Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

by Zoey Dean

  I looked up in hope. Things were bad, I understood that--but the Deming thing was going to

  make it all better, wasn't it?

  "He hated you," Iris said.

  It took a minute for the words to register, and when they did, I felt like I'd been punched in the

  stomach. "What?" I gasped, fighting for breath.

  Iris put up her hand. "Let me see if I can remember here. He said you were presumptuous.

  Arrogant. And 'the epitome of why he left this business,' as he put it. Apparently you crowed

  about what a big paycheck he was going to get. That's just how Metronome likes to woo its

  talent, by the way. Appealing to their wallets."

  Still, I waited for the good part. Deming didn't have to like me--he just had to like the movie I

  was offering him. "But he's going to do Evolution, right?"

  "No, Taylor, he is not. And now Bob Glazer is threatening a boycott against this entire studio."

  She smiled thinly. "Holden will never work with us again. Not after he turned down a twelvemillion-dollar deal with Judd Apatow to do a movie that never existed in the first place." Iris

  narrowed her eyes, and I saw where Quinn had learned her deathstare. "So not only did you

  ruin the project and embarrass me, you embarrassed this entire company."

  When I could breathe again, I simply started to cry. I stood there in front of Iris's desk and felt

  the tears fall hotly down my cheeks.

  "Fortunately Kylie's project with Troy Vaughn is hanging on by a thread and might just pull

  through," she said coolly. "Otherwise this would be a complete disaster. So could you please

  send her in on your way out?"

  "Of course," I struggled to say. I had never felt this awful in my life. But I told myself as I

  wiped my nose on the sleeve of my lovely Rebecca Beeson dress that this was part of being in

  Hollywood--the life of a creative executive had its up and its downs.

  "Oh, and you're fired, Taylor. You'll leave the lot immediately."

  With that final shock, I opened the door and was only just briefly aware of Kylie staring at me

  before I ducked my head and hurried past. I pointed toward Iris's office on my way out. "She

  wants to see you," I whispered.

  Then I walked down the pulsing hallway to the office that had been, for five minutes, mine.

  Amanda looked up from her desk, ready to hand me my cappuccino, but upon seeing me, she

  froze. She opened her mouth and then shut it again, and I thought I saw understanding flicker

  across her face. I could not say that she looked sad to see me so broken.

  She didn't know the details, but she would in about a minute. In fact, I heard an IM ping on her

  computer that I would have bet anything was from Kylie. In another two minutes, Cici,

  Wyman, Tom Scheffer, and everyone else would know, and I wanted to be gone when they

  did. I grabbed my bag and coat from my desk. I saw a security guard coming down the

  hallway, but I didn't need him to show me the way out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Three hours later, I guided my car into a diagonal spot on Larchmont Boulevard, right near

  where I'd first found Quinn at Pinkberry all those weeks ago. I turned off the ignition and

  stared, exhausted and sick, through the windshield. Since leaving my former office, I'd driven

  aimlessly around, trying to figure out how everything could have gone to shit so quickly. Now

  my mind had finally reached overload, and I could barely even cry anymore.

  I looked into the rearview mirror and flinched. My eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, with

  pink bags blooming under them, and my cheeks were blotchy. My nose seemed larger

  somehow, and even my lips looked swollen and terrible. If Luke didn't run screaming at the

  sight of me, I was going to have to offer him an explanation for the state I was in. And what

  was I going to say? Should I tell the truth and face his inevitable anger and disappointment? Or

  should I pretend I had some horrible allergic reaction to a sheepdog I'd been walking? It was a

  sign of my obvious distress that I seriously considered the latter. But I realized that it was time

  to come clean. I'd have to frame the story in a way that didn't make me seem like a stalker and

  an evil seductress, and then, after I explained that, I'd be able to tell Luke about my day. He

  would help me, I was sure. He would know how to make it right again.

  I dabbed some powder on my nose and a little MAC gloss on my lips and then climbed out

  into the brisk day and set off toward Le Petit Greek. Larchmont Boulevard didn't look as

  appealing to me as it had that day I struck my deal with Iris's backstabbing daughter. Under a

  steel-colored sky, the miniature Santa and reindeer above the crosswalk looked garish and

  cheap. Luke had been right: L.A. just wasn't meant for Christmas.

  I passed by a lingerie store and a sneaker emporium and finally turned into the simple green

  and white dining room of the eatery. There were baskets of lemons picturesquely placed here

  and there, and the walls were hung with large photographs of the Greek countryside. Most of

  the tables were full, and waiters brushed past me delivering platters of souvlaki and gyros. I

  had a hard time spotting Luke, and I craned my neck uncomfortably and squinted my puffy

  eyes. A waiter cleared his throat and I stepped out of the way. Then I saw him, at a table for

  two against the wall. But he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, and it only took me

  about one more second to figure out who it was and what she was doing there.

  I raced over to the table, my heart in my mouth. "This is my date," I hissed.

  Kylie turned around and smiled sweetly, as if she were expecting me. "There you are. We were

  just talking about you." Her smile turned into a sneer--clearly she had not been saying nice

  things. "I was just explaining to Luke that we work together. Or rather, we did."

