by Max Monroe
“My moment?” I question. “Trust me, I did not choose this moment.”
Heidi nods placatingly. “Right, sweetie.” With a snap of Heidi’s fingers, Roberta enters the room and starts running her unwelcome fingers through my hair.
Suddenly, something occurs to me, and I jerk my head around to look at Heidi with a general disregard for the hair stylist I didn’t ask to be here.
“Wasn’t the door locked?”
“I picked it.” Heidi shrugs nonchalantly. She’s always nonchalant about her own actions, if I’m honest with myself, even when they’re worthy of a moderately cushy jail sentence. Which is probably why when my mom finally decided to set down her momager, Kris Jenner-esque baton, she fought to make Heidi her replacement.
“You…picked it?”
The criminal rolls her eyes.
“What the hell? Where did you go to school?” I ask snidely. “Burglars University?”
“Close,” she says without batting an eye. “Southern California San Diego.”
Roberta silently pulls at my hair, and with the way it makes my scalp ache, I decide not to even warn her about the puke loogie. If they’d given me any time at all, I would have rinsed it out.
Heidi sees through me, though, getting self-conscious about the decision. Being purposely deceitful isn’t in my nature—a weakness, according to her. She smirks in the face of my discomfort.
“Roberta used to style Gwyneth Burgos. You think she didn’t ever have vomit in her hair, Raquel?” Heidi suggests.
I sigh. Gwyneth Burgos, God rest her soul, died of a drug overdose almost ten years ago. Rumor has it, it wasn’t her first time going on a seriously overzealous bender. So, yeah, I suppose she probably had vomit in her hair a time or two.
Still, that’s not my style. I never got heavily involved in drugs or alcohol like some of the other child stars I grew up with—like my brother. I channeled all of my energy into work and school. My parents hovered like hawks for the entirety of my adolescence, and my brother, Luca, for as much as he had problems of his own, was always very protective of me. He didn’t realize, I guess, that he didn’t even need to be. Watching him spiral his way through his life and eventually land at rock bottom was incentive enough to go the other direction.
That’s about the time my parents split up, divorcing in an ugly public shakedown of each other for all the world to see. When they finally settled, my mom met someone right away and moved to Barbados so she could bury her head in perfectly white sand, and my dad distanced himself from anything that had to do with show business and his past life. Obviously, as an actress and his daughter, that included me.
Who knows? Maybe in some sick, subconscious way, that’s part of the reason I held on to the purity ring my dad gave me for so long—hoping he’d make some storybook effort to come back and see it for himself.
But when my brother finally snapped and took off for somewhere, location unknown, that’s when I really focused all of my energy on my career. With no family around for companionship, I never even looked up. Next thing I knew, I was Hollywood’s goodest girl—a virgin at twenty-nine with no prospects or projections to make a change.
Now look at me—a big old bag of morning sickness and hormonal fluctuations.
Apparently, I’m so exhausted, I actually fall asleep. Right there on the bathroom floor with Roberta’s hands in my vomit hair. Because when I wake up, I’m being gently scraped from the tile by my makeup artist, Alejandro.
“Let’s see what we can do with this, shall we?” he says gently, and I sigh sardonically.
I’m half certain there’s an imprint of the ornate, shell-shaped tile from my bathroom floor on my face—the tingling, burning sensation on my cheek seems valid as evidence—but Alejo’s pretty good. Maybe he’ll be able to turn it into the next hot design or something.
I smile slightly as my internal monologue has a raucous laugh over the possibility. I can just imagine the cover of some magazine boasting “face etching” as the next big trend.
Sometimes I can’t believe I’m still doing all of this bullshit day to day. That I’m still going along with the ridiculous things Heidi and the rest of my team say in an effort to maintain the longevity and trajectory of my hard-earned career.
But if there ever was a time to leave it all behind, it probably would have been four months ago—the day I got pregnant.
The night of August 15th, 10:00 p.m.
Raquel
Public executions are supposedly illegal, but as a celebrity in the public eye, I beg to differ. If they were really enforcing that specific law, I wouldn’t be here tonight.
“Five, four, three, two, one…” The assistant director does a fancy swinging point with one hand while holding on to his headset with the other, and Niall Beans, the host of Late Tonight, smears a smile into place and greets millions of people through the power of technology.
He’s arguably the biggest face in late-night television, so it’s good business to be here. But the reason for his popularity isn’t exactly a glowing commentary on the human condition. The majority of his following comes from people who love to watch him make fun of, poke at, and altogether insult his guests.
Oh, goodie. Lucky me.
I fidget slightly on the white leather couch next to him, trying to make sure my too-short dress covers all the important bits and slap on a smile of my own—one I’ve trained myself to produce at the drop of a hat over the years.
Plug and play.
That’s how I always handle these press tours. I have answers cued up in the same way that I had the script to the movie I’m promoting memorized. They’re lines, choreographed by a team of half a dozen individuals to best represent both me as a person and solidify fans’ views of me as the famous Raquel Weaver they expect to see.
Which is, of course, ninety percent makeup, five percent styling, four percent staged, and a whopping one percent of who I truly am.
