Chapter 21
Of course, the next day, I’m a live wire of nerves.
Every minute, I expect there to be an announcement over the loudspeakers, asking me, Evie, and Eddie to go to the principal’s
office, where we’ll all get suspended for trespassing. Or worse, expelled.
But it never comes. I guess the night janitor didn’t rat us out.
Ben comes to sit with me, Evie, Eddie, and Dylan at lunch. Everything is normal between us, as if we didn’t just kiss on Sunday
night. I’m not sure how to feel about it. Relieved, I think. But I don’t know, because today my mind isn’t on Ben.
Luke offered to pick me up after school. I tell him to park on a side street, three blocks away, and not roll down his windows
or take off his sunglasses. I’m not about to explain to Chelsea Adler—or anyone else, for that matter—why Lucas Cordova is
picking me up.
It’s a short walk to his car. The streets around our school are all residential, and the one I’m heading down now is lined with huge old-growth oak trees that are a blazing crimson red against the blue sky.
If I’m being honest with myself, my heart belongs more to autumn than it does to winter.
I love moments like this, but they’re so brief.
It physically hurts that I can’t bottle them up and keep them forever.
And right now, I want to hold on to this season, this moment in time, for more than just its beauty.
“Hey,” Luke says as I climb into the front seat. He’s got the heat on, so it’s nice and toasty in here. I glance at him but
force myself to look away just as fast. He really is so handsome that it’s distracting. He’s literally just wearing a T-shirt.
But he must know how to choose the exact right cut, the exact right fabric, because it lies on him perfectly.
“Do you want to go for a drive?” Luke asks. “It’s so beautiful out. I don’t want to go inside.”
“Do you want to go see the reservoir?” I ask.
“Let’s go see the reservoir,” Luke says.
We drive for ten minutes before we get to Overlook Road, which starts climbing uphill almost immediately. The houses grow
sparser, giving way to dense foliage and low stone walls. When we reach the ridge, the trees to our right break open, giving
a surprisingly wide view of the reservoir. It’s like we’re inside a painting.
“Holy shit,” Luke says as he pulls into a gravelly parking area. “This is gorgeous.”
“Right?” I don’t add that it’s such a popular nighttime hookup spot that there’s a Glenridge cop assigned to just this area
on the weekends. Everyone at school calls him Officer Cockblock.
“Want to sit for a minute?” he asks, and I nod. He turns the engine off and leans back. “Now I can see why you went incognito mode and never looked back. Hell, I’d leave LA for this, too.”
“Never looked back? I look back all the time.”
“Could have fooled me,” he says lightly.
Normally, I’d laugh, move the conversation elsewhere, away from anything that went too deep. Just like last night, I get another
flash of that freeing feeling. Of imagining: What if I was honest? But this time, I don’t let the moment pass. I seize it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told you about the ‘meetings’ I had with Brett, have I?” I ask him, which of course I haven’t. I
haven’t told anyone.
“What?” Luke says. His energy shifts. Even his body shifts, so that he’s fully turned toward me. “No. What meetings?”
By the sick look on his face, I know what he’s afraid I’m going to say. “No, they weren’t like that.”
“Then what were they?” he asks.
I start at the beginning. The first time Brett called me in for a “chat,” it was the end of our fourth season, the second to last. He had notes for me on my performance.
Areas he thought I was lacking and could improve.
I was so eager for his feedback that I even brought a notepad and a pen.
Dad waited for me in the lobby. Then, somehow, it became a weekly standing meeting on Sunday nights.
I’ve tried so hard to remember when things changed.
When the cadence of these meetings went from blunt, professional feedback to what they were at the end, which was basically an onslaught of verbal abuse.
I think it happened so gradually that there wasn’t a moment of change I can even point to.
But soon he started saying things like that I was deadweight.
I was lucky to have this job. I was ugly.
I’d never work as a mainstream actress. I wasn’t talented, and I never had been.
No other director would ever tolerate someone like me.
“Do you remember on our final season, that one episode when I messed up the kissing scene?” I ask Luke.
I can tell that, through his horror, he’s struggling to remember. “I think so, yeah.”
It’s funny, in a dark way, that such a formative moment of your life barely registers as a memory for someone else. Not that
I’m blaming him. But still.
“Anyway, that was the worst one. He made me watch all the failed takes from that episode again and again. We watched them
for at least an hour. Then he wanted me to record an apology video for wasting everyone’s time. I was crying so hard I couldn’t
get the words out, so he made me do take after take until I could do it.”
Luke is staring at me. “Jesus Christ, Cee.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“Because I was so embarrassed. I thought I deserved it.”
“No,” Luke says. The look on his face is so intense. “Of course you didn’t. God, I wish you’d told me.”
“I did try,” I admit. “Once. You probably don’t remember, but I told you I had something I wanted to talk to you about. But then a few days later you booked your first feature.”
I don’t have to say anything else for Luke to groan and put his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ. I was so obnoxious about that, wasn’t I? I’m so sorry.”
“You weren’t that bad,” I lie.
“Did you tell anyone else? When it happened?”
I swallow. “Yes. That’s the worst part.”
“What do you mean?” Luke asks.
