Golden Girl

by Sarah Zettel

  “You did? How’d she know where to find you?”

  It was pretty plain this wasn’t anything close to the reaction he’d hoped for. Jack’s face went sour as he shrugged. “Asked at the office, I guess. That doesn’t matter. What matters is she wants to meet you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Dopey! She wants to say thank you. I don’t think she remembers exactly what happened, but she knows somebody tried to kidnap her and we saved her.” He pulled himself up straight and proud, every inch the conquering hero. “This is your chance, Callie. If she likes you, she can get you a job on the lot, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  I thought about properly meeting the most famous girl in the country. Then I thought about how I’d kind of already met her in the first place. “I don’t know, Jack.…”

  “What don’t you know? You need a job, don’t you?” Jack’s salary was having a hard time stretching to cover two rooms and two boards, plus streetcar fares and clothes and all the other little expenses that seemed to keep marching in.

  “Mr. Robeson said he could get me a job,” I reminded him.

  “He said maybe, and he didn’t say it was with the studio. It could be hotel work or something. That won’t get you any closer to finding your folks, will it?”

  Something in the way Jack said all that dug under my skin. He spent a lot of time acting like he knew more than I did. Sometimes it was true, but sometimes it wasn’t. “Yeah, well, it might not be a good idea to have me hanging around where the Seelies can come calling anytime they darn well please.” That stopped him in his tracks, and I admit I kind of enjoyed it. I would have enjoyed it more if the thought hadn’t come out of my conversation with Shake. I did not want to start trusting what my uncle told me. “Besides,” I said before Jack could start up again, “we got a problem.”

  I told Jack about Shake. All the excitement that had been brimming over in him drained away. So did most of the color in his cheeks, which turned a kind of sick yellow shade. “You let him in here?”

  “I didn’t let him. He just sort of got in, and then once Mrs. Constantine saw him, there was nothing I could do.”

  “You coulda called the cops or … or something.”

  “And tell them what? He hasn’t done anything.”

  “Except try to kill us!”

  “Callie?” Right on cue, Shake pushed his way through the parlor curtain. I guess he’d gotten worried about how long I’d been gone. “Who’s your young man?”

  “You know good and well who I am, mister,” Jack answered, soft and low. The friendly kid vanished. This was the tough Jack, the Jack who’d been a bootlegger, ridden the rails across the country, and even been on a chain gang. You didn’t see this Jack a whole lot, and you really didn’t want to.

  “So I do.” Shake smiled, all sly and secret, as he sat on the nearest sofa and crossed his ankles. “But you understand the importance of keeping up appearances, don’t you? I wonder, what can you two have been talking about in here for so long? Callie’s breakfast has gone stone cold.”

  “It’s none of your business,” snapped Jack. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Where else should I be?” Shake asked with a fake, patient smile that could have gotten a rise out of Mahatma Gandhi. “She’s my niece, after all. Who else is going to take care of her? You?”

  Jack’s fist balled up. For a second I thought he was going to knock out a few more of Shake’s teeth.

  “Don’t.” I got in front of him. “He’s trying to get to you.” I turned around and walked over to Shake. I needed to show I wasn’t afraid. It didn’t matter who he was related to; he wasn’t pushing me around. I leaned in close and whispered in Shake’s ear, “You better get back to your room. You don’t want Mrs. Constantine finding out what you really look like, do you?”

  I straightened up. Shake was looking at me, first with his good eye, then with the scarred eye. I had no idea what he saw, but eventually he sighed and got to his feet.

  “If you insist,” Shake said. “Be careful today, Callie. I can’t promise I’ll be able to do much once the Seelie court gets hold of you as well.”

  I really didn’t like the way he said that. It sounded too serious and too certain. At least my shivers waited until the curtain fell closed behind him before they started running up my spine.

  “You’ve got to get away from him,” said Jack behind me.

  My shivers agreed with him, but that wasn’t one of the choices any of us had right now. “He can help us. We don’t know enough about the Seelies, or the Unseelies, or anybody. He knows everything about them.”

