Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “My mom told me … she mentioned that she was having ‘exploratory conversations’ on my behalf while I was gone.”

  Damnit, Lori. I’d heard as much, but I was hoping that was just rumor.

  “So, I just want you to know … I realize that it could have been a lot worse. She would have pulled me out of school and back here to do anything she managed to land. And I mean, I’m here playing Evie instead of being eaten by an ant-shark-octopus mutation, or whatever it was you said the other day. And that’s because of you. So thank you.”

  I clear my throat. “You don’t need to thank me,” I say, my voice gruff. “You’re here because you’re good. You’re the Evie I wanted, the Evie we needed.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I also wanted to ask a favor.” Despite the makeup and the sticky, corn syrup blood, her cheeks are pale.

  “Are we ready, people?” Vincent shouts. I don’t think the man speaks at anything below a hostile screech.

  I draw a breath to tell him we need a minute, but Calista shakes her head.

  “No, it’s fine. It can wait,” she says hastily.

  “Calista,” I begin.

  “Let’s start at the top,” Vincent calls out. It takes him only a second to zero in on me. “Anytime now, Mr. Producer,” he says with a sneer.

  I grimace. The guy was always a dick. Even more so now that he works for me, though it should be the opposite.

  “We’ll talk later,” I say to Calista.

  “Sure.” She nods quickly before resuming her prone position on the floor, eyes shut. But I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed a moment, something important.

  13

  CALISTA

  I listen, keeping my body as relaxed and limp as possible on the cold concrete floor as everyone moves into position. Sometimes, the hardest thing is not to do anything. To be caught in a perpetual state of limbo, present but trapped, without the ability of action. Plus, keeping your eyes still so your eyelids don’t move. That’s tricky.

  It’s true for acting in scenes like this, where I’m here only for reaction—Cory discovering that Evie’s been hurt.

  But it’s also true, I think, in life. Like this morning. After spending most of the night thinking about what I would say to my mom, how I would ask about the house and what’s really going on, preparing to counter her every slippery side step to try and get the truth, it turned out not to matter. My mom woke with one of her migraines, and Wade drove me by himself, talk radio filling the silence. Normally, this would have been a cause for celebration. But not today. After all that buildup … nothing. It’s a mixture of relief from avoiding the inevitable conflict and frustration at being thwarted. Plus, I doubt the migraine was anything more than her attempt to punish me for questioning her yesterday.

  See, do you see how stressed-out and sick you make me? She may not have said it out loud this time, but I’ve heard it often enough in the past, every time sending a lurch of panic through me. For so many years, Lori was all I had. The threat of her leaving—or giving up on me—was more than enough to pull me back in line with whatever she wanted.

  But I’m not a little kid anymore.

  This morning, I tried to talk to Wade to get something, anything, about the house/financial situation. But he was his usual laconic self.

  “Your mother handles that, not me. You know that, hon,” he said.

  I resisted the urge to groan. How could he not be worried about it? Then again, this is the man who happily turned over control to Lori in the first place. Maybe he didn’t know enough to be worried. That was one way to live.

  “Okay, but what about these disability checks? Zinn mentioned something to me about that,” I asked, hoping I wasn’t going to get my sister in trouble. Not with Wade, but with our mom when Wade inevitably reported this conversation to her. “I don’t understand. I thought you were, like, a shipping company CEO or whatever.”

  He snorted. “Oh, Callie-girl, that was your mother. I think that is what she told people a long time ago, probably you, too. Truth is, old Wade was nothing but a long-haul trucker, working for one of those big outfits, ’til I hurt my back about fifteen years ago.”

  “What?” I asked, struggling to process this new information against what I’d always believed to be true. She lied. Not just to status-conscious moms and managers in the audition waiting rooms, but to me, too.

  “Now, don’t go blaming her. Your mother just likes to put things in the best light, that’s all,” he said with an easy shrug.

