Chapter 2. Isabel, the Rising Star
Isabel, the Rising Star
TEN YEARS EARLIER, THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
“Stop, pull over!” Scout shouted, and the taxi veered to a screeching halt. At the far end of its imperial driveway, the Banks mansion loomed, massive and imposing even while strung with cheery Christmas lights, a twinkling supernova among the smaller houses of the Hollywood Hills.
“Scout, you psychopath,” hissed Georgia, who’d hit her forehead on the seat in front of her. “You’re going to give us all heart attacks.”
“Why are we stopping?” I asked as Scout scrambled out of the car. “It’s still a mile to the house, and you know I’m in my stilettoes.” I kicked up a leg to display my spiked footwear.
Scout’s head popped into the open door, her blond hair falling over her shoulders. “I don’t want them to see us drinking this.” She pulled a flask out from inside her dress and wiggled it, flashing the pink rhinestone initials. SOS. Scout Octavia Sage.
“Oh.” I turned to Brooks, whom we’d crammed into the back seat, with no consideration for his long legs or broad shoulders. “She has a point.”
“She usually does.” He sighed, struggling to untangle his limbs and pull out his wallet. “Hold on then. Let me pay the man for almost getting us there.”
By the time we’d exited the beat-up cab and sent the driver clanking back into the night, Scout was waiting for us inside a ring of expensive Italian topiaries, every bush my height and sheared into the shape of a reindeer. “Come on.” Scout waved us in. “If we crouch, no one will see.”
“This is humiliating,” Georgia complained, but she stepped in anyway.
Side by side, Scout and her younger sister looked nearly identical, from their naturally thick blond hair to their overfull upper lips and the way they hunched at the shoulders, as if trying to shave a few inches off their height.
I’d grown up with them as an only child, so the Sage sisters’ physical similarities had long fascinated me.
Scout and I first met when we were eight years old, after we were cast as the leads in our church play back home in New Jersey, her on account of her astounding singing voice, me on account of the fact that I was the only kid small enough to fit into some of the costumes.
We’d quickly discovered that we were two hams with a mutual love of the spotlight.
Even though Georgia, who was a year younger than us, had no similar taste for performing, she liked tagging along.
It had been that way—just the three of us—pretty much ever since.
“Listen, tonight’s a big night,” I told Georgia, squatting and accepting Scout’s flask. “We need the liquid courage.” Even though I knew to brace for the taste—at this point, Scout and I could only afford bottom-shelf whiskey—I gagged on the mouthful anyway.
“Disgusting.” I shivered and handed the flask to Georgia, who dutifully took her swig.
She might protest, but Georgia had been our mini-me for over a decade, and in true little sister fashion, wherever we led, she followed.
When we fled New Jersey to pursue our dream of being Hollywood actresses, sure enough, Georgia moved cross-country just two days after her own high school graduation and started college at USC.
Brooks wrapped an arm around me, dispelling my whiskey-induced goose bumps.
I watched as he shook his dark hair off his forehead, admiring the way he looked in his black tuxedo, even if it was a hand-me-down from his dad and a little too roomy.
Boys like Brooks Yardley didn’t exist on the East Coast—certainly not in New Jersey.
He was a surfer and a law student, possessing a whip-smart brain and an ocean of chill, a pairing I hadn’t known was even possible.
I’d first spotted Brooks at one of the coffee shops near USC while waiting for Georgia.
He’d been studying for an exam, surrounded by textbooks and jamming to something on his headphones.
It wasn’t simply that he was handsome—I spent my days in audition rooms with men good-looking enough to believe they had a shot at stardom, so I was used to handsome.
It was that, despite being a stranger, Brooks felt familiar.
It had driven me crazy until I realized he was the exact type of boy I’d dreamed about back in my suburban New Jersey bedroom, staring up at movie posters: a California boy with wavy hair, a megawatt smile, and ocean-blue eyes.
“Izzy, stop staring at your boyfriend like a lovesick fool,” Scout commanded. “I need your head in the game. And Brooks, remember, you only got invited because you swore you could play a good wingman.”
Scout mostly thought of Brooks as a distraction.
Brooks saluted her. “I’ll be the best damn wingman you’ve ever met.” He punctuated the promise by taking a shot from the flask, then politely handed it back to Scout, who rolled her eyes.
“And you’re calling me the lovesick one?” I pointed at Georgia, who stood out among the reindeer bushes in her red sequin minidress. “She’s the one who keeps disappearing at all hours to spend time with Alden.”
“I do not,” Georgia gasped.
“Maybe she does,” said Scout. “But unlike your worthless law school boyfriend—no offense, Brooks, I just mean in terms of industry connections that can benefit us—”
“None taken.” Brooks winked at me.
“Alden is directly responsible for getting us this invitation.” Scout shook out her mane, teased to the heavens, then smoothed her emerald-green minidress.
To make ourselves more memorable to the people we’d meet tonight—which, fingers crossed, would include a lot of Hollywood heavyweights—the three of us had come dressed in a trio of rich Christmas-colored sequins: Georgia in red, Scout in green, and me in white.
We had Santa hats stuffed into our purses that we planned to put on right before we entered, to save our hair from going flat—Georgia’s brilliant idea.
I grabbed the flask and took one last shot of the terrible whiskey. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Time to charm their asses off.” Scout shoved past a leafy Rudolph and marched toward the house, slowed neither by her heels nor the question of whether we were keeping up.
