Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper

by Hilary Liftin

  After we all had coffee, Geoff and Rob disappeared to attend to the vague and seemingly never-ending Studio business, and Meg and I got refills.

  “How long have you been part of the Practice?” I asked Meg. It was weirdly easier to ask Meg than it was to talk to Rob about the Studio.

  “Oh gosh, since I was a kid,” Meg said. She explained that when she was eleven, her parents had moved to Fernhills in Northern California to practice with Teddy and Luther, and that she’d grown up in the small community in that town, where nearly everyone practiced at the Studio.

  “I feel lucky,” she said. “Growing up at Fernhills, there were no mean girls in my class—I mean, there were only four other kids my age! I never hated my mother as a teenager. I never drank or did drugs. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but for the most part it was like being part of a huge family, where everyone was a trusted friend.”

  That was what I’d seen in Rob. The comfort. The trust. “Were you allowed to hang out with people outside the Studio?”

  “Sure,” Meg said. “But it didn’t happen a lot. We had our own school at Fernhills. Then, for part of high school, I worked in an ice-cream parlor. I made norm friends—that’s what we called people outside the Studio—but I saw how different I was from other people my age.”

  “What made you different?” She seemed pretty “norm” to me.

  “American kids learn to pass tests and please adults. They perform like circus animals and are rewarded with degrees and jobs, but they never reflect. They have no balance. And eventually they get depressed, divorced, and have midlife crises. They have no idea who they are. Before I came to the Studio, I hated school. But in our one-room schoolhouse, I was encouraged to think about my place in the world. Who was I? What did I want to achieve? What motivated me? What obstacles did I face and where did they originate? How could I bring my dreams to fruition?”

  I could see the appeal. Rob had no interest in the mundane. Even when he relaxed with the paper, he read world news only, no fluff. He constantly sought to better himself and others.

  “It’s almost a hippie philosophy,” Meg said, “but without the drugs. Or alcohol. Or free love.”

  “No beer?” I asked.

  Meg laughed. “People get hung up on those details, but that isn’t the real point. The kids at the norm high school in our town drove around all weekend looking for unlit corners where they could get wasted and forget who they were. I felt sorry for them. I don’t want to sound snobby, but I guess I still do. Living by the Whole Body Principles is incredibly joyful. You learn to have perspective on yourself—your emotions, needs, desires—once you see these from a distance, you can think so much more clearly. Teenagers are supposed to be angsty and petulant, but I spent my adolescence feeling centered, calm, and confident. It was awesome.” When Meg spoke, she didn’t seem at all like a brainwashed zombie. She was a straight shooter—she’d grown up in this unusual world, but she had perspective on it and how she fit into mainstream society.

  We’d finished our refills, and now a waiter brought us ice water. Meg jumped up and gave him a hello kiss.

  “Hey, Warren.”

  “Hey, Meg. Where’s Rob?”

  “This is Elizabeth,” she said. “She’s Rob’s girlfriend.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand. “Welcome.”

  He walked away. “You kissed the waiter,” I said.

  “I totally kissed the waiter,” she said. “I’ve only known him since I was five.” She took a rubber band from around her wrist and swept her dark hair up into a high ponytail. “See? That’s why people think we’re freaks.” She laughed. Her eyes were bright blue and crinkled sweetly when she laughed.

  I had started playing Lucy on American Dream when I was seventeen. From the moment the pilot aired, I’d been famous. After that, my friends fell into two camps: those from before—the high school buddies who had “known me when.” And those from after—the friends I’d made in my adult life. My old friends were trustworthy, but I didn’t have much in common with them anymore—even Aurora treated me like an exotic pet. And as for my new friends, well, actors were great fun at a dinner party, but you couldn’t text them without it showing up on Twitter. So, yeah, as a whole my friendships were a sad state of affairs. But here was a bright, lively woman who had a completely different life, brand-new ideas, and inside knowledge of my boyfriend’s world. I was captivated.