  I glanced desperately at Luke. He looked at me blankly and then turned away. Kylie must have

  told him everything. But how had she known he was here? And how had she even known that

  I knew him? When I figured it out, I felt like the dumbest person in the world yet again. Mark

  Lyder. Never burn bridges, Taylor, he'd said. Especially not in Hollywood. He'd told Kylie

  about me and Luke, and Kylie had obviously managed to get Luke to agree to meet her.

  I hadn't thought it was possible to feel worse, but it was. "Please leave." I lowered my voice.

  "Luke has nothing to do with this."

  "Of course he does," she said in her mock-innocent tone. "He was just another way to get to

  me. Admit it."

  Luke looked down at his plate. "That's enough, Kylie," he muttered.

  But Kylie wasn't done with me yet. She looked like she could stay and rub all this in my face

  forever. "And I assume you were the one behind the whole thing at Chateau?" She nodded her

  head and didn't wait for an answer. "I figured as much. Really classy."

  It was killing me to listen to her, but what could I say? Everything she accused me of was true.

  I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists. I couldn't cry, I couldn't--not in front of

  Kylie, even though it was the only thing I wanted to do. Luke fidgeted in his chair. He still

  wouldn't look at me.

  "Fine, Kylie," I said. "The damage is done. Are you happy? You can go now."

  Kylie stood up and straightened her silky mocha-colored dress. "All this time you thought you

  were better than me," she said almost gaily, picking up her bag. "
Well, take a long look in the

  mirror. Because you make me sick." She gave one last triumphant smile, then hoisted her

  Kooba bag onto her shoulder and threaded her way past the crowded circular tables to the door.

  "Luke, please let me explain," I began, sitting down. I could feel the tears starting to come

  again, and I blinked to hold them back.

  "Is it true?" he said to the table. His voice sounded hoarse.

  I took a deep breath. There could be no more lying now. "I never was a personal groomer or a

  dog walker, it's true. I came here to L.A. because I wanted to make movies. There was nothing

  else I wanted to do with my life."

  Luke snorted. "You know that's not what I'm asking."

  I wanted to reach out and touch his hand but I was afraid he would pull it away. So instead I

  grabbed a napkin off the table and balled it up in my fists. I hated having to say what I was

  going to say. "I made that first lesson with you because yes, I did want to hurt Kylie." Luke

  began to nod, still staring down at the tablecloth. I wanted to stop there--I hated how much I

  was hurting him. Having to say it made me realize how awful I'd been, and how I was this

  close to losing something that had really begun to matter. I took a deep breath. "And then I did

  sort of arrange for you to catch her with Mark Lyder, but that was before I really got to know

  you and--"

  Luke finally looked up at me with those sad, beautiful eyes. But his voice wasn't sad at all--his

  voice was hard, like Iris's had been this morning. "I don't want to hear any more. I can't trust

  you. I thought you were real."

  I dropped the napkin on the floor and reached for his hand. But he took it away before I could

  touch it. I could feel the desperation rolling off me in waves. "I am real. The other night, with

  you in Venice, that was completely real to me."

  Luke snorted. "Except I spent it with a different person than the one sitting here right now." He

  pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. "I have to go."

  I tried to reach for his corduroy coat, but he pulled that away from me too. "Luke, I'm not

  Kylie. I know I did some things wrong, but..." I was begging, but at this point I didn't care. "I

  am that girl from the other night. Please."

  "Right now, I don't know who you are," he said, his face stony and resolute. "And I'm not sure

  I want to." Then he turned and walked away.

  I buried my face in my hands, and when I looked up a few minutes later, I was staring at a plate

  of fried squid, their poor little bodies drenched in olive oil and lemon juice.

  "The gentleman ordered it," the waiter said. "Will there be anything else?"

  "Just the check," I whispered. Just the check and a whole new life.

  "Excuse me, where is the cafeteria?"

  The young girl I'd stopped wore a stained gray kilt and tights; she looked curiously at me and

  then pointed down the hall behind me. "Down there and to the left," she said, adjusting her

  wide cloth headband. "And it's not a cafeteria; it's a lunchroom."

  "Whatever," I muttered, turning around to retrace her steps down the hall. True to its ritzy

  name, Carleton reminded me of an oversized mansion instead of a girls' school. Ivy-covered

  white colonnades marked the perimeter of the main building, and even the floors looked like

  marble. I felt a little guilty sneaking around Quinn's school, but luckily no one stopped me. I

  probably just looked like a stylish private school teacher, the one that all the girls liked.

  I turned down the hall and saw an open set of ornately carved wooden doors. A cacophony of

  gossiping teenage voices spilled out. Hesitantly I stepped across the threshold and found

  myself in the middle of a cafeteria--sorry, lunchroom--that put the Metronome commissary to

  shame. There were no flat-screen TVs, but what the room lacked in hi-tech entertainment it

  made up for in ambiance. Sunlight filtered in through double-paned windows that stretched to

  the ceiling, and the girls had a choice of gilt-pedestaled tables or plush, velvet couches along the

  wall for where to eat their sushi or salads.

