Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

by Zoey Dean

  make any money. And Andy Marcus, the screenwriter, is a demented Neanderthal. Any

  questions?"

  I wanted to laugh, but Iris didn't look like she was in the mood for humor. I wrote No

  demented Neanderthals on my pad of paper, and beneath that drew a hairy apelike face with a

  big X through it, for clarity's sake. The rest of the meeting had to do with a marketing campaign

  for Metronome's latest kid flick, which involved a nine-year-old, a Shetland pony, and a time

  machine, and I admit my mind sort of drifted. There were some crassly commercial parts of this

  job, I realized. But hey, Hilary Swank had to have her NextKarate Kid before she got her

  Million Dollar Baby.

  After the meeting was over, Kylie, wearing a very expensive-looking trapeze dress over

  another pair of skinny jeans, sidled over to my desk. "So you're going to have to do phones

  most of the day--Iris wants me in the Wes Anderson meeting," she said. "I hope that's cool."

  I smiled and nodded, though of course I wished I could go to the meeting too. "Sure, of course.

  Is it all right if I leave at six?"

  "Six? You got a date or something?" Kylie raised a playful eyebrow.

  "We...," I said, a little embarrassed.

  Kylie grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me into the kitchen so fast I almost slipped on the

  polished tile.

  "Tell me everything," Kylie smiled, her voice low and coaxing.

  I felt myself flush. "I was at a bar last night and this guy, he's an agent at Ingenuity, just asked

  me out." I felt weirdly proud of myself then--not for being asked out by a cute boy but for

  having a chance to impress Kylie. Not like it was such a feat, but within the world of this

  office, I had nothing enviable: no designer clothes, no gossip to offer up. It felt kind of nice to

  have some currency.

  " Who? " Kylie squeezed my hand tighter, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin.

  "Um, his name's Mark Lyder?"

  Kylie dropped my wrist like it was suddenly hot. "Well!" she said. "Check you out."

  "You know him?"

  "Of course. " She waved a hand, as if it were the stupidest question she'd ever heard. "Does he

  know you work for Iris?"

  "Yeah, he overheard me talking about it."

  "Where's he taking you?"

  "Koi."

  " Quel surprise. That means 'what a surprise.' Well, don't be nervous. It'll just feed his ego. Just

  go in there and talk about work stuff. And don't go home with him, whatever you do," she

  said, wagging her finger like a protective mother. "You'll never hear from him again."

  "Um, okay." I smiled slightly. It was kind of nice to see Kylie get all mother hen, even if I was

  a little old for the advice. "But what do you mean, talk about work stuff?"

  "You know, bullshit. Trade info." Kylie opened the fridge and took out another Diet Coke, her

  fourth of the day. "Tell him about how we passed on the Dark Ages project, that kind of thing.

  Doesn't Ingenuity rep the writer?"

  "Is it cool to say things like that?"

  Kylie looked at me over the top of her soda. "Contrary to what you might think, honesty is

  pretty much always the best policy."

  "Really?" I'd watched enough episodes of Entourage to know that Hollywood had its own,

  sometimes logic-defying, set of rules. It was just a little surprising to hear that honesty was one

  of them.

  "Taylor." Kylie placed a hand on my arm, her green eyes suddenly softer. "You're supposed to

  talk about what's going on here. Especially with people like Mark. You give him some dirt,

  he'll give you some dirt. That's how this business works." She winked. "Plus, it'll make you

  look like you're kind of a player, you know?"

  I nodded, feeling strangely pleased. I had no idea that Mark might be someone important. Or

  that he might think I was.

  I was nervously watching the clock and chewing my finger-nails, ruining the manicure

  Magnolia had given me to celebrate my first day of work. It was almost 5:45, and Kylie and

  Iris still weren't back from their meeting with Wes Anderson. Today hadn't been a nine, as both

  Mark Lyder and I had hoped. It had been a seven, maybe seven and a half. On the plus side, I'd

  bought lunch in the commissary instead of letting my stomach basically digest itself like it had

  yesterday. But on the minus side, I'd eaten my sandwich surrounded by tables of people who

  all knew each other and who didn't seem to notice me at all.

