by Jaime Clarke
Paque didn’t answer.
Sure, I jumped at the idea when Alan called, I said, but that was because I was desperate to get away from the humiliation in Phoenix. I’m not even sure I can ever go back to Phoenix, but things can’t be as crazy as they were. Plus, I’m afraid we’re going to get involved in something that’s going to humiliate us even more.
Humiliation is sometimes the easiest way to become famous, Paque said smartly.
It seems like we’ve tried everything, I said.
Yeah, Paque sighed. She looked out the window at Jason and Maria, who were toweling off. But it’s precisely because we’ve tried everything that we should probably stick it out just a little bit longer. Why come as far as we’ve come—and you have to admit we’ve been lucky along the way, even if the end result has been unlucky—and not go all the way? We can always go back to Phoenix. And if we humiliate ourselves, as you put it, here in Hollywood we’ll either get a book deal or a TV show at worst, and then we can decide whether or not we want to walk away.
I don’t know, I said.
Why don’t you call Chuck and see what he thinks, Paque suggested.
I’ve been trying to reach him actually, I said. But I can’t find him.
Paque stayed up watching television and smoking pot with the others. I took one of the spare bedrooms, the smaller one at the end of the hall with the thick white shag carpet and the twin bed. It smelled like no one had ever been in the room and dust motes rose when I switched on the bedside lamp. It seemed to me there wasn’t anything to be happy about. The last thing that really made me happy was making the record for Ian. If you would’ve told me we were going to blow that one the way we did, I would’ve bet against you. Plus Paque and I really love music. All those nights we stayed up late designing album covers and picking who we wanted to be in our videos seems like a waste of energy now. I started to think about second chances. Jennifer Grey got one, but she had to play her last trump to get it. I mean, what would she sell after she sold her life to the TV show?
I decided Paque was right, that we should ride this one out as far as it would go. And if it went badly, we would walk out of Hollywood and not look back.
Daisy
Dear Sara and Keren,
I’m sorry to be sending you a letter again so soon after the last one, but you’re not going to believe what’s going on now. Paque and I camped out at T.J.’s for a couple of days, listening to Jason and Maria’s stories about trying to make it in Hollywood—you never heard such terrible stories. Jason once pitched a tent on a director’s lawn, was beaten up (not by the director), and thrown off the property. He pitched his tent again and the director gave him the part. And Maria told this disgusting story about what she had to do to just to get to read for a part. It all but convinced me that you have to have a check on your ambition. There has to be some things that you’re not willing to do. Though I agreed with Paque that being famous is the loftiest of goals, more ambitious than being president. You can pretty much divide the world up into people who are famous and people who are not (otherwise known as People Who Wish They Were Famous).
What’s behind wanting to be famous, Maria asked.
Don’t give me that need-for-attention horseshit, Paque said, or that it’s insecurity. It’s about freedom. It’s what money used to represent. But now anyone can get rich.
Exactly, Jason said.
I thought for me it was setting out to get something and getting it, but didn’t say so. That’s why I didn’t hesitate when Alan asked us to do what we did. That and because I was still smarting from what Alan did, which pointed up how out of our control Paque’s and my situation had become.
We actually saw it on Jennifer Grey’s TV before Alan told us anything about it. Paque and I stayed up late talking. I said I was having a hard time dealing with the guilt I felt about what happened at SaltBed. I was sure Paque blamed me and I knew I was risking making her mad by bringing it up. We were sitting cross-legged on the L-shaped sofa—T.J. was asleep in the recliner—and Paque said, It’s my fault. It was me who convinced everyone that it was a good idea to lip sync. I told Ian and Jammin’ Jay that you agreed with me, she said, even though I knew you wanted to skip SaltBed.
There’s no way we could’ve had our voices in shape for SaltBed, I said. Things were happening too fast around us for us to be able to make the right decision.
Paque said, Yeah, but you were right, we should’ve skipped the festival.