But when you’re promoting a movie like I am—Gray River Falls, a harrowing tale of a woman’s resilience in the face of her husband’s death—it doesn’t matter who you are. It doesn’t matter what you want or what you think. What matters is the movie and the studio’s multimillion-dollar investment.
“Welcome back to Late Tonight!” Niall says enthusiastically as the band plays a final beat on the drums and lays into the blare of a saxophone. “We’ve got the lovely, luscious Raquel Weaver, star of the buzzworthy film of the month, Gray River Falls, with us tonight, and that’s right…you guessed it! We’re playing everybody’s favorite—No Comment!”
Another sequence of music flares up to transition us into the segment as the stage we’re on spins over in front of a different backdrop. No Comment is Niall’s most popular segment and is designed around asking the kinds of questions that would normally elicit a star or their team to say “No comment.” They’re personal and pushy and almost always a form of harassment in one way or another. Unfortunately, despite the agreement to answer the questions you have to sign before you come on the show, Niall keeps booking stars. Probably because their contracts with the studios explicitly state they have no choice, just like mine does. No studio anywhere is going to be okay with skipping the number one show in late night on their press tour.
I cross my sky-high-heeled feet at the ankles and embrace the kind of posture no one has naturally—the kind that makes you look skinny, even sitting down.
The music fades away, and Niall turns to face me, a different kind of smile lighting his eyes with an eerie glow. “Thanks for being here, Raquel.”
I nod and smile much bigger than my emotional state calls for. On the inside, I am one stubbed toe away from an impressive mental breakdown. “Of course. It’s great to be here.”
“The movie’s been getting rave reviews. Honestly, I haven’t heard a bad word about it, even from Hughey Ballas, and we all know the kind of idiot he is.”
The audience laughs at his colorful description of the infamous movie critic, and I
force my smile to grow a little deeper rather than cringing.
“Ah, well, it’s a terrific film,” I say with pride. “The whole cast has a caliber of talent I can’t even believe I got the chance to be a part of.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure. And I’m sure the opportunity to watch the most famous virgin in show business have sex on camera isn’t a part of the popularity at the box office at all,” he says with a wink and a laugh. The audience follows suit and turns uproarious as I swallow around the discomfort in my throat. “Right?” he goads the bloodthirsty mob. “I know it sure helped me get motivated to watch it.”
Wow. Dirty bastard much?
I clench my teeth and dig my fingertips into the heavy sequined fabric in my lap to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.
“How was it?” Niall asks, turning to face me again. “Acting out something you don’t have any real experience in?”
I do my best to keep the rage monster stirring inside my chest from fully waking up by taking his question and poking holes in it. “I think we all know film isn’t anything like real life,” I respond, forcing my voice to stay even and calm. “There’s a whole set of people barking orders and moving lights an inch or two and redoing something with a hand a little to the left or a little to the right. I can only hope the real thing is more exciting than that.”
“So, you are a virgin, still?” he asks unabashedly, waggling his eyebrows at the audience as they titter.
I open my mouth and close it again, and he laughs. “On second thought, don’t answer that. Save it for after the break!” He turns to face the camera. “Don’t go anywhere! We’ll be right back with more No Comment after these messages from our sponsors.”
I stand up from the couch and scoot to the edge of the set quickly where Roberta and Alejo are waiting to touch me up. Heidi meets me midstride, takes me by the arm as soon as I make it there, and sics them on me as she talks. All 360 degrees of my personal space are filled with arms and brushes and objects I don’t even know the name of.
Heidi’s voice is crisp, just beyond the fray. “I know. I know you hate this, but you have to remember that it’s all for the greater good. Keep your chin up, answer the questions with a smile, and you’ll see it pay off. I already have three offers for box office busters in the pipeline. In a year, maybe two, your resume will speak for itself. But for now, we need the buzz—and it’s a part of your contract anyway.” Though her words are conciliatory, her tone is the opposite.
Immediately, the desire to strangle her and Niall fucking Beans overwhelms me, and I have to close my eyes against the surge. I won’t do well in prison, I won’t do well in prison, I won’t do well in prison.
“Breathe,” I coach myself. “One big breath and then another.”
“I don’t know if this helps,” my makeup artist, Alejo, says. “But you look absolutely fabulous.”
“Thank you.” I force a brittle smile.
Truthfully, it doesn’t help. But I guess it also doesn’t hurt. I try to channel some of his positive energy as one of the producers calls his thirty-second warning in our direction. This is one of the only shows in late night that happens live instead of taping sometime in the late afternoon, which freaking sucks right about now.
I really need another four, maybe five minutes to get all the murderous thoughts out of my head, and if we were simply taping this show for a future airing, I’d be able to take them. Sure, they might call me a diva and some other stupid shit, but everyone would get to live.
When someone named Karen would ask me to take my place on set again, I’d be able to respond, Don’t you want everyone to live, Karen? And she would back away slowly before informing everyone on the catering staff to hide all the knives.
Okay. It’s really time to get it together. I have to go back out there and chat to strangers about my sex life.
Wow. Talk about an exciting opportunity.
