A-List #10, The: California Dreaming: An A-List Novel (A-List)

by Zoey Dean

  She turned back to the mirror on her vanity--which had a movie-quality lighting system that could be adjusted downward, in case of a bad body-image day--and shook her hair off her face. The citron earrings flashed in the morning light slanting through the open bay windows. She wore a black Yellow Dog jumper over black tights and chunky black suede Bruno Magli booties, thinking that the long black line would be flattering. She looked, she thought, rather cute. But then being with Eduardo, being loved by him, made her feel beautiful and brought out her self-confidence.

  Funny how that worked.

  A quick check of her Omega Constellation watch told her she had forty-five minutes to suck down some caffeine and get her ass downtown for the USC film school freshman orientation. The more she'd thought about it over the past few days, the less appealing of an option USC--and living halfway around the world from Eduardo--seemed to her. Sam was about 80 percent convinced that she wasn't going to go at all. After all, what could she possibly learn at film school that she didn't already know? She remembered taking an advanced filmmaking course at Stanford the summer after her freshman year and being bored out of her mind. And it wasn't like she needed contacts in the business. She was a contact in the business!

  She loved the fact that Eduardo was being so supportive about her career, though. True, his parents had pressured her to go to France with him rather than having a long-distance marriage. But Eduardo himself had not. Other than the occasional Truffaut comment, of course. As for his folks, they'd gone back to their vacation and were going to return to Los Angeles on Thursday night for the rehearsal dinner, and then the ceremony on Fright out on the yacht. She was sort of glad they weren't around this week. It was easier to think and make decisions without Consuela, as well-meaning as she was, constantly pointing out where Sam's future ought to lie.

  "Strong with extra sugar," Eduardo announced as he reappeared, bringing her a blue ceramic mug of coffee.

  "Thanks." Sam blew on and then gingerly sipped the steaming-hot espresso. "You are the only person in the world who would willingly give me extra sugar."

  "Ah, but sugar gives you energy," he teased, his warm brown eyes dancing. "And you'll need energy for all the things I'm going to do to you later." He then proceeded to whisper in her ear exactly what he intended to do to her later, in detail, until her cheeks were more red from his voice than from the steaming coffee.

  He had to leave for the consulate soon, so they made plans to meet later for dinner. She had that wedding-cake tasting, and then a meeting with the DJ whom Dee had selected to go over music. Nothing could ruin a party faster than a DJ who played the wrong songs.

  "Have fun at USC," he told her.

  "I could probably teach half the courses myself," she replied, straightening the hem of her jumper.

  "I know. Come to Paris, make a movie of your own, and they can study it in film school while you're in France with me. But go to this, so you can see for yourself."

  "Okay, that sounds simple enough," Sam teased, setting the mug on her vanity to kiss him.

  Two last sips of oh-so-sweet coffee, and they were out the door.

  Sam took the Hummer to the USC campus near downtown, fighting traffic on Wilshire Boulevard all the way into the dicey neighborhood where USC was located. After having her name cleared by the security guard, Sam found a parking space and made her way toward the Eileen L. Norris Theater Complex, an enormous white structure built only a few years back--she recalled that her father had made a high-six-figure donation to its construction. There were a number of bike racks outside the building, and Sam shuddered to think of four years spent biking around the campus. How ... pedestrian.

  Once inside, she joined a dozen or so others who were waiting for the elevator to take them to the Frank Sinatra Theater. The wide-eyed fellow students were all about her age, mostly dressed in shorts and T-shirts, an interesting mix of races and ethnicities, about half guys and half girls. She watched them eye the Sinatra memorabilia that lined the lobby, saw the reverence on their faces when they entered the refurbished 365-seat screening room. Sam had been at the party for the opening back in 2002, and all she remembered about it was that they had served chocolates in the shape of Frank's head, and Nancy Sinatra's daughter had eaten too many of them and barfed on her mother's mile-high red satin Jimmy Choo boots. Afterward Cammie had gone around singing, "These Boots Are Made for Puking."

