by Kayley Cole
I'm not going to take the deal. I won't put myself in that position again where I'm questioning my own integrity. I won't replace Jake with another nightmare disguised as a dream.
I take one more look at his face before I grab my guitar and walk toward Tiny Kaleidoscope's kitchen.
Jake
In Hollywood, there is always blood in the water, and the tabloids are the vicious sharks, closing in on their prey. My reputation is bleeding so much that there are dozens of sharks outside my mansion and they know there's enough meat for all of them. I've been stuck in this mansion for three days, which would be nice if my mansion wasn't nearly empty because I'm always working.
My mansion has always been a place of relaxation. I've been working nearly non-stop since I was eighteen, so I never filled my house with any kind of entertainment— except for a TV, which is only for studying other directors. The lack of entertainment is excellent for my work ethic, but when I've been locked inside my own house for three days, it's an attempt to cause my own involuntary hospitalization.
I walk around several boxes of fan mail that my assistant had brought over. I've gone through half a box, but it's always the same boring shit. 'I love your work. Read my screenplay.' 'I loved Tip of the Flame. Tell me if you think my film idea is any good.' 'Your work with Cold Crash was insane. Their music videos were the best because of you! Here's two and a half music video concept ideas.' 'The Last December is underrated, and you should have won an Oscar for it. I've attached my screenplay. Check it out! I love you!'
The only thing worse than people in Hollywood is people trying to get into Hollywood. It's like the difference between a high-end escort and a streetwalker— they're getting paid to do the same thing, but one of them is a lot more desperate and lot more willing to bend their own rules to get what they need.
I sit down on my couch, pulling the box toward me. Maybe one of these envelopes has some nude photos or money— I don't need either, but it'd help my mood. Or perhaps I'm just turning into a desperate person. Pathetic used to be my brand. I might as well reclaim it.
I flip through the envelopes, searching for a woman's name. After I've nearly tossed ten envelopes, I stop, but it's not because I've found a female fan.
Andrew Rue
7855 Reverb Street
Saffron, CO 80534
I rip open the envelope. The paper feels thin in my hands.
Hey Jake,
How's it going? Just kidding, I know it's going great for you! And we're all very proud of you. I know you hate reading-- in fact I'm not sure you actually can read (I'm just kidding!)-- but there was a tornado here in Saffron, and it wrecked large parts of the town. We've tried to get donation money from people, but people only care about California (can you smell those burning trees? And not just the marijuana?) and Texas (everything is bigger in Texas, including their floods). I was just hoping you could help out a little bit. My number is 970-555-7588. Even if you don't want to help, it'd be cool to hear from you. I'd like to run some movie ideas by you too.
-Andrew
I throw the letter on the top of my reject pile. Andrew always knew how to get me to do what he wanted, and I can hear the subtleties in his letter— I know it's going great for you. Help out a little bit. Even if you don't want to help. I cut ties with him after my first successful music video, and he couldn't' shut up about how every little shot in the music video could have been done better and that my job was nothing but supervising people. I can't blame him for his shit-talking though. I'd resent me too if I were him.
The letter is from two days ago. It was a day after my scandal. He could have learned about it and written to me immediately afterward, or the scandal could have escaped his attention until after he sent the letter. I imagine it's more the former scenario. He would know the last thing I need is a headline stating that I don't care about my hometown and I let people in my hometown suffer while I sat in my mansion doing nothing.
On the other hand, if I showed up at Saffron, had a physical presence there, it would get noticed by the media too. If there's anything the tabloids love almost as much as tearing people down, it's watching them return to their roots and come back with a renewed sense of responsibility and respect for everything that formed them. Even better if they give back to people who are invisible to the world and Saffron could earn a medal in being invisible.
A mistake can be forgiven if the man is later seen as a saint.
I grab my cellphone, finding all my best cameramen and preparing a group text. As I start typing, the image of Saffron's welcome sign flashes in my mind. The sign is too extravagant for such a small town-elegant carvings of a river and an elk, contrasting with the gold frame around the sign that resembles rope-but in my memory, I can only focus on the woman that's posing near it, hoping I'll make her look like a model as I snap photos of her.
But I never wanted to make her more beautiful. I just wanted to make her mine.
Ellie
If death comes in like a thief in the night,
Then I'll come in like a traitor
No honor among thieves,
Betrayal becomes a savior.
Unless you do it to me
Three foolish thieves.
I rewrite the lyrics on my notepad. I hear Andrew's footsteps. His whole house has wooden floors, so every time I move around inside, he can hear it unless he's distracted. I've learned to walk on my toes, just to pretend I have some privacy. Just to pretend that my brother and some creep aren't watching my every movement.
He reads over my shoulder. "We're going to catch your stalker, Ellie. You don't need to obsess about it."
I run my fingers through my hair. It's starting to feel thinner. Two months of having a stalker can make your body want to be thinner until it can't be seen.
"You told me to move in with you, so you're less confident than you're making yourself out to be," I say.
