Star Struck

by Meredith Michelle

  “Jeff,” you begin, “I really need to speak with you for just a few moments before we begin. It’s about Jackson—” Before you can finish, the remainder of the cast arrives to take their seats. The crew finds spots on the low chairs scattered about in the sand, and you see Jackson swagger onto the set. You have to admit, he’s strikingly handsome with his slightly too-long hair blowing in the breeze and his tanned skin glistening in the heat. The backdrop of white rock creates an appealing contrast.

  Jeffries places a sweaty palm on your shoulder, “We have plenty of time to talk, Anna, plenty of time. But we need to get this show on the road. Time is money, and today all I’ve been doing is watching it slip through my fingers.” He scoops up a handful of sand and lets it slide from his hand in illustration. “Can it wait?”

  “Uh, I don’t really—” You are interrupted again as Jackson makes his way to your side.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Anna Chambliss! Fancy meeting you here,” he drawls in mock amazement.

  Jackson pulls out the chair nearest his script but, before he can settle in, Jeffries stops him. “No, no, no,” he sighs in exasperation. He waves his hand impatiently at Jackson, gesturing to the chair beside yours. “You two need to sit next to each other. Here, honey,” he says to the older woman currently occupying the seat beside yours. She’s a well-known character actress you’ve met at many parties but you can’t remember her name at the moment. “You two switch.”

  She obediently rises and gracefully moves to the other side of the table, while Jackson plops unceremoniously into her now-empty seat, spreading his legs wide and leaning back in his chair, script in hand. He doesn’t say a word, but reaches for his coconut, takes a sip, and winks, smirking in your direction. You roll your eyes dramatically and wait for the table read to begin.

  Midway through the reading you find your mind drifting. The sun on your back, the tiny bit of the drink you’ve sipped, and your lack of sleep combine to make you feel like you’re about to fall into coma. Images of Colm keep popping into your head like bits of a dream—the fabric of his jacket straining against his broad shoulders, the rough stubble beginning to show along his jawline, his warm and spicy scent...

  Suddenly a balled-up object flies at you.

  “You awake, there, Sweetheart?”

  The launcher is none other than Jackson, and you awaken to find everyone staring impatiently in your direction.

  You smile lamely, picking up the napkin and using it to blot your glistening forehead before tossing it back in Jackson’s direction. “Sorry, I’m just a little overheated.”

  “I’ll say,” remarks Jackson. “Your line, darlin.’” He turns his attention back to the script.

  * * *

  Late that night, as you are finally putting your feet up in your trailer after a long day of readings, costume fittings, and meetings, Buffy settles down next to you with a glass of red wine. You feel oddly uneasy but you can’t really pinpoint why. Maybe you just need to catch up on sleep, but suddenly you’re not a bit tired.

  “What’s going on in that head?” Buffy asks.

  “Nothing really,” you tell her. “I just need to get settled in I guess. It’s so weird—I can’t stop thinking about Colm.” What you don’t say is that Jackson keeps popping into your head too, and the look in his eyes as he jolted you from your trance at the table read. You really do need to have a talk with Jeffries. But still, Jackson was relatively inoffensive on set today. Maybe the stress of the new shoot and the sudden change in costar is getting to you. Could it be possible you are overreacting?

  “Well,” says Buffy, “I say we take your mind off your troubles and play some rummy. What do you say?”

  Buffy grabs a deck of cards from the tiny kitchenette and shuffles them expertly. She deals and takes the first turn. Little does she know the card game does anything but provide the intended distraction. Finally you decide to share.

  “It’s just grating on me already. All day Jackson seems to be everywhere I am. He even showed up during one of my fittings. He just has such nerve. I mean, what is he thinking? I keep feeling like he could come crashing through the door any minute, wherever I am. It’s like having the paparazzi here on set. I have to keep avoiding him but I can’t. I guess he just doesn’t get it. I know he’s new at this, but seriously.”

  “Well it’s probably only going to get worse. You should see your wardrobe for the beach scenes. Pretty skimpy,” Buffy teases.

