“Awesome.”
She clears her throat, her voice dropping mockingly low as she imitates our father’s voice, reading his message. “My dearest Meghan, it has been brought to my attention that your brother was involved in yet another altercation with the media. As a staunch supporter of free press, a defender of the first amendment, someone will likely be contacting me for a comment. I felt it was only fair to warn you beforehand. Grant B. Cunningham.”
“Pretty sure James Madison wasn’t all about protecting someone’s right to verbally attack a child.”
“James Madison didn’t even really believe in the First Amendment,” Meghan says. “For him, it was all about holding politicians accountable.”
“There you go,” I say. “Send him a message back and say James Madison would tell him to shove his opinion up his ass.”
“Yeah, sadly, too late for that.” Meghan waves her phone toward me, showing me an article before she reads part of it. “Former Speaker of the House Grant Cunningham issued a statement saying he’s deeply troubled by his son’s behavior. Free press is essential to a free society, the statement reads. Violence against members of the media should not be condoned. While John has a history of outbursts, it is my hope that this situation will serve as a wake-up call for him.”
“That’s rich, coming from him. He probably doesn’t even give a shit how any of this affects my kid.”
Meghan continues to read. “When asked about his rumored granddaughter, Former Speaker Cunningham commented that he never speaks on family matters.”
“Unless it’s to drag me through the mud.”
“Well, in his defense, you make it so easy,” she says. I cut my eyes at her, not amused, and she holds her hands up. “I’m joking.”
“Did they call you for a comment?” I ask.
“Of course not.” She rolls her eyes. “I doubt they even called him. He probably contacted them, desperate to be relevant.”
“Pity,” I say. “You could’ve told them what an irresponsible asshole I am.”
“That’s not what I would’ve said.” She shoves her phone in her back pocket as she stands up. “I would’ve told them to get off your ass. You’re trying.”
The second time you find yourself in Clifford Caldwell’s office, he again gives your folder thirty seconds of attention before closing it.
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says.
You hesitate. “What do you want to hear?”
“I don’t want to hear any of it, but I need to know all of it.”
“It’s all on my resume.”
A slight smile touches his lips. “Not your work. I’m not an agent. I’m a manager. My job is you. So how about you tell me who you think you are, and I’ll tell you who you’re going to be.”
You tell him the basics of Jonathan Cunningham. There isn’t much beyond your dysfunctional family. You tell him about the woman waiting for you at home, even though he already knows all about her.
You talk for a few minutes, and when you stop, he says, “So now let’s talk about Johnny.”
Johnny Cunning.
That’s who you become.
Johnny sounds more approachable than Jonathan. Cunningham makes people think of your father, so you drop the last syllable. The name tweak alone takes you from being the rich kid in a political family to the mysterious guy that somehow feels familiar. You keep them guessing, you don’t answer questions... but you set out on a path that keeps you on their minds at all times.
That’s the plan.
He tells you he can make you the biggest name in Hollywood. All you have to do is listen to him and do what he says.
A contract is drawn up before you even leave the office. You read it. You should’ve had a lawyer read it, but when opportunity knocks, you have a habit of just throwing open the door.
You sign it, right then and there.
Instead of going to the apartment afterward, you detour to the diner, where she is. She’s working, flitting around in her little pink uniform, laughing and joking and flirting. You stand outside on the sidewalk, watching her. She notices you and smiles.
Slipping outside, she asks, “How’d it go?”
“You’re looking at a man under management.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
She squeals, doing a flying leap right into your arms, wrapping her legs around your waist, clinging to you. You hug her and laugh as she frantically kisses all over your face.
“I’m so proud, Jonathan,” she says. “And so, so happy for you.”
“For us,” you say. “This is for you, too.”
She loosens her hold, her feet back on the sidewalk. “You better not forget that when you’ve got all these rabid fangirls trying to get in your pants.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll always be the only rabid fangirl for me.”
She grins, nudging you. “Well, Mister Big Shot, I need to get back to work… you know, just until you hit it big and I can quit my job.”
She heads back into the diner. You go home.
And you don’t know this, but a few minutes after you leave, Clifford Caldwell walks into the diner. He nearly stole your moment again. He sits down in her section, brazenly ordering coffee, and slides a paper to her. “Sign it.”
Confidentiality Agreement.
She hesitates. “No.”
“Sign it, or his career’s already over.”
She doesn’t understand the point.
So she calls his bluff and he leaves.
She's not signing anything.
Everything goes back to normal. Weeks pass. You’re getting worried. You don’t know why your brand-new manager isn’t taking your calls.
She knows why, though.
So she shows up at Clifford Caldwell’s office and signs that stupid paper, swearing she'll never publicly disclose anything about you or any of this. Not that she ever would, but it worries her why the man is so fixated on keeping her silent.
The next day, your phone finally rings in the middle of the night, and things take off. Meetings. So many meetings. You need to sign with a new agent. You need to talk to some publicists. You need better headshots. There are classes to take and vocal coaches to see, not to mention prepping for auditions and creating a more appealing demo reel.
You get paid for none of that. No, you get billed. Clifford covers all the costs upfront, but it’ll be charged to you. Long hours, day and night. Your schedule gets so crazy you can’t keep up.
She does, though. A calendar on the wall in the living room has all of it scribbled down. She keeps you on track, even as she works overtime. She’s covering the bills. She’s buying the food. She cooks, and cleans, and she waits up for you the nights you’re late, even though she’s exhausted. Even when she just wants to get some sleep.
She smiles and tells you it’s okay when your first big audition falls on her nineteenth birthday.