4. Jake
Chapter 4
Jake
Dear Dad:
I’m glad you had that Quintin guy reach out. They check every single email I send you officially, I’m sure, so it was hard to say anything useful at all. You always manage to find the right people. I’m sure you’ll be free in no time.
I did want to tell you all the ways I’ve already taken advantage of the Fansee family. They really are easy marks. I have to assume they had no idea what they were doing when they got you caught. They’re not smart enough to have done it intentionally.
Since coming here, they’ve been buying me lots of clothes and shoes, and they’re paying for acting club and the plays for theater. They treat me just like every other stray they’ve brought in, and believe me, the other kids are just as stupid as they are.
The worst one is Bea, who seems to think she’s going to save me—I’m convinced they must go to meetings and pat each other on the back for how they’re saving a bunch of irredeemable kids. Can you even imagine being that dumb?
But maybe you don’t need to target them when you get out, because trust me, I’m already bleeding them dry. They just have that little hotel, and I’m not sure it’s very profitable. You’d be better off searching for richer marks in the time you have. These guys have made themselves into victims, and they have a bunch of leeches already attached. I can’t wait for you to get out so you can break me out of here, and when you do, let’s get out of here as fast as we can.
Love,
Jake
I ’m mid-stretch after waking when I remember what I did. It’s in my contract that I won’t say anything disparaging about the film, its executives, or the other actors. Anything that might harm any of them is grounds for disciplinary action—a court can literally put a price tag on the damage I’ve done and fine me for it.
I don’t regret it.
But I’d be a moron not to be nervous.
I didn’t attack Patrice, but I did kind of attack the executives for their decision. They’re the ones who are the most likely to sue. We’re too far into filming for them to replace me, I think. They’d lose their shirts if they did.
But if this film tanks because I criticized them, they could make it very hard for me to line up my next project.
I’m really going to be kicking myself if I’m stuck filming infomercials for the next decade because of my white knight moment. If my dad were here, he’d be shouting at my na?veté. Clearly my years with do-gooders like Bea, Seren, and Dave have warped my brain. I finally force myself to pick up my phone, and it’s bad.
114 text messages.
16 missed calls.
I knew there would be fallout, but why are six of them from Bea? Is she calling to thank me for standing up for her friend? She sent me a link.
When I click on it, I can’t help my sideways smile.
Someone—a very smart, very sneaky, and probably well-connected someone—yoinked the studio feed and posted it online with just the right hashtags. I really, reeally doubt it was Octavia. She rolled over and accepted the pronouncement. She almost looked relieved not to be doing such a high-profile job.
No, it wasn’t her. I’m sure of it.
But who did post the video?
I search the comments for clues, hoping the original poster replied to something. Of course, there are always plenty of trolls online. I often wonder just what sort of human would make a comment with the ugly, rude, and completely moronic trash I regularly see. The handful of comments about Patrice being right, saying that Octavia is ugly make me squeeze my phone a little too hard.
But for every comment like that, there are ten more defending Octavia.
Posting this was a calculated gamble, and it was clearly put up by someone who had something to lose from Patrice taking over. There aren’t many people in that category. The studio was making the safe play—selling out the new for the sure-thing. I get why they’d do it, being a group of conservative businessmen, mostly.
The studio will be upset by this, and I realize, slowly because it’s early, that I’m probably their number one suspect. Bea was upset, and she’s my sister. Once Easton complained, which I’m sure he did, they’d know her position on it if they had any doubts. Then when they checked my social media. . .they’d see my position.
In support of my suspicion, I notice that Eddy, our executive director, called me four times. Adam, the producer, called me five. Even Frances called me—the woman who makes finance and budget cuts—and I only have her number saved as a courtesy. She’s never called me about anything else. I get memos and information from her via email, but for her to call. . .
It must be really bad.
I call Adam first. I know him best, and he understands how I feel about Bea and by extension, Octavia.
“This is bad, Jake. You posted that, and then you ducked our calls?”
“My post was even-handed, considering how you handled the so-called plan to cut Octavia out. You signed a contract with her and Bea.”
“They’ll still be paid,” Adam says. “Eddy says you knew that.”
“All I said was that trading Octavia for Patrice was a mistake. I didn’t insult you guys or Patrice.”
