Then I think about why I didn’t fight harder for him, and I think of Mom, beautiful, golden, radiant Mom, the sun around whom my world revolved, the only person whom I really cared about. It was always about the two of us, everyone else could go to hell, I loved her more than everyone else put together. And I remember her eyes narrowed in hatred at me, her hands cruelly clawing at me as she literally threw me out of the house. This time when I deliver Zoey’s lines my voice breaks and my mouth quivers as I fight to keep back tears, and there’s nothing fake about it.
I expect my audition to be the same kind of thing as Sophia’s so I am very surprised when I arrive and find that, in addition to Alan and the casting crew, a young man stands up to greet me and it’s Lucas McAllister. Lucas is an actor who’s been in a couple of movies, including a teen musical, but his main background is in theater. He just came off an eight-month stint on Broadway playing the role of Connor Murphy in Dear Evan Hansen.
“This is Lucas, and he’ll be playing Griffin, the male lead. I’d like to have you read opposite each other,” Alan explains. Lucas is cute and funny and perfect for the part, attractive but not in a cocky way. He has a shy smile that is almost unconsciously sexy. “I like to make sure my actors have chemistry with each other,” Alan explains.
This shouldn’t be a problem because I have yet to meet the guy that I can’t ignite a spark of chemistry with. When we read our scene I focus on Lucas like he’s the only person in the room. I don’t just let him finish his line so I can deliver my own; I listen to his words as though it’s the first time I hear them. I don’t just recite, I speak to him like I’ve never spoken these words before. I pull away from him to draw him toward me. I lean in to push him back. Our scene is as physical as it is vocal, a dance of the eyes and voice.
Next I read scenes on my own, while Alan reads the opposite part.
“Very good,” Alan says. I’m not sure what he really thinks. With Sophia, he was gushing with praise, but then he didn’t offer her the part.
“How’s your singing?” he asks.
“Pretty mediocre,” I answer truthfully.
“I don’t need you to sound good,” he explains. “That’s what voice-overs are for. I need you to look like you sound good.”
The production assistant hands me a guitar. “It’s not plugged in,” he says. “If you don’t know how to play you can just fake it.”
I strap the guitar across my shoulders and fumble with the strings. I know a few chords, just enough to look like I know what I’m doing.
“Just have fun,” Alan says. “Pretend I’m not here. Pretend it’s just you and Lucas.” Ha. Like that makes it less awkward. I glance at Lucas, feeling terribly self-conscious. Lucas gives me that little smile again, and I smile back.
The assistant cues up the music, and the opening notes play to Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.” I used to sing this song in the middle of my bedroom in my underwear. I belt out the song with unbridled abandon, not caring whether I’m off key, just having fun. It’s just me and the music, and I know just how Zoey feels and how and why she sings, as every sad, anxious feeling I’ve wrought to the surface melts away. I look right into Lucas’ eyes and strut toward him like a cat before I turn away, flipping my hair over my shoulder. I feel sexy and wild and when the music finishes I’m panting, my hair falling in my face, and I’m smiling. Probably more fun than I should be having. Joan Jett isn’t a smily, giddy type of performer, but I think Zoey is.
Alan is smiling too.
“I think we’ve found our Zoey,” he says.
After that things start to happen very quickly. First, however, I have to get the dreaded conversation with Sophia out of the way. Neither of us have been home much in the past couple of days, so we haven’t seen each other alone, but today an encounter is finally inevitable. As I come up the stairs I hear Brigitte, Maya and Sophia talking in Sophia’s room.
“I’m sorry. It should have been you,” Maya says. “Everybody knows that.”
“She totally stole the part from you,” says Brigitte. “And she calls herself your friend.”
Sophia’s murmured answer is unintelligible, but Brigitte’s answer is not.
“Oh, come on. You know how she got that role, don’t you? She probably slept with the director. Same way she did with Theo, a fat lot of good that did her.”
“I didn’t sleep with the director,” I interrupt them from the doorway, startling them. “I’ve slept with worse, but the fact is I didn’t sleep with Alan. Sophia knows I didn’t. You can stop talking bullshit about me now.”
