Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

by Zoey Dean

  in your hand the entire time. Go ahead, go."

  I held the heavy ball in my hands with my head hung down. "I don't know Warrior Three," I

  whispered.

  Ted nodded. "Everyone, grab your medicine balls and show this young lady what to do."

  I watched as the actors and porn stars and fitness obsessives each lifted their left leg, bent

  forward at the waist, and held the ball out in front of their faces. Okay, I thought, I can do this.

  Fixing my right foot firmly on the mat, I tried to follow their lead. I wobbled, my arms

  wavered, and there was a white-hot stab of pain in my hamstring.

  "Aaaahh!" I yelled.

  "There you go," Ted said, starting to meander around the room. "Everyone follow her lead.

  Everyone say, 'Aaaahh!'"

  "Aaahhh!"

  "Hold it, hold it, keep holding," Ted encouraged.

  Obviously he wasn't some caring, hippie-ish exercise instructor at all; he was a total sadist.

  How could Magnolia have taken this class? Why had I ever listened to Quinn? Was it possible

  for someone's arms to fall off from holding a medicine ball for too long? Was my heart going

  to explode? These and other questions were swirling around in my head at a dizzying rate.

  Then I toppled over onto my face.

  "Excellent," Ted whispered in my ear. "The first step toward grace is surrender."

  Hidden under my crumpled body, I gave Ted the finger.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Okay," I said, paintbrush in hand as I contemplated the plain white cotton onesie before me on

  the table. "What do I put on it? 'Thanks for quitting'?"

  Julissa giggled. "Definitely," she said.

  We were standing in the immense, sunlight-filled family room in Peter Lasky's Bel Air estate,

  each of us halfway through a third mimosa and feeling a little buzzed from the early-afternoon

  Dom Pérignon. Through the large French doors, which were open to the fine November day, I

  could see most of the Metronome development and production staff mingling on the lawn as

  they were serenaded by a small chamber orchestra.

  Melinda Darling sure got a fancy baby shower/farewell party. But it pays to know the right

  people, as they say--or perhaps, more accurately, it pays to be related to them. As it turned out,

  Melinda was the niece of our volatile studio head, Peter Lasky (no wonder she'd never had to

  work her way up from assistant!), and he had spared no expense in helping her celebrate her

  big day.

  "Are you done with the yellow?" a gaunt platinum blonde in pearls asked me.

  I realized that a crowd had begun to form around the onesie table.

  "And where are the fabric markers?" asked her red-faced, jowly companion in a deep baritone.

  "Honey, how do I do this?"

  "Just make a smiley-face," the blonde hissed.

  Good idea, I thought. I took my onesie, dabbed a couple of eyes and a big grinning mouth on

  it, wrote "Happy Baby!" underneath, and grabbed Julissa's arm. "Let's go look at the gifts," I

  whispered.

  The marble foyer of the house contained enough presents for a hundred babies. There were

  boxes wrapped in pink paper and magenta bows and gift bags with the heads of stuffed

  animals peering out. There were also dozens of gifts apparently too large or too oddly shaped

  to wrap: a sparkly purple tricycle, a medieval castle complete with catapult and moat, a fivefoot-tall stuffed giraffe, and a teak crib that looked like it had been hand-carved by Mayan

  artisans or something.

  "My God, some people must have spent thousands of dollars," I muttered. What had I gotten

  ol' Friday Darling? A blanket from Target with a kitten on it, that's what. Twenty bucks and she

  could love it or hate it--I'd certainly never be the wiser.

  Julissa fingered the giraffe's ear in awe. "Thank God I'm an intern," she said. "I can just get

  drunk and not feel guilty about it." She took a sip of her mimosa for emphasis.

  We wandered back into the family room, heading for the chocolate-covered strawberries.

  "Hey, look at that." Julissa drew me over to one of the French doors.

  Kylie and Iris were walking across the lawn together, deep in conversation. Intense

  conversation. Ever since the Malibu incident, Iris had been careful to avoid both of us, like a

  parent trying not to show favoritism between two warring children. But she was hunched over

  a little, bringing herself closer to Kylie's level, intently listening. After a moment, she tipped her

  head back and laughed.