  I finally spotted Quinn holding court on a couch, eating a Fage Greek yogurt, her kilted

  henchmen seated at her feet. Just seeing her smug, self-satisfied face sent a wave of rage

  washing over me. As I had sat at the table in Le Petit Greek, staring at the squid carcasses in

  the wake of Luke's departure, going to see her had seemed like the only rational thing to do. I

  wanted to hear her explain why she sold me out.

  I stood up a little taller and approached the red couch on which Quinn sat like a pasha. One of

  the girls noticed me coming but didn't say anything. She just stared at me until I was right in

  front of them--until I spoke.

  "I need to talk to you," I said.

  Quinn sneered. "What the hell for?" One of the girls on the ground giggled, and I could see

  others turning to look. I was obviously out of place in this room of uniformed adolescents, and

  suddenly I was attracting a lot of attention.

  I tried to keep my voice down. "I did what you wanted. I risked my job for you. And then you

  sell me out to your mom? How could you do that?" My voice quavered, though I was trying

  desperately to stay cool.

  "Easily." Quinn stood up and tossed her yogurt into the trash. " It's never your fault. Didn't I

  teach you anything?" she asked with a smirk. "I do what I want to do. You know that. So why

  expect me to be different for you?"

  I didn't have an answer for that. Because Quinn was right. This entire time Quinn had never

  deviated from who she really was: a girl who would use, cheat, and betray anyone in her path.

  It was why I'd asked for her help in the first place.

  At least she knew who she was, I thought. Luke had said he didn't know who I was. But the

  truth was, neither did I.

  "Are we done here?" Quinn said, and before I could answer, she was gone.

  Her gaggle of girlfriends remained for another moment on the couch, each of them staring at

  me--some with pitying looks, others with scorn--and then one by one, they stood up in their

  short skirts and breezed on by me too, leaving me alone in the middle of a high school

  lunchroom.

  Hollywood is like high school, Mark Lyder had said. And he was right. But as for which one

  was worse, I couldn't really say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  M erry Christmas, emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!"

  For the first time that I could ever remember, Jimmy Stewart's final run down the main street of

  Bedford Falls failed to make me tear up. In fact, I barely felt a thing. I hit Pause on the DVR

  and rewound the scene.

  I reached down from the couch, where I had been lying for the last six days, and picked up

  another Philly Steak & Cheese Hot Pocket from the plate on the floor. I ate it without sitting up;

  I had perfected the art of prone digestion.

  I had also perfected the art of being awake without thinking about anything. The key was

  television. I'd read somewhere that the brain is more active asleep than it is watching TV, and

  after a pleasantly anesthetized week, I was here to say that yes, TV was the next best thing to a

  lobotomy. And it was certainly cheaper and easier to come by. As long as I stayed on the

  couch, in front of the flickering screen, I could spend an entire day without seeing Iris's s
teely

  glare, Luke's sweet smile, or Kylie's triumphant smirk. I could also tune out the memory of

  Quinn's cutting voice and the humiliation of a day that had begun with being fired and ended

  with being escorted out of the cafeteria--no, lunchroom--by a burly woman in a hairnet who

  told me I should find girls my own age to play with.

  It was only when I went to bed that all of those images flooded my brain. So for bedtime, there

  was ice cream, numbing my mind along with my taste buds and sending me into a sugar-filled

  stupor.

  Magnolia stood over me, her pretty brow furrowed and that awful Cabbage in her arms. "You

  sure you're all right? Do you need anything?"

  We'd made up after our fight--she'd offered to dry-clean my Calypso dress, and I'd apologized

  for suggesting she was one step away from knitting dog-hair sweaters. We had agreed that we

  were both under a lot of stress (Magnolia, for instance, had had a particularly hairy round of

  customers that day) and had sealed our friendship over an obligatory meal of Poquito Mas.

  Jimmy Stewart was just starting his jog when the scene froze. Remote in hand, Magnolia

  perched on the arm of the couch. "Taylor? You there?" She waved a few manicured fingers in

  front of my face.

  "I'm fine," I said to the TV.

  "Are you getting any responses?" She pointed to the laptop that lay next to the Hot Pockets.

  "Any interviews?"

  "Oh." I sat up. "I'm sure I am. I just haven't checked in a while." Magnolia cleared her throat

  and said gently, "I don't mean to sound like your mother or anything, but you can't get a job if

  you aren't even really trying."

  I twisted my head around so that she could see me roll my eyes at her. "I don't see what's so

  great about having a job. I mean, you can't stand yours. I couldn't keep mine. I don't see why I

  can't just lie here for another month. I've learned a lot about cleaning rain gutters from HGTV,

  for example. Also I now know a lot about cuttlefish, thanks to PBS. Did you know that some

  of them can turn all the colors of the rainbow?"

  Magnolia sighed. "You sound like a crazy person, Taylor."

  I didn't answer her. I felt like a crazy person. I crossed one leg over the other and at that point