Hollywood Parents

by Kristina Adams

  I folded my arms, determined to stand my ground. But I desperately wanted to cry. What kind of monster forced someone to choose between their best friend and their career?

  He waved his hand. “That is all.”

  “No. That is not all!” I protested.

  He sighed. “As I said earlier, your opinions are not required. You’re paid to do as you’re told. If you don’t like it, there are thousands of girls out there who will happily take your place.”

  *

  When I got back to mine, I called the most business-minded person I knew: my dad. He was off on location somewhere, but, true to his word, he answered my video call.

  “They want me to record Trinity’s song! She was so sure that she should be the one to record it. How can I take that away from her?”

  He gave me a wan smile through the camera. I really wished I could reach through my laptop and hug him, because I really needed one at that moment. He sighed. “Trinity’s your best friend. She’ll understand why you need to record it.”

  “But I don’t want to hurt her. I know that me singing it will upset her.”

  “At least she’ll still get royalties from it,” he said.

  “It isn’t about the money, you know that.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “It’s really personal to her. She hated the thought of someone else recording it.”

  “Then surely it’s better for her best friend to record it than a total stranger?” he said.

  Was he on to something? Would it be better if someone she knew and loved recorded the song instead of someone she’d never met? I’d never been in the situation before and didn’t know anyone that had, so I couldn’t say.

  “How do I tell her? She’ll hate me for it!”

  “Sometimes we have to force ourselves to have the difficult conversations,” he said.

  I couldn’t talk to her about it. Not yet. I needed to see what other people thought first. I wasn’t sure Trinity would understand the impact it would have on my career, and ever since our argument about my birth mom I’d been reluctant to talk to her about anything. Everything I said seemed to get misinterpreted and end up in an argument. Her presence didn’t offer me the same comfort it once had, either. There was a piece of our friendship that had died that day, and I wasn’t sure if it would recover.

  I knew if I asked her outright if I could record the song, she’d say no. There had to be some sort of compromise that could be reached. Trinity understood how hard the industry was. She hadn’t had the same protection that I’d had. I’d had my parents. She’d had no one, even when she was young. Now that I was navigating things without protection, she’d understand the situation I was in, wouldn’t she?

  After speaking to Daddy, I called someone I knew who would be able to give me another perspective: Jack.

  Things between us were still tenuous. He was always happy to talk music, though. He was working at the recording studio where we’d met, so he invited me along to visit in person so that we could talk properly. I was grateful for the invite to talk to someone face-to-face that wouldn’t judge.

  “Hey,” he said, looking up from the console as I walked in. There was someone in the recording booth, but she was topping up her lipstick in a compact, so she didn’t notice me walk in. “Sorry, I’m just working with a new artist. The label asked me to come up with something for her.”

  “Why didn’t you say?” I said, turning for the door.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  Smiling, I sat down beside him.

  “So what did you want to talk about?”

  I began to explain the situation to him and what Peter had told me. Halfway through, the new artist stomped into the control room. “Excuse me? I thought we were recording?” Her eyes landed on me. “Tate Gardener? Is that really you?”

  I smiled. “It is.”

  “Oh my gosh I love you!”

  She ran over and went to reach out to me, I’m not sure whether to grab or hug me. I flinched. Flashbacks of the greasy drunken guy who’d tried to assault me at Jack’s party came back to me, followed by pictures of the sleazy producer Maria had set me up with. It wasn’t often those events haunted me, but when people felt entitled to touch me without permission—even if it was just a harmless hug—it freaked me out. It must’ve been obvious as she backed away.

  Jack put his hand on my shoulder. “You OK?”

  My teeth clenched, I nodded. I didn’t know her and I hadn’t been expecting her to want to grab me. That’s what freaked me out the most.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” I said. I went into Public Mode. “What are you working on?”

  “It’s a song Jack wrote a few weeks ago just for me. It’s really great. Do you wanna hear it?”

  No, I didn’t. But I did want to be polite, so instead I said, “Sure.”

  Jack eyed me warily. He knew me well enough to know that I wanted to talk to him and just him. I nodded at him, hoping that would be enough to dissuade him. He nodded back at me, which I took as him agreeing. He hit play on the song.

  It was good. But then it was one of Jack’s songs, so of course it was. It wasn’t his best song, but the record label had likely done that on purpose because they’d wanted him to save his best stuff for their already established artists.

  “What do you think?” she said when it was done. Excitement radiated from her.

  “It’s really great,” I said. “I love your voice.”

  Only a half-lie. Huh. I’d been lying more and more lately. What was wrong with me?

  “Thanks,” she beamed.

  “Why don’t we take a half hour?” suggested Jack. “Give your vocal cords a break?”

  “OK!” she said. “Can I get y’all anything from the store?”

  Jack and I declined, then she left, finally leaving us alone.

