by Julie Cross
“I just mean you’re working too hard, putting too much pressure on yourself, not getting to the doctor soon enough.”
Thanks. I’ll remember that when I find a time machine and jump back a few weeks.
I sift through the bottles and find the antibiotics. “I need to take this one with food.”
Wes walks to the kitchen and opens up the fridge. “Sushi?”
I groan way too loud for him not to hear. “Maybe just crackers or something?”
He returns with two packages of saltine crackers that must have come with takeout from somewhere. Wes doesn’t cook or buy groceries. I stuff them in my mouth along with some water from the glass Wes gets for me after I ask for it. I take the antibiotic first, then I move onto the cough syrup with codeine, which tastes horrible. He watches as I go down the list and follow all the directions.
“You’ve done this before?” he asks.
I nod and return my head to the pillow. “Had pneumonia last year too. Apparently once you’ve had it, you’re ten times more likely to get it again.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then says, “Why do you hate me so much, Evie?”
“I don’t hate you. I just hate my life right now.”
He sits on the coffee table and folds his hands in his lap. “What can I do to help you?”
“Ask the designers that Janessa Fields is working for to let me back on set,” I say.
“Which designer?” he says.
“Ralph Lauren.”
He’s thinking, the wheels are churning, but if I know Wes like I think I do, he’ll choose work over helping me. “I can’t do that.”
I let out a short laugh. No surprise. I lie there for several minutes with my eyes open, watching Wes move around the living room, putting every item back into place and fixing himself a drink.
The way I see it, I have two options right now:
1) Continue to cry and be depressed about Alex and my scholarship and hope that things fix themselves so I don’t have to quit school after freshman year or be left hanging by a thread while I scramble to find another scholarship; or
2) Do something I hate just long enough to put school and tuition completely in my control and spend the final three years of college focusing on photography and not freaking out constantly about paying the next semester of tuition.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who sits back and lets her life get ruined by other people. If it’s going to be ruined, I should get to do the ruining myself. “Wes?”
He sets down his bottle of whiskey and caps it before looking over at me. “Yeah, Evie?”
“If I did want to book some jobs, what would I need to do before you’ll send me on any castings?”
His face is completely businesslike when he says, “Lose ten pounds.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m such a sellout. “Is that all?”
He walks across the room and sits on the love seat. “Lose the superior, Ivy League attitude. No one likes a snob.”
Before I can open my mouth to respond to his bullshit, Wes leans over, so close I’m worried he’s going to kiss me, and I have nowhere to move since I’m lying on the couch.
“You don’t have any new piercings or tattoos, do you?” he asks, grinning before backing away again.
“No, but I have stretch marks from that crack baby I gave birth to in a crack den.” I sink into the pillow, closing my eyes again. “You know, after my post-rehab relapse.”
“Good thing for Photoshop,” he says. “I forgot how funny you are when you’re not ridden with insecurity.”
Asshole.
My eyes fly open as I remember something really important I probably should have brought up earlier. “I need a place to stay for winter break.”
He stands up and moves toward the kitchen to place his glass into the proper slot on the top rack of the dishwasher. “You can stay here.”
“No.”
Wes laughs. He knew I’d say that. “I’ll give you a key to one of our agency apartments. The girls sharing it are gone until February, but it’s just between you and me, all right? At least until you actually book something.”
If I book something.
The codeine kicks in, sending me into a deep sleep before I can worry anymore.
Chapter 39: Alex
December 15, 11:30 a.m.
I’ve done more appearances with my “girlfriend” in the past two weeks than I can even begin to count. The plan was to defuse the cheating rumors by starting rumors about how inseparable we are. The only problem is, Elana’s not speaking to me.
And this isn’t like the silent game where one person refuses to talk to you, waiting out the inevitable blowup that will be followed by making up. My high school girlfriend, Lindsey, used to play that game with me sometimes and it would always end in some pretty hot makeup/make-out sessions.
But with Elana, it’s different. She’s talking to me. But it’s only polite distant words you’d say to a stranger forced to sit beside you on a transatlantic flight. It’s like she’s decided that she can’t trust me, and winning back that trust isn’t an option. She’s being careful.
And it sucks.
Especially right now because there’s a very pissed-off photographer in the studio with us, begging for some small drop of chemistry, and we don’t have it today.
I’m thinking about Eve and how she would be able to say the perfect thing that would drag me out of this slump. Classes are over for the semester at Columbia. I know this because I looked it up online last night and I have no idea where she is right now. Surely she didn’t go back to her shitty family in Indiana? One tabloid mentioned something about her dad being in jail, but I’m not stupid enough to trust that source.
“Alex!” Graham, the photographer, lets out a frustrated groan, rubbing his temples and closing his eyes briefly. Graham is British, but not the polite kind of British. This dude is hardcore. Way more blunt than Janessa Fields could ever be. In fact, I doubt he has any holiday cards waiting for him in his mailbox today. Or ever. “You’ve got the sex appeal of a seventy-year-old man right now. We’re selling sex here, people, and Elana…”
Elana’s supposed to be straddling my lap while we’re seated in a chair, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. She’s sort of doing that, at least the sitting on me part, which is why I feel her entire body stiffen in preparation for the criticism about to be dished out.