  “Even if that light has nothing to do with reality?” I demanded.

  He just laughed. “Oh, it always works out for Lori.” He shook his head. “That woman, I swear, she just has to put her mind to it, and everything seems to fall into place. Don’t you worry.”

  Yeah, it always worked out because she pushed me—and now Zinnia, Poppy and Dahlia—to be more and do more, pursuing her dream of being a star with us as proxies. But where had all that money gone? Where was the money she’d earned as my manager? Where was my money that the court had given her control over? No matter how little of it was left, it was—or is—still mine.

  And here’s the part I can’t stop thinking about: If she lied about Wade, what else has she been lying to me about?

  I try not to shift against the cold, concrete floor, even though it feels like it’s beginning to burn where it touches my exposed skin.

  “So you’ve got me running to Evie or not?” Eric asks someone. His voice echoes in the warehouse, making him sound very far away, when I know that’s not true. His first mark is only about fifteen feet from me. The answer comes as a murmur, so it’s not Vincent he’s talking to.

  Eric. I should have just blurted it out to him: Hey, I need your help. If I can figure out how to start a new bank account, can you make sure my pay is deposited there, out of my mother’s reach? Just in case. Because I have some concerns.

  Simple. Direct. Clear.

  The trouble is, it feels like pushing a boulder off the top of a very steep hill and racing it to the bottom, while not being entirely certain I’ll be able to stay ahead of it. It’s making a choice that I won’t be able to take back.

  Eric will help me—yeah, I’m pretty sure about that—but he won’t leave it alone, either. He won’t let me handle it. He’ll insist on getting involved, if nothing else just to yell at Lori, which is not to say she doesn’t deserve it. But I need to find out what’s actually happening first, before I can commit to doing anything. This is my responsibility, not his.

  Except what, exactly, am I going to do? If my mom and Wade are losing the house, how am I supposed to stop that? Other than by giving them everything I earn and hoping they manage to figure it out? But I’ve already done that, and this is still where we ended up. I can’t do that again.

  “All right, people. Action!” Vincent yells.

  I shove all the anxieties about my mom and money to the back of my brain and focus on being Evie, on being here.

  Silence for a moment, then shouting from the other side of the warehouse. The rest of Cory’s team are trying to get out before Evie’s friends catch up with them.

  No one actually sees Evie being injured; Cory, who, incidentally, is part of the team attempting to rob the warehouse, just finds her unconscious. The two of them have been sparring/flirting for years, on opposite sides of this world where special abilities have been gifted only to the few and the young. Evie is trying to help keep the world the same, but Cory and his fellow revolutionaries want to tip the structure of society to put the more powerful on top. Take what you want, do whatever you want.

  Footsteps pound in my direction, then stop. “Evie?” Eric-as-Cory asks, his voice hoarse with surprise.

  It takes effort not to tense up, to keep my breathing slow and even.

  “Evie,” he says again, the edges of my name—her name—rough with raw panic. Tears sting beneath my closed lids. Eric is acting, it’s all pretend, and yet in
spite of everything, it feels real. Or maybe I just want it to. Maybe some dumb part of me still wants to matter that much to him.

  He runs the last few feet toward me, landing hard on his knees, half-sliding into me.

  “Evie, Evie, come on, you gotta wake up. Evie!” He shakes me gently and then a little harder, before bending over me to check to see if Evie is still breathing, her heart beating.

  The weight of his head rests lightly on my chest for just a moment, long enough that I feel the heat of his skin through my shirt, the tickle of his curls brushing my chin.

  Then it’s gone, and his hands are moving under me, grabbing me up roughly into his lap. My forehead rests against the warmth of his throat, which works convulsively, like he’s trying not to cry.

  “Help! Somebody help me!” he shouts. “Please! Call an ambulance.”

  Of course, the irony is supposed to be that Cory is now seeking help from the very system he was trying to disrupt/overthrow. But in the moment, it feels more like just a guy trying to save the girl he loves.

