Fame Adjacent

by Sarah Skilton

  Until today, I’d observed their level of fame close-up, nearby, or offstage, but never as a participant.

  My parents’ house in San Diego was their refuge, their secret retreat, where Renee and I would always greet them with warmth, companionship, and zero judgment. The only place they felt free. The only place they could relax, be themselves, and talk about their problems without worrying the information might leak to the press. They could stay for a weekend, a week, or a month, however long they needed.

  But once they’d achieved a measure of calm, the strength to get back out there, my friendship was disposable to them.

  I was disposable.

  Until the next crisis hit.

  So, five years ago, I’d put a stop to it.

  Regardless of what we were, or weren’t, to each other now, I always figured when push came to shove they’d stand up for me. That if they collectively agreed to a televised anniversary they’d have both the power and the desire to say, Let’s reach out to Holly. I’d never needed to be front and center—I didn’t even like it—but I should have been a part of it. I should have been asked. It was an ensemble show, and we had been equals, once.

  “I’m not a fan of your nickname. The Cute One’s Cute One? It makes you sound like a kitten. It’s diminutive,” Thom said.

  “That’s the best thing a woman in show business can be. Tiny. Not quite there. Size Zero.”

  “You’re being acknowledged now, though. Wasn’t that the endgame?”

  “No,” I insisted. “The endgame is seeing them face-to-face. Making them see what they did to me.”

  “What’d they do to you?”

  I fell quiet for a while, contemplating the right way to phrase it.

  “They used me up.”

  15

  Room service was delectable and extravagant: As promised, we received samples of every item.

  “I feel like we’re picking out food for our wedding,” I quipped awkwardly. All I could think about was our earlier conversation. The caress of his warm breath on my ear.

  Tell me, Holly Danner. What is it that you need?

  What would I have said?

  Nothing. I would have shown him.

  Was it possible to steer things in that direction again, or had we lost the moment forever?

  We ate like ravenous beasts. We crouched on the floor, hunched over the little plates, as though guarding our food from other predators, trying to scarf it down before the vultures arrived.

  I think we sensed we were eating on borrowed time.

  We’d managed to choke back two-thirds of the food when a knock at the door sounded, louder and angrier than last time.

  Thom and I stared at each other, paralyzed.

  “We already have our room service,” I yelled to whomever was behind the door. “Thanks.”

  An authoritative woman’s voice: “This isn’t room service. Please open the door.”

  Crap.

  “Um, we’re not decent…” (Oh God, was she picturing us naked, smearing ourselves with the sample menu?) “Could you come back later?”

  “I’m afraid not. Please open the door, or I’ll have to use my own key,” the woman answered. Her voice was quiet but no-nonsense.

  She didn’t want to cause a scene for her legitimate guests; maybe I could use that to our advantage?

  I guess we weren’t fast enough reaching her because the door handle turned and a curly-haired, middle-aged woman in a peach-colored pantsuit strode in. She was flanked by two well-dressed security guards and a younger woman I remembered from the lobby—the other desk clerk who’d kept eyeing me and Thom. I’d figured her for an eavesdropping Melody fan, and maybe she was, but she’d also been onto us, possibly from the jump. I sent a thank-you to the God of Grifters that we hadn’t approached her when we’d arrived or we might not have gotten as far as we had. No shower, no food.

  “I’m the manager, and you need to leave. If you come quietly, hotel security will stay a respectful distance behind you, but if you don’t, you’ll need to be escorted physically, okay?”

  Shaking, I nodded and set about gathering my items as swiftly as possible. It didn’t take long because I hadn’t unpacked yet. I’d do whatever they asked; couldn’t risk the security guys grabbing Thom by the elbow and worsening his injury.

  “How did you know?” Thom asked her. He looked pale. I was thrown by his question—who cared how they knew? We needed to go quietly, right now.

  “I looked you up,” said the younger woman proudly. She stepped into the room like an amateur detective, eager to display her go-getter genius. “Melody’s office is closed for the night but I left a message and an after-hours person rang back just now saying they’ve never heard of you and that Melody isn’t planning any stadium tours,” Veronica Mars finished tartly.