He grunts.
“And you should know—I have no idea who leaked that video.”
“You’re saying it wasn’t you?” Adam grunts again. “And I should believe that. . .why?”
“If I’d been smart enough to think about leaking that video,” I say, “why on earth would I also post on my social, drawing a blinking line right to me?”
“So you could ask me that very question?”
“Yeah.” I can’t help my chuckle. “Not that smart.”
When he grunts a third time, I wonder whether he’s sitting on the toilet. “I wish I could believe that.” He hangs up.
That could’ve gone better, but it also could’ve been worse. No threats. No swearing. No demands, either. He’s probably not sure what to demand now, because with the number of views on that video, it’s surely been duet-ed, stitched, and remade about a zillion times. There’s no shutting it down at this point.
And it’s a real video—not spliced.
Anyone who has met Patrice in real life, even for a moment, will immediately realize she’s a horrible person. So who’s smarter than me and willing to stand up for Octavia, but not brave enough to attach their name to it? I’d like to buy them a drink. Could it be my sister? She wouldn’t have wanted to implicate me, but she would have wanted justice for Octavia. She also would have been plenty smart enough. With Easton’s help, she could have doctored the video.
I call her.
“Did you do it?” Her first words basically tell me it wasn’t her.
“Well, shoot,” I say. “I was hoping it was you.”
“The studio’s released a statement,” Bea says. “Two minutes ago. They say they never had a switch planned, and that Octavia currently has and always has had their full support.”
I can’t help my smile. “Well, that’s the first good news since yesterday. They’re running scared.”
“They want proof it was you,” Bea says. “They may have been forced to keep Octavia in for vocals, but they’ll want someone’s head to roll for having their hand forced.”
“I hope they don’t find out who it was,” I say. “Because you’re right. They’ll kill them.”
“Same.”
“Did you see the email?”
“Bea, I’ve been up for ten minutes,” I say. “I watched the video, called Adam back, and then I called you. What email?” I drag myself across the apartment and start a pot of coffee. Even with the adrenaline, my eyes are burning, and my head feels fuzzy. I am so not a morning person.
“They want you to come in early this morning,” Bea says. “You’re doing the music video with Octavia, not Patty.”
“They’re cutting her for the video—what about the movie?”
“I think she’s safe there,” Bea says, “if she agrees to do some damage control. She’s already released some crap about how the video was spliced and the whole thing was taken out of context.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes, not that Bea can see.
“Losing the music video’s her hand slap, I guess,” she says.
“They have to prove they don’t think I’m ugly.” The words are so faint I can barely hear them.
“You’re with Octavia now?”
“Duh,” Bea says. “She’s really not excited about doing the music video.”
“Do you think there’s any chance she posted the video?” I whisper.
Bea laughs. “Not a single one.”
“Then who do you think it was?”
“I’m not sure I can tell someone who blasts all their thoughts on social media.” I know just the expression she has right now. Smug condescension.
That means she saw my post.
“In case I haven’t said it yet,” Bea’s whispering now. “Thank you. I love you for that.”
It warms my heart a little bit to hear it. I’m not sure why I care, but I can’t help myself from asking, “Did, um.” I clear my throat. “Did Octavia see it?”
“See what? The video?”
“Never mind,” I say. “How long do I have to get ready?”
“They want you there for blocking in an hour and ten minutes,” Bea says. “Octavia’s doing her hair.”
“Didn’t you tell her that professionals will do that for her on set?”
“She’s not keen on anyone else messing with her hair and makeup, but I did mention it,” Bea says.
“Well, I’ll see you in a few, I guess,” I say.
Usually I roll in for prep with wet hair and whatever t-shirt I happen to grab off the pile, but I find myself doing my hair, at least a bit, before we go. We’re only blocking for the video, after all. That means they may not do anything. I’d hate to look like an idiot, you know, in front of whoever might be there.
Not any particular person, but just, whoever.
I have an image to uphold, and after my post, it can’t hurt to look my best. Inexplicably, Patrice is there when I arrive, waiting. She’s sort of fiddling with the ring on her left hand, almost as if she’s nervous.
When I head for the set, she moves to intercept me.