  Meg stirred her ice water with a straw. “What about that boyfriend of yours? Hasn’t Rob told you anything about the Studio?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It’s weird . . .”

  “He’s probably just trying not to scare you away,” Meg said reassuringly. “He knows I’m a blabbermouth. This whole conversation? All part of Rob Mars’s master plan.” She swirled her arms in the air like a sorcerer stirring a potion.

  “Okay, well, in that case will you tell me how exactly it all works? What is the Practice?”

  “It’s pretty simple, actually. Here’s an example. You go to your doctor for a regular checkup, feeling perfectly fine, and she tells you she hears something wrong with your heartbeat. You have a bunch of tests, wear a heart monitor, run on a treadmill with wires attached to your chest, and finally they tell you it’s an arrhythmia and you can control it with medication, but you don’t have to. So all that worry and testing, and turns out you’re fine. But they can fix you anyway. This kind of thing happens all the time: in medicine, in schools, in the offices of plastic surgeons. As soon as we look for problems, we find them.

  “One Cell believes the opposite. If you look for solutions, you’ll find them everywhere. Pause to ask yourself the most basic questions about who you are and what you want, and answers will manifest.

  “You probably know that at the Studio we do group meditations. The Practice actually has three parts: Grounding, Connecting, and Energizing. Grounding is a silent standing meditation. It’s kind of intense. I mean, it’s harder than you think, but you really learn to feel your place on Earth, and you observe the paths your mind follows in the strict absence of external stimulation. The physical practice is a critical element. It really connects your body to your mind in a way that changes how you function in the world. You wouldn’t believe it until you experience it. After that we move into Connecting, which is a guided brain journey. That’s where you learn about the Whole Body Principles in a relaxed state that helps you broaden your perspective—your emotions, needs, desires. Once you see these from a distance, you can think so much more clearly. And the last part is Energizing, where we do poses that are designed to channel all those ideas and revelations from your heart and brain centers to your fingertips.”

  Ah yes, those Studio poses. Hollywood lore credited them for lean strength, the toned but slender bodies we all were expected to bring to every role, no matter the character.

  “The best part is the 100. Have you heard of it?”

  I’d heard of the 100. It was part of the Studio’s cult-y lore. “Is it like group therapy?”

  “Sort of,” Meg said, “but it’s a little more direct. You join a Core Group for the Practice, and when it’s your turn, during the Grounding, your leader asks you questions—it’s actually a lot more than 100 questions. Truth comes out—the truths you’ve been keeping from yourself. Once you’ve uprooted your ugliest, hardest, deepest fears and desires, you face life in a completely new way. Post 100, you control your emotions instead of your emotions controlling you.” She touched her bead necklace, the one that resembled Rob’s. “This is a Truth necklace. We all have them. They represent what you learn about yourself in the 100. Does this all sound dopey? I mean, I am fully aware that it’s just some beads on a leather cord.”

  “Not at all!” So far I was impressed. It sounded less like a cult than an ambitious self-esteem-building program. No wonder Rob was so unflaggingly confident in acting and in life. “Why does One Cell get
such a bad rap?”

  “I always wonder that. I’m kind of too inside it to completely understand. But when people get involved in One Cell, they change, body and soul. Sometimes they devote their lives to the Practice or leave toxic people behind. Nobody likes to see their loved ones transform, especially if it means they’re growing apart. Think about a woman who leaves her abusive husband. Of course he’s going to hate the people or organization that gave her the strength to escape. But I really don’t understand why the press goes bananas.”

  “Maybe because everything is so secretive?”

  Meg laughed. “That’s kind of a catch-22. We get a bad rap for being secretive, but we’ve learned to be private because we’re so constantly misunderstood.”

  There was a pause, and Meg asked, “Should we find Rob for you? He’ll be stuck in meetings forever if we don’t rescue him.”

  We headed back inside and ran into Rob, walking down the hall toward us. “There are my girls!” said Rob. He gave me a big hug. “I missed you.”