  On a piece of scrap paper, I'd made a list:

  GOOD THINGS

  Learned how to forward calls to other extensions.

  Entered in most of the unsolicited scripts into script log.

  Cut back on Diet Cokes--only had four. (They're free!)

  Getting the swing of typing on BlackBerry's tiny keys. (Seriously, who has hands that small?)

  Got Kylie to talk about boyfriend; she might be starting to like me. (Name: Luke Hansen. Sign:

  Cancer. Apparently he's "very sweet.")

  Made Iris her spirulina smoothie; Iris claimed to like it.

  Successfully faxed Jude Law's agent. Jude Law!

  BAD THINGS

  Got Weinsteins mixed up--Harvey currently bearded.

  Brought up the carnie handbook again--Kylie not amused.

  Kept big agent on hold too long; he told Iris, who was not happy.

  Did not make any friends.

  Realized never called copier repair guy.

  I was trying to think of more good things to make me feel better when Kylie and Iris finally

  came in, looking pleased with themselves.

  Iris disappeared with a wave into her jungle of an office, but Kylie sighed dramatically and

  collapsed into her Eames chair. "Oh my God, Wes Anderson can talk," she said. "And he's so

  small! It's like he's a ten-year-old boy. Très bizarre. "

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "Very strange," Kylie clarified. "I spent a year in France, and I like to keep my language skills

  fresh." From her desk drawer, she pulled out a bag of soy nuts and shook three of them into

  her hand.

  "Ah." French was definitely not standard in my Cleveland high school, and while in college I

  thought it might be cool to understand what Truffaut's characters were saying, subtitles served

  me just fine, thank you very much.

  Iris reemerged from her office, a Birkin bag that probably cost more than my Honda Civic

  slung casually over her shoulder.

  "And now I'm off to meet with Paul," she said to Kylie. "I wish I had more time to talk first,

  but what'd you think?"

  "The script?" Kylie sat up a little straighter in her chair. "Well," she said carefully, "it's not

  Crash, but at least it isn't a war movie."

  "Oh, the Paul Haggis script?" I blurted, realizing what they were talking about.

  Both women turned to look at me.

  "That's the one," Iris said. "Why?"

  "I read the first act while I was photocopying it," I explained, wondering if it was okay to admit

  that.

  "And?"

  I glanced at Kylie, who didn't seem to be blinking. "For starters, it's too long," I said. "The

  setup takes forever. It's going to need some serious cuts. Starting with the stage directions.

  What director wants all his shots laid out for him already? Or her, of course. And I don't think

  the paraplegic guy is a very sympathetic character. I mean, okay, he's got a bum deal, but he

  doesn't have to go around throwing rocks at puppies."

  They bo
th just stared at me, and my heart thumped wildly in my chest. I'd said the wrong thing

  again.

  Then Iris chuckled. "That's funny, I thought the same thing," she said. "If you have any idea on

  how I can say that nicely to him, call my cell," she said. "Good night, girls."

  Something else to put in the "Good Things" column, I thought, my heartbeat slowing down. I

  put my computer to sleep and stood up. "Well," I said to Kylie, "I guess I should get going

  too."

  Kylie offered me a little frown. "Why?"

  "I have a date, remember?"

  Kylie shook two more soy nuts into her hand, popped them in her mouth, and then froze in

  midchew, a stricken look in her bottlegreen eyes. "Oh my God," she said. "Oh my God."

  "What?" I put down my purse.

  "I completely spaced. Quinn's driver is sick, and someone has to take her to her math tutor's

  tonight." Kylie chewed again, slowly, still in shock. "I can't believe I forgot."

  "Isn't she sixteen?" I asked. "Shouldn't she have a Mercedes of her own by now?"

  Kylie shook her head. "She doesn't have her license yet. Oh, Taylor, can you...?" She left the

  rest of the sentence to my imagination.