“Your body language could pass for thirteen years old, tops,” he snaps. Not a bad guess. “And with your boyfriend here and his inability to do anything remotely sexy, these photos are going to be lovely. Every old man suffering from ED will buy CK perfume so they can get their own thirteen-year-old to sit on their lap. It’s bloody brilliant.”
I’ve been insulted and criticized enough to let it bounce right off me, but Elana hasn’t. She stumbles off my lap, onto her feet. Even with her dark skin, I can see her face is bright red and her eyes are filling with tears. She turns around and walks off at a quick pace, sniffling the whole way to the restroom.
Graham throws his hands up in the air. “Great, just great.”
The entire crew seems to be scrambling around to accommodate his tantrum. His assistant brings him a bottle of imported spring water and a small hand towel. I’m debating going into the women’s restroom to lure Elana back when I see Wes walking into the studio.
“Finally!” Graham says, rushing over to Wes. Did he have someone call him because we’re so awful today? “I can’t work with them,” Graham tells him loud enough for everyone to hear.
Wes holds up his hands in front of him, nodding. “Just give me a minute to talk to them. I promise, we’ll get the pictures you want.”
Graham turns around and shouts to everyone. “Lunch break! And then we’ll see if there’s actually any talent in these well-paid children.”
I’m still standing in the center of the set, right behind the chair, so I decide it’s a good idea to step out of the lights and lurk in the shadows for now. Wes moves quickly toward me, looking calm, but I can see the intensity is there, based on the way his hands squeeze open and closed.
“I’m going to go fix her,” Wes says in a low voice, nodding toward the restroom. “And you’re going to get your shit together and quit pissing off this photographer, understood?”
“I can talk to Elana,” I say quickly.
Wes shakes his head. “She doesn’t want anything to do with you. I don’t know what you did to her, but she’s just texted me and Kara both to say she can’t finish this job today because you don’t like her.”
“Where’s Kara?” I glance around, hoping she’s here.
“Barbados,” Wes says before walking off.
My heart is hammering. I have to do something. I have to keep an eye on her. I skim the table with the catered lunch and grab some fruit and a sandwich just to keep from looking too obvious. Then after Wes goes in the bathroom, I head that way, leaning against the wall beside the bathroom door. I lodge my foot in the door crack just enough to hear voices emerging.
“I think he’d rather have you sitting on his lap than me,” Elana says. “He would rather touch anyone but me.”
“In a few years, he’ll probably feel very different,” Wes says, using the complete opposite tone he used with me a minute ago. “Just because Alex doesn’t realize how special you are doesn’t mean other people don’t see it. This is a really big job, if you haven’t noticed.”
He sounds kind and warm and full of caring thoughts. Like the ultimate manipulator.
“What can I do to make this better?” Wes says.
“Don’t tell Kara that I ran off set to cry in the bathroom.”
“It’ll be our secret. Cry all you want, then turn on that actress charm, put your game face on, and go back out there ready to work, okay?” Wes says.
“What if I still can’t do what Graham wants? He’s awful.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Wes says. “You figure out how to make that guy happy, and I’ll personally accompany you to that Broadway show you want to see. Kara told me about that. You and Alex have been so overbooked lately, not much free time.”
“Really? You’ll go with me to see Jersey Boys,” Elana says.
“At this point, I’ll do just about anything to keep you two from losing this job, even if that includes show tunes and choreography.”
I hear water running and someone walking around, but so far, the steps haven’t moved toward the door. I could interrupt, walk in and say I wanted to check on her…
“They should have casted Eve in this campaign,” Elana says. “Her and Alex wouldn’t have any trouble finding chemistry.”
Wes lets out a short laugh. “I think Eve is a long way from a Calvin Klein fragrance campaign. I’ve sent her on ten different castings, and she hasn’t booked anything yet.”
What?
Footsteps move closer to the door, so I slide over toward the men’s restroom and dive inside. I immediately toss the food that had been hanging limply in my hand into the garbage. I lean over the sink, drawing in a deep breath, trying to process everything.
Eve’s modeling again.
And Wes is the one sending her out on castings.
I pull myself together and glance in the mirror, checking my face for signs of distress before exiting the bathroom.
Work. Focus on work. Climb that really big ladder. A ladder Wes has built for me. I can see the back of him now, scanning the studio for me, most likely. I walk up beside him.
“You’re welcome,” he says when he sees me. “Now please try not to screw this up any more, all right?”
“All right.”
He nods like we’re okay and he’s not pissed at me anymore, but when he starts to leave, something takes over and I can’t stop myself. I grab his arm and he turns around to face me.
“Eve’s modeling again?”
His eyebrows lift. “You were listening.”
“So it’s true?”