  “I’ve been talking too much,” said Meg. “You know how I get.”

  “Watch out, she’s trouble,” Rob said to me, and gave Meg a teasing smile.

  “Meg’s been a great host,” I said.

  “I knew you two would hit it off,” Rob said. I remember how the old me felt in that moment, thrilled that he knew me so well. He’d picked a friend for me, and he’d gotten it right. Only later would I come to realize how carefully planned it all was.

  When I turned my phone back on, there were the texts from Aurora. how is it? r u alive? pepper? pls confirm you have not signed away yr bank account.

  not such a big deal after all, I wrote. very hollywood but no pressure. will call tonight.

  okay, b careful!

  7

  Come on, there must be more. Did they swear you to secrecy?”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I insisted. “It’s nice, but not fancy. They do meditation and offer classes. It’s all sort of self-help stuff, except whatever it is really helped Rob’s acting.”

  “What about the Klan robes?”

  “Optional.”

  “Okay, maybe that’s true,” Aurora said. “But, Pepper, you have to promise me, double-dog-pinkie-swear promise, that you will not shave your head and wear a robe and marry Rob in a mass wedding.”

  I could tell Aurora was slightly disappointed that there was nothing scandalous going on behind the walls of One Cell. Aurora was my best friend, but we’d gone in such different directions. During the six years I was working on American Dream she’d gone off to college, joined a sorority, and gotten a master’s in social work. Sometimes our friendship seemed to center around her infinite fascination with my comparatively glamorous life. Almost like I was her own personal reality TV show—the more drama, the better.

  It was funny that I was the one who’d become a celebrity, because Aurora was the star all through high school. Not only did she have the leads in all the plays, she hosted all the parties and, as a freshman, dated a senior who was objectively the cutest boy in school. I wanted to be her friend, in an idle way, like any ninth-grade girl who saw Aurora’s self-assurance would. She was the kind of girl who wore a ratty colorless sweater one day and the next thing you knew all the girls were showing up in their fathers’ old, stretched-out gray crewnecks. But I knew she’d never notice me: quiet, studious Lizzie Pepper.

  Then, the first week of sophomore year, I had an opening. In homeroom I was assigned a seat right next to Alan Mollander. Now, it was no secret that Aurora had an unrelenting crush on Alan Mollander. Here was one subtle clue: She’d written “I love Alan Mollander” on the wall in the girls’ bathroom in pink Sharpie and signed and dated it every month for two years, cute (now-graduated) boyfriend be damned. On the second day of school, when the teacher asked if there were any problems with the seating arrangements, I raised my hand and said that I was having trouble seeing the board. I asked to switch seats with Aurora, whose desk was front and center. This meant that she would now sit next to Alan for the rest of the semester. As we crossed each other in the aisle, carrying our respective piles of books, she mouthed, “Thank you,” and our friendship was born.

  From that day Aurora acted as if she’d accrued a debt that could never be repaid. She critiqued my wardrobe; she brought me to all the parties I never even would have known existed; she found me prom dates. (If I’d worn glasses, she’d have been the one to make me get contact lenses.) Above all, she made me try out for my first school play, junior year. If anyone “discovered” me, it was Aurora.

  But now our lives were the opposite of what I would have predicted. Aurora, born to be the center of attention, had gone serious and world-saving, working for a nonprofit in Chicago. I had gone . . . Hollywood.

  Once we’d exhausted her curiosity about One Cell, I told Aurora that I wanted her to meet Rob when I brought him to Chicago to introduce him to my parents. I assumed she’d be thrilled. After all, Rob Mars was an even bigger deal in her world than he was in mine. Instead, she voiced concern.

  “This is getting serious,” Aurora said. “It’s so fast.”

  “I know,” I said, “But I’m happy. It’s okay to just go with it so long as I’m happy, right?”