Maya has the grace to look embarrassed, but Brigitte just sneers at me.
“Why? You sleep with everyone else,” Brigitte says.
I’m not here to fight with Brigitte. “Sophia, can I speak with you alone?”
Maya gets up and leaves the room. Brigitte doesn’t move.
“What makes you think she wants to speak to you?” Brigitte says.
“I’m talking to Sophia, not you.” I retort. “Sophia, please?”
Sophia gives Brigitte a signal that it’s okay, she can leave us, like Brigitte is her bodyguard or something, which would be funny if it wasn’t so ludicrous because Brigitte doesn’t give a damn about Sophia, she just gets off on taking sides against me. Brigitte gives me a filthy look as she leaves the room.
“Please don’t be angry, Sophia,” I say. “I only went to the audition with you because you asked me to. I never thought this would happen.”
“I’m not angry,” Sophia says with a little smile, gracious as a queen.
“Really?”
“Really. It’s not your fault.”
“Okay. I mean, I couldn’t stand it if you were angry at me. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“You’re my best friend, Sophia. You know I’d do anything for you.”
Sophia looks at me and her eyes harden. I’m lying and she knows it; I wouldn’t do anything. I wouldn’t turn down the part, even though she’s their second choice. In the end, we both want the same thing, and even though I love Sophia more than anyone in the world, I’m not giving it up.
“Campbell, forget it. I don’t even have time for it. I’m fully booked for months.”
That’s nonsense, of course, and we both know it, because the agency would move, cancel or reschedule all her other bookings for a movie role.
“You sure?” I ask. “So we’re okay then?”
“It’s not that big a deal, alright? I didn’t even really want the part. I was barely trying. ” She stands up from the bed, ending the subject forever, but I catch just the tiniest, quickest glint in her eyes before she looks away. Forget about it, her look says. Forget you ever heard me say I want it. Do not ever let anyone know that it meant anything to me or I will destroy you.
17
Jane
I have a little plaque in my kitchen that reads, ‘A good hostess is like a swan. Graceful on the surface, and paddling like mad underneath.’ As a hostess, you should be prepared to handle minor setbacks - a drunk bartender, a kitchen fire, or a passed-out guest — with composure and humor and without a hair out of place. — From Living a Model Life: Beauty and Style Tips from Gigi Towers by Gigi Towers.
* * *
On the afternoon of the 23rd, everyone in the house is in a whirlwind of preening for Sophia’s party at the Oleander Club. Margo and Betty both have the night off. The girls obsess with their clothes and makeup, since the party will be attended by every big name in the business. Sophia may be the guest of honor, but the whole event is essentially one big go-see for all of Gigi’s girls, an opportunity to promote her agency and her models while wining and dining the clients.
I’m wearing a dress because Gigi told me to, an A-line thing that makes me look like a tent, but it really doesn’t matter what I wear because I plan to ditch the Oleander club about fifteen seconds after we get there and come right back here and change before my own guests arrive. Gigi wa
nts us all at the Oleander club from seven o’clock on even though the party won’t really take off until about nine or ten, and it’ll probably go on past midnight.
Walking into the Oleander Club is like being transported to a planet of black light and acrylic furniture, where we get waited on by skinny aliens in tight red dresses and fluorescent makeup who walk around with appetizers on silver trays while a giant aquarium full of aquatic night creatures swim overhead, staring down at us. I’ve never been in a club this cool before; hell, I’ve never been in any nightclub before. The other girls, of course, are trying to act like they’ve seen it all a hundred times before but they’re obviously excited out of their minds. All the staff and models of the Towers Agency are there, and it’s not hard for me to disappear among them. Nobody is paying any attention to me anyway.
