1. Octavia
Chapter 1
Octavia
E veryone makes mistakes.
I’ve heard that cliché my entire life. And largely, I’m sure it’s true. But my life’s goal has been never to make any mistakes. I try my best in every situation to make the right choice the very first time.
But there’s one notable exception.
I did something really terrible once, a few months ago. As a judge in a contest, I scored the best person the very worst. I did it specifically so that she’d lose, even though she clearly deserved to win. Her talent was, to someone who was actually trained in the subject, crystal clear. I shouldn’t have done it, but in that moment, I had no choice.
Had she won, she might have turned out just like me.
And having an epic dream coupled with real talent. . . but hiding it. . . is about the worst thing in the world.
I don’t have a choice, but she did, so I forced her to try.
Unlike me, Beatrice Cipriani’s face was pristine—flawless. Mine is the opposite of that. Even if I pursued my dream of becoming a popstar full throttle, there’s no way it would ever happen. Like a plane with a broken turbine, a train with rocks in the engine, or a sprinter with a leaky heart valve, I’m doomed from the start.
My failure was decided many years ago when a cheap plastic wig caught fire and stuck itself to my face, neck, and shoulder. My body healed the damage, but the scars. . .those are permanent.
There are many dreams a girl with a terribly burned face could pursue. If I wanted to paint masterpieces, my face might even be a fascination. If I loved designing video games, I’d be just fine. A show jumper? Horses don’t care what you look like, or at least, I don’t think they do. If my talent lay with crafting unique stories, I could use a cartoon profile photo and no one would ever have to know.
To do those things, I’d probably need a bigger brain.
My one true asset in life is my voice, and people have to look at you for nearly every iteration of success as a singer. Thanks to that fateful day and that cheap, miserable wig, exactly no one wants to look at me. That’s why I’m stuck singing jingles, so no one has to look at me.
I can’t blame people—I don’t want to look at myself either.
It’s interesting that symmetry is the standard of beauty, because that’s the one thing I can never achieve. Ironically, that darn wig plastered itself down my face in very nearly a straight line. The straight line down the center of my face neatly highlights my lack of symmetry. It didn’t help that my body seemed to hate all the treatments—not that it’s totally the doctors’ fault. I hated the bindings and wraps and wasn’t the most compliant patient. The one graft that took well was the one that repaired the burn on my chin. Only a hairline scar remains there now, connecting my lower lip to my jawline, the other side of the graft concealed just below the edge of my face.
The other grafts we tried didn’t go well at all, and it shows.
When we gave up on medical intervention, I had to accept my situation. After that, my vocal talent kind of hurt. So watching someone else with the raw talent to do what I couldn’t blow it on jingles? I just couldn’t help her settle for second best. That’s why, as a judge for the Jello jingle, I voted Beatrice Cipriani down. If I’d known what she’d do next, I’d have let her win. She could have hidden away with me at our jingle agency, a co-worker and a new friend for life.
I hated the idea of her dying inside a little more every day as she wasted her life on commercials, but that darn girl’s been almost worse than the wig, which at least had the decency to stop torturing me once the doctors pried it away from my body, taking my ruined skin along with it.
No, Bea just clings on, torturing me in new ways every day.
She is talented, though. She’s probably more talented than anyone I’ve ever met. In fact, just this morning she came up with yet another song, one that the studio’s dying to get down. “It’ll be perfect for the kiss scene,” I finally agree. “It hits just the right tone, and that melody.”
“I think it should be piano only,” Bea says. “They made us add drums, bass, and guitar to everything else, but this one has to be soft, understated, and flowing. Only piano can get that right.”
Our guitarist, Morgan, is already opening her mouth to argue.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Eddy says. “We promised her one song that’s just piano in the contract, and the first kiss is a good place for it.”
Morgan’s eyes flash, but she says nothing. She’s a bit of a diva, but she can really play guitar, so I try not to hold it against her. Most artists can’t get out of their own way.
“They’re filming this right now,” Eddy says. “The kiss scene, I mean. So when I said you nailed the music, they asked you to come watch. Jake thought it might help you get the tone right or tweak the words or something.” Eddy shrugs. “He said it’s part of your process.”