  “Sorry about that,” said Jack. “She’s in the honeymoon phase.”

  “Poor schmuck,” I said.

  Jack laughed but nodded in agreement. “So. You were saying.”

  I stood up and paced the room as I finished my story. When I was done, he let out a low whistle.

  “Is that supposed to be helpful?” I said.

  “No. But you know I understand the controls of the record label and how infuriating they are more than most,” he said.

  Yes, yes, I did. And that was partially my fault. We’d had to change some of the lyrics to our song “One Last Summer” because the label hadn’t liked us mentioning a threesome in it, even if we’d gone for the French version instead. Jack hadn’t wanted to, but I’d agreed without hesitation. Eventually he’d agreed too, but only because he hadn’t wanted to miss out on working with me.

  “Does that still bother you?”

  He rocked on his chair. “Intermittently,” he admitted. “But I know that most of what’s happened for me career-wise wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for that song. Sometimes it isn’t about creative license or personal preference, you know?”

  I sunk back into the chair beside him. “Yeah. But this isn’t creative license or personal preference, is it? It’s Trinity’s feelings.”

  “Aren’t you already pissed off at her anyway?”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her feelings!” I said. “I just wish she understood why my birth mom hurt me so much, but her heart is so cold she never will.” I ran my hand through my hair. “Have you ever had a song that you care about so much that you can’t handle the thought of someone else working on it?”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Yeah. It was called ‘One Last Summer.’”

  “Is that why you agreed to the lyric change?”

  He nodded. “I realized that working with you was more important to me than a few words in a song. And I also really didn’t want to lose my job.”

  “Looks like you’re doing pretty well now too,” I said.

  He s
miled. “Yeah. I am.”

  “I’m proud of you, Jack,” I said.

  He widened his eyes.

  “What?”

  “No one’s ever said that to me before,” he said.

  “Well I’m saying it now. And I mean it.”

  He beamed. “I know you do.”

  *

  After talking to Jack and Daddy, I still didn’t know what to do. There was only one person left that I could talk to that understood the industry and who was on my side: Mike. He mostly avoided me lately unless he really had to speak to me. Was it because he didn’t know how to handle me after everything that had happened? He’d seen a lot in his years as a teen talent manager, but everything I’d been through—and my reaction to it—was out of his league. Heck, it was out of most people’s leagues.

  He was usually in meetings about new song choices, but the meeting had been on his day off. I met up with him the next day, when he was back at work in his office.

  “Tate. It’s good to see you around again,” he said. OK, so I’d pretty much been in bed or at a party for the last few weeks, but I had valid reasons.

  I sat in the chair opposite him. Moxie was in my handbag, asleep. She let out a yelp. Mike jumped. “You got a dog?”

  “Yeah. Don’t mind her. Have you heard the song?”

  “It’s good,” he said.

  “But…”

  “No, no buts. Just that you have to sing it. That’s what the contract you signed says: they pick your songs, you do as you’re told.”

  “There’s no wiggle room at all?” I said.

  “No.” He turned to look out of the window behind him and watched the people scurry past outside for a few seconds. Then he turned back to me: “I know she’s your best friend and you’ve known her forever. I understand that. But she works in this industry too. She knows what it’s like. Would she really want you to jeopardize everything you’ve worked toward because of her feelings?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve worked harder than most people your age to get to where you are today, Tate. A lot of child stars don’t make it out without a few bruises. Compared to most people, you’ve come out unscathed. Recent events not included, although they’re not related to your career. Almost every child star I’ve ever worked with has ended up on drugs or alcohol by now to handle fame.” He sighed. “That’s not their fault; they didn’t know what they were signing up for.”

  “Neither did I,” I grumbled.

  “No, but your parents did. They knew the industry. And they knew how to best support you even if you disagreed at the time,” he said. “In a few more years, you could take your career in any direction you want. You could be whoever you choose. But only once you’ve established yourself as more than just a child star. This song is a step toward doing that.”

  “It is?” I said.

  He nodded. “Some of the lyrics would need to be changed so that it’s more of a transition song as opposed to something as mature as what Trinity wrote, but yes. This is how you go mainstream.”

  I leaned back in the chair. Could I really break into the mainstream with just one song? Would that be all it took?

  *

  I invited Trinity around a couple of days later to tell her about my decision. I made vegan brownies and put on a playlist of our favorite songs. Not that it would make much difference when she found out what was going to happen. I knew how she was going to react. I also knew that I didn’t have a choice.

  Moxie was at my mom’s so that she didn’t offer a distraction. It would get the pain over quicker. In theory, at least.

  Trinity opened my apartment door with a grin on her face. “I brought rosé!” We both loved rosé. It was our treat when we were having a girly night. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to stomach it after tonight.

  “Awesome!” I said, pretending everything was fine. “I’ll get some glasses.”

