Chapter 49 1965 #2
I read the words beneath the picture:
The book is widely believed to be about movie star Calliope Burns, whose ascent to fame is all the more remarkable if this origin story is true.
When contacted for comment, Miss Burns issued a statement: “Aria Jones has written a wonderful novel about a town that’s like Manderley—so beautiful it could make you cry.
Because behind all that careless beauty are terrible people who ought to be damned, but who are crowned king instead.
Her book demonstrates that the true hero in life isn’t the one we see, but the one who’s too busy saving lives to be seen.
” When questioned further about the identity of a male executive in the book named Ben, Miss Burns said, “You could substitute any of their names and the story would still be true.”
Despite being panned by the critics, the book has found its way into the hands of plenty of readers, hitting The New York Times bestseller list this week.
“What?”
There’s nobody to answer my question. I rummage through the pages in the envelope, find the newspaper, and unfold it. And there it is: The New York Times bestseller list. Helen Burns by Aria Jones is listed in eighth place.
Holy, holy, holy shit.
I drop onto the bed, so shocked I can’t starfish or scream.
Somehow, out of a book about Calliope, my name has become not just known, but featured on a list of bestselling books.
I glance over my shoulder. See the ghosts of three girls who used to sit in a bed together and share their souls and their joys.
I wish there was someone here beside me who’d scream and starfish too, so then I’d know it was real.
When you smile and there’s no one to return it, it doesn’t feel quite so much like pleasure.
Next envelope, Aria. The one from Calliope. That will make me smile, I bet.
Inside the envelope are more clippings. Look at what you unleashed, she’s written.
It’s an assortment of newspaper reviews.
The first says that my book is the depraved imaginings of a woman not pretty enough to be a Hollywood star.
The next: A sordid affair about silly young starlets who ought to have known better.
And the next: A tale about women who romped around in their bikinis for studio execs and then complained when those execs wanted to take their bikinis off.
They hate my book. I’ve unleashed only vitriol.
I almost don’t read the final piece of folded paper—I’m not sure my ego will survive. I’m ready to become a pile of dust in a city with so much history it doesn’t need mine.
But I make myself peep. It’s a letter from my aunt.
I set it free, Aria, she writes. Attached is a page from Harper’s Bazaar.
Set what free?
I start to read.
Helen Burns wipes away the makeup, tears away the costumes, pulls down the sets that keep secrets hidden behind low-cut dresses and a Wild West panorama.
But the secret’s out; the West is a barbarous place that feeds on the bodies of women who are so young they don’t even know what rape is.
We interviewed one of Hollywood’s most famous stars of yesteryear, who shared her own story of how she was sold by a man she thought she loved.
And there’s my aunt’s story about the pool house. And the woman who jumped.
“Holy shit.” I say it aloud this time.
This is the fire.
I’m finally burning everything down.
By the time I realize there’s one more piece of paper, night has fallen. I cross over to the window, needing the beauty of Paris to brace me because, What now?
Outside, the Eiffel Tower is the largest constellation of all.
Celestial, but forged from steel. And staring at that beautiful iron lady, I remember sitting on a beach in Capri, wanting my people.
Since I was thirteen-and-three-quarters, I’ve been desperate to find a place where Aria Jones belongs.
But places can’t love you. Only people can.
And I have so many people. More than I ever realized. All of them are forged from steel too.
I belong in the world with all of them.
I unfurl the final page: another note from my publisher. Mr. Bob Ashenhurst would like to purchase the film rights for your book.
Oh, I’ll bet he does.
He wants those rights so he can bury my book beneath one hundred feet of lies.
And finally, after so much ocean and travel and months spent out in the world, I know—it’s no longer time for me to run.
This is a moment. Moments pass, like fires burn out. But add a few letters to that word moment and you have a movement.
Suddenly, unbelievably, I have power. My name is on a bestseller list. My book is in the hands of many. My aunt has told her story. And there’s something Bob wants from me.
And now I know exactly what I can do to make sure that, from now on, there will never be another Calliope who’ll walk into a room to find a studio boss with an unzipped fly. There will only be dreams untarnished.
You get the future you give in to, or the one you fight for.
It’s time for me to be the star of my own goddamn life.