“I already read the scene,” Bea grumbles. “Why do I need to go watch him being all weird and fake?”
“Does he look fake to you?” That surprises me. He seems exactly the same in person as he does on screen.
I might be a bit of a Jake Priest fangirl in the privacy of my own home. As long as Bea never finds out, or worse, Jake , it should be fine. How could anyone not have a harmless crush on someone like him? Between his huge dimples and his big, shiny teeth. . . It’s like he was made for the big screen. His well-defined muscles don’t hurt, either. I always assumed that people like him would be just awful in person, but he’s not. He’s funny, personable, and kind, and he would do anything for his sister. That goes a long way with me, because I’m an only child, and I always wanted a sibling.
“Not so much fake as just. . .hollow. I can’t really describe it. The part of him that makes him Jake just. . .” She shrugs. “It’s like it’s not there when he’s acting. It’s annoying enough to me that I don’t really like watching his movies.” She grimaces. “If any of you repeat a single word of that, I’ll chop you up into small pieces and feed you to that stray dog that keeps lurking just out of reach behind the hotel.”
Watching Bea try to act threatening is cute. It’s like a rabbit brandishing a long twig. My lip twitches, but Morgan outright laughs. “Yeah, we’ll be sure to keep that one a secret. Can’t have you hacking us up.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Eddy gestures at the door.
There’s a studio van idling on the curb. I sigh, like I’m annoyed, but really, I’m a little shaky with excitement. We’ll be on set with Jake Priest and Patrice Jouveau. Honestly, if I had to pick someone to date the practically-perfect-Jake-Priest, it would be her. They both have wide, cartoon eyes. They both have beautifully symmetrical faces. They both have a presence about them, and they both pull some real fandoms.
There’s been a lot of chatter online about this movie, mostly because we’re all wondering whether the universe might explode when they touch. Two perfect people in one small space. . .finally having their first kiss.
I can’t help my shiver.
“Are you cold?” Bea asks. “I have a sweater.”
Even though it’s technically fall, it’s a perfect seventy-two degrees in LA, like it is eight or nine months out of the year, pretty much. “I’m fine.”
Bea, however, is always cold. She puts the frumpy sweater on like she couldn’t care less how she looks on the set of a glamorous, Hollywood film. Then again, she has a beautiful face, and a gorgeous fiancé who adores her, so she probably doesn’t care.
Even if I was so frozen that my arms and legs would barely move, even if I was actively turning blue, I wouldn’t wear that chunky, ratty old sweater. But then again, when you have one glaring flaw that everyone you meet gawks at, you can’t risk even tiny faux pas.
I watch in partial awe as the scenery rolls past.
Massive mansions.
Dolled up women in designer dresses and monstrous heels.
Palm trees, rippling waves, and a cloudless blue sky for miles in all directions. It’s pretty surreal to be here. New York weather’s fickle and usually at least a little glum. We also don’t have beaches like this—not anywhere. And our women have waaaay less silicon in their bodies and a lot less sun-kissed gold on their skin.
As we finally pull into the lot and park, my heart accelerates.
Can I manage to be just another person in the crowd? Or will everyone notice my face, stare, murmur, point, hiss, and jeer? It’s usually about fifty-fifty odds which way it will go. Sometimes people avert their eyes, like I have some kind of gruesome injury they don’t want to see, but honestly, that’s better than the unkind remarks, the rude questions, or the protective words and gestures they make to move people away from me.
A gorgeous monstrosity.
Bea named me well.
I’ve been waiting, ever since this madness began, for my face to ruin everything for me, for Bea, for Jake, and for the movie, in that order. It’s just a matter of time before it happens, but no matter how many times I’ve warned Bea, she ignores me.
I can’t tell whether she’s oblivious or willfully ignorant.
Either way, she’s remarkably consistent. The very second we reach the viewing area behind the cameras, Bea waves, catching Jake’s eye immediately.
He was leaning against a boardroom table in a tux—the way they construct these sets is impressive to me. The furniture looks like it costs more than the set design. Jake in a tux is. . .distractingly handsome. I’m sure it was for the scene, but he was managing to look truly, genuinely bored, which was impressive, because not two feet away, Patrice Jouveau’s standing in a floor length evening gown, slit almost up to her hip bone. Her makeup’s pristine, her luminous face adorably vulnerable.
