Parallel

Parallel - By Lauren Miller





SEPTEMBER





1

HERE


TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2009

(the day before my eighteenth birthday)


I hesitate, then point my gun at him and pull the trigger. There is a moment of sweet, precious silence. Then:

“Cut!”

I sigh, lowering the gun. Everyone springs into action. Again.

I close my eyes, silently reminding myself that I’m loving every minute of this. Then apologize to myself for the lie.

“Abby?”

Our director, Alain Bourneau, a man with the ego of Narcissus and the temper of Zeus, is standing so close I can feel his minty breath on my face. I force a smile and open my eyes. His reconstructed nose is millimeters from mine.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “Everything’s great. Just going over the scene in my mind.” I tap my left temple for emphasis. “The mental picture helps me focus.” The only mental picture I have in my head right now is the bacon cheeseburger I plan to order from room service tonight (extra pickles, mustard, no ketchup). But if Alain thinks I’m giving him less than 100 percent, he’ll send me to craft services for a “Power Pick-Me-Up,” a brownish-green concoction that tastes like chalk and makes my pee smell like cayenne pepper.

Alain gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Atta girl. Now, let’s do it exactly the same way again. Only hotter.”

Right. Of course. We’re talking about a scene that involves my shooting an overweight man in the head while he stands in his kitchen making a bologna sandwich. I can see how that could be hotter.

My life has officially become unrecognizable.

When I was in kindergarten, my mom decided that I was a child prodigy. The fact that she couldn’t readily identify my prodigious talent did nothing to diminish her certainty that I had one. Four months and twenty-two developmental assessment tests later, she was no closer to pinpointing my supposed genius, but she’d learned something about her daughter that made her exceedingly proud: It appeared that I, Abigail Hannah Barnes, possessed a “strong sense of self.”

I have no idea how a five-year-old can demonstrate the strength of her self-concept with a number two pencil and a Scantron sheet, but I apparently did, twenty-two times over.

Until a year ago, I would’ve agreed with that assessment. I did know who I was. What I liked (writing and running), what I was good at (English and history), what I wanted to become (a journalist). So I stuck to the things that came easily to me and steered clear of everything else (in particular, anything that might require hand-eye coordination or the use of a scalpel). This proved a very effective strategy for success. By the time senior year rolled around, I was the editor in chief of my high school newspaper, the captain of the cross-country team, and on pace to graduate in the top 5 percent of my class. My plan—part of the Plan, the one that has informed every scholastic decision I’ve made since seventh grade, the year I decided I wanted to be a journalist—was to apply early admission to the journalism school at Northwestern, then coast through spring semester.

The centerpiece of this strategy was my fall course load: a perfectly crafted combination of AP classes and total fluff electives with legit-sounding names. Everything was proceeding according to plan until:

“Abby, Ms. DeWitt wants to see you. There’s some sort of issue with your schedule.”

The first day of senior year. I was sitting in homeroom, debating birthday dinner options while I waited for the parking lottery to start.

“An issue?”

“That’s all I know.” Mrs. Gorin, my homeroom teacher, was waving a little slip of pink paper. “Could you just take care of it, please?”

“What about the parking—”

“You can meet us in the auditorium.” She gave the pink slip an impatient shake. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, praying that this “issue” wouldn’t take longer than five minutes. If I wasn’t in the auditorium when they drew my name, they’d give my parking space to someone else, and I’d spend senior year in the no-man’s-land of the annex lot.

Four and a half minutes later, I was sitting in the guidance counselor’s office, staring at a very short list of electives. Apparently, Mr. Simmons, the man who created and taught the excessively easy History of Music, had suddenly decided to cancel his class, forcing me to pick another elective for fifth period. I know this might not sound like a big deal, but if you’d spent as much time as I had constructing the Perfect Schedule, and if you’d convinced yourself that your future success absolutely depended on your taking six very particular courses, then the disruption would feel catastrophic.

“The great news is, you have two wonderful courses to choose from,” Ms. DeWitt chirped. “Drama Methods and Principles of Astronomy.” She smiled, looking at me over the rim of her turquoise glasses. The air suddenly felt very thin.