She’d always been the most unapologetically ambitious person I’d known, and I’d always been happy to let her take charge of both of our lives.
After a minute of huffing to match Scout’s stride, I wiped sweat from my hairline. “Gross. I shouldn’t be sweating in December. It’s unnatural.”
“Curse this desert planet of LA,” Georgia agreed, “and its eighty-degree Christmases. I miss the snow.”
“Can someone remind me why this party’s such a big deal?” Even long-limbed Brooks was working to catch his breath. “It’s at some bigwig’s house?”
“This is Easton Banks’s house.” I reached for Brooks’s hand and then stopped myself. Scout said people would be more interested in us if they thought we were both hot and single, so I was supposed to cool it with the PDA. “The president of the entire ABS network.”
“That’s the network that owns Freeverse, the channel their show is on,” Georgia explained.
Even though she was only a college freshman and majoring in anthropology—not entertainment, after being forced to listen to me and Scout dissect the industry for hours on end—she probably could’ve written for Deadline.
“So Easton’s like your boss’s boss’s boss?”
“Add a few more bosses in there, and you’ve got it.
” Scout’s gaze stayed glued to the mansion.
“Every year, Easton throws a legendary Christmas party. The who’s who of Hollywood all show up.
Izzy and I used to cut pictures of this party out of Us Weekly and tape them to our mirrors.
” She squeezed Georgia’s shoulders. “And now, thanks to my genius little sister, we’re actually going. ”
“Easton’s son Alden goes to USC with Georgia,” I added, for Brooks’s benefit. “That’s why we got invited. He’s obsessed with her.”
Brooks snapped his fingers. “You mean that creepy guy who’s always shadowing us when we go out?” He gave Georgia an incredulous look. “You’re dating him?”
“First of all, I’m not dating him. Second of all, Alden is not creepy,” Georgia insisted. “How many times do I have to say that?”
“Methinks the woman doth protest too much,” I sang to Scout, who smirked.
“And you,” Georgia said to Scout, “stop calling me a genius. I didn’t become friends with Alden to boost your careers. He might be a little eccentric, but he’s a sweetheart underneath. You’d have no idea he was even this rich if you just met him.”
Scout and I exchanged a look. Doubtful. We made it our business to know.
We rounded a curve in the driveway, bringing the full splendor of the house into view, and I stopped in my tracks. “Oh wow.”
It looked like a Mediterranean-style castle, with soaring cream stucco walls, a red terra-cotta roof, and skyscraper palm trees.
The estate had been transformed through elaborate stage design into a winter wonderland.
Lights were strung through the landscaping, faux snow sat light and fluttery on the ground, and actual costumed carolers—probably actors desperate for a SAG voucher—were huddled near the entrance, singing “Silver Bells.” There was a steady line of gleaming black limousines waiting to drop off passengers, who climbed up the mansion’s steep stairs to the front door and received flutes of champagne handed out by tuxedo-clad greeters.
“In retrospect,” I said, “I’m glad the driver dropped us off a mile away.” Imagine rattling into line behind these limos in our busted yellow taxi.
Brooks stood wide-eyed, clearly sharing my feelings.
There were big houses all over LA, but there was something grand and even a little mysterious about the Hollywood Hills, with its massive mansions hidden by dense trees, and narrow, winding roads that circled the Santa Monica mountains.
In a town obsessed with the new and next, it retained a sense of history, an aura of old Hollywood.
It was my favorite part of the city. From the moment Scout and I had stepped off our Greyhound bus under the protective eye of the Hollywood Sign, I’d had my sights set high on it.
“Let’s run it one more time,” Scout said. She must have been as nervous as I was. “Our plan is to find Alden. Do the rounds, become the life of the party, make ourselves memorable, and then, once there’s perfect energy, have Alden introduce us to his dad.”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “I can just ask him—”
“We tell Easton we love our roles on The Weird World of Wenda Word,” I recited. “That’s important, so we don’t come off as ungrateful.” Scout and I had rehearsed every part of this. “But we mention we’re eager for more adult roles. With more substance.”
“And more money also wouldn’t hurt,” Georgia pointed out. “Seeing as how your apartment is smaller than my dorm room.”
“No talk of money,” I corrected. “That’s totally gauche.”
“We’re artists,” Scout agreed. “We’re not here for a handout. Now let’s sneak into the limo line so people think we just came out of one.”
After we’d strategically inserted ourselves into the crowd climbing up the stairs, Scout turned to Brooks and lowered her voice. “Maybe you can find a way to drop that we’re triple threats. I can sing, dance, and write— Brooks, are you listening?”
“Convince your boss you’re the Jersey version of Affleck and Damon, got it,” Brooks joked.
Georgia snickered. “Please. They’re more like thirsty Romy and Michelle.”
Brooks’s smile dropped when he realized Scout and I weren’t laughing. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you just give Easton your album?”
I winced. Scout had released her debut album six months ago, after sinking her savings into it.
She’d thought the fact that we’d landed our first TV roles—sassy cheerleaders on the young adult show The Weird World of Wenda Word—meant the record would sell.
It didn’t. I’m pretty sure the only people who purchased it were related to her.
“We do not mention the album,” she said firmly. “To anyone.”
“Girls,” Georgia hissed, “tits up and hats on.” And as we bent over and hurriedly shoved our chests higher in our tube tops, a greeter at the door swiveled to us with his tray of champagne. Showtime.