  She slid into a seat on the aisle. The guy next to her nodded coolly in her direction. He was pale and skinny and wore baggy jeans, a white T-shirt, and black-and-white plaid Converse high-tops. He had a wispy blond goatee and wore dark sunglasses. Sam gave a mental eye roll. He was already doing the affected, sunglasses-worn-indoors thing, and he hadn't even begun his freshman year. He was probably from somewhere in flyover country and had made some pretentious little film that got shown at his high school graduation, and everyone said he was so talented that he had to come to Hollywood and he was so going to be the next fill-in-the-blank hot young director of the moment, and he utterly, totally, and completely believed them. Undoubtedly he would use the words my and vision in close proximity in almost every sentence.

  Sam shifted in the red cushioned auditorium seat and glanced around. Her eyes were drawn to a girl with spiky pink hair a few seats over. She wore a puffy zip-up vest from American Apparel and skintight black jeans that she was currently drawing designs on with a whiteout pen. The girl bobbed her head in time to music playing from the oversize headphones around her neck. Total hipster--she probably watched nothing but Japanese horror flicks and considered anything made after 1975 to be worthless commercial garbage.

  And to think, these people would be Sam's classmates. She might actually have to spend time with them. Paris was looking better by the second.

  The theater was packed, and there was a low rumble of excited, expectant voices as Elizabeth M. Daley, an attractive woman in her forties and dean of the USC film school, strode to the microphone on stage. She had a round, sweet face surrounded by short, choppy, chestnut brown hair similar to the color of Sam's if she hadn't had it highlighted. She wore a conservative taupe pants suit and didn't look very Hollywood at all.

  "Thanks so much for coming today, and here's to the USC class of 2012!" The crowd roared in applause and Sam rolled her eyes. Film school spirit? "Don't worry, I don't have any grand speeches prepared," the dean continued, and Sam exhaled thankfully. "Instead of listening to me talk, what better way to convey what you're going to be experiencing for the next four years than with a film? That's why we're here after all, isn't it?" She backed away from the microphone as the overhead lights dimmed and an enormous screen was lowered from the ceiling.

  A short documentary made in 2004 to honor the seventy-fifth anniversary of the film school came on. It told all about how USC was the first school in the country to offer a bachelor's degree in film, and how it had been founded by Hollywood legends Douglas S. Fairbanks, D. W. Griffith, and William C. DeMille. It boasted an awesome list of alumni, from Steven Spielberg to Will Ferrell. Sam found herself caught up in the history, both of the school and of L.A., her town. Sitting in the darkened theater, one part of Sam felt utterly jaded about what she was seeing. After all, just as many famous people had been to parties at her own home. But another part of her felt something she couldn't quite name, a kind of anticipation in the pit of her stomach at the idea of being part of all this, and not just for the usual reason that she was the daughter of Jackson Sharpe.

  The film ended and the lights came back on, and Dean Daley took the stage again. "I hope you enjoyed the film. You're all invited to the lower lobby for a reception. A few dozen alumni will be there--directors, actors, agents, producers--here to mingle with you ... and what's more Hollywood than that?" She paused as the crowd tittered excitedly. "Anyway, the people you meet today will be able to explain the USC film school experience better than any lecture, or even any film," she concluded.

  Waste of my time, Sam thought, but she dutifully trudged
down to the lower lobby with everyone else. Soon it was teeming with students and faculty. The usual cast of waiters in black pants and white shirts, all of whom looked like actor wannabes trying to make a connection with the various famous alumni, were sprinkled among the crowd and manning a sushi buffet. This year's Hollywood's culinary obsessions for party food were sushi, sashimi, and five varieties of mini burgers from In-N-Out Burger.

  Just as Sam reached for a bottle of Fiji in a large sterling bowl of crushed ice, a voice near her right shoulder said, "You look familiar."

  Sam turned, sweating water bottle in hand, to see Goatee Guy, still hidden behind those ridiculous knockoff Versace sunglasses.

  "Probably because I was sitting next to you upstairs," Sam said dryly. She had zero interest in going through the Hey, aren't you Jackson Sharpe's daughter? conversation.

  "No, that's not it." He two-fingered a piece of sashimi into his mouth and contemplated her. "I feel like I know you from somewhere else." He swallowed the raw fish, then stuck out his hand. Fortunately, it wasn't the sushi hand.

  "Nars Muessen," he introduced himself. "And you're ... ?"

  "Sam." She shook his hand, deliberately not giving her last name.