I smiled. It probably would’ve heightened expectations, I laughed.
Paque laughed and looked away and that’s when we both heard the guy from CNN say our names. It was like someone had our heads on a string and had pulled tight. The World Gone Water poster flashed on the screen too quick for us to really catch it and then the story, whatever it was, was over.
What was that, Paque asked.
She flipped to E!, the cable entertainment station, and we didn’t have to wait long to hear the story.
At first, the story didn’t seem to involve us and we were beginning to think we’d imagined seeing the poster. The woman on E!—that dipshit I can’t stand—talked about how Arnold Schwarzenegger escaped near death while appearing in a cameo role for an indie film, apparently some sort of favor to the director. The ceiling of the sound stage collapsed during the filming and there was a picture of Schwarzenegger striding out of the building with soot on his face and his shirt ripped, just like an action hero from any one of his films. He mugged for the local news camera but looked a little shaken.
Then it happened again. The World Gone Water poster appeared and the E! woman said, There are unconfirmed reports tonight that the much-hyped film World Gone Water was filming in another part of the soundstage. A call to Alan Hood, that film’s director, went unanswered.
Paque grabbed the phone. Pick up, pick up, pick up, she said after the answering machine beeped.
Alan picked up and before Paque could ask anything he said, Where are you?
We’d only been gone two days but seeing Alan made it feel like we’d been gone for a year. He was so nervous he drove ten miles under the posted speed limit.
I tried to call you last night when it happened, he said. I thought you were at your friend Stella’s. Her boyfriend told me Stella was at the Chateau Marmont and I figured you were there so I went over.
A pickup truck came up behind us, the headlights shining like daylight through the back window.
Did you see Stella, Paque asked.
They didn’t have anyone named Stella registered there, Alan said. I thought you guys were fucking around with me. I called the boyfriend again, but he hung up on me.
Alan pulled to the side of the road and asked Paque to drive. They switched seats and Paque pulled out into traffic, gunning it.
I wondered where Stella was.
So, Paque asked, is it true.
Alan adjusted his glasses. It’s true, he said.
Are they dead, I blurted out.
Jesus, no, Alan said. He turned around in his seat and glared at me. They’re in the hospital, he said.
How bad are they hurt, Paque asked.
Broken legs and broken arms, Alan said. We weren’t even filming, just having a preliminary meeting. The ceiling didn’t fall on them but it knocked over a camera and some of the set. They got caught underneath.
One of my favorite songs came over the radio and I wanted to ask Paque to turn it up—I wanted the song to drown out the image of those poor girls in hospital beds, their once perfect bodies cracked and sewn together—but I didn’t. It’s funny how fast you can go from hating someone (Paque and I were calling them the Bitches) to feeling sorry for them.
The phone won’t stop, Alan went on. It just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing.
So what happens now, I asked.
Alan stared straight ahead, pretending to think it over, as if he had just came up with the idea on the spot: I need to ask you a big favor, he said, The biggest.
I think
I knew what he was going to ask before he asked it. Anyway, I wasn’t surprised when he proposed his plan.
I need you to make a public appearance, Alan said. They all think it’s you who are hurt and if they see that you’re okay, that’ll buy me some time.
Time to do what, I started to ask, but Paque slammed on the brakes and we skidded into a Mobil parking lot. I bounced back against the seat and Paque yelled, You’ve got a lot of nerve. You bring us out to California with all these promises and then you kick us off the film and now you want us to pretend we’re still in it to save your ass? Fuck you. Why should we?
Paque was so mad she frightened me. I hadn’t seen her that mad since Stella told her she was moving to California.
Calm down, Alan said. All you have to do is go with me to this benefit tomorrow night—some dance thing—pose for a couple pictures and you’re done. What you get out of it is you can tell whoever will listen that you’re quitting the picture. You can even say what you want about me, I don’t care. That’ll start the phone ringing. You’ll have enough offers to keep you in pictures for ten years.