  “Please don’t press charges,” I begged. “We’ll leave. We’re leaving right now and we won’t cause a fuss. We just ran out of cash. Long story. If you want to take down our names, or hold something for collateral, I’ll call you with my credit card number the moment we arrive in New York tomorrow. We ran into some bad luck, and…”

  “I won’t press charges because I don’t want the bad publicity,” the older woman, the manager, replied.

  We all moved down the hallway now, and as promised, the security guards kept a respectful distance.

  “But you do know her, don’t you?” the manager pressed. “We found a picture of you two together online. Unless that was Photoshopped or manipulated somehow?”

  I ducked my head, ashamed. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t Photoshopped.”

  I sounded like J. J. Yes, sir. No, ma’am.

  The manager lowered her voice. “Send me some autographed photos for my daughters and we’ll drop the whole thing. You don’t need to pay for your…activities.”

  Maybe she did think we’d had sex?

  On our perp ride down to the lobby, my heart pounded, even though I knew how lucky we were to have escaped unscathed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to Thom when we reached the front exit.

  “It was still the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And my arm feels a lot better after the bath.”

  It was true that we looked and smelled delicious.

  We looked like we were still guests here.

  We looked like we were headed for a night on the town.

  Which was how we ended up on a party limo with a group of bachelorette girls, on their way to a comedy club.

  16

  In the parking lot out front, eight women in cocktail dresses stood next to a white stretch Lincoln Town Car, gabbing and laughing as they downed plastic chalices of champagne. Penis necklaces adorned their necks, with paper tiaras tucked into their elaborate hairdos. A petite redhead was the first to finish knocking back her bubbly, and when she walked to the garbage can to toss it out, she saw me and Thom loitering.

  Scratch that: She saw Thom. And she liked what she saw.

  “Whatcha up to?” she singsonged, twirling a strand of curly red hair around her finger and gazing at Thom with an enviable pair of green eyes.

  “Uh, me?”

  She pointed flirtatiously at him. “Yes, you.”

  Thom smiled tentatively back.

  It was clear he was our ticket in.

  Into what, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but anything was better than our current situation. A new plan formed and I decided to go with it.

  “My friend and I were about to head out to dinner,” I said, placing a subtle emphasis on friend and hoping they’d assess him as eligible. “How about you? Which one’s the bride?”

  “The bride is upstairs praying to the porcelain god. Her cousin doesn’t drink…” (Here, the redhead rolled her eyes and I did my best “smh” right back at her—ingratiating myself as best I could.) “…so she’s staying behind, too. She told us to continue to the club, but we have two extra seats now.” She pretended to have a lightbulb moment. “I know: You guys should totally
come!”

  This was once again addressed to Thom, who had the good sense to pretend he wasn’t sure. (First rule of scamming: Never look eager.) “Oh, I’d hate to crash your girls’ night,” he said modestly.

  “No, I insist. The more the merrier.” The redhead held out her hand. “I’m Becky Lynn.”

  Once we’d shaken hands and introduced ourselves, she clapped, as if that settled it.

  “But isn’t it ladies only?” Thom asked. His eyes darted to her penis necklace and back up.

  What was wrong with him? It occurred to me he might not have a strategy. He might really be trying to get out of going.

  “I think it sounds fun. We can have dinner anytime,” I assured him loudly, with a jovial slap on the back.

  “Yeah, come on, live a little.” Becky Lynn turned and yelled to her cohorts, “Hey, everyone, I filled our slots.”

  The seven other women gave a collective “wooo!” and raised their glasses to us.

  “She’d like you to fill her slot,” I murmured to Thom as we climbed inside the stretch. I’d hoped to stay together, but he was swiftly commandeered into a different seat by two other partygoers, who placed him in the middle and covered his legs from either side with both of theirs. He shot me a helpless look and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing, trying to convey with my eyes that I had a plan.

