by Dahlia Adler
She sighs. “When you were a child, yes, okay, it was a nice hobby and built a solid work ethic. But now? Now you should be in college. Like Jinsung. Like Ally. Your grandparents did not move their families to America so you could play pretend forever. At some point, you must become an adult. This show lets you think you are sixteen forever. That is not the way life is.”
“But you want me to go to college so I can get a job, right? So I can learn, and make money?” I press. “That’s what I’m already doing. Why can’t you appreciate that? I’m like the picture-perfect American dream right here.” I gesture at my designer clothes, my expertly done pedicure, my newest clothing purchases bought with my own earnings. “Maybe your friends’ kids should be more like me. Maybe they should stop aiming to be doctors and lawyers instead of doing something cool and creative.” I tap the copy of The Korea Times she just laid down on the coffee table. “How many of your friends have been in this paper? Because I have. At least three times.”
But it’s clear from the expression on her face that my mother just feels sad for me. Poor Vanessa, who’s deluded herself into thinking she’s important. Poor Vanessa, who’s on the verge of failure, even as she’s succeeding. Poor Vanessa, whose being in the paper is overshadowed by the fact that she can barely read it.
And poor her, for having only been able to have one child, who turned out to be such an unintellectual disappointment.
I stand up from the couch before this conversation can veer any further into the same familiar territory, my feet moving toward the stairs as if they’ve got minds of their own. “I’m going up to read.”
She doesn’t say anything as I head up, and I can hear the flick of her newspaper as she picks it back up, as if I were never there.
Once upstairs, I change into shorts and a sports bra, grab my sides, and get on the treadmill to run lines while I walk. But even in my zone, and even though my parents have been pulling this kind of unsupportive crap for years, my mother’s words continue to penetrate my brain. Because a big part of me knows she’s right. Not about the age thing—I look young enough that I’ll probably be able to pull off playing high school well into my twenties—but about the fact that I can’t guarantee there’ll be another role for an Asian-American actress when Daylight Falls ends.
Even this past summer, while my costars (e.g. Liam) were starring in career-making roles, I was stuck playing yet another science nerd, this time in a stupid slasher movie. The fact that I actually suck at science only rubbed salt in the gaping wound of my career.
The only person who gets it—like, really gets it—is my costar Jamal. Where I get roles like “science nerd” and “med student,” he gets “guy on the basketball team” and “token black friend who bites it first in every horror movie.” We’re practically our own freaking drinking game.
We both know we’re lucky to be on a show with two people of color in the main cast, but just the fact that it is lucky feels crappy. Even with good reviews on the show, I still get people thinking I’m only on it to fill some sort of racial quota—as if the role of Bailey Summers hadn’t actually been written for a blonde and given to me because I was just better than everyone else.
Whatever.
I read through all my lines a few times, trying some different tones and affects until I feel Bailey fully inhabit my body again, and then I grab my phone. I need to get out of this house. I’m not really in the mood to see Zander, but he did ask me what I was up to tonight in his text earlier, and it’s not like Ally’s free. I reply to his earlier text with, Having dinner w/u?
After five minutes of waiting for a response, I give up and go take a shower. When I get out, though, I see I have a reply text.
Sounds good
Zander’s really big on smiley faces. He signs his freaking autographs with them. My “nice girl” rep is nothing compared to his “nice boy” one.
We agree on a Jade-approved place—height of trendy, lots of exposure—and then I text Ally. Need u to pick me a hot outfit ASAP.
She’s always slower to respond when she’s with Liam, and I get to work on drying my hair and carefully applying my eyeliner while I wait. When there’s still no response and I know I’m cutting it close, I huff out a breath and pull on a pair of black leather shorts and a sheer-ish, sleeveless polka-dot blouse I immediately see makes it clear I haven’t logged enough time in the sun this summer. I trade the blouse for a fuchsia one that looks way better against my skin and make a mental note to book a spray-tan appointment—something Ally used to do for me once upon a time without my even having to tell her it was time for another one. It’s kind of sucked, watching her be someone else’s assistant, but not as much as it’ll suck watching her leave.