Alan looked at each of us, pleading, and I said, I’ll do it.
Paque looked at me incredulously, but then she realized what I did—that it was the only way to get ourselves away from Alan and the whole mess.
Okay, she said.
Alan looked touched, as if he was surprised he had persuaded us.
The benefit—a star-studded evening put on by Chase Dance Theater for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation—was held in the auditorium of Hollywood High. A train of black limousines waited to pull up to the red carpet that gaped from the auditorium entrance like a thirsty tongue, drawing celebrities inside in groups of two or three. Our limo idled and Alan said, Remember, no interviews. Just wave and smile.
When the door to our limo opened, Paque and I stepped out into the warm evening. A single flashbulb went off and I looked in its direction. Up ahead, Will Smith and his wife were posing for pictures. The one flashbulb drew attention our way and Will Smith looked over his shoulder as the paparazzi moved towards us.
This way, someone shouted.
Over here!
One here!
Look!
Paque!
Daisy!
Were you hurt in the accident?
Is anything broken?
Were you scared?
What was going through your mind?
This way!
Over here!
Alan, Paque and I linked arms and smiled, ignoring the questions. Where usually ignoring reporters’ questions only makes them ask more, no one pressed the issue—it was enough to take our pictures, I guess.
It was a relief to get inside the auditorium. Something funny: We all had to take our shoes off because a special dance floor had been assembled and the floor was ‘sensitive.’ They had a guy in a tuxedo who exchanged your shoes for a little red ticket.
Besides Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, who were skating in their socks in the hall, Paque and I noticed how uneasy some of the celebrities were around one another. After the handshakes and the cheek kisses everyone took their seats and it seemed like the first day of class, like no one knew anyone. The dance company was waiting for the sun to set so we all just sat and shifted in our chairs. Pierce Brosnan sat next to Alan and I kept asking Alan pointless questions about the performance and the architecture of Hollywood High just so I could sneak a look at James Bond, who Paque and I agree is one of the handsomest men alive. You just know he would make a good boyfriend and/or husband. Alan, in contrast, wouldn’t.
Watching the first dance number, a funny piece called ‘Con Queso,’ I remembered the ballet I put on in the kitchen when I was five for my mother and father. The ballet was called ‘Up and Up and Up’ and was about a little girl who met a magician (played by my brother, Chuck) who gave her the power to fly. (I repaid Chuck by appearing in his Batman and Robin costume drama. How he talked the principal into letting him chase the Joker—who had me in tow—from classroom to classroom I’ll never know. That’s just Chuck. I remember one fifth-grader was so scared she peed herself and her mom had to come pick her up.)
The rest of the numbers—‘Red Delicious,’ ‘Untitled #1,’ and ‘Lemons for Loveliness’—were breathtaking. My mother had me keep one of those books you write in that asks your height and weight and age and what you want to be when you grow up. I wrote ‘dancer’ every year through sixth grade. It was my dream to become a ballerina, though now that seems like a dream only a child could have.
Daisy
Dear Sara and Keren,
Paque and I demanded that Alan take us to the hospital to see the actresses. He hesitated, saying it was too gruesome, but when we insisted he relented. Based on his hesitation, I imagined body parts here and there but the truth was Alan didn’t want Paque and I to know that one of the actresses who replaced us was Annette Laupin. She and the other actress, Portia (like the car) D’Angeles, shared a room, but they were so bound up in traction that they couldn’t communicate with each other. Identical breakfasts of eggs, toast, and orange juice sat perched on the stand between the beds.
Hospital rooms make Paque nauseous—she spent a lot of time in them when her parents died. She doesn’t ever talk about it but when she was with me in the hospital in Phoenix, I could tell she wanted to bolt.
Alan waited in the hall and Paque and I set the pink and blue teddy bears we bought in the hospital gift shop next to the breakfasts. Annette opened her watery eyes and smiled when she saw us.
I’m on goofballs, she said.
Paque and I laughed.