“No!” She got this startled look on her face when I said it. I hadn’t meant to shout, but the woman had just yanked the rug out from under me. Plus, her fuchsia pantsuit was giving me a headache. I cleared my throat and tried again. “There has to be another option.”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied pleasantly. Then, in a girlish whisper, as if we were talking about something far less important than my entire academic future: “I’d go with drama if I were you.”

I should mention something about my high school: It’s what they call an arts and sciences magnet, which means that in addition to its regular public school curriculum, Brookside High offers two specialized tracks: one for aspiring actors and performers and the other for overachieving young Einsteins lured by the promise of college-level coursework. I made the mistake sophomore year of assuming that “college-level” meant suitable for the average college freshman, only to learn eight weeks into the harmless-sounding Botany Basics that our final exam would be the same one our teacher had given the previous year. To grad students at Georgia Tech.

So, while courses with names like “Drama Methods” and “Principles of Astronomy” would’ve undoubtedly been cake classes at a regular school, when you go to an arts and sciences magnet and happen to be neither arts nor sciences inclined, these innocuously titled gems are grueling, time-intensive GPA busters. Oh, and did I mention the mandatory grading curve?

It was a choice between bad and worse.

“Drama,” I said finally. And that was that.

In fifth period that afternoon, our teacher informed us that she’d selected Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia as our class production. I’d read the play the year before in AP English and loved it (mostly because my essay, “People Fancying People: Determinism in Arcadia,” won the eleventh grade writing prize), so when it came time for auditions, I tried out for the role of Thomasina Coverly, the precocious teenage lead. Not because I actually wanted the lead (or any other part, for that matter—I was lobbying to be stage manager, safely behind the scenes), but because Thomasina’s lines were the easiest to memorize, and since the same girl had won the starring role in every school play since kindergarten, I figured at worst I’d wind up as her understudy. Plus, trying out for the lead role had the side benefit of irritating that girl, the self-appointed queen bee of the drama crowd and my nemesis since kindergarten, the insufferable Ilana Cassidy, who assumed she’d audition unopposed.

But two days later, there it was: my name at the top of the cast list. I’d gotten the part.

This coup caused quite the uproar among the drama kids, all of whom expected Ilana to get the lead. My cast mates were convinced that I, the inexperienced interloper, would ruin “their” show, and I suspected they were right. But Ms. Ziffren’s casting decisions weren’t up for discussion, and my grade depended on my participation.

The show opened to a packed auditorium. Seated in the front row was a prominent casting director who’d flown in to see her nephew play Septimus Hodge. This kind of thing happens all the time in magnet school land, so it was easy to ignore (especially since the entirety of my mental energy that night was focused on the very real possibility that I would forget my lines and single-handedly wreck the show).

But then I got a call from that same casting director, inviting me to audition for Everyday Assassins, a big-budget action movie that was set to start shooting in Los Angeles in May. According to the casting director, they were looking for a dark-haired, light-eyed teenage newcomer to play the lead actor’s silent accomplice, and with my chestnut waves and gray-blue eyes, I was a perfect match. Would I be interested in flying out to Los Angeles to audition for the role? Figuring the experience would be great material for my Northwestern application, I convinced my parents to let me try out.

The whole thing happened so fast. Alain offered me the role on the spot. He and the producers knew about my college plans and assured me that production would wrap by late July, leaving me plenty of time to get to Northwestern before classes started in September. Stunned and more than a little flattered, I took the part.

Life just kind of sped up from there. By February, I was flying from Atlanta to L.A. for fittings, table reads (super exciting when you have no lines), and weapons training. I missed spring break. I missed prom. Production was scheduled to start the third week of May, so while the rest of my class was enjoying all the end-of-high-school festivities, I was holed up in a hotel room, poring over revised drafts of the increasingly convoluted script (there was a new one every day), intensely aware of the fact that I had NO CLUE what I was doing. One semester of Drama Methods does not an actor make.

