Chapter 2 Why am I still here?
Why am I still here?
Josie
ALL SIX FEET one inch and one-hundred-ninety pounds of Sean O’Sullivan engulfs the doorway in an amethyst purple unstructured suit, eggplant scarf, and John Lennon glasses.
I freeze as the proximity of this outrageously sexy Professor Plum living his best life in tweed overwhelms me.
He smells like a dark room full of leather-spined books, maybe with a spinning door leading to a mysterious lair with a low bed covered in silk sheets.
His fingers are adorned with rings of every flavor of precious metal: gold, platinum, vibranium, unobtainium—I’m not sure about those last two.
Jewels, too. Emeralds, diamonds, a thick slice of amber.
God, why am I so attracted to him? It’s not even fair.
“How’s Vera?” he asks Emmy in a breathy whisper. His Vandyke facial hair only serves to accentuate the natural pout of his extraordinary mouth. I’ve touched that mouth—twice, actually. For work.
“In surgery, but her prognosis is good.”
Who are they talking about? Oh, right. Heart attack grandma. “You know her?” I blurt out, and when those emerald-green eyes fix on mine, something inside me lurches to life like a rickety carnival ride that’s not safe to operate.
“No, but I’m her Number One.”
“Her Number One?” Why am I asking so many questions? Why am I speaking? Why am I still here?
“I’m trying to talk Josie into taking her place,” Emmy explains, “but she’s being difficult.”
Suddenly, I’m fully aware of how not-California I am right now.
Yes, yoga pants are acceptable, but not these yoga pants, purchased in a three-pack from Costco.
I’m a makeup artist, yet I sport a rush job—base and some tinted lip gloss and mascara compared with Emmy’s popping eyes and Sean’s pores-don’t-exist cheeks.
My beat-up Skechers with their toes pointing toward Sean’s calfskin loafers embroidered in gold thread (probably by artisans in Spain) look like poor orphans asking please, sir, can I have some more?
In my defense, I thought I was just dropping Peyton off!
“You’ll do it, won’t you?” he asks.
The question is delivered in a gentle, vulnerable, dare I say, pleading way. I’ve seen him deliver lines this way a million times, but I’m hypnotized and battle the urge to reply, Yes, of course, anything you want, Sean.
“Yes, of course, anything y—” I manage to cut myself off there. Blurting has always been my toxic trait. “Anything for the children,” I choke out.
“Excellent!” His pleading expression transforms into one of confident satisfaction. He follows it up with a soul-destroying wink and then smooths the dyed-yellow lock of hair on his wavy, dark head before turning and taking his place in the Seventh Circle of Hot Guy Heaven.
Emmy shoves a ticket into my hand and gives me a loud, smacking air-kiss. “Thank you! You’re seat number sixty-three. There’s a QR code on the back of that ticket. Use it to fill out the questionnaire in case you make it to the later rounds.”
I mumble something unintelligible. A Colombian friend taught me a phrase for this cosmically horrible type of happenstance. Cagada marciana. That shit fell from Mars. I feel like that sums up my current situation quite nicely.
“Remember, you’re just a butt in a chair.” Emmy steers me through the backstage maze to the audience seats. “The math is in your favor—one hundred contestants and only five winners. If you tank the questions on that questionnaire, you’ll have even less of a chance of getting picked.”
“What if I don’t answer the questions at all?”
“You have to.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll have Peyton answer them for you.”
“Sold. Tell her to make them horrible.”
“It’ll make her day.”
Emmy’s co-emcee, Terica, appears at her shoulder in a bright blue wig, her halo eye impeccable. She flashes me a sheepish grin. “I need to take this mama away from you for a few minutes. There’s been an incident with my cue cards.”
“What incident?” Emmy whirls, the end of her curly ponytail almost whipping me in the face as I lean back.
But I don’t wait to hear the rest because I have my own incident to deal with, and seat number sixty-three to get to, and a panic attack to head off at the Not-OK Corral.
The audience is a restless, murmuring sea around me as I slink to the third row and find my designated place between Smiley Bohemian Lady and Emo Teen.
My seat is far to stage right. That’s good—less of a chance of the cameras finding me.
It’ll be okay. I’m just an audience member, one of a hundred.
There’s no reason for anyone to single me out.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get eliminated early on, and this crisis will be averted.
Note to self: drop Peyton at the gate next time.
She’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Everything is fine.
My notifications ping. It’s a message in Spanish from Miguel—the one friend from my past whom I’ve kept in touch with. We start chatting.
