No, I’ll find my own way to the school. And maybe in some other areas of life as well.
Chapter Eight
The Agent
Alfred Frey’s office occupies an entire floor of a Century City high rise. I guess I should have expected no less from a legendary Hollywood agent.
I’m escorted to his door and cross what feels like miles of marble flooring before reaching his desk. He doesn’t even look up before muttering, “Sit down.”
When he finishes doing… whatever he’s doing… he finally lifts his head, moves his eyes over my face and hair, and grunts, “Yes. Yes, it’ll work,” then drops his gaze back to his paperwork.
Though clearly not human, Alfred doesn’t look exactly like the Elves I’ve seen all my life. He is shorter, less attractive, and yet his face is so interesting it holds its own brand of appeal. If he’s really been a top agent for the past thirty years, then the Hollywood crowd undoubtedly assumes he’s keeping a plastic surgeon on standby for regular touchups—like all of the Fae, he has an ageless quality about him.
He wears a well-cut suit that has an expensive-looking sheen, a large shiny watch, and several rings. A beautiful turquoise tie matches his eyes and contrasts well with his thick, black hair and deep California tan.
Uncomfortable with the silence, I try to make conversation. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from my fa—”
“Your father wants this done as quickly as possible,” he interrupts in a no-nonsense tone. “From what I understand we have no time to waste in getting you launched. I’ve got you booked on go-sees every day this week, but first you’ll need a portfolio. It won’t be easy to whip one up so quickly. You’ll be working with Stephen Dutton all day—perhaps into the night to get it done.”
“All day?” I repeat dumbly.
My online research last night revealed the art school isn’t too far from the address of the photography studio listed on the itinerary I was given. I’m hoping to finish the shoot in time to walk the few blocks to the school and check it out before my driver comes back to pick me up.
It might be my only chance to visit the school in person this week. My go-sees could be in different counties or even the other side of the city for all I know—Los Angeles is huge.
“Yes—all day.” Alfred’s tone is withering. “You’re not here for a vacation. We all have to do our part—even Davis Hart’s daughter.” The way he worded it and the disgust in his voice makes me wonder—is this guy my father’s friend? He doesn’t sound all that “friendly.”
Chastened, I nod and mumble my thanks then follow the secretary who’s come to escort me out. I let out a long, shuddering breath as I leave his office. Whatever Alfred Frey is, he is not an ally.
* * *
The Santa Monica studio is cold, with immensely high ceilings and vents that seem to blow from every direction. Shivering in the bikini I was instructed to put on, I try not to wobble too much in my towering heels or squint in the overly bright lights.
“You’ll warm up in a minute,” the photographer, Stephen, informs me with a deep chuckle that says he’s hosted many a shivering girl in this studio. “We have to keep the temperature down in here because of the equipment, but the lights will have you sweating like you’re in a sauna pretty soon. So, Alfred says it’s your first time in front of a camera, huh?”
I nod, forcing a small smile in his direction, though I can’t really see his face with the glare in my eyes.
“You’ll do great, don’t worry. Alfred knows what he’s doing. He’s never steered me wrong yet.”
I shudder again, but not necessarily from the cold. Alfred sort of creeped me out. He wasn’t a lech or anything—he’s got a fan pod full of sweet young things if teenaged girls are what he’s into. No, it wasn’t the way he looked at me, but the way he didn’t. Though we’d only just met, I got the distinct impression he didn’t like me.
Stephen’s voice pulls me back to the moment. “Hey, Sofie, can you powder her again? Thanks.”
The photographer was right. I am warming up, and apparently, getting shiny as a result. A small Latina woman steps forward and dusts my face with sneeze-inducing translucent powder, adding another layer to the already thick-feeling makeup on my skin. One more new thing to get used to.
“All right. Give me some movement.” Stephen gets behind the camera and starts clicking.
Suddenly movement seems completely beyond my physical capabilities. I have no idea what to do. I feel stiff and super uncomfortable, like my arms and legs aren’t actually parts of my body anymore, but these strange unwieldy things hanging from my joints. I shift from side to side, tilt my head in different directions, but I can sense the disappointment in the room.
In my peripheral vision, the makeup artist and hairstylist lean their heads together and whisper. I’m sure they’re talking about how terrible I am. To make up for my lack of “moves,” I smile wider and wider until my face aches.
“Maybe vary your expressions for me, Vancia? We’ve got plenty of smiling,” Stephen says. I can almost hear the grimace in his voice.
“Oh. Sorry.” If he wants expressions of mortification and dread, then he’s getting a lens full now.
So I try to look serious, or fierce like that model show on TV talks about. I should have watched that more often.
Stephen steps to the side away from the camera. “Um… let’s take a break everyone.” Motioning to me with a finger, he says, “Come here Van.”
The nickname reminds me of Carter and triggers a sudden bout of homesickness that surprises me. “Are we done?”
His answering expression is a mixture of pity and if-only-we-were longing. “Listen kiddo,” he says in a gentle tone. “Let’s get out of the studio for a while. We have to do some location shoots anyway, and you’ll probably have more fun with those.”
