Confessions of a Hollywood Star (3 page)

“I can’t laugh.” I stopped in front of the snack bar, raising my arms to the unheedful gods. “I just don’t understand what I could possibly have done in a previous existence to deserve my life.”

“Well let’s see,” said Morty. “Maybe you drove millions of Jews, gypsies, socialists and homosexuals into the ovens of Nazi Germany. Or you made a fortune in the slave trade. Or starved the Cheyenne. Or assassinated Martin Luther King.”

[Cue: look of pity reserved for those with unimaginative, literal minds.] “I don’t think so, somehow.”

“But since you’re a part of the human race, technically you did,” said Ella. She was thinking of studying philosophy.

“Maybe you just wouldn’t shut up about Carla Santini for more than three-and-a-half minutes,” suggested Sam.

I felt that was really unkind.

Sam moaned. “For Chrissake, Lola. Why can’t you just let up on the Santini gas pedal a little? I don’t know about Ella and Morty, but I can’t wait till I never have to hear the name Carla Santini again.”

[Cue: cold look and disdainful readjustment of backpack.] “Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve been boring you, Mr Creek, but I’m afraid I don’t do public humiliation very well.”

“Well you should,” said Morty. “It’s happened enough times.”

“Hahaha…”

“And anyway,” said Sam, “except for me, Morty and Ella, the only people who give a rusted bolt where you go to school or what poor country gets stuck with Carla Santini for the summer are you and Carla. Everybody else’s got their own life to worry about.”

“Sam’s right,” chipped in Ella. “It really doesn’t matter. This time next week it will all be behind us.” She gave me a warm smile. “Don’t you at least feel good that you told the truth in front of everyone the other day?”

The answer to that question was: not really. I felt good about not being caught in another lie in front of everyone, but I’d’ve preferred to have said I was going to RADA and had everyone believe me.

“I guess so.” We strolled through the doors and into the hot New Jersey night. “But I still don’t think it’s fair. I really wanted to end this phase of my life on a high note. Now it’ll haunt me for ever that Carla won the last duel.” I clutched my heart, my face bleak with pain, my eyes on the stars. “There is no balm in Gilead!” I intoned. “Years from now, when I’m accepting my New York Drama Critics’ Award, surrounded by adoring fans and admirers, what should be the greatest evening of my life will be marred by the memory of Carla Santini, making a laughing stock of me to the very end.”

Ella applauded. “RADA doesn’t know what they’re missing,” she said.

A great actor has to have a very persevering nature to be able to withstand the long, dark years of poverty, struggle and tepid reviews. That’s why I can sometimes be a little obsessive and single-minded. Which is why I was still bemoaning my unhappy fate as I biked to my job at the used clothes store, Second Best, the next morning.

I pedalled slowly. I was in a ruminative and reflective mood. Ella and Sam could say what they wanted, but the unfairness of the world still galled me.

Is it really all just luck?
I wondered.
Is that what a person’s life comes down to? Where she was born … who she was born to…? If you’re born with tons of money, good skin, a lot of hair and enough brains to take the frozen dinner out of the box before you put it in the oven – does that mean you can do and be and have whatever you want?

I sat out two red lights mulling this over in my mind.

One thing was for sure. If Carla Santini had been born to some migrant worker eking out a living picking lettuce one season and grapes the next, she wouldn’t be going to Europe or Harvard. On the other hand, she’d undoubtedly still be convinced that she was God’s greatest achievement, and bossing everyone else around. That’s her nature.

And it’s my nature to make the best of things, no matter how much havoc Fate may be wreaking on my life. But I still couldn’t help feeling that I deserved better. I definitely deserved to make my exit from Deadwood High with my head raised and cries of “Bravo!” following me as I left the stage, not jeers of laughter because I’d tripped over Carla Santini (standing in the limelight as usual) on my way off.

Mrs Magnolia was all in a twitter because I was a few minutes late and she had to get to the bank.

“Where were you?” She was flapping around like a frightened bird. “I thought you promised to be on time today.”