  "But," I said, feeling desperate, "I have to meet Mark."

  Kylie gestured to the legal pad on her desk. "And I have to type up all these notes for Iris's

  breakfast tomorrow with the chairman. He's going to ask her about this meeting." Kylie flipped

  the pages with her fingers. "Look at all this," she said helplessly. "Taylor, I'm really sorry I

  forgot. But you can postpone a date, and I can't postpone tomorrow's meeting. I mean, this is

  just one of those things..."

  "Okay," I said quietly. "That's fine, I guess."

  "Just call Mark and tell him you'll be a little late," Kylie said. "He'll respect that. Besides, it'll

  keep him on his toes." She lit the candle on her desk and took a deep breath with her eyes

  closed. "And make sure you Google map everything," she said. "When you're new here, there's

  nothing worse than getting lost in L.A."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time I got to Iris's house in Beverly Hills, it was already almost seven. Even with the

  directions printed out, I'd gotten turned around on Santa Monica Boulevard and had to double

  back, with everyone honking at me because I had the audacity to drive the speed limit instead of

  twenty miles over it. But I was proud of myself for not getting too profoundly lost; as my dad

  liked to say, I had the directional abilities of a four-year-old.

  Iris's house was a sprawling Mediterranean with a freshly painted stucco exterior and a tiled

  terra-cotta roof. The air was sweet with the smell of September flowers. In the center of the

  front lawn was a majestic fountain in the shape of three very beautiful, very busty nymphs.

  Rudolph Valentino would approve, I thought, climbing out of my Civic and wincing as the

  front door made its habitual loud squawk.

  I'd bought the car, a 1999 model, for two grand from a guy on Craigslist, and so far, barring

  that hinge (and the fact that it lacked a GPS system, which I really could have used), I was very

  happy with it.

  I picked my way up the flagstone path to the front door, past an orgiastic cluster of roses and

  the burbling fountain. I rang the doorbell and waited. I thought I could hear music from inside,

  but no one came to answer. After two more rings and almost three minutes, I felt myself

  starting to get annoyed. If Quinn had to get to her math tutor's so badly, wouldn't she be ready

  with her protractor, or at least be somewhere she could hear the bell? I paced around in front of

  the door. I took a deep breath and turned the door handle.

  "Hello?" I called.

  When still no one appeared, I tiptoed down a long, narrow foyer, past black-and-white line

  sketches in heavy gilt frames, following the music, which sounded suspiciously like SaltNPepa. I almost smiled. Quinn was into old school! Though she probably only knew about

  them from I Love the '80s on VH1.

  Eventually I came to a large, dimly lit den. Deep cream-colored sofas flanked a huge fireplace

  ringed in Italianate tile. In the corner, The Hills flickered on a flat-screen TV, and from invisible

  speakers came the unmistakable chorus of "Let's Talk About Sex."

  "It's totally brutal," a girl was saying. "He was like, going to talk to her about it or whatever,

  but then she just tells him straight up--yeah, I totally hooked up with Chas and I want to do it

  again. So he goes straight for his dad's gin and his mom's Vicodin, you know what I mean?"

  The voice was coming closer, and so I stood there, waiting to be discovered, hoping I wouldn't

  scare the girl to death.

  "I know, he was a total wreck. I was like, um, I'm sorry, I totally feel for you and everything,

  but you've really got to grow a pair.... That's not harsh! She's obviously a first-degree slut."

  The girl, when she came around the corner, caught sight of me, and her mouth fell open. Like

  her mother, Quinn was very tall, and she had the same auburn hair, which she'd swept up into a

  carelessly tousled knot and secured with a pencil. But there the resemblance ended. Her eyes

  were a startlingly pale shade of blue, her lips were large and full, and her nose was... the word I

  kept thinking of was fierce. Or proud--that was nicer, wasn't it? She was not what you'd call

  pretty, but there was something commanding about her, something much older than sixteen.