At this point, I still thought the film would wrap before fall semester, so I focused on making the best of it. So what if I didn’t get to walk with my class at graduation? I was sharing Vitaminwater with Cosmo’s Sexiest Guy Alive. There are worse ways to spend a summer. The thought never crossed my mind that I’d have to postpone college, or do anything other than what I’d always planned to do. But then production got pushed to June . . . then July . . . then August . . . at which point we were politely informed by our producers that we’d be filming through October. Thanks to a very well-drafted talent contract, I was stuck there for the duration. And just like that, my meticulously constructed Plan—(a) four years writing for an award-winning college daily, (b) a fabulous summer internship, (c) a degree from the best journalism program in the country and, ultimately, (d) a job at a major national newspaper, all before my twenty-second birthday—died a very quick death.

It’s hard not to blame Mr. Simmons. If he hadn’t canceled History of Music last September, everything would’ve gone the way it was supposed to, and yesterday would’ve been my first day of classes at Northwestern. Instead I’m here, trapped on a studio back lot in Hollywood, wearing a jumpsuit so tight my butt has gone numb.

Yes, I know it’s the kind of thing people dream about, the kind of thing Ilana Cassidy would’ve given both nipples for: the chance to be in a big-budget movie with an A-list actor and an award-winning director, and to have it all just fall into place without even trying. Stuff like this never happens to me. I’ve had to work for the things I’ve accomplished—every grade, every award, every victory on the track. Which was part of the problem, I guess. When this came so easily, I couldn’t pass it up.

But I never wanted an acting career or anything close to one, so this dream I’m living isn’t my dream. Which is why, in these moments—when I’m tired and hot and hungry, and we’re on the thirty-ninth take of a scene that, if it makes it into the movie at all, will amount to a whopping six seconds of screen time—it’s harder to ignore that little voice in my head reminding me that “once in a lifetime” isn’t always enough.

When we finally wrap for the day, I head back to my room. The producers put everyone up at the Culver, this completely cool, old Hollywood hotel that was once owned by John Wayne. Everyone from Greta Garbo to Ronald Reagan has stayed here. Somehow, the fact that the studio is paying for me to live here feels like a bigger deal than the fact that they’re putting me in their movie.

The sun is low in the sky as I cross the street to the hotel. The smog in L.A. makes for some pretty funky sky colors, but this evening’s palette is especially unskylike. The horizon is streaked with fiery reds and oranges, swirled with shimmering shades of bronze and gold. But that’s not the unusual part. Amid the unusually bright colors, there are darker patches—places where the colors are so deep that they nearly disappear into black. It’s almost as if night has already fallen in these spots, while it’s still daylight everywhere else. Despite the balmy weather, I shiver.

As I’m walking through the Culver’s black-and-white-tiled lobby, my cell phone rings. Every night at eight, like clockwork.

“Hi, Mom.” I pass the elevators and enter the stairwell, picking up the pace as I hit the stairs. The three flights from the lobby to my floor constitute the entirety of my cardiovascular exercise, so I try to make it count. I used to run six miles a day (always outside, even in December); now I’m lucky if I walk six blocks. Alain doesn’t want his female assassins to get too thin, so our trainers have been told to lay off the cardio. Not running has been brutal for me.

“Hey, honey! How’s it going? Having fun?”

“Yep!” I enthuse, trying to sound upbeat. The only thing worse than admitting to yourself that you made a colossal mistake is admitting to your parents that you did. Especially when the thing you’re regretting doing is something they were lukewarm about from the beginning. It wasn’t the acting thing that made mine wary, but the fact that the movie I’d been cast in lacked a coherent plot.

“Learning a lot?” Mom asks. Her standard question.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” Today’s lesson: how to pick a Lycra wedgie with the corner of a kitchen stool. “How are things with you guys?”

“Well, we miss you, of course,” Mom replies. “But otherwise, things are fine. Your dad starts trial on Monday, so he’s been working like crazy.” In my seventeen-almost-eighteen years of life, only five of my dad’s cases have ever made it to trial, which is sad, because being in the courtroom is pretty much the only thing he likes about the practice of law. Dad was a painter when he met my mom. In fact, art was what brought them together. They were standing side by side in front of Dali’s The Persistence of Memory at a surrealist exhibition at MoMA, when he looked over at my mom and said (in what my mom insists was a non-cheesy fashion), “The trouble with Dali is that it’s hard to look at his work without thinking that you could live a whole life and not feel anything as deeply as he felt everything.” They were married less than a year later, the day after my mom graduated from Barnard. After struggling as a painter for a few more years, my dad finally gave in and applied to law school, mostly because my grandparents said they’d pay for it. The plan was to practice for a couple of years to save some money. Twenty years later, he’s the head of the litigation department at a big Atlanta law firm, working sixty-plus hours a week. And most of the time, he’s bored senseless.