I brace myself for whatever favor she’ll be asking this time. “Hey, Jake.” Her forced smile sets my teeth on edge.
I bob my head, my lips compressed tightly.
“I saw your post—I thought it was so well done. You were careful not to imply that I had anything to do with the studio’s decision, and you even complimented my singing.”
I force a smile. “Why are you here?” I tilt my head. “We’re blocking for the video you aren’t stealing now.”
“I was never—” She inhales sharply and nods. “No, I know. I do.”
I lift both eyebrows.
“But—I guess I wanted to check in with you and make sure you’d support me.”
“Support you?” I can’t do it. I can’t force a smile right now. A blank stare’s the best I can manage. “Yesterday, you called a good friend of mine—a talented genius friend of mine— ugly . To her face.”
She coughs.
“You’re one of the most beautiful women in America in terms of your face and general figure, and you’ve made quite the career on that. The fact that you felt the need to call names—of anyone—is truly. . .” I shake my head. “It’s appalling, really. I didn’t want your agency to sue me, so I didn’t say everything I felt, and I had no idea that video was going to be exposed. But Patrice, if you think I’m going to somehow intercede with the public or even with the Devil himself on your behalf, you’re delusional.”
All the blood has drained from her face. “You’re such a hypocrite, Jake. You’re better looking than everyone else just like I am, and I was just saying what everyone else was thinking.”
“Don’t try and pretend your twisted brain bears any resemblance to everyone else’s,” I say. “I think Octavia’s one of the prettiest people I have ever met, and not only her appearance. She’s been through something painful, something miserable, and now everyone she meets points it out. I’m guessing you didn’t even think what it must have felt like for her to have been burned like that. To you, the reminder’s ugly.”
Patrice drops her voice, like she can’t risk a repeat of yesterday. “To literally everyone, it’s ugly.”
“I think it shows how strong she is. Have you ever heard of raku pottery?” I arch one eyebrow. “I’m thinking you’re not much of a pottery person.”
“What?” Patrice huffs. “What does that have to do with?—”
“Raku’s a style that began in Japan, and the word means ‘happiness in the accident.’ They plunge the fired pieces into water, and then they set the outside of them on fire, letting various things, like paper or sawdust, burn on the exterior. It makes for different and varied colors and textures, and it’s my very favorite style of pottery, because it’s not always the same.”
“You’re saying she’s pretty because she’s different?” Patrice bunches up her nose.
“I’m saying she’s pretty.” I snort. “Period.” I step closer and narrow my eyes. “You just can’t see it, because in addition to being ugly inside, you’re too stupid to have an eye for real beauty.”
“Okay.” Patrice shakes her head. “Now who’s delusional?” She tosses her hair. “I’m just here to apologize so I can get it on video and move on from this dumpster fire.”
“Great timing, then.” Octavia’s voice is both loud and clear from the far side of the room.
I spin around as fast as Patrice, hoping she hasn’t been there long. I’m not sure she’d appreciate me comparing her face to clay that’s been set on fire.
“Oh,” Patrice says. “I didn’t realize?—”
“It’s fine.” Octavia’s smile is tight. I’ve noticed that she usually smiles small enough that the shift doesn’t pull on the burn. I wonder whether she’s practiced in the mirror just how big she can smile without interference. I bet she has.
Patrice looks pretty flustered, but she recovers quickly, gesturing at the guy wearing slacks, a white polo shirt, and thick-rimmed black glasses beside her. He surreptitiously whips out a camera and taps on it.
As if she’s filming, Patrice steps forward with halting steps. “I am so, so sorry for yesterday.” She sighs. “When your whole job depends on your face, you start to obsess about it, and all the insecurity I felt about myself had to go somewhere.” She shakes her head slowly. “Then two days ago, I was super nervous about the scene, so I binged a whole Twinkie. That made me break out for yesterday’s shoot, and I thought my agent was going to spank me, I swear. It’s so hard doing what we do.” She turns back toward me and bites her lip.
Does she think she’s cute? Ugh. She’s revolting.
“Anyway, I was so insecure about my breakout and all the makeup they had to use to cover it up that I went crazy yesterday. Add to it that I just started my period today—” She coughs. “I hope you can forgive me for saying what I was thinking about myself to you. Clearly you’re true beauty.” She smiles and bats her eyes. “That scar shows you have both bravery and strength, and I’m so in awe of the person you are.”