  I lifted my hand in a little wave. From across the room, Quinn's wide-set eyes met mine with an

  intense, seemingly instinctual dislike. She rubbed one bare foot against her calf, showing off

  navy blue-polished toenails.

  "Um, can I call you back?" she whispered into her iPhone. "There's somebody, um... here.

  Okay. Later." She clicked off.

  "Hi," I said, "your mother--"

  "Who are you and how'd you get in here?" Quinn held her head very high and proud on her

  long neck.

  "I'm Taylor, your mom's new assistant. I rang the bell and no one answered, so I let myself in.

  I was told that I needed to take you to a math lesson."

  Quinn's eyes slithered over me coolly, and she put a hand on her hip. "Where's Kylie?"

  "She couldn't make it tonight," I said. "She sent me in her place."

  "Right, she's not the second assistant anymore. I bet she loves that." Quinn smirked. "So do

  you like eavesdropping on people? Is that a job skill these days?"

  Iris seemed to glow whenever she mentioned her daughter, so I was rather taken aback by

  Quinn's aggressive tone. "Really, I didn't hear anything," I promised. Except that her friend

  Chas liked to mix gin and Vicodin. When I was in high school, the craziest combination I ever

  tried was Bud Light and clove cigarettes.

  Quinn stopped balancing on one foot, walked into the room, and flopped down on one of the

  cream-colored sofas. "You don't really look like the Metronome type."

  "Well, we can't all look like supermodels." I shrugged. Then I worried that Quinn would take

  offense at that--like, she might think I was implying that neither of us was pretty. Because

  actually, maybe Quinn could be one of those slightly odd looking supermodels.

  Quinn snorted. " Kylie, " she said. "Personally, I can't stand Kylie."

  I was startled. She and Quinn seemed like they'd be BFFs. "Why not?"

  "Because my mother loves her and today I hate everything my mother loves. Also because I
/>
  think she's secretly a raging bitch." She idly opened and closed her phone. "Most people are,

  you know."

  I couldn't help myself. "You're a little jaded for someone in high school."

  Quinn stuck her feet in the air and wiggled her blue-painted toes. "I'm just a realist."

  "I don't know. When I was your age--"

  "Spare me," Quinn said, slicing a long-fingered hand through the air. "Please."

  I blinked, slightly wounded. Well, it wasn't Quinn I had to impress, I told myself; it was

  Quinn's mother. And Mark Lyder, if I ever made it to my date. All I had to do now was get

  Quinn to her tutor's.

  I took a step toward the door. "Should we get going? Your tutor's waiting."

  Quinn waved her hand again, this time nonchalantly. "Maybe I'll cancel," she said.

  "You can't," I said. "It's too late."

  Quinn pulled herself up off the couch then and flounced past me toward the front door, where

  she slipped on a pair of daisy-printed flip-flops and shouldered a studded white leather bag.

  "Are you coming?" she said. "God."

  Outside she sniffed disapprovingly at my car and slid into the backseat. I would have thought

  that I'd outgrown that whole high school insecurity thing, but as it turned out, taking flak from

  a snide sixteen-year-old was still a surefire way to feel like crap. And Quinn wasn't even born

  when Salt-N-Pepa were popular. Somehow that made me feel even worse.

  Traffic was bad on Santa Monica Boulevard. Most of the time Quinn was busy with her

  phone, interrupting her texting only to ask me to change the radio station or complain about

  how slow we were going. I tried to engage her in a little friendly conversation but was quickly

  made to understand that she had very little to say to me. She wasn't rude, exactly; she just made

  it clear that she thought I was a complete and utter nobody. It was all very Mean Girls.

  But when we got to her destination, she suddenly reached out and touched my shoulder.

  "Thanks," she said. "You're way better than Kylie."

  I didn't know how or why she'd come to that conclusion, but I was happy to take it and run.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Welcome to Koi. May I--"

  Before he could finish his sentence, I shoved my car keys into the deeply tanned valet's hand

  and dashed past him toward the restaurant. When I'd called, Mark hadn't seemed to mind