Sadly, it’s nothing I haven’t done before, sometimes with my dad and brother staring at me from the audience, and even sadder, it’s something I have to keep doing because my Hollywood contract says so.
Keep calm and carry on and all that shit.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
I scoot back over to the couch while a panicked intern waves me in like I’m a 747. I try not to take offense—I know how it is when you’re at the bottom of the totem pole in this business, but I hardly think she needs to continue to gesture me in for a landing as my ass is making contact with the leather.
And I do mean my ass—my bare ass. The dress is that short.
“And we’re back in five, four, three, two…” The assistant director counts down again as the theme music flares up once more.
I take one last deep breath and set my smile into place like I’m strapping on a mask. I can only hope it doesn’t look like the one Jim Carrey wore in the movie The Mask. Or The Grinch. Wow. I guess almost any Jim Carrey movie applies here. No wonder I’m always making Jim Carrey references. The man is a chameleon.
Without hesitation, Niall drops right back into his No Comment questions, his smarmy smirk proving he has zero remorse for his show’s crappy content.
“Are you really still a virgin?”
I laugh to cover how angry I feel before admitting the truth. “Yes.”
Niall pretends to faint onto the top of his desk, and the audience breaks out in hysterics.
Welcome to the circus, everyone! My intact hymen shall be tonight’s main freak-show event!
Good God, who would’ve thought being a virgin would stir so much fucking controversy. Pretty sure politicians caught having affairs or buying hookers have received less scrutiny than this.
“How…and I say this respectfully,” the asshole host says ironically without any inkling of respect, “is that possible?”
Fed up with this bullshit. Tired of playing it so damn nice. I decide to pull my sharply honed skills of passive-aggressive sarcasm out of my back pocket and put them to work.
“Well,” I remark cheekily. “It starts by avoiding penises altogether.” The audience laughs, Niall’s eyes go wide, and I lean in closer to his desk. “It takes a real sixth sense, if I’m honest. A genuine, virtual radar system for the male member and their locations at all times. Are they soft? Are they hard? Will they threaten me in some way if I stay in my current location? Once I have the answers to those questions, I’m ready to plan an attack. Weaponry. Troops. Optics. It’s all very scientific.”
Niall’s smile transforms from surprised canary back to the cat. “You’re toying with me, Raquel.”
I smile sweetly and shrug.
He chuckles. “There are millions of men who’d love to be toyed with by you, my dear. Tell me this… How will you choose? I mean, one day you’re going to have to get laid, right?”
Annoyance niggles deep in my veins and bleeds all the way into my heart. My chest is tight and my skin feels stretched, but I don’t let a freaking blink sneak in on the off chance that it gives me away.
Instead, I settle smugly into the supple leather of the couch and smile. “I don’t know, Niall. But given the need for a penis to complete the act—and your obvious lack of one—I know for a fact it won’t be you.”
Ha. How ’bout them apples, Mr. Fucking Beans?
Once the words leave my lips and the audience bursts into laughter, you’d think I’d feel victorious. You’d think I’d feel on top of the world for putting the bastard in his place while still maintaining the perfectly poised persona I’ve been living over the past decade.
But I don’t.
If anything, I just feel like running.
From this prick.
From my agent, manager, entire damn team.
From the spotlight.
From everyone and everything.
Harrison
These days, I’m really starting to understand Ebenezer Scrooge. No doubt, Mr. Bah Humbug was just misunderstood.
Two days before Santa is supposed to make his big fat holl
y jolly arrival, Christmas-themed poker night is in full swing. The beer and snacks are plentiful, garland-wrapped twinkle lights are located on every available surface of Thatcher Kelly’s smoke room, and all of my closest friends are sitting around the table, playing Texas Hold’em and shooting the shit.
“Your stock tips are shit, Harry.”
I look up to find Cap staring back at me, irritation bright and shiny in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?” Cap booms, and the rest of the table looks up at him. “You told me to invest in fucking Pampers, and my portfolio has been seeing red all week.”
“Pampers?” Thatch asks, a smirk on his lips. “As in diapers?”
“Yeah,” Cap mutters and takes a swig of his whiskey. “It’s almost like he was trying to sabotage me or something. I should’ve known it was bullshit. Should’ve never invested as much as I did on that bogus fucking tip.”
Thatch laughs around the cigar in his mouth, and I just shrug. Truthfully, I have no idea what he’s talking about. The last time I chatted with Cap was nearly a week ago while a fucking surprise pregnancy bomb exploded in my living room. I can’t be held liable for anything I said during that conversation.
Thankfully, Milo takes it upon himself to deal the next hand to everyone at the table, and Cap’s attention is otherwise diverted.
On the television behind the large poker table, Celine Dion sings her heart out as Jack tells Rose never to let go, and I begin to shuffle the new cards in my hand mindlessly again.
The cheery, holiday-driven atmosphere is a stark contrast to my current mood.
Truthfully, my life and mind are in fucking shambles. And I guess it’s only right that a movie like Titanic is our poker night background noise—I’ve hit a personal iceberg, and my ship is going down by the helm.