He sits down across from me. He's wearing his police uniform, which always irked me a little bit. He broke more laws than most people his age, but not having any public record and serving in the Marines must erase any bad behavior. He and Jake are the reason that the west side of the elementary school had to be painted black after they spray painted a pig wearing a policeman's uniform.
"It's just a precaution. I'm your big brother. I'm supposed to be overprotective." He tugs on a strand of his copper hair. "Have you figured out if there's anyone in particular that would send you lyrics of your own song?"
"They sent it because it mentions death. It's a threat. I don't think there's any further depth to it."
"But you've only performed at the Tiny Kaleidoscope and some festivals."
"My music is online too," I say, feeling more defensive than I should.
"Maybe you pissed off another musician…”
"I don't know who I could have pissed off," I say. "It's not like I'm taking attention away from anyone."
"You have some talent," he says. "And Tiny Kaleidoscope does let you play once a month or so. Maybe someone has been rejected from there a bunch of times."
There's a knock on the door. He stands up, his hand reaching toward his gun like a mass murderer would be knocking on his door.
"I'll be right back," he mutters. I look back down at the lyrics. The words had come so easy to me. It feels strange and unnatural for them to be used to scare me.
I hear the door swing open. "Holy shit. The asshole himself is here."
"Drew," a voice responds. I freeze, the piece of paper slipping out from between my fingers. There's no way that Jake is here right now. I perpetually think of him standing under the California sun now— far enough away from me that I can pretend he was a figment of my imagination. "I'm sorry, I get so much mail from people, it took me awhile to get to your letter."
"Are you actually apologizing?" Andrew asks. "I don't think I've ever heard that."
I carefully slide my body off the chair. I hold my breath as I tiptoe toward the guest room. I'm being irrati
onal— I ’m 23, I should be able to handle seeing my ex— but every part of me wants to flee. I just can't handle seeing him right now.
I get to the bedroom that Andrew had set up for me. I get onto my bed, kneeling near my pillows and pulling out the window's screen. I open the window, wincing as it squeaks. I crawl out, my ass hitting against the top of the window as I land on my hands outside. I twist myself around, letting my ass hit the ground next. I untangle my legs, sliding them out and quickly scrambling onto my feet. My only option is to walk south or risk running into Jake at the front of the house.
Unfortunately, that's the direction that the tornado was.
I walk for nearly twenty minutes before I see the first ruins of Saffron. It's the Connolly's barn. There are several broken branches scattered over their yard, and part of their roof is missing.
The next place is the Briggs' house, where an uprooted oak slammed down on their garage and partly on their house. I heard they left to live with some cousins.
I continue walking. Some places are lucky— broken windows, cars swept off into ditches or some minor damage to their house. Other places weren't so lucky. A few mobile homes were flipped over, there was a pharmacy that has a car still sticking out of its glass windows, and in the center of town, several stores were demolished. It's like looking at a post-apocalyptic world. I wave at the people I know, but they're all busy trying to gather their lives back together.
I had been lucky. I had been living above the Harrington's house, but I moved in with Andrew a week before the tornado hit. Now, all of the Harrington's exterior walls are gone, and Andrew's house is untouched.
I've helped out the Harrington's while I could, but they seem to be too deep in their grief over their house to want anybody around. They left to live with some friends in Denver until they can figure out how to deal with their house's remains.
I stop in front of Saffron Yum, the town's grocery store. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I spin around, expecting to see someone staring at me, but I don't see anyone. This suffocating feeling keeps returning to me like a feral cat I fed once. If someone told me I was paranoid, I'd fully believe it if it weren't for the fact that someone had left me that note with my lyrics at the register, another note strapped to my bike with a rubber band that was just a drawing of two eyes. The third note was left with my tip from an old couple at Tiny Kaleidoscope, and there's no way either of them left the note. An old couple wouldn't have taken a photo of me walking into my apartment with the word whore written across the back of my head.
I spin back around, waiting to see someone watching me, but nobody is. This is why the last thing I need is Jake around. The tension under my skin is high enough. I don't need him teasing me with those stupid looks and that body I've wanted to explore since I was fourteen.
I lean against Saffron Yum. I knew this town was small, but it's feeling smaller and smaller every day.
Jake
"You're a piece of trash," Captain Livingston says.
I nod. "Noted."
The first place Andrew took me to was the police station, which feels like taking a mongoose into a snake's den. They might be my prey, but it doesn't mean they don't know how to strike back. The LAPD would have sent me to prison for decades if they didn't realize my lawyers could make them look like cruel idiots on the witness stand.
But I need to make friends here. These people know me. They don't see me as a distinguished director, just a symbol that karma is lazy and taking her sweet ass time getting back at me.
The police station is empty except for Captain Livingston, Officer Shelton, Andrew and me. It's an eery sight after walking through Saffron, where there are people walking throughout the street, their bodies heavy while their emotions fluctuate throughout the grief stages. A few film ideas rippled in my mind, but there's some grittiness in the world that can't be conveyed in 2-D. I went into films to explore the human experience, but it hadn't occurred to me until now how cut off I had become from it all.