“Oh, Mrs Magnolia,” I cried. “I am so sorry.” I like Mrs Magnolia, but I wasn’t about to tell her the truth – that my soul was heavy with discontent and it affected my legs. Mrs Magnolia has a kind heart, but she was born and raised in New Jersey (and will obviously die there unless she’s abducted by aliens and expires on her way to Alpha Centauri), so though her heart is kind, her soul is sadly unevolved. My soul is vast and ancient like the Grand Canyon, but Mrs Magnolia’s soul is small and contemporary like a cell phone. “You won’t believe what happened to me. I was riding along, hurrying to get here, when this car—”

Mrs Magnolia held up one hand. “Not now. I don’t have time.” She picked up her bag and came from behind the counter. “There’s some new stock in the back you can start sorting through. I have a few errands to do after I go to the bank. Will you be all right by yourself?”

I’d been working part-time for over a month; you’d think she wouldn’t have to ask any more. I gave her my most reassuring smile. “Do ducks swim?”

She eyed me over her glasses. “And if you do have a customer you won’t try to discourage her from buying what she wants, right?”

“Right.” Mrs Magnolia always said the same thing to me when she left me alone because of the time she overheard me telling someone that the pinky-purple trousers made her look like an uncooked turkey. “I’ll put myself in the role of a director of a multinational company who always puts profits before principles.”

Mrs Magnolia smiled in that dazed way of hers. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

I made myself a cup of Red Zinger tea (to revitalize my mind and body after the long ride), and then I started sorting through the new stock. I made four piles: ladies’, children’s, men’s, and clothes that would only be worn by women who didn’t know there was a world outside of New Jersey. My personal cares and traumas faded as I became deeply immersed in my work. I studied each new item, thinking about where it had been and what it had seen. Had that yellow dress with the ruffles been to a wedding? Did it dance and laugh and drink champagne – or did it end up weeping in the bathroom because the love of its life had married someone else? What about those jeans with the butterfly appliqued on the back pocket? Did that butterfly get to soar, to camp in the foothills of the Andes or sail the Gulf of Mexico? Or did it go no further than the nearest party or football game? Even worse, did it stay in the house watching videos and waiting for the phone to ring?

I picked up a pair of practically new red shoes with rhinestones in the heels. I was wondering what they would say if they could talk when the bell over the door rang.

There were two women standing at the front of the store, just kind of eyeing the room the way a greenhorn might eye her first bison. They looked too cool to be actual customers. The younger one had lilac highlights in her blonde hair and was dressed in an arty-funky way (clashing colours and patterns and earrings made from pull tabs off cans), and the older one had dark, short, spiky hair and looked excruciatingly, expensively hip (silver and black). I figured they were lost. I couldn’t think of any other reason why women like that would come into Second Best.

“Can I help you?” I smiled warmly so they knew they weren’t in one of those small towns where everyone’s psychotic.

“No, thanks.” The older woman shook her platinum earrings. “We’re just looking.”

The younger one took a dress from the rack and eyed it with interest. I was about to point out that if she wore that it would make her look like her name was Ethel when I remembered Mrs Magnolia’s stern words.

“OK.” Normally I would never leave customers alone in the front of the store, but my sensitive actor’s instincts told me that they were too well-dressed to be thieves. I pointed to the open doorway. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

I returned to my sorting and wondering about the secret lives of clothes. Fragments of their conversation drifted towards me. Apparently, they weren’t lost. Apparently, they were actually staying in some B&B in the area.
He’s got as much charm as a slug and the food’s so last century, but at least she’s letting us use the washing machine… What if we dye this purple or black…?
They seemed to be shopping for presents, because it was all,
What about this for the girl in the gift store…? What about that for the cook in the diner…? Isn’t this perfect for Lucy’s dream…?

And then the funky one shrieked, “Oh my God, Shona, is this shirt Bret’s character, or have I gone insane?”

My head went up like a periscope. Bret’s character? Did she say Bret’s character? Did she say Lucy’s dream? Suddenly, all was clear as a new pane of glass! They were talking about Bret Fork and Lucy Rio – two of the hottest young actors around. These weren’t ordinary women shopping for presents; they had to be costume designers looking for stuff for a film. As I said, I had no real interest in working in movies (not till I’d established myself in the theatre and commanded the right kind of parts), but a great actor has to be open to everything, not just the things she cares about in her soul. There is nothing in human experience that isn’t fuel to the creative furnace.