“How are things at the museum?” I ask. “Did the Picasso exhibit open?” My mom is the head curator at the High Museum, a job she absolutely adores. Last fall, a Seurat exhibit she put together made a big splash in the art world, and other, bigger museums started courting her, but Mom told them she had no interest in leaving the collection she’d spent the last ten years trying to build. Instead, she used her new reputation to bring a string of really stellar exhibits to Atlanta.

“Not until tomorrow,” she replies. I can hear her smile. “Speaking of things happening tomorrow . . .”

“I meant to tell you,” I say quickly, knowing where this is going. “Some of my cast mates are taking me out to dinner tomorrow night. Some trendy place in Hollywood.” Not true, but I know how much my mom hates the idea of my being alone on my eighteenth birthday with no one to celebrate with. I also know she can’t afford to be away from the museum right now.

“That’s great, honey.” She sounds relieved. “I wish your dad and I were going to be there, too. Eighteen! Good grief, I feel old.”

The line beeps as I’m unlocking my door. “Hey, Mom, that’s Caitlin. We’ve been playing phone tag all week, so I should probably . . .”

“Oh, of course, honey. Say hi to her for me.”

We hang up, and I switch over to my best friend.

“Thank God. I thought I was going to have to leave hate voicemail to get you to call me back.”

“Sorry. I’ve been on set all day. What’s up? Everything okay?”

“Better than okay,” Caitlin replies. “The geek in me can barely contain herself.” My best friend is, for sure, a raging geek—at least when it comes to science. Her inner nerd just happens to live in a supermodel’s body. She gets her looks from her mom, an ex-model turned handbag designer. Her brain, on the other hand, she gets from her dad, a structural engineer and quite possibly the dorkiest man I’ve ever met. Although she didn’t inherit his affinity for Velcro sandals, Caitlin did get her father’s left-brained love of the excessively detailed and mind-numbingly complicated. In high school, she spent her weekends working in an astrophysics lab at Georgia Tech (the chair of the department is an old friend of her dad’s), helping grad students with their research and doing some of her own. Our classmates at Brookside weren’t sure what to make of her. I’m guessing she blends in a little better with the Ivy League crowd. Not that Caitlin cares about blending in. She never has. At Brookside, she and I sort of floated on the periphery of the popular group. The social hierarchy was a little warped because of the magnet school thing—athletes generally dominated the scene, but if you were a science track or drama kid with above-average looks and decent social skills, you had mainstream cachet. So the “cool” crowd was a fairly eclectic mix of kids from each track. Caitlin and I were part of that crowd, but since we hung out with the golf team instead of football players and sometimes skipped parties to do homework, we weren’t social royalty.

“The best part is, Yale doesn’t have course requirements,” Caitlin is saying, “so I can basically take whatever I want. Today I shopped Statistical Thermodynamics and Intro to Relativistic Astrophysics, both of which were awesome. I’d love to take them both, but they overlap by fifteen minutes. Plus, IRA has a prereq . . . which I could probably get them to waive . . . but I dunno. I think I’m leaning toward Thermo.”

Only Caitlin would be this excited about classes with names like “Statistical Thermodynamics” and “Relativistic Astrophysics.” I mean, seriously. What do those words even mean?

“Although it’s not like I have to make a decision today,” she adds, finally pausing for a breath. “I have till the end of the week to decide.”

“Didn’t classes start last week?”

“Yeah, but we get two weeks to finalize our schedules,” Caitlin explains. “They call it shopping period. You can visit any class you want, and your schedule isn’t final until it’s over. Did I mention how much I love this place?” As if there were any doubt; Caitlin has wanted to go to Yale since elementary school.

“Life should have a shopping period,” I muse. “It’d keep people from getting stuck with life-altering decisions they didn’t really want to make.”

