would be great.”

  By the time Meredith had introduced her to the five hundredth person, Hallie’s cheeks ached from smiling so long and telling the same familiar “San Francisco/dead father/actress” refrain. To her surprise, Ana Lucia’s question about reps seemed standard, so Hallie quickly adjusted her answer to say that she had some meetings lined up, rather than face the same knowing looks. She couldn’t blame them for thinking she was just another wannabe, fresh off the bus, but Hallie knew she was different. She would make it — it was just a matter of time.

  “Want to come hang?” Meredith asked. It was louder now: kids drinking and dancing in every available space. She pointed to corner of the lounge where a group of surfer guys was lighting up what was most definitely not a cigarette.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Hallie looked around, the room feeling cramped and too noisy. “I think I’m going to go take a look at the ocean.”

  “Cool.” Meredith pulled her into a hug/double-air-kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll brunch!”

  Hallie headed back outside and down the rickety sta
irs to the beach, kicking off her sandals so the sand was cool between her toes. The beach was empty, save a few amorous shadows in the distance; the ocean crashing in a soothing hum. She breathed in the night air and felt herself finally relax. Hallie usually thrived in crowds, but that was when she’d been at the center of them; tonight she was hanging on the edge of every group, trying to make an impression. Barely registering at all.

  For now.

  Hallie headed for the water’s edge, shaking off her loneliness. This was all just the introduction in her story, the struggles she’d look back on fondly, during her interviews, as building character and grit. “Sure, it was hard,” she’d tell the magazine journalists, “being an outsider. But I knew if I just focused on my craft, everything would work out for me.”

  And it would.

  She reached the ocean, squealing as the cold surf swirled around her feet. The horizon stretched in front of her, an inky shadow, and suddenly, Hallie was overcome with a wash of possibility. She was exactly where she was supposed to be; at the dawn of a new chapter in her life. She could be anyone she wanted to be; create the life she was destined for!

  Hallie stripped off her cover-up and tossed it behind her onto the sand. She waded deeper into the dark ocean. This would be her baptism: washing away the old world in the cold waters of the Pacific; emerging her shining new self. Yes!

  The water was freezing, but Hallie kept going, ducking under a breaking wave so she was completely submerged, and then swimming deeper. Out past the breaking point, the water shifted and rolled, and she flipped on her back to float, gazing at the sky. It seemed to stretch forever, dark and still, dotted with the faint pinprick of stars. Her sister was always droning on about the science of the universe, the mathematics and order and history, or whatever, but Hallie thought the great mysteries of the world should remain just that: mysterious. Who cared about physics when there was poetry to be had, art and emotion rather than facts and figures?