  “As if he’d ever tell us the truth.”

  “He’s going to be after us anyway. He’s mad at his folks and he wants to get back at them. He thinks he can use me to do it. So he’s not going to do anything to get me too mad.” Yet.

  “I don’t like it,” Jack muttered. But I could tell he knew I was right. I decided not to tell him about my other idea, the one I’d had the night before. I might not have to use it, and if I didn’t, then there was no point in giving him something else to get upset over.

  “I don’t like it either. But as long as he thinks he’s got a chance to bring me round, he’ll stay put, and at least we’ll know where he is.” I tried to smile at him, and kind of did. Jack blew out his cheeks and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Okay, we’ll play it your way. We better get going, though. Miss Bright’s waiting to meet you.”

  Miss Bright? When’d that famous little screamer become Miss Bright to Jack? “I can’t. I’ve got to meet Mr. Robeson at the Dunbar.”

  “You can meet him later. This is important.”

  “Why? She doesn’t know anything, and she can’t do anything. Mr. Robeson knows how to get around the Seelies.”

  “What do you mean, she can’t do anything? She’s a huge star! She can get you a job, Callie. Right on the lot. We know there’s a fairy gate sitting smack under the Waterloo Bridge. Once you’re set up, you can go through it, right into their country to find your parents. This is exactly what we came here to do!”

  I opened my mouth and shut it again. He was right. The gate was there. I’d felt it last night. I’d been so caught up in worrying about Shake, I hadn’t gotten anywhere near the idea that I could just go through the gate. Maybe this was why the fairies were in such an uproar about me. Maybe they didn’t like the idea that I could just sneak in on them.

  Where she goes, where she stays, where she stands, there shall the gates be closed. That prophecy had been chasing after me, with the Seelies and the Unseelies figuring they knew what it meant. Maybe it was time to make it mean what I wanted it to mean.

  “It can’t be that easy,” I whispered.

  “Course not,” said Jack. “We’ll figure the rest out once we’re on the other side. Now come on. If Miss Bright gets mad, she won’t want to help you, and we’re back to having to try to sneak you past the guards again.”

  This all felt wrong, but I couldn’t think how. I mean, Jack was right about the gate, and about how much Ivy Bright could help us if she wanted to. I could talk to Mr. Robeson later. Maybe I could even use Mrs. Constantine’s telephone to leave a message at the Dunbar for him. It’d be all right. Mr. Robeson would understand once I’d had a chance to explain everything. Everything I could explain, anyway. He’d still help us. It’d be all right.

  And I sure couldn’t stay around here with nothing to keep my worried mind occupied. Not with Shake sitting in his room, smiling that patient smile and waiting for me to believe him just a little too much.

  8

  Nice Work If You Can Get It

  This time, when we got off the trolley, Jack and I walked through the studio main gates, right under the archway with the carving of the roaring lion. We also had to get out of the way as an open-topped car roared past us and screeched to a halt by the double-width guard shack. The woman who leaned across to laugh with the guard looked familiar, and might e
ven have been Katharine Hepburn, or Olivia de Havilland, or Jean Harlow. The urge to get nearer so I could stare properly took hold as strong as any magic spell. Fame will do that if you let it get too close.

  “Mr. Holland? Miss LeRoux?”

  I am not proud to admit that hearing someone call us made me jump and set my heart hammering.

  “That’s right.” Jack put one hand on my arm to steady me.

  A white man in a gray chauffeur’s uniform tipped his cap to us. If he noticed me trying not to be startled, he pretended he didn’t. “I’m Sumner, Miss Bright’s driver. Miss Bright would like to invite you to join her for breakfast at her bungalow. I have the car waiting for you.” He gestured toward a long black Rolls-Royce. The silver lady hood ornament gleamed in the morning sun.

  Jack and I raised our eyebrows at each other. Then Jack puffed out his chest and pulled on his most grown-up manner. “Of course. However, we do still need to sign in.”