“Ab—”

“How are things with Tyler?” I ask, steering the conversation toward happier ground. Three weeks ago, our best guy friend stood up on a chair at a packed party and proclaimed his love for Caitlin, call-and-answer-style (I’m not exactly clear on the mechanics, but apparently, there were some cheerleaders at the party who assisted with the effort). With my being gone for the summer, Caitlin and Tyler had spent nearly every day together. She had to have known how Tyler felt about her, but Caitlin says she was too busy pretending things hadn’t changed to see how much they had. To be fair, I don’t think Caitlin was quite as shocked by the big announcement as Ilana was. I’m not sure which shocked her more—that I stole her part or that Caitlin stole her boyfriend.

After waiting four days to go on their first date (Caitlin wanted there to be a “respectable gap” between the end of Tyler’s relationship with Ilana and the beginning of his relationship with her, plus, although she’d never tell Tyler this, she was totally weirded out by the idea of kissing him, an issue Tyler resolved three minutes into their first date when he parked his mom’s minivan on the gravel part of Kent Road and pulled Caitlin into the backseat), my two best friends proceeded to have a seventeen-day, completely intense fling.

They were inseparable until they both left for school, Caitlin to Yale and Tyler to Michigan, without ever defining the relationship. Caitlin is refusing to call him her boyfriend, despite the fact that they talk on the phone every night and aren’t seeing other people. Tyler, on the other hand, is using the G word and the L word every chance he gets. Playing it cool is apparently not in Tyler’s game plan for this particular relationship. Last night, he left me a two-minute-and-forty-six-second voicemail in which he belted out the lyrics to a Caitlin-inspired rendition of Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.”

“Things with Ty are good,” Caitlin says. “He wants to come visit at the end of the month, but I told him that’s too early . . . it’s too early, right?”

Before I can answer, there’s a loud knock at my door. I peer through the peephole, expecting the maid. But Bret Woodward is standing in the hallway, wearing a blazer and holding flowers. He’s the A-list actor who’s generating all the buzz about our movie, the one whose face is on the cover of nearly every major magazine this month, promoting the other eighty-million-dollar action flick he’s in, which opens this Friday. And he’s at my door. With flowers.

“Crap!” I whisper violently into the phone. “Crap, crap, crap!”

“What?” Caitlin whispers back.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Sorry.” Normal voice again. “Who’s at the door?”

There’s another knock.

“Abby. Who’s at the door?”

“Bret,” I manage to choke out.

“Bret Woodward?!?”

“Shhhh,” I hiss. “I’m pretending I’m not here.”

“Hey, Super Stealth,” comes Bret’s voice from the hallway. “I can see your feet under the door.” My eyes drop to the floor: There’s a three-inch crack between the door and the hardwood floor. Damn old hotel.

Caitlin cracks up. “I’ll call you back,” I mutter. I punch the end button and open the door.

“Hiding from me?” Bret asks with a wink. Yes, a wink. The Sexiest Guy Alive is standing at my door, holding flowers and winking.

“Hiding? HA! Why would I hide?” I hold up the phone. “I was just on the phone. My friend was in the middle of a story, and I didn’t want to interrupt.” I put on what I hope is an offhand, totally-at-ease smile. The opposite of how I’m feeling.

Bret grins. “Good. Then these are for you.” He holds out the flowers. I take them, stepping back to let him inside the room.

A brief word about my gentleman caller. Officially he just turned thirty-three, which means in real life he’s probably pushing forty. So, best-case scenario, the man has fifteen years on me. Worst case, he’s old enough to be my father. “So what’s the occasion?” I ask, admiring the eclectic bouquet. I’ll say one thing: The man has excellent taste in flowers.

Bret rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

“But my birthday’s not until tomorrow,” I point out.

“I know that,” he says. “But the celebration starts now. So go change.”

“Celebration?”

“Yes. No arguing.” He walks over to my closet and opens it. It’s empty. Bret gives me a quizzical look. I point at my suitcase, jammed into a corner with clothes spilling out of it.

“I haven’t exactly unpacked yet,” I say.