I slip out about twenty minutes after I arrive, and take a taxi back to the house. I quickly change into the lime green tulle skirt, fishnet stockings, skull-covered tank top and high-top sneakers. I’ve ordered an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood to deliver a big pan of lasagna for my party because it’s my favorite food, and because there probably hasn’t been a big fat delicious gooey lasagna in this house since Gigi moved in. Niko and Jazz are bringing beverages, and Ashley is bringing some dips and appetizers. I bought about a hundred Hostess Twinkies which I stashed in my room, and now I unwrap them and construct my own version of a cupcake tower on the dining table: a Twinkie pyramid. By the time I finish and get the music playing in the living room, Ashley is already at the door, and Niko and Jazz are getting out of a cab right behind her.
Ashley looks adorable in a navy vintage tea-length dress with a white collar and white belt from the 1950’s. “It’s my grandmother’s,” she says. “Isn’t it cute? I wish girls still dressed like this.” She goes inside and starts rummaging through the kitchen to set up the appetizers.
Niko wears the same khaki pants and shoes as always but he has on a Hawaiian shirt with a tie. “Best I could do on short notice,” he says.
“You look perfect,” I answer.
Jazz has got on pajama pants and a black T-shirt emblazoned with FUR HURTS, and her face is made up with pale foundation, heavy black eyeshadow and black lipstick. Right behind them people continue to arrive. Connor shows up in full-on punk gear, with torn black jeans, combat boots and spiked hair. He has two other people with him.
“I brought my brother, Shane, and his girlfriend Amber. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I say. Shane is even better looking than Connor, if such a thing is possible. Amber is pretty, in a hard, bleached-blond way, and she’s dressed like a streetwalker in a tight spandex miniskirt and tube top. I’m not entirely certain if she’s actually in costume. A junior girl named Taylor, who I never spoke to before, arrives with two guys, both seniors, dressed like tacky tourists with baseball caps and bermuda shorts. They carry bags of vodka, beer and mixers, which is a bit of a surprise but what the hell, it’s not like anyone is driving. Before long I realize this crowd is going to be a lot bigger than I anticipated.
The crowd mills around the downstairs and I find it a little hard to relax because I keep picking up drinks from polished wooden surfaces and shoving napkins under them before they leave water stains, and wiping crumbs off of upholstery, but then I remind myself this is my house, and I can have a damn party if I want to. I hope Niko is having a good time. I don’t think he gets to go to parties a lot. He’s in a group listening to Connor tell a story, staring at Connor and laughing at everything Connor says. My heart aches for Niko. I can feel how lonely he is, living with parents who secretly despise him, an outsider at school, burying everything he feels inside. At least he has Jazz. And me.
Pretty soon the food is gone, the drinks are finished, and the energy starts to lag.
“Hey man, this party blows,” Shane says to Connor. “I thought you said there were going to be models.”
Connor looks at me, embarrassed.
“I said there might be models,” he says. “I said she lives with a bunch of models.” Connor jerks his head in my direction.
“You know, we expected some of the Towers girls to be here too,” Taylor pouts. “I thought you were roommates with Sophia Thompson.”
“They’re not home,” I explain. “Sorry I didn’t put them on display for you.”
“I don’t believe you even know Sophia Thompson,” says Amber.
“I do too. She lives here. Her room is right upstairs.”
“Really? Up there?” says Shane.
“Yes, but you can’t go up there,” I say, but it’s too late, he and Amber are already heading up the stairs. “Connor, tell your brother they can’t go in the models’ rooms!”
“Which models’ rooms?” Connor asks, following his brother.
“I said NOT UPSTAIRS, dammit!” I run after them, but this has the wrong effect, and something similar to a stampede erupts, with everyone following me. I elbow my way to the top floor, and at the top of the stairs I plant my hands on the bannisters. “Back downstairs. I mean it,” I yell, pushing a grumbling cluster of teenagers back down.
On the third floor, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. A crowd has invaded Brigitte’s and Ling’s room, perusing their portfolios, picking up their composite cards and even pocketing some as souvenirs.
“Stop that! Get out of here!” I snatch the pictures out of their hands, and it takes all my strength, with Jazz’s help, to shove everyone out of the room. In Sophia’s room things are even worse. Amber is actually going through Sophia’s closet, handling her clothes and looking at labels. She holds a dress in front of herself.