I glance back at my phone. Still no answer from Ally, but there’s a new text from Zander giving me a heads-up that paparazzi will be present at dinner. I smile and go back into my bathroom to add a little more makeup, and swap out my lip gloss for one that makes my teeth look whiter. It’s hard work looking this good, and it’s always nice to get fair warning there’ll be cameras on you. My BFF may have checked out completely, but I still have to be on at all times.
Chapter Three
Josh
It’s your mother. Again.” Ally holds out the phone as if the fifteenth time will be the charm. It’s been a week since “Yvette” mentioned that dumbass reality show, which means a week of ignoring her calls. She’s getting desperate to shove me in front of the sleazyass producer she’s suckered into this stupid idea.
“Well, you can go ahead and ignore it. Again.” I’m sexting with a waitress from one of the clubs I went to last week, trying to get a new topless pic to use as my wallpaper, and I don’t have patience for this shit. “Did you confirm my flight to Miami?”
“Confirmed the flight, and that Ronen will be here in time for your pre-flight beauty ritual. I also confirmed your audition this afternoon, so please actually show up to this one. I know you don’t seem to care about booking anything for some reason, but you do realize your personal income flow is pretty lacking, right?”
“You remind me every fucking day,” I growl, but I can barely even hear it. The phone’s no longer ringing, but the echo of it—and my mother’s nagging voice—are bouncing around in my head like a fucking game of Ping-Pong.
“Do you need an Advil?”
“I’m fine. You can go.”
“Is this about your mother calling?”
I lift my head from my phone and glare at her. “My psycho-bitch mother is none of your concern.”
“It would help if you’d tell me why she’s suddenly calling you every hour.”
“Not much you can do unless you can get her a job so she can get over the idea of me doing a shitty reality show with her.”
Ally freezes. “You’re doing a reality show? Seriously, Josh?”
“Certainly not planning on it.” My phone beeps with another text, and I glance down hopefully, but it’s just the waitress being boring and trying to get me to come back and see her first. Fuck that.
“Good, because that’s a ridiculous move. I know you can land at least one of these jobs. If you start with reality TV, you’re gonna be done for life.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. And tell my mother, too. If you can’t do that, keep ignoring her calls.”
It looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t, and I don’t ask what she’s thinking. She’s not usually one to keep her opinions to herself; I’ll take the gift of her silence where I can get it.
“You can go home whenever,” I add, since she doesn’t seem to quite get that I don’t need her in my face anymore. What I do need is another drink or five, maybe a lap dance, but I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow for Aspen, the designer jeans brand that keeps me in first-class tickets to Miami—and on major billboards all over the country—and I need to squeeze in a workout and a decent night’s sleep. Contrary to what I tell every blogger and reporter who asks, my cut body doesn’t perfect its
elf.
A few more clicks on the laptop she totes around, and then she closes it with a sigh. “Fine. But you need to show up to this audition today. And you might want to think about looking at places closer to LA, anyway. Once you are working more regularly, you’ll realize what a bitch it is doing this drive every day.”
“Subtle.”
“If you’re looking for subtlety, I think you hired the wrong assistant.” She slides the laptop into her bag and stands up. “Go over your lines. Kick some ass today. Land the part. Then you can let yourself get disowned.”
I shake my head and watch her leave before going down to the gym. One more hour of masochism seems just about right for this day.
The audition sucks. It’s obvious from the second casting sees me that they have zero expectations, and they’re right to. I can’t pretend I think the stupid, derivative shit I’ve spent the afternoon memorizing deserves any effort, so I don’t give it any. And then I leave.
I know the first thing I’m gonna see when I check my phone after sliding into the backseat of Ronen’s Escalade is a text from Ally asking how the audition went, and of course she proves me right. I don’t have the patience to deal with her now, and I know that early night’s sleep isn’t happening, either. I need to get out—blow off some steam with the guys and get a good drink and a warm body or three. It’s still early, though, so I text Wyatt instead and tell him to get TamTam—his favorite bong—ready because I’ll be there in twenty.