“You haven’t unpacked? You’ve been here all summer!” Bret eyes the explosion of clothing. “How do you live like this?”

“I don’t like to be tied down?” I offer. This isn’t even remotely true, but it sounds less lame than any of my real reasons—all of which have to do with my obsessive fixation with getting out of here so I can start college on time and proceed with my Plan. Bret nods knowingly.

“I get that,” he says in a low tone, which I think is supposed to be his meaningful voice. “Permanence is suffocating.” I nod in what I hope is an equally meaningful way as Bret lifts my suitcase onto the bed and begins riffling through it, examining each article of clothing before folding it and setting it aside. Yes, folding. Bret Woodward is folding my clothes. “How about this?” he asks, holding up my black pajama top. I laugh. Bret doesn’t blink.

Oh. Right. He’s serious.

“Uh, okay . . . with what?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer. Bret tosses me the pajama top, then pulls a pair of cowboy boots out from under the bed.

“With these,” he says, holding up the boots. “Now, go change,” he instructs, steering me toward the bathroom. “We have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes.”

To Bret’s credit, the pajama top sort of looks like a dress. A really, really tiny dress. If only it weren’t a PAJAMA TOP. I contemplate telling Bret there’s no way I can go out in this, but then, something in me gives way. My eighteenth birthday is less than five hours away. After that many years of model child behavior, I’ve earned the right to bend the rules a little bit (in this particular case, the rule that says that a self-respecting girl should not go out in public wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots). And it’s L.A.; it’s not like I’ll be the most scantily clad girl on the street—not by a long shot. I strip out of my jeans, spritz on some perfume, say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I shaved my legs, and slide the pajam—er, dress—over my head.

Even though I’ve worn this top to bed a zillion times, I’m not prepared for the reflection that greets me in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The “dress” is longer than I remembered, and it fits me in all the right places. Dressed like this, with my dark waves blown straight and makeup still camera-ready, I barely recognize myself. For the first time since I arrived in L.A., I look like someone who belongs. Only my eyes—round and slightly panicked—give me away.

“You almost ready?” Bret calls from the other side of the door. “We’re late.”

“Just a sec!” I shout, gulping the contents of the travel-sized bottle of mouthwash by my sink.

When we emerge from the hotel, the valet attendant is waiting with Bret’s car, a cherry-red Prius with imported calfskin seats. I wonder how much Bret paid to get the baby cow interior on his environmentally responsible ride. The attendant gets out of the car and hurries over to open the passenger-side door, but Bret beats him to it.

“Right on schedule,” he says as I slide past him into the car, cringing as the slinky fabric slides up my thigh.

“But a few minutes ago you said we were late,” I say when Bret joins me in the car.

“Necessary exaggeration,” Bret replies, flashing an impish smile. “I find that women move more quickly when there’s time pressure.” He guns the accelerator, and we speed away from the curb. Women. I think of the parade of females Bret has been linked with in the past: actresses, models, and most recently, a fashion designer. These women are, well, women. Suddenly, the fact that my not-yet-eighteen-year-old virgin self has just gotten into a car with this allegedly-thirty-three-but-probably-more-like-forty-year-old (wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots, mind you) seems like a really, really bad idea.

Bret glances over at me as we whiz down Venice Boulevard. “What are you thinking right now?” he asks. “You have a funny look on your face.” He slows long enough for us to turn, then speeds up again.

“I just can’t believe I’m gonna be eighteen in a couple hours,” I say, drawing out the word. “I still feel so young, you know?”

Bret just laughs. “You are young.” He turns the wheel sharply and slams on the brakes. “We’re here.”

We’re parked in a narrow alleyway next to a windowless black brick building with an electric-blue door. A restaurant? At first I think so, but there’s no sign, no awning, no menu out front. Nothing to indicate what’s inside.

Oh, God. This isn’t a restaurant. It’s some weird sex club.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Bret says, leaning across me to push open the passenger door. “Everything on the menu is amazing.” Not a weird sex club! I am elated. Bret grins at me. “Welcome to your birthday party, Birthday Girl.”