  Julissa squinted. "Kylie's kissing ass, as usual."

  My nemesis looked positively radiant in an empire-waist gold dress and a messy but perfect

  updo. "Oh my God," I said. "She's not kissing ass, she's pitching." While I was standing there

  watching, half-hidden behind the gauzy curtains, Kylie was probably cinching her promotion.

  Damn Holden MacIntee and his stupid, lazy, can't-make-it-to-Buddha-Ball ass!

  Kylie was still talking, waving around her champagne flute for emphasis.

  "You know," Julissa said, "we're not the only ones spying."

  I scanned the lawn. It was true. Amanda, a pink cocktail in her hand to match her pink sheath

  dress, was stalking Iris and Kylie with her eyes. Over by the pool, Cici talked to Tom Scheffer

  while staring daggers at Kylie--rather blatantly, if you asked me. Wyman was subtler in his

  ogling, but that was only because he was wearing a giant pair of Ray-Bans.

  I finished my mimosa with a sinking feeling. "I think I need to eat. You want anything?"

  Julissa shook her head. "Nah. I'm going to go snoop upstairs."

  On my way to the food tent, which had been set up on the emerald green lawn overlooking the

  marble-lined pool, I fired off a text to Quinn. Kylie pitching your mother. Must be taken down!

  Quinn would help, I was sure of it. I tried to let that cheer me up. Ditto for the buffet. Though

  I'd gotten out of the habit of drowning my sorrows in a pint of ice cream, I felt justified in

  attempting to alleviate my new anxiety at the buffet table. Also, since I'd kept going to Buddha

  Ball (despite Holden's continued absence), I figured I'd earned myself the right to binge a little.

  It was almost Thanksgiving, and since I wouldn't be going home to Cleveland or celebrating

  the holiday in any other way (my mother had threatened to send me a ham, but I told her that

  Magnolia and I had agreed to go out for sushi that day), I could certainly stuff myself on free

  gourmet food at a baby shower.

  I plucked an ivory Limoges dinner plate from the stack and regarded my options. I could feel

  my stomach rumbling as I contemplated the heaps of raw and grilled vegetables, the mountain

  of miniburgers, the pâté swan, the plates of French cheeses, the four-foot-long poached

  salmon, and the hills of fruit salad.

  "Would you like me to explain the difference between the beluga and the osetra?" asked a

  server, pointing to two glistening mounds of tiny black eggs.

  I was about to say that when it came to caviar, I was on a not-need-to-know basis, when

  someone sidled up beside me. I recognized the lily perfume even before I turned to see Kylie.

  "I'd loooove some beluga," Kylie said, holding out her plate. "No explanation necessary," she

  added, winking at Mr. Toque. Then she pretended to spot me for the first time. "Oh hi. Cool

  party, huh?"

  "Yep," I murmured, spearing a paper-thin slice of smoked salmon.

  The server placed some toast points around the beluga.
"Gorgeous," she breathed. "Thank you

  so much." Kylie smiled at me as she scooped some caviar onto a toast point. "Are you doing

  okay?" Her voice had lowered in pitch, and she sounded genuinely concerned.

  I squeezed a wedge of lemon onto my salmon. "Sure. Why?"

  "Just because you and I haven't been getting along."

  I stared at her blankly.

  "I mean, not that I'm lying awake at night worrying about it or anything," Kylie said, taking a

  delicate bite, "but it seems kind of unnecessary, don't you think?" She popped the rest of the

  toast point in her mouth and chewed.

  "Well," she said, not waiting for an answer, "I guess I just wanted to clear the air a little.

  Because for the next few days, I'm going to be kind of busy. I just packaged a movie."

  I sucked in my breath. There was a part of me that had anticipated this. But just because you're

  expecting bad news doesn't mean you like hearing it. I put my plate down on an empty table.