  "I'm from Salt Lake City," Nars continued, as if Sam was actually interested, as if she'd asked, which she most definitely hadn't. He went into a monologue about a student film he'd made a few months earlier, about a group of Mormon kids who hear a teen rock band and are so overwhelmed by their talent and their cool factor that they sell their souls to the devil in order to be in a similar band.

  "Fresh," Sam commented. Like that hackneyed play on Mark Twain's "The Devil and Daniel Webster" hadn't already been told ad nauseam. Her eyes darted right and left, seeking an escape route.

  "It's Nars, isn't it?"

  Nars smiled, because the question had come from none other than George Petrus, who had sidled up next to them, water bottle in hand. His silver hair was swept back from his handsome face. He wore a black shirt tucked into black pants and was smiling at Goatee Guy. Petrus was one of the city's great directors. Lucas, Scorsese, and Petrus. Sam's father couldn't stand him, but no one ever argued with his talent.

  "Great to see you again, Mr. Petrus," Nars exclaimed, shaking the famous director's hand as if it was a pump from which he was trying to coax water.

  "I just wanted to tell you again how impressed I was with Highway to Hell," Petrus said. "One of the best student films I've ever seen."

  Sam nearly inhaled her bottle of Fiji water. George Petrus knew Goatee's Guy's film? And thought it was great? Back when Petrus and Jackson were talking, he'd been a frequent dinner guest at the Sharpes'. But that had been back when Sam was still in middle school. He probably didn't even recognize her. Sam sort of wished she'd been nicer to Goatee Guy so that he'd bring her into the conversation. In Hollywood, people liked to corner talent and keep celebrities all to themselves.

  Nars smiled so broadly that Sam thought his face might actually crack. "Oh, and this is Sam." He gestured politely at her, and George Petrus turned to take her in.

  "Just Sam?" He shook her hand and smiled, amused.

  "Just Sam." She smiled back. "I know you hear this all the time," Sam began, realizing she sounded a bit like a gushing teenager but not really caring. "But I'm a huge fan of American Legion." The film was about four different teenagers coming of age in four different parts of the country, and then coming together at a Who concert in Denver one summer night. In fact, Sam had watched it again recently, one night when Eduardo was working late and she couldn't sleep.

  "Actually, I don't," George said easily. "I usually hear about Dark Star and Modesto, so thanks. That one gets overlooked."

  "How did you happen to see Nars's film?" Sam asked, truly curious.

  "Connections," Nars admitted. "My dad went to USC. And then when I came to UCLA for my eye surgery a few months ago, I actually got to meet with Mr. Petrus." He fiddled with his dark glasses. "I keep growing these nasty tumors behind my eyeballs. Lots of surgery and lots of pairs of dark glasses."

  Sam felt, simultaneously, like an idiot and a bitch. She had just assumed Nars's glasses were pretentious. But they weren't; they were functional. He had eye tumors, for God's sake.

  Petrus spent a good fifteen minutes chatting with them about film, as if he was just some guy who happened to like cinema as much as they did. He would be doing a small freshman seminar on personal-journey movies, and invited both Sam and Nars to attend. Then he invited Nars to come in to his production office to talk about him interning the following summer. After that, he melted into the crowd.

  "Great guy, huh?" Nars asked, turning to Sam with a smile. She noticed for the first time that he had world-class dimples.

  "Amazing," Sam replied, quite honestly. "Why was he so nice?"

  Nars's sparse eyebrows knit together over the top of his glasses. "I guess he knows we love film the way he loves film or we wouldn't be here. And ..." He smiled. "I guess he liked my film. My parents maxed their credit cards for me to make it. But being a director is all I want to do."

  Me too, Sam thought.Just then, she heard her cell phone sound gently in her bag, and she fished it out. It was a text from Eduardo.

  BORED MUCH? DREAMING OF PARIS?

  She closed her cell without responding. Two hours ago, she would have responded, "Hell, yes." Now, she wasn't so sure.

  She looked around the reception. All around she saw people engaged in conversations about film, not because they wanted to name-drop or show off, but because they were genuinely passionate and opinionated about cinema as an art form. Okay, maybe they wore ugly clothes and rode bikes around campus. Maybe they cheered like idiots at the sound of their graduation date. But maybe they were also her people, the people with whom she would connect and collaborate and exchange ideas as they journeyed together through the next four years of film school. Maybe Paris wasn't the right place for her, at least not right now.

