We're So Famous (17 page)

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 his 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.