My shoulders fall. I knew I’d suck at this. “I’m sorry I’m so terrible. I’ve never—”
“I know. Don’t worry about it. It’ll come together. You just need to relax a bit. Ever been to Venice beach?”
His imperfect grin really works with his twinkling brown eyes, and suddenly I do feel a bit more relaxed. “Not since I was a kid.”
“Well, grab your cover-up and let’s go. I’ll even buy you a snow cone when we get to Ocean Front Walk.”
“Not a cherry one!” The makeup artist warns as she rushes to pack her case and follow us out the studio door.
Chapter Nine
Field Trip
Things go a little better on our location shoots. As we move from the beach to a bricked alley, to a colorful mural wall, a rooftop, and back to the studio, changing outfits, hair, and makeup each time, I gradually relax. Stephen says we got enough usable shots to make a decent portfolio and that he’ll print them tonight and have them ready for my go-sees tomorrow.
“You did it, kiddo.” He offers me a quick hug.
“If we got anything good, then you did it. Thank you for everything. Sorry again for being such a challenge.”
“Nah, you’re a natural,” he says, then laughs, probably because we both know he’s lying. “But seriously, you’ll get the hang of it, and you’re going to have some good luck this week—I can feel it. Just believe in yourself. And don’t let the other photographers intimidate you. They’re not all as charming as I am.”
I laugh, too, and hug him again. “How could they be?”
Leaving the studio, I check my phone, eager to follow its navigation app to the art school. Shoot. It’s later than I thought. The clock in the corner of the screen reads five-thirty. Is the school closed for the day already?
I’m supposed to call my driver and let him know when I’m finished, but I stuff my phone back into my purse instead. As far as he and Alfred know, our photo session could go on for several more hours. This is my best chance to visit the school, and I’m going to take it.
I speed-walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the lingering sun and the sound of seagulls flying ove
rhead. I’ve ditched the ridiculous heels for my usual flip-flops and my long stride helps me make good time. As I pass one guy on the sidewalk, I hear him mutter, “New Yorkers,” under his breath. I guess in his laid back, Southern California mind, everyone in a hurry is from New York.
By the time I reach The Dowrey Center for Arts and Design—a square building with lots of windows—my phone tells me it’s five-fifty. And of course the hours of operation etched onto the school’s glass front doors are eight am to six pm. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
Testing the door handle, I’m relieved it swings open. But as I walk down the central hallway, my heart falls again. The place looks basically deserted. The doors lining the hall are all closed, and through the small windows in the center of each one I can see that the lights are off.
I’ve missed my chance.
The click of a lock and the jingle of keys draw my attention to the end of the hall. A man stands on the outside of one of the rooms, shifting the items in his shoulder bag. He looks too old to be a student. Is he a professor?
I’m so hoping the answer is yes when I call out to him. “Excuse me. Excuse me, sir?”
He looks up and jumps as if startled. “Can I help you?”
Rushing toward him, I speak quickly, putting as much pleasantness into my voice as I can. “Hi. Yes. Do you work here? I was hoping I could see the school. I’m visiting from Georgia, and I was hoping to take a look around? Maybe get an application?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I teach here—Professor Gould.”
He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Vancia Hart.”
“Unfortunately, we’re closing for the day, as you can see. I’m probably the last one in the building.” A tiny notch forms between his brows as he studies my hopeful expression. “An application, you said? What semester are you thinking of applying for? The admissions process for this fall is almost completed.”
“I know. I—well I just got up the courage to, you know, um check it out. I know I’m kind of behind.”
He gives me an understanding smile, starting to walk. “Well, it’s never too late to follow your dreams. There might still be a few openings—if not for the fall semester, then the spring. If you come back in the morning and visit the admissions office, they’ll give you the forms and set you up with a tour. You can also apply online.”
Actually, I can’t apply online. Not with Pappa monitoring my computer usage. Maybe I can borrow Ava’s computer again. Or… I could just use the Sway, something I’ve avoided in my everyday interactions with humans back in Georgia. But I don’t want to.
When it first kicked in as a preteen, I experimented with it. Using it on my human peers always left me feeling guilty, and seeing their zoned out expressions and hearing the obedient tone of their voices kind of freaked me out.
Hopefully, niceness (and begging) will suffice for this situation. Keeping pace with him, I work to remove the hysteria from my voice.
“I can’t come back tomorrow. I probably can’t come back this week at all, and I really, really need to get the application today.”
Now that I’m in the building, I’m surprised at how attached I feel already to the school. It seems like a place I could belong. If I can fill out an application this week at Ava’s house and mail it from there, Pappa will never know. Until there’s a reason for him to know—a reason that will never exist if I can’t convince this guy to help me.
“Maybe… maybe you could show me around?”
He stops, and now he really looks at me. Glancing around at the empty hallway first, he brings his gaze back to me and surveys my appearance, his eyes stopping at my purse before returning to my face.
Nope—not big enough for a weapon, Mister. You’re safe.
No doubt he’s trying to determine what I’m up to—to see if I’m some sort of a threat or just the clueless prospective freshman I’ve claimed to be.
“I’m not sure,” he says, dragging out the last word. “It really would be better for you to go through the enrollment office. It’s not really appropriate for me to give you a tour alone after hours like this.”