Her lips—it’s clear they knew this was the kiss scene. They’re full, pink, and glistening. I almost want to kiss them, and I have zero interest in women.
“You’ll have to go again,” someone’s saying.
But Jake shakes his head. “Let’s take five.” He’s smiling now, as he strides toward us. “My sister’s here.”
“Oh, your sister who’s doing sound, right?” Patrice smiles as she follows Jake our direction. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Not sound,” Jake says. “The sound track .”
Patrice’s face barely wrinkles as she frowns. “Sound. Soundtrack.” She shakes her head, like he’s being an idiot. “Right.”
“Sound is all the effects for the movie.” Jake glares. “The soundtrack is art.”
“No, I know, and you’re totally right. I said it wrong.” Patrice’s smile looks forced, but I can’t blame her. I’d be annoyed if someone corrected me so harshly for one little slip in front of people I’d never met.
“I hear today’s the first kiss,” Bea says. “Pretty exciting.”
“Not really,” Jake mutters. “Should be as awkward as ever.”
Patrice laughs. “As if.”
“As if what?” Bea’s frowning now, and her entire forehead wrinkles when she does.
“As if it could possibly be awkward with the two stars in Hollywood who are the most famous for their excellent kissing.” Patrice blinks and stares at Bea. “You know, you look nothing like Jake.” She blinks again. “Honestly, you look Asian.”
Jake laughs. “You have a keen eye.” He shakes his head. “Adopted sister.”
“Oh.” Patrice arches one carefully groomed eyebrow. “So you’re not really related at all. You could—” She cuts off and huffs.
It’s slight, but Jake’s nostrils flare. “That’s?—”
“You’re right,” Bea says. “We aren’t really related at all.” She steps closer to him. “In fact, now that you mention it, we could get married. I had never realized that.” Her eyes widen and her hands paw his chest. “Oh, my darling Jake.”
Jake starts laughing and shoves her off.
Patrice looks horrified.
I can’t help a small snort.
“Bea’s fiancé’s one of the film’s investors,” Eddy says from behind me. “I don’t think she has any plans to start dating her brother—genetically connected or not.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that adopted siblings aren’t real siblings,” I say. “You probably just misunderstood.”
Patrice’s face swivels my direction. “And who are you?” She looks quite unhappy, though I’m not sure why. I was defending her.
“This is our main talent,” Bea says. “She’s my best friend, too, Octavia Rothschild.”
She’s never called me that—her best friend. My heart expands, like a very dry sponge drawing in water. I can’t help my smile.
“You’ve never heard anyone with a voice as beautiful as hers,” Jake says.
Patrice grimaces. “Or a face quite so ugly.”
Her words are like the hit of a habanero pepper, the sting from a slap, and the crack of a broken bone.
Unexpected.
Painful.
Debilitating.
“That’s not true at all,” Bea’s eyes flash, “and it was horribly mean. You should apologize immediately.”
“I think her words are more a reflection of her ugliness than anything else,” Jake says, so quietly, so casually, that I almost don’t register their meaning. “An apology from her’s worthless anyway. Don’t bother asking.”
Patrice’s big, beautiful eyes widen, and she blinks. “I—I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude, and of course, not true. I was just so shocked. I haven’t seen anything like the burns on your face before, and. . .” Her face has flushed quite red.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I can see why they said you and I would be filming the scenes for the music videos,” she whispers. “Because who would want to look at. . .” She sniffs.
A muscle in Jake’s jaw tightens and releases. For a moment, I worry that he’ll criticize her again, making a big scene. It would be the exact wrong thing to do, of course, since it would only draw more attention to me.
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
“Looks like we’re out of time,” Jake mutters. “Come on, Patty . Let’s go get this scene over with.”
“Yes,” Patrice says. “Of course. Work first. Play later.”
If the sides of Jake’s eyes tighten and the slant of his lips is a little hard, well, I don’t know him that well. Maybe I’m misinterpreting it.
“I can see why he hates her,” Bea whispers. “She’s horrible.”