  Ten minutes later, we arrived at a comedy club, where the line wound out the door and around the side of the building. Since our group had prepaid for tables, we were swept inside and escorted to our seats in the reserved section.

  “Isn’t this better than some stuffy old dinner?” Becky Lynn placed her hand on Thom’s arm and ordered pomegranate margaritas for the group. Thom and I thanked the women for letting us tag along.

  Once everyone was seated, I leaned in close to him. “Here’s the game plan. Look around at each of the women, and pick one.”

  “‘Pick one’?”

  “Pick one to flirt with. If you hit it off, maybe she’ll invite us back to the room and we can crash there tonight.”

  “You want me to hook up with one of them?”

  My whole body stiffened. “No!” The others looked over and I lowered my voice. “Pretend you might. Let her know that an after-party at the hotel with everyone would be nice. Say you want to pay your respects to the bride or whatever, up in the penthouse. Then hopefully everyone will fall into a drunken sleep and we can take the couch or the chair or the floor. They think we’re guests at the hotel already, so they won’t be suspicious. Maybe we can even pretend we lost our key or we can’t remember our room number. Whatever it takes to find a place to crash.”

  “Then I better get some condoms from the men’s room,” Thom said, launching himself from the table.

  “No,” I yelled again. “I mean,” I covered, “it won’t get that far.”

  “Won’t they crucify me for coming with one girl but trying to leave with another?”

  “I’ve been establishing that we’re friends and I’ll keep emphasizing it while you go in for the kill.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Becky Lynn asked, plopping down between us. “Lovers’ spat?”

  I laughed a hearty laugh. “I could never. He’s like a brother to me.”

  Thom frowned. He didn’t like that. But I didn’t like the idea of him buying condoms for use with other women, so there.

  “Can we come home with you after?” Thom asked Becky Lynn. “I mean, not ‘home’ but to the hotel with you?”

  My eyes bugged out and I pinched his leg under the table. Either he had no game, or he was trying to make a point. All signs indicated sabotage.

  “Both of you?” Becky Lynn said, confused.

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Naughty, naughty. But I’m not into kinky stuff.”

  “You misunderstood—I don’t mean a threesome.” He pointed to me. “She’ll just watch.”

  My face turned hot. “What? He’s kidding!”

  “You’re so funny,” Becky Lynn said.

  The MC wandered over. “Which one of you is performing?”

  Becky Lynn sipped her drink and said, “It was supposed to be Juleen the bride, but she’s sick and couldn’t make it.”

  “Do you have a backup?” the MC asked.

  No one wanted to do it. They’d come to drink and laugh and watch the bride-to-be try stand-up. It was never going to be one of them up there.

  Becky Lynn tried to lift Thom’s hand as a volunteer. “He’s hilarious, he should do it.”

  Thom shook his head vehemently.

  The MC laid out the prizes to entice us. “First place is two hundred dollars, second place is one hundred, third place is fifty.”

  My hand shot up. “I’ll do it.”

  “Sign here, here, and here,” the MC said, shoving a clipboard in my hands. It was a standard disclaimer saying they could film me and use it for promotional purposes if they wanted. “You’re up first,” he added.

  Oh God. What was I even going to say?

  Then I remembered.

  I had a nightclub act, courtesy of Thom. The beginnings of one, anyway.

  “Wish me luck.”

  He gently tugged on my hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “If I place we’ll have enough money for a hotel room tonight,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He nodded, eyes narrowed. “Destroy them.”

  I took the stage and tested the mike. “My name is Holly Danner, how you all doing tonight?”

  Some people weren’t aware the contest had started, so the MC joined me onstage.

  “Hey everybody, put your hands together for Holly Danner from San Diego, our first competitor tonight.”

  The bachelorettes cheered. The lights dimmed.

  A spotlight landed on my face, and my pulse quickened. I thought back to my “share day” at Prevail! and knew I at least had an opening line. After that, I’d have to improvise.