  “Ha, ha.” You know she’s trying to lighten the mood, but this whole day has given you a cold feeling in the pit in your stomach. “Seriously, do you think he’s anything to be concerned about?”

  “Are you serious, Anna? I think the sun is getting to you. He’s totally harmless. There are tons of people around. Besides, I’m still planning to put myself between him and you at some point.”

  A line of concern appears between Buffy’s ginger-colored brows. “Anna, why would you even feel like that about him?”

  You’re not sure how much to tell her about why you feel how you feel, and now you’ve begun to doubt yourself. Maybe you need to give Jackson a second chance. “Buffy, he—” you begin, but something stops you from elaborating. “I don’t really know, Buff. I just get a weird vibe from him, I guess,” you tell her, completely understating the truth. You fan your cards out, draw, and quickly discard. “You know how they always say you should listen to your gut?”

  “Well,” says Buffy, an impish grin on her face, triumphantly grabbing the card you’ve just thrown down, “my gut is telling me he is one fine-looking specimen just waiting for the right woman to set him straight.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” you tell her, though the sense of uneasiness still grips you. “You’re probably right.”

  * * *

  Day one of shooting is decidedly less pleasant than you were hoping. Between the grit of the sand, the sticky saltwater clinging to every exposed inch of makeup-covered skin on your body—and there are lots of exposed inches—and the bikini bottom that keeps riding up every time you walk more than two steps, you are more than ready for the sunset, which will shut down production for the day.

  Between shots, Jackson finds himself a lounge chair and plops down, one hairy leg hanging over, and assesses you with amusement as costume and makeup flurry in to blot your face, adjust your bikini, and de-frizz your hair. It’s so much easier for guys, you think. So not fair.

  At last, the sun reaches the critical angle and Jeffries calls cut for the final time. You cannot wait to strip off the cloying bikini, the heavy fake eyelashes, and the pasty makeup you can feel running in sweaty rivulets down your neck and chest.

  When the water in your tiny trailer shower finally runs clear, you blot dry with the soft towel Buffy brought you from home. She’s gone off to find something refreshing and hopefully alcoholic for you to sip. You crank up the air conditioner and lounge on the trailer sofa, cooling off after the long day. Buffy returns in a flurry, hoisting a tall, frosted glass filled with something purple and delicious-looking into your hands. She begins talking before you can get a word in.

  “Oh my gosh, Anna, I am so excited. Guess what? The whole cast and crew is going into town tonight to check out the local scene. Jeffries rented like a whole bar and there’s going to be a reggae band and open bar, and island food, and probably dancing. He wanted to surprise everybody after the first day of shooting, so . . . and guess what? Everyone’s going. Like everyone. Even Jackson, I mean. But of course I have nothing to wear. All I brought are shorts and bathing suits. I didn’t really think I’d be doing anything but working. But now, I mean I guess I can wear some shorts, but I’d really like to look a little cuter. Maybe I just shouldn’t go.” She plops down despondently beside you. “Yeah, I’ll just stay here.”

  You feel your instant affection for this girl who has become your best friend and who always makes you smile.

  “Buffy,” you tell her, “of course you’re going. We’re going. Come on, I brought way too
many clothes.”

  You rifle through your luggage and play dress-up until you find something that fits Buffy perfectly, a stretchy little sundress that falls lower on her legs than it does on yours but clings beautifully, accentuating her tiny waist. The airy fabric sways as she walks, making the most of her adorable curves. She looks in the mirror and glows, running her hands down her sides and then executing a joyous little twirl. “Thank you so much!” she gushes. “You’re sure this is okay?”

  You feel a thrill at how happy she is. “Of course it’s okay. But I’m not finished yet. Sit down.”

  She perches on one of the tiny kitchenette stools and you duck into the bathroom for your makeup bag.

  The immediate look of alarm on Buffy’s face is almost comical. “Um, Anna, thanks but I can do that—it’s kind of what I do, you know.”

  “No you’re not. It’s my turn tonight.” You search through your bag for the big, fluffy makeup brush and jar of loose powder, “Don’t worry, I’ve learned a thing or two watching you. Besides, I have a vision.”