“After that meeting,” I tell him, “I couldn’t take it anymore. So I finally told my dad, in the car. He took me out for ice
cream instead of taking me home. I still remember what I got. Rainbow sherbet with sprinkles, in a cup. Turns out he knew
what was going on. He admitted he’d overheard enough to know what was happening. He explained that a lot of people have bad
bosses. He said I had an amazing job, and putting up with this was just a part of it. He said it was just Brett’s way of blowing
off steam. He was a rising star with the network, and he could make or break my career. He said it was important that I didn’t
mention this to anyone else.”
Luke lets out a long, slow breath.
I shrug. “So I didn’t.”
Not even to Mom or Nicky. Neither of them know, still, to this day. It wasn’t long after that that Bricks got canceled and things fell apart between my parents. And then Mom, Nicky, and I left Los Angeles, and I was able to leave CeCe behind, too, along with everything that had happened to her.
And there it is, out in the open. Just like that, the weight of it rises off me so quickly that I almost feel dizzy.
“I hope you know that none of what he said was even remotely true. Not any of it. And I’m so sorry this happened to you, Cee.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
Luke reaches out and pulls my hand into his. We sit like that for a while, neither of us letting go. Then he says, “So do
you want me to have him killed? I know a guy.”
Despite everything, I start to laugh. “Which one? Brett, or my dad?”
“Good question. How about both?”
I pretend to think about it for a minute. “I appreciate the offer, but no, I think I’ll avoid murder for hire for now.”
“Fair enough.” Luke is still holding on to my hand. “But seriously, is there anything else I can do? I don’t know . . . start
a smear campaign? Literally anything at all?”
“No.” Brett was never involved with another show after Bricks. I remember hearing rumors that he’d been asked to quietly resign. These days, he barely has an internet footprint. I always
wondered if he was just as horrible to someone else, too, maybe multiple someones, who had more courage than me and complained
to the network about him. Anyway, the way Brett treated me wasn’t what hurt the most in the end. It’s that my dad didn’t do
anything to stop it. “You listened, which was exactly what I needed.”
Luke squeezes my hand once before he lets go. “Okay. But if you ever do decide to go the murder route, you know who to call.”
I feel completely wrung out after our talk, so I ask Luke if he minds dropping me off at home. He doesn’t shift the car into
park and wait for me to get out, like I expect. He turns the car off and gets out to walk me to the door.
“A true gentleman,” I say. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Can’t tomorrow,” he says. “Saturday?”
“Can’t,” I say.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re missing Fall Fest, the event of the season. Are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah. I’m going to Storrs, to visit Nicky. Just for Saturday, though.”
“How is he? I’d love to see Nick.”
“He’s great.”
The idea of inviting Luke to come pops into my head. Nicky wouldn’t care. In fact, Nicky always liked Luke. Maybe it isn’t
the weirdest thing in the world to ask.
Just ask him before you chicken out.
“I know he’d love to see you,” I finally say. “It might be fun if you wanted to come. Like, as a field trip.”
“On Saturday?” he repeats. “Come with you to Nick’s college?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I can already feel my face turning red. Maybe asking was a stupid idea. Especially right now. I was just so vulnerable with him, and maybe he’ll feel obligated to not turn me down when I’m in a delicate state.
“So I have some meetings—”
I immediately backtrack. “Sorry. Of course you’re busy. You’re shooting a movie. Please, don’t worry. Forget I even asked.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I have a bunch of meetings, but I’ll see if I can move them. I’d love to come with you, if you
mean it.”
“I mean it,” I say.
“Then I’ll see what I can do.”
Later that night, I open my computer to work on my college applications. As always, I start by going to NYU’s main website,
then Tisch’s. Today is October 22, and the deadline for early decision is November 1. I sit for a long moment, staring at
the screen.
I still have time to pull it together.
I read through my essay next. I submitted three different drafts to Mr. Frank, and he said my most recent draft was “mostly
without any glaring faults,” which in Mr. Frank speak is an extreme compliment. It’s about Nicky, and how he’s the number
one supporter in my life, especially after our parents got divorced.
But then before I know it, like some alien parasite has taken over my brain, I open a fresh Word document. And I start to
type. And type. And type.
And what comes out is the truth. It’s like I broke the dam by talking to Luke earlier, and I couldn’t stop the rush even if I wanted to.
I write about who I am, and who I was. I write about what it was like being a child star with a manager-father who failed
me in so many ways, about how hard it’s been to live a double life, even though it was my choice. I write about the repercussions
of fame, and what it means to love an industry that doesn’t always love you back. I write about how, in my dreams, I’m still
acting. And maybe there’s a future where that’s still possible for me.
It isn’t long, but when I’m done, I’m wrung dry. These words came directly from my heart, like I’ve written them with the
blood from my veins. This essay flowed from the very center of me.
I let it sit for an hour before I go back and comb through it, checking for typos or other errors. This essay doesn’t need
to go through three passes with Mr. Frank. This essay came out of me exactly as it needed to, which, even though I’m not really
a writer, I recognize is a special thing.
Then I fill out an early application for Tisch. I need both an acting résumé and two short contrasting monologues as part
of my application. Normally I would obsess for days, maybe weeks, about what to perform, what to wear, how to have the lighting.
But whatever force has taken over me won’t allow for that.
It doesn’t take me long to choose. I go with selections from Eurydice and The Wolves.
I spend a few hours memorizing, practicing, running them.
In my room, I rig up my phone to record myself.
I put everything I have into my performances so I only have to film them once.
When I’m done, I upload my résumé, my monologues.
And then, instead of the polished essay about Nicky, I submit the one about me.