To my surprise, there are about twenty people waiting for us inside, exactly enough to fill the restaurant’s private cellar. I recognize most of them, all from the movie. Bret steps away to talk to our server, and someone hands me a glass of champagne. I down it like I’m used to being handed glasses of champagne in super-swanky back rooms, hoping it’ll help take the awkward edge off the evening.

“Abby!” Kirby, the youngest (and from the looks of it, drunkest) member of the cast beelines over to me, teetering in four-inch heels. “Can you believe this?” she breathes, clutching my shoulder for balance. Whoa. Hello, vodka. I see you’ve met Kirby. “This is, like, ohmyGodlikeTHEplacerightnow,” she gushes in a heavy Boston accent I didn’t know she had. “You, like, can’t even get a reservation unless you’re somebody.”

“Wow.” I glance over at Bret, who’s busy giving one of the servers detailed instructions. He catches me watching him and winks.

“We need cocktails,” Kirby announces, letting go of my shoulder and grabbing my elbow. She drags me toward the bottle-laden table in the corner of the room and pours herself a Red Bull and vodka. I watch as she downs it, then immediately pours herself another. “RBV?” she asks, waving the vodka bottle in my face.

“No, thanks.” I’m already feeling the champagne.

“Whatever.” She shrugs, then ambles off, taking the bottle with her.

“So how’d I do, Birthday Girl?” I hear Bret ask, his voice at my ear. I turn to face him, immediately aware of how close his lips are to mine. “You know, you’re not an easy read,” he murmurs, brushing the hair off my face. “Not that I’m complaining.” As his finger dances down my jaw, tiny beads of sweat prickle above my upper lip. I fight the urge to lick them away.

The moment is gaining intensity by the millisecond, but I can’t bring myself to look away. Bret’s eyes are SO BLUE (colored contacts, no doubt), and he smells ridiculously good. How have I never noticed this before? I tilt my head forward to get a better whiff. Bret, decidedly less tipsy than me and thus still operating in the realm of normal behavior, assumes I’m leaning in for a kiss. Because, really, who leans in for a smell? The crazy girl in pajamas and boots, that’s who.

So he kisses me. It’s more of a prelude to a kiss, actually. His lips barely graze mine, and then it’s over. A second later, I hear the distinct click of a camera phone. I don’t even have to look to know whose it is. RBV #3 in one hand, cell phone in the other.

“Smile!” Kirby calls in a singsong voice, snapping another picture. It dawns on me that there’s an excellent chance I’m going to end up in US Weekly, a notion that is both horrifying and thrilling. I grit my teeth and smile for the camera, already rehearsing rational explanations in my head. Oh, that. We were just rehearsing a scene for the movie, Dad. No, we don’t actually kiss in the movie, but the director wanted to see what it would look like if we did. . . . Yes, he does play my uncle, but the screenwriter was toying with an incest storyline. . . . CRAP.

“Don’t be worried about the picture,” Bret says, putting his arm around me as Kirby keeps clicking away. “There’s no service in here, so she can’t send it to anyone until after we leave. And by that time, all incriminating photos will be long gone.” He nods at the guy next to Kirby. His biceps are the size of my thigh, but he can’t be older than twenty. “That’s Seth, my trainer. Every time we go out with Kirby, she goes camera crazy. So Seth’s been tasked with ‘borrowing’ her phone and deleting everything before she can do any damage.” Arm still around my shoulders, Bret steers me toward a plush couch at the other end of the room.

“So you didn’t answer my question,” he says as we sit. “How’d I do?”

“Are you kidding? This is great. Best birthday ever.”

“But it’s not your birthday yet.” Bret points at his watch. “It’s only nine thirty.”

“Hmm. Good point. So I guess this is the best day-before-my-birthday ever. Which sadly, doesn’t say much,” I tease.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve saved the real fun for tomorrow,” says Bret with a mysterious smile.

I raise my eyebrows. “These people barely know me, and you’re forcing them to celebrate my birthday twice?”