He shakes his arm from my grip and shrugs. “You tell me, Alex. I thought you knew her so well.”
I’m careful to lower my voice. “I told you we broke up. I haven’t talked to her since that day in my apartment.”
Wes is fiddling with his phone now, like this isn’t a conversation that’s important enough to warrant his full attention. “I felt bad for her. She’s broke, and, let’s face it, she was never going to get that scholarship. Evie’s always had an issue with thinking realistically. She asked me to help her make some money, and I agreed. She’ll never make enough in one semester to pay a year’s tuition at Columbia, let alone three years, not if she’s still hanging on to that assistant’s job. But she’s stubborn and won’t believe me until she’s standing in front of the much cheaper state school, like the rest of us.” Wes looks up at me for a second. “Well, maybe not you. You were smart and knew your limits.”
“My limits?” I ask, confused.
“You know, college, a different career. I’ve been telling Eve since she was fifteen to put the books away and make the most of these crucial years before her body isn’t worth anything. I’ve always felt like you understood that.”
He’s leaving me and heading over to Graham before I can get another word out and I don’t think I could anyway. Wes just spouted off my exact plan and philosophy for my life and my career, but it sounded horrible hearing it from someone else. And hearing it applied to Eve and her life.
By the time Elana emerges from the bathroom, my stomach is in knots, mirroring the web of lies and manipulation I’m currently tangled in. It’s so big and twisted, I’m not even sure I’ll ever find my way out.
“Elana.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back and turns to me with a huge smile on her face.
“I’m fine now. Sorry about everything.”
“All right!” Graham says, clapping his hands together and standing in front of us. He takes a slow deep breath as if counting to ten in his head. Maybe it’s some kind of anger management technique. “It’s been brought to my attention that perhaps the concept for this shoot needs a little…epic twist.”
“Epic twist?” Elana and I say together. What the hell does that mean? Is he going to kill us and then pose our dead bodies himself, Romeo and Juliet style? I wouldn’t put it past this guy.
“I’m thinking something more distant. Like you’re reaching for her, trying to lure her back, and there’s this barrier between you. It’s very Hunger Games.”
I glance at Elana and then we both speak in unison for the second time. “Sounds perfect.”
Chapter 40: Eve
December 20, 1:45 p.m.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
Steph has called me every day since leaving New York last week. She’s worried about me taking these jobs, losing ten pounds (I’ve actually lost twelve without even trying thanks to a lengthy bout of pneumonia), and being anywhere near Wes.
“You can stay with my aunt in New Jersey,” Steph says for the hundredth time. “I’ve already asked her. She’s totally cool with it.”
I’m rushing to get to a casting by two and my phone rang the second I got off the subway. It’s freezing, but I can’t put on a hat and screw up my hair, so I have to let my ears sting from the cold. “Nobody is in the apartment I’m staying in. It’s in a really nice neighborhood, and I can come and go as I please. It’s fine, I swear.”
“Yeah, but Wes has a key,” she protests. “Doesn’t he?”
I don’t know how to get her to stop worrying. “Yes, I’m sure he has a key, but he’s not going to show up and let himself in. He’s not like that. It’s more about manipulation with Wes, and my guard is up.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “
Call me tonight if you want to talk?”
“Sure, thanks, Steph.”
I could have really used her a few years ago.
“And don’t forget! Final grades will be online in five minutes,” Steph adds before hanging up.
My stomach immediately twists in knots. I think I did okay, but I’m not sure. I need a 3.8 GPA this semester to continue to be eligible for the Mason Scholarship. Long shot or not, I can’t help but still want it. And I had a 3.95 at midterm.
When I get to the casting, I have a couple of minutes to rush into the restroom and fix my hair and makeup before giving my name to the casting director. I’ve done so many of these in the past couple of weeks, I can’t even remember what jobs I’m trying to land. Now that I’ve survived finals, I have more time to be present at the castings and be a little more charming. I’d love to spend some of this extra time helping Janessa with her current job. I can’t bring myself to tell her that Eve Castle is modeling again, but I might have to soon.
The second I exit the bathroom and enter the waiting area, I pick up cell reception again. I quickly pull up the student website and scramble to type in my login info. My eyes zip through the first part of the grades listed:
PHOTO 1 (LARSON) A
ART HISTORY (LARSON) A
INDEPENDENT PROJECT (LARSON) A
AMERICAN LITERATURE (ROWLING) A
“Eve.”
I glance up from my seat in the waiting area and see Alex standing in front of me. My heart skips a beat and then I’m on my feet before I realize it, stuffing my phone into my pocket, walking down the hallway and around the corner.
He’s followed me, just like I’d hoped. “Hey,” I say, faking calm.
“What are you doing here?” He’s not trying to hide the surprise from his face or his voice. He’s not trying to hide the emotions either, or to look distant and uninterested.
And I know I’ve got to be the tough one today. For both of us. “Just at a casting for…I don’t actually remember what it’s for, I’ve done so many recently.”