  Fifteen minutes later you run the brush over her forehead and cheeks once more for good measure and tell her to open her eyes. Not too bad, if you do say so yourself.

  You spin Buffy to face the mirror and are gratified by the look in her eyes. She turns her head slowly to admire both profiles and bats her long lashes. “Well, Mr. Demille,” she purrs, “I do believe I’m ready for my close-up.”

  * * *

  The bar is loud and smoky when you arrive. Dreadlocked Rastas on a little wooden platform in the corner croon unintelligible lyrics to a steel drum beat. Buffy leads you by the hand to a table in the center of the room, clearly enjoying the eyes that turn to watch you as you walk by. You’re wearing a thin cotton sundress, too, still trying to cool down from the heat of the day. You’ve pulled your hair into a simple twist off your neck and the slight breeze from the ceiling fans overhead feels delicious.

  You sit and tap your foot absentmindedly to the rhythm and look around the room. The bar is crowded with crew members tossing back neon-colored shots. A few members of the cast have taken to the dance floor. You and Buffy spot Jackson at the same moment. He’s chatting with Jeffries, facing away from you and rocking back at a precarious angle in his teak chair.

  “BRB,” Buffy says, and sashays over to the bar, making sure to cross in front of Jackson’s sightline. To her credit, she does a good job of appearing to make a beeline for the bar while attracting more than a few glances from the men, Jackson included. His gaze flickers down the braided fabric at her back, lands on her backside, and affixes itself there for a few noticeable seconds before breaking free to return to the director.

  She comes back with two frosty-looking tropical drinks and sets them on the table. “Thanks.” You lean in and whisper, “Guess who was checking you out just now.”

  Buffy’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  “No joke. Along with like every other guy in this place. But Jackson definitely noticed.”

  “Yes!” she squeals. “Maybe I do have a chance with him after all?”

  “I still don’t see what you see in him,” you tell her, “but he’d be lucky to have you.”

  A few glasses of liquid courage later, as the band launches into a well-known Marley song, Buffy giddily grabs your wrist. “Come on! Let’s dance!”

  You head out into the haze of smoke and sweat on the little dance floor at the front of the room. Before you know it, you feel a hand on your waist pulling you slightly off-balance. You turn to find Jackson at your side as the music slows. He leans in and whispers low into your ear, “May I cut in?”

  After a moment of confusion you see his gaze focused solidly on Buffy and realize it’s Buffy he wants. “Oh! Sure!” you answer awkwardly and shuffle from the dance floor as couples fall into one another.

  You find your table and slowly sip your quickly thawing drink. God, you think, I’ve probably gained ten pounds here already. You’ll have to hit the gym hard after this. You twirl your straw around in the slushy contents of your glass and look longingly at the dance floor, as Jackson pulls Buffy close and they move to the music. You feel an odd twinge as you watch and can’t help but picture yourself in her place. It would be nice, to feel like that again. But you’re not really picturing yourself with Jackson. Maybe if it were Colm? Your thoughts are too blurred by the heat and the smoke and the alcohol to know what you’re feeling.

  The song ends and Buffy leads Jackson by the hand back to your table. The gleam in her eyes is unmistakable. You know this is a dream come true for her, and you’re happy she’s happy.

  “Mind if I join you?” Jackson asks with a smile. You really are trying to keep an open mind but the mix of attraction and aversion you feel whenever he’s near is almost overwhelming.

  You scoot your chair as far away from his as is politely possible. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Buffy and Jackson drink and flirt for the better part of the night. You sip glass after glass of iced water and make small talk with people who approach your table every so often. You have no clue what time it is when Jeffries climbs clumsily onto the bar and raises a toast to the cast and crew, then orders everyone to go home and get some rest, ending with a buzz-killing reminder that tomorrow’s shoot schedule begins at seven.

  Jackson gets to his feet and stretches like a big cat, a low purr in his throat. “Guess that’s our cue.”

  Feeling like a clumsy third wheel, you push your chair into the table and begin to follow everyone else out the door.