"We're going to go to the elementary school," Andrew says, talking to Livingston, but his gaze stays focused on a stapler, tipped over on its side. I would have thought he'd have turned into a stronger man after his father left the family, but he seems to have only strived to find other people to submit to. If we didn't have a history— if his sister wasn't the rose with thorns that has sunk into my skin—I ’d tear into him for being so weak. "I wanted to show Jake everyone that's been displaced."
I keep my focus on Livingston. He's an old man— must be in his mid-sixties now— with a full head of white hair and a body with a symmetrical roundness that reminds me of a snowman. Still, he stands straight, and he looks at me with the same intensity that I'm looking at him.
"Why? You have plenty of work to do here." He nods at me. "Have you seen all the damage the tornado did?"
The tornados reduced several houses to toothpick sticks and bricks or stone. My childhood home was still standing, untouched except for scattered tree branches, but the house a couple doors down is a skeleton now, its exterior shell destroyed. While the devastation is impossible to hold in the viewfinder of a camera— even in an aerial shot— the tension between Livingston and me is a different kind of disaster. It's enough to set the tone of a slasher film.
"Yep," I say, knowing the best way to keep Livingston from becoming my antagonist is to say as little as possible.
"And you think you're going to help by walking around?" he sneers. "What you see in town is only half the damage that happened. There were three deaths from two separate car crashes, broken bones, and several minor injuries. Countless trees came down, which caused power lines to come down too. We still have five power transmission lines damaged, along with a massive number of power poles. There's a lot of people that don't have power unless they have a generator. What the hell can you do for these people by walking around?"
I take a deep breath. I despise most kinds of conversations— unless a woman is trying to seduce me, a client or collaborator is bouncing ideas off of me, or someone is talking business with me— they’re just a huge waste of time. It took years for me to not rip out throats over the slightest sign of disrespect. It took a lot of time imagining Ellie's face, the way her voice and body were a cure for all of society's ills.
"I have a project in mind. It could bring the town money and exposure," I say, trying to choose my words carefully, but the tension in jaw makes it impossible for the words to be spoken without malice. "But I'm certain you can do the same exact thing, Captain."
His lip curls up. "I was helping people here for the last week. What were you doing? Oh, right. Giving drugs to an eighteen-year-old. I have an eighteen-year-old granddaughter. If you tried to take advantage of her by getting her high…”
"That's not what happened," I interject. "But it's always informative to know who's buying these tabloid magazines."
"I don't read the tabloids," he snaps. "Maybe you tried to pay for sex with those drugs. The reason doesn't matter. I'd have beat you to next Sunday if you tried anything with my granddaughter. You were always a selfish ass, but this is a new low for you."
"If you want to see how vile I can get, keep talking," I snarl. "I've been getting bored in LA anyway. Who knows what I could get into here."
He sneers at me. "You're not even worth my time. You lucked into fame. You'll wake up one day, broke and alone."
"Didn't your wife leave you? You're already halfway there."
"I'll break your…” He lunges at me. I take two quick steps to the left. He tries to make a sharp turn and falls on his ass, the floor trembling underneath my feet.
"Captain…” Andrew lunges down to give Livingston a hand. He shoots me a look like I haven't been egging police on since we were eight.
"You know what?" Livingston rubs his knee before standing up straight. "You're right. We should let our little local celebrity look at the town he left behind. And it should be the police captain who does it. Officer Rue, stay here. I know you
wanted to work on your sister's case anyway."
I glance between the two of them. "What's going on with Ellie?"
"She's just paranoid about a zealous fan," Livingston says, grabbing his coat. "Let's go, superstar. The school is a short walk from here and those shoes could use a little dirt on them."
He walks toward the door. I look over at Andrew, but he's already pulling out the chair to his desk. I should have just sent a check. It doesn't make as good of a photo-op— and nobody ever remembers all the checks I've signed— but the idea of walking all the way to the elementary school with the police captain is a lesson in patience and tolerance, which I've always been an underachiever at.
As soon as we leave the police station, the wind nearly bowls Livingston over, which isn't an easy thing to do. I watch him steady himself before we start walking toward the school.
I think of a dozen reasons to ditch him, but I'll be damned if a mongoose is scared off by a snake.
The path to the school is uphill, and the captain's breathing quickly becomes labored. We're a quarter of the way up when he glances over at me.
"I'm guessing a superstar like you has at least four assistants. Why aren't they with you?"
"I have one," I say. "She's staying in a hotel in Denver right now.
"Waiting for you to run back to her, so you can pay her to sleep with you too?"
"I don't think so. Her wife might not be too happy about that."
"Oh…”
For a moment, I think that small-town thinking has him squirming until I remember Livingston has a gay brother. It's strange to think I have a long history with all these people I haven't seen in the last eight or nine years. I know all of their past— the foundation of their lives— but I've let all of that slip away from me.