“Tomorrow night it’s just you and me, kid. Dinner on the beach in Malibu.” He sips his champagne. “Unless, of course, you have other plans . . .” He trails off, taking another sip as he waits for me to jump in and assure him that I don’t. Expecting me to. But there is simply no way I am going to dinner with this guy. Sure, the idea of having an intimate dinner with the Sexiest Guy Alive is appealing, but he’s (a) too old for me, (b) too famous for me, and (c) too likely-to-seek-sex-on-the-first-date for me. Besides, I still have a firm enough grasp on reality to know that this—the Hollywood scene, thirtysomething celebrities, private cellars at trendy restaurants—isn’t my world. I am merely passing through.

Bret is still waiting for my response when the first course arrives. “I’m starving,” I announce, practically sprinting to the table.

“Let’s eat!” Bret calls to the crowd, and everyone sits.

Three hours, four courses, and one very delicious molten chocolate cake later, I’m sipping my fourth glass of champagne and marveling at the difference between this birthday and my last. A year ago, I celebrated the big day with a Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake and dinner with Caitlin and my parents. Now here I am, all the way across the country, partying with celebrities and drinking Cristal. Beside me, Bret Woodward—the Bret Woodward—is talking college football with the guy who plays my brother, his arm draped around the back of my chair as though it belongs there.

“Hey, BW!” Seth calls to Bret from the other end of the table. “I think it’s time to put Hollywood Barbie to bed.” He points at Kirby, slumped down in her seat and snoring. “Mind if we take one of the cars?” Seth asks. At the word “bed,” I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion. I’ve been up for twenty-one hours after having slept for only four.

“Do you mind if I go with them?” I ask Bret, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of my eyelids. “I’ve got a six a.m. call time tomorrow.”

“We’ll all go,” he says, fixing his blue eyes on my sleepy gray ones. I flush under his gaze but don’t look away, emboldened by all the sugar, alcohol, and endorphins. For a second, I let myself imagine kissing him—really kissing him. “Just say you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night,” I hear him say.

“I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow night.”

“Really?” For a guy who seemed so confident, he looks awfully surprised.

“Hey, Jake, just hang for a minute,” Bret tells the driver as the limo pulls up in front of the Culver. “I’m gonna walk Abby up.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be fine. You should get Kirby home, anyway.” I give her limp arm a friendly pat and quickly slip out of the limo, closing the door behind me before Bret can argue. Two seconds later, I’m knocking on the window, feeling like an a*shole.

The sunroof slides open, and Bret’s head pops up. “I forgot to say thank you,” I say. “Tonight was awesome.”

“You deserve awesome,” he replies, raising his empty champagne glass in the air. Behind him, the night sky is an arresting shade of indigo. My first thought is that it’s just light pollution. But then I notice the stars. They’re so bright. Like, oddly bright. I tilt my head back for a better look. The wind picks up, making me shiver, but I can’t stop staring at the stars, which are so brilliant they’re almost blinding. “It’s your night, Birthday Girl,” I hear Bret say. I drop my eyes, forgetting the stars and my goose bumps, but Bret has already ducked back into the limo, disappearing behind the tinted glass as the car pulls away.

When I get up to my room, I don’t even bother with the lights. I kick off my boots, think to myself how convenient it is that I’m already wearing my pajamas, and fall into bed. And finally, effortlessly, I sleep.

I dream of earthquakes that night. Shaking so violent that the door rattles and the windows crack and the mirror over the antique dresser shatters on the hardwood floor. It only lasts for a second, though. Then the world goes black.

I’m jolted awake by a bright, searing light and a blast of cold air. Shivering, I open my eyes, then immediately close them, wincing at the brightness. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the blinding light is the sun.

Shit, shit, shit.

If the sun’s up, I either slept through my five o’clock a.m. wake-up call or the front desk never made it. I feel myself start to panic. How late is it? I was supposed to be in hair and makeup at 6:05. Alain will be livid if I’m late. Please don’t let it be past six, please don’t let it be past six, please don’t let it be past six. Eyes still adjusting to the light, I roll over toward the nightstand and force myself to look at the clock.

But there’s no clock in sight. Where the nightstand should be is a wall. A poorly painted white one.

Fear grips my body. The walls of my hotel room are covered in textured gold linen. And the bed isn’t this close to the wall. Heart pounding, I look down at the blanket I’m holding. A blanket that should match the pale ivory upholstery of the Victorian chair by the window.

The blanket is blue.