  "Well, it's almost there," she continued, as if I'd asked. "We're just waiting for Troy Vaughn to

  sign on, but it's so close. I found this amazing script on one of the tracking boards, and Troy

  just really took to it. It's going to be his directorial debut. Oh my God--he is so funny! The first

  time we went out for drinks, I was just cracking up. He just sent me the funniest text, actually."

  I bit my lip, fighting back anger, expletives, hunger, and maybe even tears. I thought back to

  Halloween, when I'd spotted Kylie with Troy Vaughn. She'd had her plan in motion even then.

  The smile, the nice wave, that brief period of seeming humanity--Kylie had never warmed to

  me, not even for a second. She just didn't care to fight with me because, in her mind, she'd

  already won.

  "So, I just told Iris that it's almost a go, and, well, she didn't come right out and say it, but it

  sounds like if it all works out, the promotion's mine." Kylie sighed, as if the weight of her own

  achievement were too much even for her. "Can you believe it?"

  "Congratulations," I said grimly.

  Kylie acted as if I hadn't spoken at all. "I guess before everything sort of... changes, I just

  wanted to clear the air." She popped her last toast point into her mouth. "I mean, it's not like

  we're going to stop working together, even if, you know, we're not in the same office."

  I looked down at my hands and realized that I'd shredded one of the cocktail napkins into tiny,

  confetti-like bits. Clearing the air? Is that what she was calling this chat? Because if you ask

  me, she was rubbing my nose in it.

  "Wow, I am stuffed!" Kylie put down her plate on the tray of a passing waitress and picked up

  her champagne. "Oh hi, Iris!" she called over my shoulder.

  I turned to see Iris filling a plate with fruit salad.

  "How's my team doing?" she asked cheerfully as she picked around for the ripest strawberries.

  "Great," Kylie exclaimed. "But I'm out of champagne!"

  "Better go get some," I chirped, and mercifully she smiled, told me that was a great idea, and

  left.

  I plucked a mini quiche from a platter and chucked it into my mouth, barely chewing. A line

  had formed at the end of the buffet table, which I was probably guilty of holding up,

  considering I'd been standing in the same place for ten minutes. Not that I cared--these

  Metronome folks could just step around me.

  "Are you having a good time, Taylor?" Iris asked. Her voice was low but not gentle. It

  sounded almost strained.

  "Kylie just told me about the Troy Vaughn movie," I blurted.

  "Kylie might be getting a little ahead of herself," Iris said slowly, moving down to the salmon.

  "But I will say that she's done a great job. And that's exactly what everyone should be doing

  right now." She smiled at me, letting her words sink in. "You know I think you have terrific

  instincts, Taylor. And whatever happens, you'll continue to be an asset to me and to

  Metronome."

  I looked down at my toes in their hand-me-down designer sandals. "Well, thank you," I

  managed to say. "Will you please excuse me? I think I need to find the powder room."

  Iris smiled wanly and turned back to the buffet. As I walked toward the house, feeling terrible,

  I saw Julissa bearing down on me with a wild look on her little freckled face.

  "Kylie's got something," she said, grabbing my hand. "A project. Something she's been

  working on in secret for weeks. It just broke."

  I kept walking. "I know. She just told me."

  "She did? Oh my God, what'd she say?"

  I just shook my head. I didn't want to talk about it.

  "Your phone," Julissa said.

  I looked up at her dully. "Huh?"

  "I can hear your phone vibrating in your purse," she said, pointing.

  I scrambled among the loose lipsticks and eye shadows rolling around in the satin-lined bottom

  of the bag.

  Malibu Country Mart, half an hour, the text said.

  "I've got to go," I said. "Go ask Kylie about her movie. She'll tell you more than you ever

  wanted to know."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was almost twilight when I turned off the Pacific Coast Highway into the Malibu Country

  Mart and parked in front of the Ron Herman shop. For all its high-end boutiques (Lisa Kline,

  the Madison Gallery) and big-ticket restaurants (Nobu Malibu), the Mart was essentially a strip

  mall, albeit the most up-scale strip mall in the world. It was a little like Malibu itself: on the

  surface, a rough-and-tumble stretch of beach and chaparral-covered hills, nothing especially

  grand or beautiful. But hidden in those hills and squeezed into postage stamp-sized lots on the

  beach were some of the most valuable pieces of property in the world. You just had to step

  inside them.