“Wait, he hates her?” Morgan has leaned so close that she’s inches from toppling over on Bea. “Because I’d pee on her Cheerios with a smile on my face, and we just met.”
Bea chuckles. “He didn’t know her when they chose her for this part, but he said she’s arrogant, irritating, and obtuse.”
I’d say those are all accurate descriptions.
“Well, you couldn’t pay me enough to kiss her.” Morgan scowls. “I’d be worried my lips would wither and fall off.”
That makes me laugh, and the camera crew, as well as Patrice and one of the set guys, all glare.
Jake, however, looks amused. He catches my eye and winks.
After that, I feel a little better. It helps to know he doesn’t like Patrice the Poop. If I hadn’t just noticed, and if Bea hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t be able to tell he disliked Patrice at all. When he slams one hand beside her head, his eyes fixed on hers, his teeth biting his lip, my heart hammers in my chest. And then when his head drops slowly, so painfully slowly toward her mouth, I forget to breathe. He’s a really good actor, and I’m not the only one to notice. Bea, Morgan, and even Eddy are all watching intently.
Even without our soundtrack, this scene’s going to be epic.
When they finally kiss, I can’t help a small sigh.
But the second the director yells cut, Jake drops her like a burning coal and pivots on his heel. “We good?”
“One take?” The director whistles. “Let’s make sure we got it from every angle first.”
Jake nods, walking back toward us.
“How long will you need the song to run?” Bea asks, the second he reaches us. “Because it looks like the scene’s about three minutes, and I think the song’s only going to be two and a half, but we could do a reprise, or we could add another verse.”
“I’d have to hear it to say,” Jake says. “But you know we want the swell to happen right as the kiss does.”
Bea nods. “Right, so maybe not a reprise.”
Jake shrugs. “Loses some impact, really. We could also segue from--”
Eddy clears his throat. “This isn’t really your job, you know.”
“But it is mine,” Bea says. “And he knows more about music for movies than I do, so he offered to help.”
“Fine, but you’re not going to convince Jane to credit you for the soundtrack.” Eddy’s smiling, or I’d be worried he was serious.
“We should go to karaoke tonight,” Bea says. “I hear they have a new place not far from our hotel that just opened called Seoul Town.”
Jake cringes. “Soul town?”
“Not like my heart and soul,” Bea says. “Like Seoul, Korea. It’s like the karaoke places in Korea instead of the big bars here where everyone takes turns getting a song and performs for a hundred people. These are a bunch of smaller rooms where they have a screen, sofas, and props. It’s for small groups and parties, and we could sing this song a variety of ways to try it out.”
“But they won’t have the music,” I say. “We can’t practice?—”
“Are you saying you can’t sing a cappella ?” Bea looks smug. “I find that hard to believe.”
“We could record a few different versions before we go,” Morgan says. “One with a guitar and one without, for instance.” She side-eyes Bea. “People could weigh in on what sounds better.”
Bea’s shoulders straighten. “Eddy promised me?—”
“Calm down,” Jake says. “You’re worse than a movie star.”
“Hardly,” Bea says. “And you should be in favor of preserving the artistic integrity of the project.”
“I like the karaoke idea,” I say. “You get so caught up on the piano that you sometimes make a lot of changes to things that don’t even need them. I think we should try it a few different ways, and record them, and then you can listen to them in the morning.”
“Actually that’s not a bad idea.” Jake shakes his head. “I can see it now, the news headline. Bizarre artist drags piano into local karaoke club, scraping floors and smashing doorways in order to write new song for hit movie ? —”
“Did someone say karaoke? Because I think we’re done now.” Patrice half-smiles. “I’d love to come sing through the options for you, since Jake and I will be the ones singing for the album.”
“Since. . .what?” Jake asks.
Eddy coughs. “Well, we meant to talk to you about it, but some of the investors thought it might be good publicity to have Patrice do the vocals for the music video, and then when her agent told us she could sing, we thought maybe she could be the headliner for the album. We’d still have Octavia singing backups, of course, and she’ll be credited on the album.”
They want to ditch the major liability for a sure thing.
They’d be stupid not to do that.
I’m just wondering why it took them so long to think of it.