  “Miss Bright has already taken care of that.” Sumner pulled a pair of cardboard passes out of his pocket. “If you’ll come with me?” He opened the door of the Rolls and bowed us inside.

  The seat was soft as a featherbed, and the tinted windows dimmed the California sun, leaving the inside cool even though the day was heating up fast. If the Cadillac last night had politely cleared its throat as it moved, the Rolls purred with a deep and contented sound. Jack grinned and sat back like he owned the car and the studio. I wished I felt half as good. For me, being in that big, heavy car felt like being wrapped in cotton wool. I didn’t like not being able to see the outside clearly through the darkened windows, or feel who passed by out there. They could be anybody at all—human or Seelies or Unseelies or Uncle Shake—and I couldn’t tell.

  This was a shame because it was probably the finest car ride I’d ever had in my life. Sumner drove so smoothly through the studio streets, it was like we were standing still while the world eased past us. I even found myself starting a fresh letter to Mama in my head.

  Dear Mama: Guess what? Today we got to see Lot No. 1 at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. It’s really different from Lot No. 2, more like a regular city. It’s got office buildings, warehouses, and garages. It’s even got street names, like First Avenue and Third Avenue and Main Street.

  Nobody on this side of the studio grounds wore costumes or dragged cameras along. We were part of a whole stream of traffic just like we would be on a regular city street. Trucks and cars passed people heading into buildings with names such as Film Services or Production and Sound Department. But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t relax. I felt like I was inside a set of boxes tucked one inside the other—us inside the car, inside the studio, inside the city. I couldn’t help wondering how many more boxes down we were going to go, and how we were ever going to get out again.

  Jack gave me a concerned glance, but I shook my head. I couldn’t explain what was eating at me, and even if I could, I wasn’t going to talk about it where a stranger could hear.

  “Miss Bright has her own house right on the lot,” Jack said by way of conversation, and, I think, to try to distract me.

  “That’s right, sir,” said Sumner from the front seat. “It was given to her by the great comedienne Miss Marion Davies after she and Mr. Hearst moved over to Warner Brothers. Miss Davies said she wanted to be sure Miss Bright had a real home, not just an apartment or hotel suite. And here we are.”

  Sumner pulled the long car into the driveway of that real home, right there on A Street. It was the very latest model of Los Angeles houses: two stories tall with beige stucco walls, arched windows, and that red bumpy tile roof that’s supposed to be a Spanish style.

  “Looks just like the movies,” I murmured.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Jack grinned as Sumner came around to open the car door and bow us out. One short second later, the bungalow’s front door banged open.

  “You’re here! Oh, I knew you’d come!”

  The Ivy Bright of this morning was nothing like the pathetic little thing from last night. She’d gotten herself all cleaned up, put on a pink dotted-swiss dress, and tied her golden curls back in a matching ribbon. She grabbed me, hugged me, and planted a big kiss right on my cheek, every inch the bubbly girl she played in the movies. I didn’t even have a chance to catch my breath, let alone say anything, before Ivy had me by the hand and was dragging me into the house and through the foyer to the sitting room.

  “Mama, Mama!” she cried. “This is the girl I was telling you about, and this is Jack Holland—he works in the script department. Callie, Jack, this is my mama, Olive Brownlow.”

  “How do you do, Callie? Jack?” Mrs. Brownlow was fair-skinned and golden-haired, just like her daughter. Well, not just like. I had the feeling it took a lot of trips to the beauty salon to keep Mrs. Brownlow’s bobbed hair that shade of yellow and that precisely waved. Her pale face was perfectly made up, and her peach-colored silk suit with coral trim had probably been tailor-made for her.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for helping Ivy.” Mrs. Brownlow gave me a soft, cold hand to shake, and I caught myself wondering if she’d been sick lately. Where Ivy’s blue eyes sparkled with life, her mother’s looked tired, even though it was just barely nine in the morning. She reminded me of somebody, but I didn’t have a chance to think who, because just then a squared-off, dusky-skinned woman in a plain black dress and starched white apron stepped into the room.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Brownlow, but if she’s to be on time for school, Miss Ivy needs to have her breakfast.” The woman had one of those voices that let you know the owner regarded time as precious and wouldn’t stand for any waste. This effect was helped by the way she peered at us over the rims of her thick-lensed glasses.