It takes forty, thanks to traffic, but not long at all from there for me to get completely blitzed. This is exactly what I need to clear my head after the shitshow combo of the audition and my mother’s insanity. By the time I pull out my phone to check the time, it’s already ten and definitely time to get out of this house.
I still don’t feel like going home, though, so I text a few of the guys, including Liam, even though he never wants to go out. He’s the first to text back, and surprises the hell out of me by asking when and where. Guess he’s not spending the night with Ally, for once. I tell him to pick me up from Wyatt’s, and we go to Circuit, which has a comfy VIP section and very accommodating waitresses.
When we walk up to the roped-off section, Royce Hudson, Jeremy Hill, and Paz—don’t even know if that’s his first name or last—are already there. Royce is sucking a cherry out of a redheaded waitress’s belly button, but when he sees us, he whips his head up. “Look who the fuck is finally good enough to come out with his boys!” he yells out, nearly choking on the cherry. “What’sa matter, Holloway? That girl dump your ass?”
Liam snorts. “Hudson, I almost forgot how charming you are when you’re drunk.” We each fist-bump Royce hello, then do the same with Jeremy and Paz. The waitress sits up slowly, sizing us up and smiling slowly as she does, then slides off the table like water and eases out of the section to make room.
“Hey, you chased away our entertainment,” says Royce, nodding toward the waitress.
“I didn’t tell her to go,” I say with a shrug, grabbing the nearest open bottle and taking a drink without bothering to check its contents.
“Yeah, but Holloway fucking radiates ‘taken.’ Bitches don’t wanna be around that.”
“Pretty sure what they don’t want is to be called ‘bitches,’ actually,” says Liam. I roll my eyes and take another drink. Whatever brand of vodka it is, it’s pretty smooth going down. “Plus, plenty of ’em don’t give a shit if you’re taken. Trust.”
He sounds so damn bitter—getting hit on pisses Liam off even more than it used to now that he’s with Ally—and Paz snorts. “Poor Holloway. You getting too much ass? Boo fucking hoo.”
“Oh, shut up.”
I let them bicker like little kids and scan the club to see if the hot waitress who blew me in the bathroom last time we were here is around. I don’t see her, but the waitress who was giving Royce her cherry when we walked in returns, carrying neon-green shots that are apparently on the house. She drapes herself back over Royce and we toast to I don’t even know what before drinking them down.
I glance at Liam as we toss the empty glasses back on her tray. He still looks pissed. Stressed. The other guys are distracted by the waitress, so I lean in. “Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
He grabs the vodka I hadn’t realized I was still holding and tosses it back. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He’s lying; it doesn’t take a PhD to guess he’s not taking Ally’s leaving as well as he wants to be. “How was the audition?”
“Shitty.” The bottle’s nearing empty, and the waitress is busy making out with Hudson. “Hey, Hill, you guys got any more booze?”
He looks up from his phone. “We had Patrón… somewhere. Might be under Hudson.”
Hudson reaches under what’s a little too close to his ass for comfort and pulls out a bottle without breaking mouth-to-mouth suction. I wipe the whole thing off on the corner of his shirt before uncapping it to pour shots for Liam and me.
“Sorry, man,” he says with a frown. “Got any more lined up?”
We clink shots and toss ‘em back. “Not yet. Going down to Miami for an Aspen shoot this weekend. Having dinner with Holly when I get back. And I have to figure out this shit with my parents.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been talking to your parents? About what?”
I forget how seriously Ally takes the whole discretion part of client privilege. “My mom got canned,” I mutter, taking a swig straight from the tequila bottle. “Now she wants to do some reality shit so she can pretend she was ever relevant.”
Liam barks out a laugh. “Your family. In a reality show. Seriously? And your dad is cool with this?”