“Shane, take my picture,” she says. She makes what she thinks is a sexy pout as she poses with Sophia’s dress and Shane snaps a picture with his phone.
“This is private property, you idiot!” I yank the dress from her hands. Good grief, it’s a Chanel from the Spring prêt-à-porter collection. Amber may be a bitch but she knows her clothes.
“Let’s go,” Amber says to Shane, linking her arm through his. “This party sucks.”
The consensus seems to be that Amber is right, because most of my guests prepare to leave. Niko glances at me with pity, and he makes a last attempt at breathing life into the party.
“Have you guys been out back yet? There’s a garden that connects to five other houses. Emma Watson’s house is one of them.”
“Emma Watson the actress?” Ashley asks, her eyes wide.
The group pours outside. You can’t tell from the street, but our house backs up to a courtyard shared by six houses. Each one has a private garden with a low stone wall, and then there’s a path between the gardens that connects them all to a fountain in the center.
“That one’s Emma’s house,” I say, pointing to the house two doors down from ours.
“Do you ever see her?” Connor asks.
“All the time,” I lie. I have never seen Emma Watson in my life.
“I bet you could look right into her bedroom if you could get on that balcony,” Taylor points out.
“You could get on that balcony,” says Shane. “See, the roofs are connected. You could climb from this roof over the next one and onto hers and drop down.”
“Ohmigod we should totally do it,” says Amber. “Connor, do it!” She gives him a playful shove between the shoulder blades.
“YOU do it,” says Connor.
“Do it, dude,” says Shane. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you do it.” Shane reaches into his pocket. “Here. A hundred dollars. I’ll give it to you right now, I’ll put it right in your hand, if you climb onto Emma Watson’s balcony and look in her window.”
“No.”
“He’s scared,” says Amber.
“I’m not scared, I’m just not stupid.”
“He’s not going to do it,” Amber says. “C’mon, let’s go.”
They’re about to leave. That’ll be the end of my party. My famously sucking sixteenth birthday loser pa
rty.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“Bullshit,” says Amber.
“If you go with me,” I tell Connor. “I’m not going alone. And you,” I point to Shane, “you still have to pay your brother.”
Shane thinks for a second. “Yeah, okay.”
“How do we get up there?” Connor asks.
“There’s a fire door to our roof from the attic.”
Connor looks at me as though he’s seeing me for the first time. The corner of his mouth turns up in a crooked smile, and I feel a warm thrill in my stomach.
“Come on,” I say to Connor, grabbing him by his arm. The others stay and watch from the garden, waiting for us to emerge on the roof.
“You’re crazy, you know that, right?” Connor says as we run upstairs
“So are you,” I say, opening the attic door. Inside the attic it’s dark and musty and I fumble for the light. I open the small door to the roof and we step outside. We approach the edge so we can see the others down in the garden and wave to them.
Connor and I make our way to the roof next door. There’s a low wall around our roof, which we have to climb over before we can make the five-foot drop onto the neighbor’s roof. Connor goes first, landing soundlessly, and I follow. I stumble as I land, and Connor helps me to my feet.
“You okay?” He whispers, and I nod. I’m more than okay. I’m having fun. The wall we just came across is going to be harder to get back over than it was to drop down, I realize. The neighbor’s house has a skylight, so we stay close to the edge and keep low.
“Nice place. Whose is it?” Connor asks.
“Some publisher, I think. I forgot their name.”
At the far side of the roof, the side which borders Emma’s house, we have a problem. Emma’s roof is several feet higher than the one we’re standing on, and, what’s worse, the roofs aren’t actually touching. There is a space two feet wide between the houses. Two feet doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re four stories above ground and climbing across a two-foot-wide crevice, it’s huge. If we slip while we’re climbing, we’ll fall to our deaths. We both look down to the garden, where our audience stands watching, waiting to see what we’ll do.
The Luckiest Girls Page 14