  I found Quinn on a bench in front of L'Occitane, wearing a purple cashmere sweater coat and

  an enormous pair of white sunglasses. Several shopping bags from Planet Blue sat at her feet,

  and she held an enormous Coffee Bean cup.

  "You're late," she said loudly, moving some of her shopping bags so I could sit.

  "I know. The PCH was insane."

  I sat down and pulled my black pashmina closer around my shoulders. "I'm in trouble," I said.

  "No shit. You're wearing a pashmina," Quinn scoffed.

  "What are you supposed to wear with a strapless dress?" I asked, annoyed.

  "I was only kidding," Quinn said, taking a noisy sip of her coffee. "So what's this Kylie

  emergency? I don't love the face-to-faces, so this better be good."

  "Kylie's gonna get the promotion," I said shrilly, and I could almost feel tears welling up. "She

  lined up some movie with Troy Vaughn. And your mom knows about it, and it sounds like it's

  happening. So there it goes. Right through my fingers." I swallowed. "I mean, it's not like I

  thought I was going to get it or anything, but I just don't want her to, you know?"

  Quinn was silent for a moment. "Okay," she finally said. "I get it." She reached into her

  distressed leather bag for a Kleenex, which she handed to me.

  "I'm not crying," I said indignantly.

  "Well, you look like you might. But listen up. I've got a solution for you, and it's called hit her

  where it hurts." She paused dramatically. "We steal her boyfriend."

  "What?" I laughed, partly out of shock and partly out of the impossibility of it.

  "I'm dead serious," said Quinn, frowning at me. "You break them up."

  "Bu
t even if I could do that," I said slowly, "how's that going to get me a promotion?"

  "Look." Quinn pulled the glasses off. Her blue eyes were almost navy in the diminishing

  sunlight. "You know what happens when girls get dumped. They get fat. They cry. They

  crack. And it goes double for a girl like Kylie, because she so totally doesn't expect it. If she

  gets broken up with, it'll be all she can think about." Quinn deposited the glasses in her bag and

  took out a little pot of MAC gloss, which she dabbed on her lips. "It's like when Joanna Beers

  and Kevin Collins, this superhot boy from Cathedral, broke up. She quit cheerleading and went

  for a varsity letter in bingeing at In-N-Out. Same'll happen to Kylie. She'll be so out of it, she'll

  make a mistake. That movie'll get fucked up real fast, I promise."

  I played with the fringe on my pashmina thoughtfully. I had to admit it made sense, though it

  was also a) evil and b) twisted.

  "Once, I did it to someone at exam time," Quinn said softly. She stared straight ahead, and I

  watched her proud profile. "I didn't want this girl to get an A on the history final. She was the

  only person who did better in the class than me." She sipped her drink pensively. "Plus I'd

  heard about some nasty rumors she'd spread about me. So I hooked up with this guy who she

  was sort of hooking up with--not dating, exactly, but a guy I knew she liked." The wind blew

  Quinn's hair across her face and she brushed it away. "And it worked. Big-time."

  My sixteen-year-old savior was, I had to admit, something of a monster. "I can't do it," I said.

  "Why not?"

  I watched a paper bag scuttle across the asphalt. A woman who looked like she kept a lifetime

  supply of Botox in her enormous Dooney & Bourke satchel walked by with her two

  labradoodles. "Because that's evil."

  Quinn slapped my knee. "Hello? Don't think for a minute that she wouldn't do this to you."

  She had a point. But logistically I couldn't see how it would work. "I mean I don't even think I

  physically can," I said. "He's apparently drop-dead gorgeous."

  "He's a guy," Quinn sighed. The salty ocean breeze whipped her lustrous red hair around her

  face, and it momentarily softened her features. "Getting a guy to hook up with you is about as

  hard as falling out of bed. Or into bed, I should say. What does he do?" She took out her