I strolled from the back, cloaking my curiosity in professional concern.

“I couldn’t help overhearing…” I hesitated, not wanting to interfere, but wanting to give what aid and succour I could. “It sounds like you’re looking for something specific.” I smiled – shyly, modestly. In my experience, nothing breaks the ice with strangers faster than a laugh shared. “If I can be of some help – I know our inventory better than Robert DeNiro knows Martin Scorcese.”

When she stopped laughing, the older one looked me up and down, and was obviously satisfied from my outfit (I’d been in a retro-hippie mood when I got dressed that morning – skirt made out of an old pair of jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt) that she could rely on my judgement.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” she said, “we’re going to be shooting a movie nearby and we’re looking for some things – especially vintage clothes from the fifties.”

My smile was brighter than a Klieg light.

“You’ve come to the right place,” I said.

Hooray For Hollywood!

I
made much better time getting home than I had getting to work, but of course I was a lot more motivated on my return journey. I had news I couldn’t wait to tell.

“Hooray for Hollywood!” I sang as I flashed through the leafy, anodyne streets of suburbia. I was going to be in a movie. Obviously I knew I wasn’t going to get a major part, but I’d been so totally helpful, charming and entertaining to Leslie and Shona that I felt confident that some small but not insignificant role would be mine.
You know
, they’d say to the director,
we met this amazing girl in the secondhand clothes store … you’ve really got to meet her … she has so much star potential!

The lawn sprinklers waved at me like fans at the Oscars as I sped towards home. “Hooray for Hollywood!” Tinsel Town may have crushed the dreams of millions of starving would-be stars, but it was going to make at least one of my dreams come true: the one where Carla Santini ate sand.

My mother and the twins were in the kitchen when I arrived. I would have ignored them and gone straight to the phone to call Ella, since she’s far more interested in my life than any of my relatives, but the domestic tableau that greeted me made me stop in surprise. Karen Kapok was at the stove, stirring like a witch at her cauldron, and Paula and Pam were mauling vegetables at the table.

“Good God!” I cried. “You’re cooking! Don’t tell me the President’s coming for supper.”

My mother glanced at me over her shoulder. “Actually, I thought Sam was coming for supper.”

So much had happened today that I’d totally forgotten she’d invited him over for a meal to celebrate our graduation.

“Of course he is.” I laughed as though I’d been joking.

Pam looked up from her attack on the spinach. “How could you forget that?” she demanded. (No prizes for guessing who she takes after.)

“As it happens,” I said, “I’ve had other things on my mind: more exciting things than watching Sam see how many calories he can take in at one sitting.”

Paula bit into the carrot she was supposed to be slicing for the salad. “Like what?”

I’m used to skepticism, ridicule and an appalling lack of interest from my family, but I was too excited to let this stop me from sharing my news. I smiled in a casual, understated kind of way. “It just so happens that they’re making a movie right here in Dellwood, that’s what.”

For once an announcement of mine actually got the right reaction from my sisters. They dropped their knives and vegetables and began jumping up and down.

“Really? A movie? Here?” shrieked Pam.

“Do you think they’re looking for a set of twins?” Paula is by far the more practical of the two.

I said I’d see if I could put a good word in for them with the director.

Karen Kapok, immersed as she is in earth, asked, “And where did you hear this?”

I told her where I’d heard it.

“And what makes you think you’ll get to put a good word in with the director?” asked my mother.

I explained that I was practically guaranteed a part. Which was more or less true. They’d said they knew the movie needed extras.

Karen Kapok did her impersonation of a refrigerator overworking. “Hmmm…”

“Hmmm…?” I echoed. “Hmmm, what?”

“I just don’t think you should get your hopes up,” said my mother. “There’s no guarantee you’ll get a part – even as an extra.”

“Hope is the fuel of the ship of dreams,” I informed her. “Without hope you can’t even get out of the harbour. Besides, let’s not forget that I do have inside connections.”