  Trinity followed me into the kitchen and I poured us each a glass. I needed some rosé to work up the courage to tell her what I was about to.

  “You’ll never guess what the record label said this morning,” said Trinity.

  “What?” I asked. We went into the living room and sat down.

  “That my vocals are too strong on ‘Eclipse’ and they won’t fit my target demographic. It’s like they don’t get that I want to grow up and move away from my high school musical days!”

  “But it’s such a great song,” I said. I’d let the conversation naturally go in the direction it was headed.

  “Yeah, that’s why they want to pay me royalties while someone else sings it. They don’t get it. Why can’t I keep some things to myself? How would they feel if someone stole a prized possession from them? And it’s not like a fancy piece of jewelry or an expensive car really took any work for them to create. This I literally created myself. I wrote every lyric, worked out every harmony. I even got my piano professionally tuned and cleaned to make sure every note sounded perfect!”

  “And it paid off—it’s one of your best songs ever,” I said. And it was true. Which made me hate myself even more.

  Trinity finished off her glass of rosé and poured herself another one. “I don’t see why I can’t just wait a few years before I release it if that’s how they really feel. It wouldn’t be the first time a song has been put on hold for something.”

  “True,” I said.

  “But no. They want some stranger to record something I created from my heart and soul.”

  I shifted in my seat. That was my opening…

  “Actually…”

  Trinity’s hand froze as she’d been about to take another sip of rosé. She lowered her glass. “They asked you, didn’t they?”

  I nodded.

  Her nostrils flared. “Are you going to do it?”

  I couldn’t look at her. A piece of me was ripped apart as I felt the realization come over her.

  “How…how could you?” stuttered Trinity.

  “I don’t have a choice,” I mumbled. “I’m contractually obligated.”

  “There’s always a choice!”

  “I have to do what they say. You know that!”

  “No, you don’t. You could walk away. Is your career really more important than our friendship?” Trinity’s eyes welled with tears. She’d put everything into that song, and I was stealing it from her. She was right—I could walk away. I could risk losing everything I’d spent my life working toward. But I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I couldn’t guarantee I’d get the same career opportunities if I did. I couldn’t guarantee how much longer it would last, either. My acting opportunities were already drying up. I had to take advantage of my music opportunities while I still could.

  “Oh my god, it is,” said Trinity. “I knew your career was important to you. But this?” She shook her head. “What’s wrong with you? Do you have no moral compass?”

  “It’s not like you won’t still get paid for it!” I said. It was the best I could offer her.

  Trinity laughed. “This isn’t about money and you know it.” She patted at the tears under her eyes, wiping away her bleeding mascara. “Your whole life has always revolved around you, and surprise, surprise, now is no different. You’d sacrifice your own parents if it would further your career.”

  I gasped. “No I wouldn’t!”

  “Only because they’d volunteer for it without a second thought.”

  She reached into her handbag. A bag of white powder fell out as she took out her collection of keys.

  “Trinity—”

  She stuffed the packet back into her handbag, then took my key from her key ring. “Get fucked.”

  She placed the key on the coffee table, then got up and left. My apartment had never felt more empty.

  29

  Jack

  I feel your touch for days

  And when you have your way

  I’m putty in your hands

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  —
“Gatsby,” Jack Cuoco

  Mine and Tate’s first date—the second time around, I mean—being right after she’d fallen out with Trinity felt like a bad sign. Would she project how she felt onto me? Would she ask for my opinion? God, I hoped not. I could see both sides of the argument, and I knew that that wasn’t the kind of reaction she wanted.

  I spent all day preparing. I got my haircut—properly, I didn’t do it myself like I usually tried to because I hated hairdressers—I shaved, and I bought a new outfit. One I thought she might approve of. It was a pair of green shorts and a yellow T-shirt. It felt plain to me, but I knew she’d see it as timeless.

  I got into a taxi forty-five minutes before I was due to meet her at her place. It didn’t take that long to get there, but you could never predict the traffic, so I didn’t want to risk it.

  There was nothing to risk, however, as I ended up arriving fifteen minutes early. Was that too early? Would it make me look overeager?

  “You gonna get out the car, buddy?” asked the taxi driver.

  “Sorry, I’m really early for a date.”

  “How early?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “You’re welcome to wait in here. It’s your money.”

  Yes it was. And his taxi had air conditioning. Outside didn’t. I hated the heat, so anything I could do to avoid it was fine by me.

  When I’d been hanging out in the taxi for ten minutes, I asked the driver if he could wait. He said he would, then I made my way into Tate’s apartment building. Nothing had changed. It was even the same guy on the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cuoco,” he said. He remembered me. Nice.

  “Good evening to you too,” I said. He’d never mentioned his name. I felt guilty. The guy had always been nice.

  “Ms. Gardener informed me to tell you to go straight up,” he said.