  “Cut!” Vincent shouts.

  I open my eyes and blink a few times quickly so the tears will retreat before falling or before Eric looks down and sees them. I’m still bundled against him. We’re not moving because if we’ve nailed the take then we’re moving to close-ups.

  Eric swipes at his eyes and then runs his hand up and down my arm, like he’s trying to bring the warmth back into my skin. “You okay, Callie?” he asks. “Didn’t grab you too hard?”

  Grab me harder. Don’t let go. “No, you’re fine.”

  “Did we get it?” he shouts over to Vincent, and his voice vibrates through his chest against my cheek.

  “Son of a bitch! What do you mean there was a glitch?” Vincent’s screaming reverberates through the cavernous space, and then something crashes to the floor.

  “Shit,” Eric mutters. He stands and puts me to my feet, making sure I have my balance before darting off toward the cameras and playback monitors.

  I stretch, trying to warm up.

  “Forget it, Stone! It’s not worth my time or my effort. I thought you were serious about this, but this is a complete shitshow,” Vincent says loud enough that everyone can hear. “I’m out of here.”

  “Vincent, wait, if you just…” I can barely see Eric through the tangle of equipment, starting after Vincent.

  Uh-oh. I hurry toward Eric, catching up with him near the side door as it slams behind Vincent. “Is everything okay?”

  Eric’s gaze flicks from the door to me.

  “He quit,” Eric says in disbelief.

  My mouth falls open. “He … what?”

  “Everybody, just … let’s take a break, okay?” Eric says, raising his voice so everyone can hear. The sound of whispering and talking increases, and a few people, members of Cory’s team of thieves, drift toward the craft services table.

  “Doesn’t he have a contract with—” I ask.

  “We don’t want to force him to be here,” Eric says grimly. “Trust me. If it comes to that, it’s going to kill our production schedule, and then the delays will destroy what’s left of our budget.” He takes a hand through his hair. “Fuck!”

  On a larger production, someone else would just step up. Actually, in a larger production, Vincent probably wouldn’t have dared to quit in the first place. It’s nothing I’ve ever seen happen before. So now what?

  I’ve sunk everything I have into this. That’s what Eric told me. His name is on it.

  In spite of everything, my heart aches for him. He’s really trying to change his life, to be the person I always knew he could be, but this situation is not going to help.

  “I guess we need to stop for the day, and I need to find a new director,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks exhausted already, and we’ve just started. “By tomorrow.”

  Except how is anyone new going to get up to speed in time to keep to the production schedule? That doesn’t make sense. We’d have to shut down for at least a couple of days to let any new director catch up, and if the budget is that tight, that may not be possible.

  Unless he gives up and hands it over to his father.

  I can read the thoughts running through Eric’s head right now as clearly as if they were posted on a monitor above his head, and frustration zooms to life in me. I should have known. The second there’s trouble or complication, Eric will run. He always has, always will. “Don’t,” I say.

  He gives me a strained smile. “Don’t what?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. And you’re not calling Rawley,” I say fiercely.

  “Calista,” he begins with that world-weary smirk. “Kid, I know you think you understand—”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say automatically. “You can’t just give up and hand over control to him. Did you seriously think everything was going to go smoothly?” Forty-eight hours ago, I might have been relieved at the idea of the production shutting down. But now? Now I know better. I need this job.

  “The director quitting was not something I had a contingency plan for, Calista,” he says, raising his voice slightly.

  “Boo hoo, we all have problems we weren’t expecting,” I snap, and behind me, I hear a muffled snort of laughter. A glance over my shoulder reveals Jude a few feet behind us. She waves her hand in an “ignore me” gesture.

  I turn my attention back to Eric. “Get over it. This is one bump in the road. If this means something to you to keep going, figure it out.”

  “Callie, it’s not that simple,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Because you don’t want it to be.”

  “Yeah, I’m the one who wanted the director to quit!” he shouts.