  Aurora was uncharacteristically cautious. “Just make sure it isn’t all on his terms,” Aurora said. “He’s older, successful, and used to getting his way. Don’t let him push you around.”

  I bristled. “Have I ever let anyone push me around?” Aurora should have been happy for me, and instead she was acting like a parent. It occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, my old friend was jealous.

  “Well, I seem to remember that you let me wear your red dress to the prom, even though it was clearly better on you.”

  “You’re welcome.” We hung up, promising to talk soon, but I felt the distance even more than usual.

  That weekend it was all over Rounder: “Lizzie Gets Serious with Her ‘Boy Wonder.’ Rob to Meet Lizzie’s Parents.” I hadn’t told anyone—not a soul besides Aurora—about Rob meeting my parents, but Boy Wonder nailed it: That was what Aurora and I had nicknamed Rob when he and I first started dating.

  I called Aurora. “How could you?” I demanded.

  “I had nothing to do with it, I swear,” Aurora said.

  “Please, please be honest with me,” I said. “I know that Rounder can be really aggressive and might take you off guard. And things have been crazy. Maybe I’ve been selfish with all this Rob stuff going on. The point is, you can tell me the truth. I’m not even mad.”

  “Here’s the truth, although I can’t believe you’re even asking. I never sold information or gossip or anything about you. I didn’t even tell my mother you and Rob were dating until it was in the papers, remember?”

  “I wish I could believe you,” I said. “I’m going to hang up now.”

  Aurora called me back immediately, but I didn’t answer. Her texts came flying: it wasn’t me. did u tell anyone else? rob? is ur phone tapped? i think they tapped your phone.

  We were at breakfast. Rob was reading the paper. He looked up at my phone, which had vibrated right across the table.

  “Aurora?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You’re not answering?”

  “I think she’s leaking stuff to the press.” I handed him my phone, open to Rounder.

  He shrugged. “Cut her some slack. She’s new to this, and the tabloids can be pretty crafty.”

  “I guess so.”

  He looked at me for a moment, reading me. “I’ll get you a new phone number. One for Aurora, too, if you like. With security software. Will that make you feel better?”

  It would.

  That night Aurora called me on my new phone.

  “Thank you, lady,” she said. “I love my spy phone.”

  “Now nothing we say will leak
to the press,” I said, and I didn’t have to say anything more. I didn’t really want or need to know the truth. I just wanted to trust my friend again.

  Then Aurora told me about some crazy date she’d gone on, where it turned out the guy worked as a professional escort, without benefits. She was weighing the pros and cons, trying to figure out if that was a deal breaker, and soon she had me laughing so hard I was crying. Classic Aurora.

  There were no further security issues. I didn’t know if Aurora had learned her lesson or if it was the new phones, but, for a while at least, I forgot to worry.

  Rob and I spent most of August in Malibu, living the dream, as Aurora liked to say. Travel would descend upon us soon. We both had movies to promote in autumn, which meant doing press and premieres on different schedules in different locations. His was an international release, so we’d be apart for at least a month. In the meantime, we settled into what was a normal life for us. Every morning his trainer came and they worked out together in the gym above the garage. (Apparently the Studio couldn’t take full credit for Rob’s godly physique.) Afterward, it was my turn with the trainer. We alternated between Pilates and grueling cardio workouts. Exercise bored the crap out of me, but it was part of the job.

  By the time we finished working out, the phone calls from our people were coming in. Agents, managers, lawyers, publicists. Rob was shooting multiple ads, TV and print, for a brand of scotch, international media distribution only. He never drank scotch, but (as he liked to say) for ten million dollars, he looooved scotch. I was developing an all-natural cosmetics line and co-launching an Elizabeth Pepper–branded workout line with Target. In the late afternoons we both had mani-pedis, or haircuts and colors, or waxing, or laser treatments to erase whatever imperfections were threatening to present themselves. I’d always had facials, but now I was systematically removing freckles and unwanted hair from my entire body.