She stole my words to save herself.
Precious Patty is a truly terrible person.
Octavia dips her head a bit and says, “Of course. No offense taken. All’s forgiven.” She smiles big enough that it does pull on her burn, and then she extends her hand. “Friends?”
Patrice’s eyes widen, and then she blinks. “Of course.” She holds her hand out slowly, and I can’t tell whether she’s shocked or put off. Either way, once the handshake’s done, the guy taps on the phone, and Patrice yanks her hand back. “Sorry. I don’t shake very often.”
Octavia shrugs. “If I’d known, I’d never have suggested it.” Something about the way she says it has me pulling up “patrice jouveau phobias” on the search bar of my phone.
What do you know? A dozen hits where Patrice refuses to shake someone’s hand. It makes me laugh out loud. I guess Octavia took the injunction to know thy enemy to heart.
“What’s funny?” Patty’s frowning.
“Nothing. We’d better get moving,” I say. “We’re due for the blocking in. . .” I glance at my watch. “Three minutes ago.” I hold out my arm, and Octavia walks toward me like we’re old friends.
It makes me smile for real.
As we duck into the section of the set that’s prepped for the title track, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder. Good old Patty’s grimacing something fierce, and my smile broadens.
Sometimes when I reach the set for blocking, they already have tape on the floor and movements in mind. Other times, they’re literally spitballing places we could stand and things we could do on the day we show up to film. I’m expecting it to be closer to the latter, since they just changed to Patrice and then back to Octavia without warning.
I’m shocked when I look down and see bright blue tape. “I hear this is your first time doing anything like this.” A woman with eyebrows so thick they look like bushy caterpillars shifting up and down smiles and gestures toward Octavia. “Welcome.”
“Uh, yeah,” Octavia says. “At least, it’s the first time in a very long time. I was in community theater productions for five or six years as a child.”
“I think you’ll find this is a little different than that.” The woman slides an arm around Octavia’s shoulders like they’re buddies already.
Octavia flinches and slowly shifts away. “I’m happy to have someone to show me what to do, then.”
Caterpillars, unconcerned, is still smiling broadly. “That’s just the attitude we want.” She points. “So we’ll start out here, and when you start singing, I want you standing like this.” She angles her body to show Octavia.
“Will I actually be singing for the filming?”
The woman nods. “Just exactly like you will for the sound recording. We’ll remaster the sound and do touchups in the studio, of course, but it needs to be real for that to work.”
The first few minutes goes really smoothly. We nearly have the whole thing blocked when I realize something.
“Is the main camera there?” I point.
“It is,” Caterpillars says. “But as I’m sure you’re familiar, there will be satellite cameras we can pull from for any shot we choose.”
I go over the movements in my head, most of which I liked well enough. “It’s a song about her pain,” I say. “And that mirrors the pain my character feels when he’s abandoned, finds a place, and yet again has to leave.”
The woman nods. “Exactly.”
“You know Octavia’s most obvious pain comes from her burns, so why do you have her turned this way in nearly every shot?” I angle my body. “It feels like you’re trying to keep her burns out of the video.”
Caterpillars frowns. “We want the focus?—”
“Who’s your boss?” I fold my arms. “I want to talk to him or her, and I want to explain the whole point of this, because I think they’re missing it. How can the world see how beautiful she is if we’re constantly closing off their chance to really see her?”
Oh, boy. Caterpillars is ticked. “Actually, Mr. Priest?—”
“No.” I can’t help my nostrils flaring. “Just go get your boss. Clearly you’re not going to help me. You don’t get it.”
A small hand drops on my forearm and I look down and realize it’s Octavia’s.
“I asked her to change the blocking to be like that.” Her voice is small, her expression composed. “They agreed, only because I insisted.”
Well, shoot. “You—why?”
Octavia’s smile’s small. “I’m glad you find my face to be ‘accidentally beautiful.’” Her air quotes are a painful reminder of what I said to Patrice about her reminding me of pottery. “But for most people, it’s hard to look at it. I want very much for this album to be a success.” She pauses. “I think you do too.”