  “You are the one who hired The Terrorist!” I can’t resist pointing out.

  He rolls his eyes and leans against the wall, one leg crossed in front of the other. “I don’t know,” he says in an affected bored tone. “Maybe that was because he has the name and reputation—”

  “For being a dick, but that doesn’t matter now,” I say. The solution is obvious to me, now that I’ve had a few seconds to think about it. “You should just do it.”

  “What?” Eric blinks at me, then his eyes go wide. “Direct?” He forces a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Why not?” I fold my arms across my chest, ignoring the twinge in my damaged shoulder. “You know the material. On the really small web shows, sometimes it’s all one person, writing, acting, directing, whatever. This isn’t that different.”

  He glares at me. “You know it is.”

  “Why? Because you need other names to give yours legitimacy?” I ask, and he winces. Because yeah, I know.

  “What kind of crap is that?” I continue.

  “The kind of crap other people listen to,” he hisses at me, straightening up. “I don’t want to be that Stone kid just playing around with shit. I wanted to be taken seriously this time.”

  “So make them. You have the experience. That episode when we had Michael What’s-his-face directing and his experimental style.” I wave my hands around in an imitation of the director’s woo-woo attitude. “You basically did it then. And you spent more time on Starlight behind the cameras than in front of them. You know what you’re doing. Just … do it.”

  He leans closer to me, his jaw tight. “Calista, I’m trying not to fuck this up, remember?”

  I pause. “You’re good enough. You know that.”

  He jerks back, his gaze jumping to mine in surprise, and in that second, I know he remembers the last time I said those words. It’s probably not fair to bring it up, but playing fair has never been one of Eric’s priorities. Maybe it shouldn’t be one of mine, either, when dealing with him.

  Plus, I’m right. I was then, too.

  “So,” I say, “you can fuck it up by giving up and deliberately sabotaging yourself, which is guaranteed failure.” His normal preference, at least in years past. “Or you can fuck it up by trying your best, which is only possi
ble failure. Which one can you live with?”

  “Neither,” he snaps at me. But when he pushes past me and storms off, it’s in the direction of the cameras.

  My shoulders sag in relief.

  “Wow,” Jude says quietly.

  Startled, I spin around to face her. I’d completely forgotten she was behind me. “Sorry,” I say quickly. I stop, not sure how to explain what just happened. Eric and I have always helped each other, sometimes by pushing, just usually not quite that hard.

  “That’s okay. I guess I didn’t realize you two knew each other that well.” She eyes me speculatively, her green eyes glinting behind her glasses. “Just like my Evie and Cory.”

  “Lots of history is all,” I mumble. “Working together for years, and then all the travel, fan cons and awards programs and—”

  “And the accident,” she says evenly. “The one that shattered your arm.”

  “How did you—”

  “Oh, honey, writers are a terribly nosey bunch, and I wasn’t going into this without doing my due diligence.”

  “But Eric’s dad—”

  She waves her hand. “—covered it up with all the right people, yes. But the truth is still available if you dig hard enough, and I like digging.” She grins at me, and it doesn’t seem threatening, but …

  “It was an accident,” I say firmly. If Chase is sober and getting his life back together, the last thing he needs is trouble from a mistake that wasn’t even really his, four years ago. I’m the one who pushed him to drive me, to get me out of there that night.

  “What happened?” she asks, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  I just look at her.

  “Oh, I’m not going to say anything to anyone.” She holds her hands, palms up. “I’m on a flight back to Jersey in a few hours anyway. I’m just curious.”

  And if she knows the already damaging part, that Chase was drunk and driving, then it might be better to fill in some of the blanks. Enough to assuage her curiosity and keep her from asking other people about it, opening old wounds. “We were at a party. Eric and I got into an argument about … something that should have never happened. I asked our friend Chase to take me home, and we crashed. No big mystery or conspiracy. Just a dumb accident.”