  “Something weird happened to me when I was a kid. I was on a TV show, and afterward, everyone on it became famous except for me. Odds are you’ve seen my elbow in a photograph. Yep. Anyone read the tabloids at the grocery store?”

  Becky Lynn and our new friends said, “Woooo!” but the rest of the crowd remained silent.

  “Okay, I call bullshit right now because ALL OF YOU read the tabloids at the grocery store.”

  Scattered laughter, not just from my group this time.

  “It’s okay, it’s not like you buy them. It’s not like you take them home. But you’ve seen them. So that means you’ve met me before and didn’t know it. Well, you’ve met my elbow. I’ve been cropped out of more photographs than you can count. ’Cause anytime I’ve stood next to Melody Briar, Ethan Mallard, Brody Rutherford, Tara Osgood, or Kelly Hale, there’s suddenly no room for me in the picture.”

  (Once again, I’d left J. J. out of the lineup. Force of habit, I guess.)

  The audience took in what I’d said, and hushed conversations filled the club. I gave them another few seconds (probably abhorrent in the comedy world) to register who/what I was, then plunged ahead.

  “When they can’t crop me out they have to identify me somehow, but editors at magazines are on tight deadlines and don’t always have time to find out who’s next to a celebrity. They’re household names.

  “As you may have noticed, I am not a household name. I’m, like, a crawl-space name. An under-the-porch name. A stairwell name. Remember how Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle made him live under the stairs in that shitty little room? That’s the type of place where they know my name, that’s where I’m famous.”

  A few appreciative claps.

  “But you know, I get it. The other kids on the show, they all had something, you know? A specific talent. Most of them could do at least two things well, and learned how to cover up the third thing so it looked good, too. That’s what the industry calls a triple threat. When you can sing, dance, and act.

  “I was not a triple threat
. I was, like, a mild warning. A Road Hump sign. Talent Up Ahead. No, wait, go back, you missed it…Nope, too far. Wait, turn around again…

  “There! There it is; her.

  “This was my talent. Are you ready? Can you handle this? I’m not sure you can handle this.”

  I plunged into a vigorous tap dance. My rhythm wasn’t particularly tight but the crowd loved it so I milked the moment until the applause died down.

  “Turns out there wasn’t a huge market for tap-dancing in the ’nineties. Who knew? Unless you were Savion Glover, then you could tap-dance all you want.

  “Last guy I dated, he loved it. Loved it. When I told him who I was and what I used to do, he got really quiet. The next day, he said he had an acting job for me. Awesome, right? Guess what it was.”

  “Porn,” yelled a hearty dude, followed by scattered laughs.

  “Close,” I said.

  “Take it all off!” the same dude yelled.

  Thom stood and scanned the crowd in the dark. “What did you say?”

  I couldn’t see Thom’s expression in the dark of the club, but his posture was unmistakably alpha. Tall, commanding, confident.

  “Lighten up. It’s a comedy show.”

  “Stop interrupting her,” Thom ordered.

  “She told us to guess.”

  “And you did, and now you’re done.”

  Thom stared daggers at him and eventually sat. Becky Lynn whispered something in Thom’s ear, but he didn’t reply. I was touched, but he better not have ruined my set.

  I shook out my hair and continued. There couldn’t have been more than a minute to go. I wanted to time it right, like a stinger. (A stinger was TV-speak for a quick joke after the credits rolled. It was a reward to the audience for watching every last bit.)

  “The acting job he lined up for me was not porn. No, they were clear about that. It would be me tap-dancing. Naked.”

  The audience reacted with laughter and groans.

  “Well, first I’d be in pasties and a G-string. It was at a super-classy joint in LA, maybe you’ve heard of it? Jumbo’s Clown Room. They billed the show as ‘TV Kids Gone Bad!’ It was ten look-alikes, you know, professional impersonators, like you see in Vegas sometimes. They had, let’s see, Urkel, the Olsen twins, Melissa Joan Hart, Vicki—the robot girl from Small Wonder—Punky Brewster, all these look-alikes pretending to be Child Stars All Grown Up and Ready to…Fff—rolic.”