I’VE BEEN CHECKING MY PHONE ALL day. That is, when I’m allowed to have my phone on me. And yet here I am, checking my phone again. Nothing. Not since last night.
Did I say something wrong?
Underneath a parking light on the lot I rub my eyes in exhaustion, waving to Jess and her entourage of equally gorgeous girlfriends. I don’t even know their names, and I think she met two of them today on set. Everyone’s leaving, filtering out of the looming black gates like a river of bobbing, tired heads. My stunt coordinator claps me on the arm as she passes.
“Good work today,” she says with a smile. “A few more takes and your footwork would’ve been almost as good as Cary Elwes.”
“I almost stabbed Calvin in the face with my sword,” I remind her. Calvin Rolfe is our reboot Euci, and from what I can tell he’s less than thrilled about playing second fiddle to a kid almost ten years his junior.
“He had it coming, hero. Get some shut-eye, you look terrible.”
“Night shoots aren’t my favorite.”
“Aw, poor wittle hero,” she teases, and gives my head a scrubbing before strolling off toward the parking lot.
Lonny pulls up to the gates in a black SUV. At three-thirty in the morning, my fans are nowhere to be seen, but he still assists me into the vehicle like I’m about to get assassinated.
My phone beeps.
Elle?
I glance at the clock on the dash. 3:32 a.m. She shouldn’t be awake at this hour.
I pull out my phone anyway and frown. Not Elle, but another unknown number.
Unknown 3:32 AM
—Killer skills, bro.
—[link]
Against my better judgment, I tap the link. It goes straight to a video of today’s shoot—basically me almost stabbing Calvin in the eye. I wince. But even worse than my poor swordsmanship are the comments. I close out of the link and delete the text for good measure.
“Something wrong?” Lonny asks.
“Long day,” I reply.
He drives me back to the hotel and parks in the back. We enter through the emergency exit and he follows me all the way to my room, where he tells me he’ll pick me up at seven-thirty sharp. Then he hands me a protein bar.
“You look weak,” he says.
I take it, kind of touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”
Even after I shower off the eight hours of failed footwork—after a night of being blown out of a spaceship hatch—and put on clean clothes, I’m not tired enough to go to bed. I should be; it’s been an exhausting day, and usually whenever we’re shooting Seaside I crash harder than a cow shot with an elephant tranquilizer.
But I lie awake and keep thinking about that video. Who could have filmed it? Jess already asked the PA manager to rake everyone through the gutters. I heard him screaming at the PAs from the soundstage. Half of them are probably too traumatized to take another job in production ever again.
I flop onto my back and waste I don’t know how long trying to count the popcorn kernels in the stucco ceiling. Eventually my mind wanders. What’s Elle doing? I wonder if she stares at the ceiling too, counting sheep or doing what I do when I can’t sleep, namely, wondering what would’ve happened if Barbara Gordon never answered the door in The Killing Joke.
As the red-lettered clock on my nightstand blinks to 5:58, I roll out of bed.
5:58 AM
—Hey. Are you awake?
She’s probably still asleep. I’d be asleep right now but I can’t, and this room is suffocating. I grab a hoodie from the floor around my exploded suitcase and pull it on, taking the keycard from the TV stand and slipping out the door.
The hallway is eerily lit, like in those horror movies where an ax murderer is just around the corner. I pull up my hood—by habit, not because I’m emo or anything—and set off toward the stairwell. As in most hotels, the door to the roof is rigged with an alarm. But also as in most hotels, the alarm doesn’t work. Probably.
I push the lever timidly to make sure. The door squeaks open, but no alarm, so I shoulder it open the rest of the way and escape onto the rooftop. There’s not much up here—air-conditioners, a water tower, a storage hut of sorts. I slide off one of my shoes and wedge it in the doorway so I don’t get locked out and sit at the edge of the building.
Mark would flip. “You’re too close!” he’d rage. “What if you fell off?”
I look down, and down, and down, along the side of the building. My heart thrums in my throat. I hate heights, but there’s something quiet about rooftops. Peaceful. The way the city sounds like a distant, muted ambience.
It might sound stupid, but up here I feel most myself, and these days I don’t feel that way often. Between having to put on a face for the cameras or for other industry people or for the paparazzi—Darien Freeman seems to always be “on.”
The only other time I feel myself is when…well, when I talk to Elle, and that’s stupid because she’s the only person who doesn’t know I’m me. How could I be most myself when I’m lying?
My phone buzzes.
Elle 6:04 AM
—Sadly, I am.
—Why’re you up?
6:04 AM
—I haven’t gone to sleep yet.
Elle 6:04 AM
—OMG GO TO SLEEP
—Weirdo
6:05 AM
—Haha
—It’s busy work saving the galaxy.
The moment I send the message, I wish I hadn’t. I’ve been trying to fill Carmindor’s shadow for eight hours today. For a moment, I just want to be me.
6:05 AM
—No, not saving the galaxy. That was stupid. I don’t really do that.
Elle 6:06 AM
—So you’re a REAL person behind your strapping exterior?
—Color me shocked, really.
6:06 AM
—I’m sensing some sarcasm here.
Elle 6:07 AM
—It’s okay, I can forgive you.
—As long as you’re not really, like, bald.
I sigh, knowing exactly where this conversation is heading. To what I look like, who I am. It’s best to just stick to Carmindor. I do look like him more often than usual these days, thanks to my makeup artist.
Elle 6:09 AM
—You ARE bald, aren’t you? That’s your big secret.
—You’re really bald.
6:10 PM
—I am ashamed you think that. I promise you I have hair.
—It’s darkish. Curly.
Elle 6:11 AM
—Like Carmindor’s?
6:11 AM
—Surprisingly, yes.
Elle 6:12 AM
—Are you as tall as him, too?
—Like, if I was standing beside you, would I be looking up your nose hairs?
6:14 AM
—That’s an awkward question.
Elle 6:15 AM
—It’s also awkward to be so short you can see all the way up into someone’s cerebral cortex, but welcome to my life.
I laugh quietly, even though there’s no one else up here. I feel like this is a secret, so I have to be quiet, ensuring that the universe won’t find this little bubble and burst it into nothing.
6:15 AM
—I guess it depends on how short you are.
Elle 6:16 AM
—I’m like super short. 5′3″
—The worst height. Always get lost in crowds.
—Great height for proms though. No one sees you’re alone.