  The old saying, "Home is where the heart is," flew into her mind. Her heart was with Eduardo. And Eduardo was soon to be in Paris. Did that mean, though, that Paris had to be her home?

  On the ListTuesday, 2:51 p.m.

  "Right after this commercial break, comin' back atcha with a girl who just turned eighteen and--check it out--is owner of the most happenin' new club in L.A. Plus, she's managing the hottest new model in town. Stay tuned!"The smile stayed on Kelly Clarkson's face until the camera blinked out. The kids gathered on pink and aqua faux-leather couches on the small Santa Monica MTV soundstage kept applauding and squealing as some mailroom graduate made twirling hand motions at them, which meant, Keep it up. Kelly was putting together her TV special, Planet Kelly C., and pieces of what went on today would be spliced in.

  And that was about as much as Cammie knew. Her dad had talked to Kelly's manager about getting Cammie on, and the deal had been struck late last night. Evidently, it hadn't been difficult. Kelly had already been to Bye, Bye Love twice to guest-DJ and loved the place. The national publicity, Cammie knew, was worth a mint.

  "Okay, so, you ready?" an assistant asked Cammie, who stood just out of camera range. The girl squinted at Cammie. "You need a little pat-down for the shine." She craned her head around. "Where's Nattie with makeup? Damn. She's working on Kelly. Nattie! When you get a sec!"

  "I do my own," Cammie said coolly, reaching for her kelly green quilted leather Chanel hobo bag to fish out her makeup case. She'd worn a Free People pink-and-aqua flounce-hemmed mini-dress, and strappy pink Jimmy Choo sandals with a suede wedge heel. Since she hadn't learned she'd be on national TV until last night, she'd found an eyelash-extension artist in the Valley who made house calls 24/7, and charged twenty dollars per lash. Cammie didn't care. As she powdered her nose and gazed at her Bambi-like eyes, she knew the five hundred dollars' worth of eyelash extensions had been worth it.

  "Okay, don't be nervous, and don't look directly into the camera. Try to act like you and Kelly are just friends hanging out at home," an
assistant director with greasy hair and a plaid collared shirt that belonged back in the nineties was blathering at Cammie.

  "It's not a problem," Cammie assured him.

  "People say that, but then the camera goes on and--"

  Cammie held up a hand to interrupt. "Trust me." Her cell sounded. She plucked it from her pocket to answer.

  "Oh my God, turn that off before we're back on air!" Another equally unkempt production assistant was on her immediately.

  Cammie turned away and put it to her ear. "Hello?"

  "Hi-hi."

  Dee. Only one person in the world had a voice like that. No amount of Prozac could change it, either. Cammie liked Dee's voice.

  "Hey, what's up?" Cammie watched the makeup artist work on Kelly's mascara while the hairstylist swept the bangs to the side so that they looked artfully mussed, and then sprayed them into place.

  "I'm at Tiffany, and you were supposed to meet me?" Dee reminded Cammie. "We're picking out the wedding party favors? Do we want to go with diamond studs for all the girls and diamond cuff links for the guys, or is that too old-fashioned?"

  Cammie tried to remember ever telling Dee she'd help with this particular duty, and vaguely recalled a conversation that had taken place over the roar at the club late the night before. "Do whatever you want, Dee--I can't make it." Across the soundstage, the assistant director was giving the three-minute signal.

  "But you're the maid of honor!" Dee protested. "This is what you're supposed to do. I'm just a bridesmaid!"

  "I'm doing this television thing, Dee," Cammie explained quickly, gesturing to the hyperventilating production assistant that she was just wrapping it up. "And after that, I'm doing an interview for Teen Vogue at--"

  "But we're supposed to meet Sam for coffee!"

  Shit, she had said she'd meet them. But she'd also told Ben she'd meet him at the club to talk about the next round of designers they'd bring in, since they planned to change the interior décor every week. And she had a lot more interest in meeting with Ben than she did in planning Sam's wedding. Not that she didn't love Sam, because she did. But a wedding? The only people Cammie knew who actually got married at age eighteen were drunk bimbo celebs looking for cheap publicity by running off to Vegas with their high school boyfriends. And even then it was all a public relations stunt, and they planned to get divorced shortly thereafter.