Does it hurt much, I asked.
Only when I think about it, she said.
Portia tried to lift her head but struggled under the effort and gave up.
Alan thinks you’re going to sue him, Paque said loud enough for Alan to hear. Alan pretended like he wasn’t listening, but he was.
Annette grimaced. I can’t do anything until I can walk, she said.
I wanted to apologize for the things Paque and I had said about Annette and Portia, but they wouldn’t have known what I was talking about. Of course we didn’t know it was them when Paque and I called them the Bitches. We were just mad; no one could blame us. Still, seeing the two of them strung up and cocooned in so much plaster made me sorry for the things I’d said before.
There didn’t seem to be anything to say. Portia called for the nurse to give her some more painkillers—the nurse refused—and Paque and I just stood there.
Well, Paque said.
Annette filtered back into consciousness and said, Thanks for stopping by.
Paque and I said we’d stop by again, wondering if we really would, but didn’t discuss it in the elevator. Alan kept quiet, too. When the elevator doors opened, Paque and I saw someone from our past who startled us: Fred Meyers, the reporter from the Arizona Republic.
Well, well, Meyers said. Just who I was looking for. He seemed older, and swaggered towards us like he was going to prove to his buddies that he could pick us up in a bar.
Hi, Fred, Paque said, What are doing here of all places?
I’m with the Los Angeles Times now, he grinned.
Congratulations, Paque said.
You’re Alan Hood, right, Meyers asked.
Alan and Meyers shook hands. Nice to meet you, Alan mumbled.
A pale young girl in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse passed in front of us. I smiled at the girl, who was trying to grasp a balloon someone had tied to the wheelchair.
So, are you just here for a check-up, Meyers asked. He reached for his notebook.
Uh, yeah, Alan said. Just wanted to make sure nothing was broken.
Is anything?
Nope, Alan said.
Meyers scribbled something in this notebook and at that moment I noticed that he was slicking his hair back now. It scared me that I didn’t notice at first and I nervously laughed, What’s with the hair?
Meyers seemed taken aback. He ran hi
s hand along the slicked down side of his head. What, he asked.
Paque laughed.
Anyway, Meyers said, I’d like to get an interview for the paper. Can we do it now? Just a couple of questions?
Hey, buddy, how would you like a scoop, Alan asked. Daisy and Paque are quitting the film. How’s that for news?
Meyers looked at us and we nodded.
Why are you quitting, he wanted to know.
Because I’m the worst filmmaker in the history of Hollywood, Alan said. Make sure you spell the first name right. A-L-A-N.
Meyers waited for the punchline but Alan didn’t say any more.
We’re fielding other offers now, Paque said confidently. We want to work with Spielberg, or Frances Ford Coppola.
Or Penny Marshall, I said.
Okay girls, Alan said, let’s go. He turned to Meyers, Better print that story quick. There might be a press conference later today. A scoop like this can make a reporter’s career.
Meyers looked indignant but didn’t argue. I’ll call for a follow-up, he said.
Alan herded us out of the hospital and nobody said anything on the ride back to Alan’s.
Since I’m sure you read about it in the papers—someone Alan knew called up to say it was in the London Sunday Times, too—you know that Meyers did call us up and that we gave him the real story. I don’t think Paque and I knew that we were going to rat Alan out. We were pretty pissed off with him, but he had this way of making you feel sorry for him even though you really despised him and what he’d done.
But that didn’t matter. Meyers had dirt on us. He tracked down some guy who said he hired us to come to his hotel room and that he ended up getting beat up and robbed (this isn’t what it sounds like; Paque and I used to be fantasy wrestlers—just once, really—and this guy tried to kill us). The guy even had pictures, which could only have been taken by someone hiding in a closet.
Paque and I got on separate phones and told Meyers what really happened in that hotel room, but he wasn’t interested.
I want to know what’s going on with World Gone Water, he said.
We’re not doing it anymore, Paque said. We told you that already.