“My dad was paying attention for approximately five seconds of the conversation. Anyway, he’s not the one that network gives a shit about. Lucky me.”
“I don’t get it. Just say no.”
“She’s blackmailing me with my house.” Man, talking about this shit is really ruining the buzz I’ve spent all day building. “Fuck this.” I yank Royce away from the waitress. “Hey,” I say to her. “Is Gia working tonight?”
“You mean Gina?” she asks, wiping her mouth.
“Yeah. Yeah, Gina. Right. She here?” I need a serious distraction, and the bottled variety just isn’t cutting it right now.
“I think she’s around. I’ll check. Can I get you boys anything else?”
Liam holds up the empty vodka bottle. “Another one of these, please.”
“Hey, is that Scott Lassiter?” Jeremy asks, keeping his voice low. We all look up, and see that it is indeed. Lassiter’s the fastest-rising young director in Hollywood right now, but he’s also picky and neurotic as balls. Getting an audition with him is next to impossible. The other guys all sit up a little straighter, like that’ll suddenly give them a shot in hell of getting noticed.
“Any of you guys auditioning for his Iraq movie?” Royce asks.
Jeremy snorts. “My agent’s been trying to get a meeting with him for months. No luck. He’s such a dick.”
“What about you, Chester?”
Royce’s mouth is curved up just enough for me to know he’s actively trying to be an asshole right now; he knows there’s no chance Holly could score me an audition. Lassiter’s impossible enough, and Holly’s a junior agent. If I could’ve gone with anyone else—and I mean, anyone—after getting dropped by Calvin, I probably would have.
“There’s not a single hot chick in that movie,” I say flatly. “No chance I’m going to sweat my balls off in the desert for that shit.”
“The asshole doesn’t even return my agent’s calls,” mutters Paz. “Self-righteous prick.”
“Paz, you’ve got like nine inches to grow in every fucking direction—including your dick—before you can play a soldier,” says Royce. “I’m perfect for that shit.”
“You’d look like an actual dick in a uniform,” Paz shoots back. “But Holloway…fuck, man, you’d be perfect. You auditioning?”
Liam doesn’t get a chance to answe
r, because suddenly, the man himself is standing before us.
“Mr. Lassiter.” Jeremy jumps up, sticking out his hand like an overeager tool. “Jeremy Hill. I’m a big fan.”
Lassiter looks at Jeremy’s hand, ignores it, glances around at all of us. His gaze settles on Liam. “You. You look familiar. Who are you?”
“Liam Holloway.” I swear, the way he says it, you’d think he was about to tack a “Sir” on the end. He really is kinda perfect to play a soldier, all respectful and disciplined and shit. “I was in James Gallagher’s last movie, The History of Us.” Sir.
“Oh yeah. Fuckin’ Jim. That movie was all right. Who’s your agent?”
“Evan Cooper, Sir.”
I knew it.
The rest of us laugh, and so does Lassiter, but he’s not walking away. “Lift up your shirt.”
Liam’s so stunned, he doesn’t even respond. Fortunately, I have no such problem with my reaction time, and at least one of us recognizes this for the opportunity it is. I yank up Liam’s shirt as far as I can, revealing his eight-pack to the entirety of Circuit.
Half the fucking club stops and whistles, and I grin as some girl calls out “Nice body!” from the front.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Lassiter says wryly. “Here, Sir. Tell Evan Cooper to give me a call.” He hands over a card, gives Liam’s abs another quick glance, then walks off toward the bar.
Liam whirls around to see us all gaping at him. “Did that shit seriously just happen?” he asks me.
“That shit seriously just happened,” I confirm, giving him a bro-five that nearly breaks my palm in two. “Scott fucking Lassiter! That’s a Fourth of July movie, man!”
Just like that, the goofy, bewildered smile on his face falls. “Right. A Fourth of July movie. Which means filming starts soon.”
“So?” asks Paz.
“So it overlaps with Daylight Falls,” he says miserably.
Which means there’s no chance in hell he’ll be able to do it.
