3. Octavia
Chapter 3
Octavia
I was seven years old when I was cast as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
My mom, whom I expected to be overjoyed, was very, very angry. In fact, when I came home and told her the news, she kicked the wall so hard that it left a small hole.
When Dad came home from work that day, she told him I caused the damage by throwing a video game controller—I didn’t even play video games. At the time, I thought she was upset because she’d have to take me to so many rehearsals—Dorothy had to be at every one.
Now I’m not sure why she was so angry.
People are funny, with their conflicting hopes, dreams, and fears. I can’t imagine ever being upset about my own child’s success, but maybe the world changes you. Maybe once I have a child, watching my kid do what I’ve failed at will upset me.
Mom loves to sing, but her voice has never been more than serviceable. Instead of being happy when my ability was praised, the older I got, the more my ability seemed to upset her.
Until a wig stuck to my face and caused my burns.
While I was recovering, she got me singing lessons. In some ways, that might have been the single most critical event of my life. It’s what took me from having a decent voice to having a phenomenal one. Thanks to my disfigurement, I no longer got cast for any musicals, so my mom didn’t get upset that I was doing better than her. I never showed her up again. How could I? I was just the poor, sad little burned girl with the lovely voice.
It’s all I’ve ever been since that day.
People call me hideous or a monster.
When they meet me, all they see is my face. They always focus on the very visible manifestation of the worst moment of my life. In fact, when Eddy confirmed that Patrice Jouveau would be singing for the album alongside Jake Priest, I felt relieved. There’s no way that doing something so visible, something so exposed wouldn’t result in a million comments, interactions, and incidents just like the one where Patrice called me ugly. I know their reactions say more about them than they do about me. That’s the whole point of the song, after all. But it still stings.
Every single time.
No one wants to be called ugly.
When I wake up, the morning after getting the news that I wouldn’t be performing for the movie album after all, I start to pack my bags. I definitely won’t miss living out of a suitcase. Being here in Hollywood has been an amazing experience in many ways. But being in a place that’s all about appearances is even harder when you look different.
I’m more than ready to get home.
I’ve nearly packed everything when I hear a banging on the hotel front door. I’m absolutely sure it’s Bea. She literally never remembers to take her key when she goes out. I’m still wearing my pajamas, plaid button down and pants, but I whip the door open without a second thought.
Bea storms past, but then she pivots and glares at my plaid pants. “Girl, why aren’t you ready? You can’t mean to go in that.”
Maybe she did notice.
“Go where?” My eyebrows rise. “If I’m not going to be recording, I don’t need to go. . .” Unless. . . Does the studio still want me to do the voice, while Patrice is just the face?
“Um, we’re going in to the recording studio, duh. Have you not checked social at all?” She smacks her head. “I forget sometimes that your Instagram account has one photo—a bouquet of lilies—and you never check it.” She whips out her phone. “Look.”
I’m a little confused, but I pull it up. “Did I post something last night? Or did you?” But there’s nothing. I didn’t post, and neither did she. “What exactly am I supposed to be?—”
“I didn’t think anyone could be worse at this than me. Gimme.” She grabs my phone and holds it in front of me like she’s doing a tutorial. “You tap here, and you see where people have tagged you .”
I frown. “But why would?—”
But there are dozens of tags—more than dozens. Hundreds.
“What is all that?”
“Well, I’ve been tagging you in clips and album recording news, from our new band account, but forget that. Look at this one.” She purses her lips, taps something, and swivels the phone.
The video isn’t very sharp, but it’s clearly me. The camera zooms in on my face, and across the top, there’s fixed text.
WHO’S THE REAL MONSTER? YOU DECIDE.
It’s a clip from when we visited the set yesterday. Jake has just jogged over to say hello.
“My sister’s here,” he says. His voice sounds a little tinny, which means this video isn’t the best—was it something that was just rolling on set?
“Oh, your sister who’s doing sound, right?” Patrice practically saunters over next to him. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Not sound,” Jake’s saying, just as he did in my memory. “The soundtrack .”
Patrice scowls, but it quickly disappears. “Sound. Soundtrack.” I didn’t even notice in the moment that she waved her hand so dismissively through the air. “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.”
“I hear today’s the first kiss,” Bea says. “Pretty exciting.”
“Not really.” Jake arches one eyebrow. “Should be as awkward as ever.”
Patrice’s laughter is high-pitched. Almost unhinged. “As if.” It’s strange watching this as a bystander, and not being there in the moment. It feels. . .different, probably because I’m not awed by famous people’s presences.
Though, I do remember what’s coming. “How long does this video roll?”
“Long enough.” Bea’s nodding slowly. “Keep watching.”
My talking made me miss some of it, but Patrice is just saying, “Honestly, you look Asian.”
Jake’s laughter sounds a little ruder than I remember. “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—” It’s even more blatant with the way she’s glaring at Bea that she was implying they could date. I get it—Bea’s really pretty. If I were Patrice, and if I had an interest in dating my co-star, I’d see Bea as a threat. She’s someone he cares about, someone he likes a lot, and someone so gorgeous.
I wouldn’t try to undermine the other woman, but I’m not Patrice.
Jake opens his mouth, but before he can respond, Bea cuts him off. “You’re right. We aren’t really related at all.” She steps closer to her brother. “In fact, now that you mention it, we could get married. I had never realized that.” She turns and stares up at him, pressing her hand to his chest. “Oh, my darling Jake.”
Jake’s laughing, but he shoves her away.
It’s still funny the second time, but Patrice looks upset. I don’t recall snorting, but the noise definitely attracts Patrice’s notice.
“Bea’s fiancé’s one of the film’s investors.” Eddy’s speaking, but with the angle, I can’t see him, since he was right behind me. The fact that I can hear him makes me think someone smart tinkered with the sound to make it clearer, crisper, and cleaner.
Who posted this?
It’s the first time I’ve wondered.
Before I can give it much more thought, I’m talking on screen again—defending Bea and trying to excuse Patrice. “You probably just misunderstood.”
Patrice straight up glares at me. “And who are you?”
Again, like I did yesterday, I can’t help wondering why it upset her to have me step in and excuse her silly inference.
“This is our main talent.” Bea never hesitates to defend me. “She’s my best friend, too, Octavia Rothschild.”
It hits me in the feels again, hearing her call me her best friend. I’m sure it was another method of defense, since we’ve barely known each other a few months, but it still feels nice to hear. I’m smiling brightly, which is probably what pushed Patrice into it. My burned skin pulls funny when I smile. It makes a lot of people uncomfortable.
“You’ve never heard anyone with a voice as beautiful as hers.” I forgot Jake said that, too.
But this I remember—Patrice’s eyes spark as she says, “Or a face quite so ugly.”
The video cuts then, and there’s just a blue screen with the words VOTE FOR WHO’S UGLY IN THE COMMENTS.
Only, in the comments, there’s only one option: Patrice Jouveau.
That’s when I grab my phone and look at the account—it only has this one post, and the title of the account is PATRICEJOUVEAUSUCKS.
An anonymous hater? At least from an anonymous source, very few people probably saw it. . .except when I check the views, it’s already in the millions. Tens of millions. And the comments. . .there are so many comments.
This is bad.
This is very bad.