  Buffy has hung onto Jackson’s every word all night, eyes following his every movement in unabashed adoration. Clearly, she is in heaven. Still, you have a nagging sense that you don’t want to leave Buffy alone with this guy.

  You linger between the crowd and the two of them, trying to decide what to say or do. Finally, you put your hand over your mouth and yawn hugely, trying to get their attention. “I’m beat,” you tell them. “I’m headed back to the trailer. You coming, Buff?”

  She begins to detach herself from Jackson’s hand but he stops her before she is able. “I’ve got her,” he drawls with a little grin. “Don’t worry, mom, I’ll have her home by midnight.”

  You feel an instant sense of alarm and lean in, grabbing Jackson’s upper arm, and with a ferocity you aren’t expecting, hiss into his ear, “You’d better not hurt her!”

  He’s taken aback for a moment and reels as though slapped, but he quickly recovers. He wraps his arm snugly around Buffy’s waist and pulls her close, scooting deftly around you, and exiting the bar with Buffy in tow. She glances back once and gives you a look of pure, heartbreaking joy.

  You sleep fitfully as you wait impatiently for Buffy to return. You turn to glance at the clock every half hour before you finally hear the door open and shut gently. Grateful that she’s back safely, you pull the covers tightly around you and fall back to sleep.

  The temperature cools a bit and the following days pass almost blissfully on set. Although you’re exhausted after long hours of filming, you savor the small moments you get to curl up on a hammock, swinging peacefully between the towering palms gently swaying in the island breeze, the kiss of filtered sunshine on your face. During these quiet moments, you find that memories of your evening with Colm replay over and over in your mind.

  Even Jackson manages to be inoffensive and Buffy is mysteriously absent for longer and longer stretches. She hasn’t shared the details, but you imagine she and Jackson are probably spending every free moment together and you are happy for her, though you feel a tiny sting of worry each night as you sleep alone in your trailer.

  Late one night, you’re roused from a deep sleep by the door shutting more loudly than usual. You turn over restlessly and are almost back to sleep when you hear what sounds like sniffling coming from outside your door. You listen quietly until you’re sure, then sit up drowsily and reach toward the foot of the bed to retrieve your robe, wrapping it snugly around you. You find Buffy sitting on th
e little sofa, legs pulled up to her chest. She’s sobbing gently into her fists, keys still clutched in one hand.

  “Oh, Buff,” you walk toward her and wrap your arms protectively around your friend. You feel an instant and instinctive pang of fear. You know Jackson is the cause of this and you can only imagine what he’s done.

  Buffy sniffles twice and reaches for a napkin from the pile on the table, blows her nose, and looks up to the ceiling, “I’m okay,” she says, without meeting my eyes.

  You try to be as gentle as you can when you ask, “Buffy, what did he do to you?” Everything in you wants to say, “See, I told you he was horrible,” but you know that’s not what Buffy needs to hear right now.

  “He didn’t do anything, Anna!” she replies fiercely. “It’s my fault and I should have known I wouldn’t be good enough for him. I’m being obsessed and clingy as usual. What is wrong with me?” She bangs her fist hard into the table, shaking loose the neat pile of napkins, and as she does, you notice a red mark on her wrist—no, four red marks, in the unmistakable shape of fingers.

  Your eyes widen at the sight. “Buffy! What is this?” You grab her hand and stretch out her arm, getting a better look. “What did he do to you?”

  Buffy drops her eyes and wrenches her hand out of yours. “It’s nothing, Anna. It wasn’t even his fault.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t his fault? You did this to yourself? I will kill that bastard—I told you, Buff!”

  Buffy jumps from the sofa and throws her napkin to the ground. Tears streaming again from her red-rimmed, puffy eyes, she screams, “Anna, you don’t know everything!” before marching to her room and slamming the door behind her.

  You want to break down her door and demand the details or go hunt Jackson down, but you know it’s best to just leave Buffy alone at the moment. You lean back, cross your arms, and wait. A million emotions run through you as you stare at the ceiling and breathe slowly to calm your frazzled nerves.