  “Oh, of course, Mrs. Tully.” Ivy’s mama blinked at Mrs. Tully and then at us, as if she was digging deep for the proper words. “You’ll have some too, won’t you?”

  I planned to say I’d already had mine, but Jack, as usual, got his words out first. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Brownlow, Miss Bright. We’d love to.”

  “Isn’t he just the sweetest!” Ivy clapped her hands. “You call me Ivy, silly. We’re all going to be best friends!” As if to prove it, she looped one arm through mine and one arm through Jack’s and pulled us close together.

  “I’ll join you.…” Mrs. Brownlow got to her feet.

  “Oh, but, Mama, you’ve got that meeting with Mr. Raymond in publicity, don’t you?” Ivy said. “You were just telling me about it.”

  Mrs. Brownlow frowned, thinking hard. “Oh, yes. Of course. Mrs. Tully, have you seen my bag?”

  “Here it is, ma’am.” Mrs. Tully went to the hall table, picked up a little beaded purse that had been dyed to exactly match Mrs. Brownlow’s suit, and handed it over along with a pair of white gloves. “Sumner will be waiting for you out front.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on my shoulders. Don’t be late for school, Ivy.”

  “I won’t, Mama.” Ivy skipped over and planted a kiss on her mama’s cheek. I watched Mrs. Brownlow leave and Mrs. Tully close the door behind her. Memory poked at me. It was trying to tell me something important, but Ivy was talking again.

  “Mama has to meet with a lot of people. She manages my career.” Ivy grabbed Jack’s and my hands as she breezed past and pulled us into the dining room. A long table, complete with lace runner and silver candlesticks, stretched right down its middle. You could have sat a baker’s dozen guests here and still had room in case any family dropped in at the last minute. This morning, only one end was set with blue willow pattern dishes, crystal glasses, and grapefruit halves in glass bowls. There was a funny wire rack in the middle with toast triangles stuck in it.

  “Please sit down.” Ivy sounded at least as grown-up as Jack. “Orange juice?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Jack. I nodded. Ivy made a little gesture to Mrs. Tully, who came over and filled all our glasses. My stomach still felt kind of queasy, but I�
��d never had orange juice before and didn’t want to miss my chance. It tasted sweet, tart, and bright all at the same time, and before I knew it, I’d finished the whole thing. Mrs. Tully gave me the fish-eye, but she filled my glass again. She was looking at my hair and how browned up my skin was. Mrs. Tully backed away to stand next to the big sideboard, but she didn’t stop watching me from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. She saw. She knew. The brightest little star in Hollywood was sitting down to breakfast with a black girl, and Mrs. Tully most definitely did not approve. My spine stiffened right up. Who was she to be looking down her nose at me?

  “I’m sorry there’s not more food,” Ivy was saying to Jack as she dug a spoon with a jaggedy tip into the big pink grapefruit. “I can only have grapefruit and toast in the mornings because I have to watch my figure, for the camera. They’re awfully strict about my health,” she added in an undertone. “Once I snuck a whole box of gingersnaps into my room. Tully about had a fit when she found the crumbs in my bed!”

  Jack laughed like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and Ivy giggled.

  I drank some more orange juice. “Must be hard going to school and being in movies at the same time.”

  “Oh, no. The school’s on the lot. Right next door, as a matter of fact. All the studio kids go there. Miss MacDonald, she’s even stricter than Tully, so none of us get out of line.” Ivy giggled again. I wondered what it was like to find every little thing so funny. “Where do you go to school, Callie?” she asked.

  “I’m done with school.” She didn’t need to know I’d only gone for a couple of years back in Kansas before the dust storms closed the school, and the entire town of Slow Run, for good. Jack was rolling his eyes toward Ivy. I swallowed. The orange juice suddenly tasted sour. “Actually, I’m, uh, looking for work.”