Shoot. It’s not working. But it has to. I’ll have to use it. It’s not like it will hurt him.
Touching his arm to stop him from walking away, I gain and capture eye contact with him. Don’t want to lay it on too heavy—just enough to get his help. I put my will and the minimal amount of Sway I can manage behind my words.
“Please change your mind and show me around, tell me about the school, and then get me an application from the enrollment office. You’ll feel good about doing this, and nothing bad will happen as a result of it.”
I hold his gaze in mine for a few seconds to make sure it takes then step back and smile at him like the docile Southern belle I’m supposed to be.
He blinks a few times and shakes his head, returning my smile. “As I was saying, I’m so glad you could make it for a tour today. I don’t often give them myself, but I’m happy to show you around, answer your questions, and then I’ll get you an application to fill out. I’ll even make sure to put it in Mrs. Moser’s hands personally, with my highest recommendation. Now, this is the pottery studio.” Pulling his keys from his pocket, he inserts one into the lock of the nearest door.
I follow him in, working hard to maintain my happy expression. I should be happy. I’m getting what I wanted. But I hate the way I got it.
He hasn’t even seen my art portfolio. It could be full of stick figure drawings and crude finger paintings for all he knows, and he’s planning to give me his “highest recommendation.” Not only could it turn out to be embarrassing for him, it feels like cheating to me.
I don’t want to be accepted into art school because I glamoured some poor guy’s brains out. I want to earn it—I want my art to speak for itself. I want him to give me an application, not a free pass.
After touring the classrooms and the gallery and stopping by the office for the forms, I follow Professor Gould to the exit doors.
“Thank you so much for the tour. I hope I haven’t made you late for anything.” It didn’t occur to me until just now that his kid could be having a recital tonight or something.
“No, no, my pleasure. And I wish you the best of luck. Like I said, whatever I can do to help.” He raises a finger. “Oh—I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me before—long day I guess. I’ll need to see your portfolio before speaking to Mrs. Moser. Let me give you my email address and you can send me a zip file, okay?”
My heart lifts from the soles of my shoes and flies up through the top of my head. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll send it right away. Can’t exactly admit me without it, right?” I’m almost delirious with relief that the school will require proof of my talent before admitting me.
“Right” he agrees, and raises a hand in a goodbye gesture as I turn and practically skip down the sidewalk to the photography studio.
My steps slow as I reach the building and turn the corner to the front walk.
The car is there at the curb and my driver is pacing in front of it, phone to his ear.
Chapter Ten
Watched
“So how does it feel to break the rules for once?” Ava stands in the doorway of the guest room, obviously having overheard the end of my phone call with Pappa.
“Um, it feels like I’m going to be on total lockdown for the rest of spring break.”
The driver apparently waited for an hour before calling Alfred to report my unscheduled exploration. The agent, in turn, called my father, who just gave me an earful.
“No more going off on your own. You might think you know about big cities, but Los Angeles is not Atlanta, and you have no idea the trouble you can find there. You’ve been quite sheltered,” he said.
Yeah, whose fault is that? That’s what I wanted to say. Thankfully, he could only hear my thoughts when I consciously directed them at him. What I actually said was, “Yes, Pappa.”
“So, did you sneak off with a boy?” Ava says, dragging out
the last word and grinning ear to ear like she’s waiting to be let in on some great conspiracy.
“No. I took a walk… to a school.” I wasn’t really planning to tell her that last part, but it popped out anyway. Maybe my excitement over the art school is too big to stay penned up inside me.
“A school?” She wrinkles her nose. “That’s a letdown. When I sneak away, I make sure it’s worth my while. Which means, of course, it’s to meet a guy.”
We laugh together, and I decide to confide in her a bit more. “It was actually worth my while. I loved the school. I just hope I can get in—it’s really late to apply.”
“Oh.” She nods. “So you want to come to college in California?”
“Sort of. It’s an art school. But please don’t tell anyone. I don’t want my dad to know. It doesn’t exactly fit into his plan for my life.”
She matches my eye roll with one of her own. “Tell me about it. My parents’ plan involves bonding me with a guy back in Florida. But I can’t get enough of these California boys. It’s Mother’s fault really. She shouldn’t have sent me out here if she didn’t want me to sample the local goods.”
“Well, unfortunately, that was probably my first and only ‘field trip.’ I know they’re going to watch me every second now.”
“There’s always a way,” Ava says. “If you need to get away again, just tell me and I’ll help.”
* * *
A messenger delivers my modeling portfolio from Stephen early the next morning. He is some kind of incredible photographer because the photos aren’t half bad. I don’t even recognize myself in one of them.
The driver arrives to take me on my go-sees. The first is with a clothing designer who makes funky things in loud patterns that all seem to involve polka-dots. She looks like someone who’d design crazy circus clothes—bright pink hair, too much makeup, and glasses with giant frames—polka dot, of course.
She says I look young, which she likes. At her request, I do some impromptu posing, which she doesn’t seem to like. “Well, you’re very green, but still, you might do for the photo spread. I’ll call your agent with my decision.”
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