Miguel: Did you watch the last episode of Más Allá de las Estrellas? It’s the one I was telling you about! The one where I cry real tears!
Savannah: Of course I watched it. But I don’t believe for a minute those were real tears. Juan Ernesto was off camera flicking water at your face.
Miguel: ?No manches! That’s my proudest moment.
Savannah: Seriously, you were great. You’re all great. It’s the best show on TV.
It’s true. Miguel is doing a fantastic job on this new sci-fi show my stepfather, Juan Ernesto, is producing.
Everyone is, in fact, including my stepsister, Lupe, who plays the young, female captain.
The writing is fantastic, the characters are nuanced, and the plot lines have surprised me at every turn.
I’m happy for all of them. It’s the first big hit Castillo Studios and its cast have had since I blew up Club Bilingüe.
I’m pretty sure that my recklessness cost my stepsister a couple of prominent telenovela roles over the next couple of years.
Mom told me when she was auditioning for them and when she was turned down.
I watched both of those shows after they came out.
Lupe would’ve been a perfect fit, but the studios likely considered her a liability.
How could audiences see her as anything else but that girl from the puppet scandal?
A scandal that could have been avoided if I’d made better choices.
Miguel: How’s Florida?
I hesitate. I haven’t told Miguel that I moved to California.
Savannah: I’m starting your fan club. I’m the president. Now I just need to find another member to make it official.
Miguel: Ha ha. By the way, your mom says hi.
I grimace. I haven’t told my mom about the move, either.
It’s harder to stay hidden here in Hollywood than it was in sleepy little New Port Richey, Florida, and I can’t take any chances.
Besides, talking to my mom always ends in the same conversation—her trying to get me to come down there for a visit, which I can’t do.
And it’s not like I never see her. After Dad died, we set up a yearly get-together.
She flies into Orlando every spring, and we spend a nice weekend at one of the Disney resorts.
Even that’s been hard to pull off since I moved out to LA.
I suppose I could tell her I’m in California now, but then there’d be questions, speculations, and whatnot.
People could overhear. People could talk.
Savannah: You haven’t told Juan Ernesto that we talk, right? Or Lupe?
Miguel: You ask me this every time.
Savannah: Is that a no?
Miguel: It’s a no. Although, would it be such a bad thing?
Of course it would be a bad thing, and Miguel should know this!
Savannah Bateman needs to stay buried and forgotten, like velociraptor DNA.
She was a spoiled little diva whose temper tantrum on live TV ruined a show and a brand, not to mention a puppet beloved by children across North America.
Well, they’re all adults now, but whatever.
Just then, a woman with a headset steps onstage and begins to hype us up.
I tell Miguel I need to go and add my reserved clapping to the hubbub.
Wow, these women are positively rabid for their celebrities.
That’s good. If I somehow get picked, it’ll be easy to do a handoff.
In the midst of our cheering, Emmy and Terica take the stage.
Our handler urges us to cheer even louder, if that’s possible.
“Welcome, welcome!” Terica greets us.
“Thank you so much for being a part of this important event!” Emmy adds.
“Out of the thousands of entries in the Date Your Celebrity Crush! contest, you all were lucky enough to be chosen to be here today!”
“And no matter what happens, you’re all going home with an amazing gift!”
The volume of cheering rises. I should have brought my noise-canceling headphones.
“But…” Emmy pauses until the decibel level dies down. “Only half of you are going to get to come up here with us onstage…”
“… when we bring out our five dreamy studs and really get this competition going!” Terica finishes.
A curtain at the back of the stage is whisked away, revealing several rows of empty chairs. “Look under your seats right now! See if you’re one of the lucky fifty!” Emmy cries.
“That’s it, right now! If there’s something under there, hold it up!” Terica crows.
A rustling sound rips through the audience as a hundred contestants, mostly women, reach down under their seats. The only difference between them and me is that they are hoping to find something while I’m begging the universe to let the bottom of my chair be empty.
My palm smacks against the plastic underside of the seat.
For a split second, I think I might be home free and able to slink out the emergency exit for a Starbucks on the way home.
Then I feel it—the laminated corner of something taped to the bottom of the chair.
I rip it free and stare at the yellow sign screaming WINNER in a chunky black sans serif font.
My heart starts whipping like a sheet in a hurricane. I need to get rid of this. Like now.
“Here, take this!” I shout to Smiley Bohemian Lady, realizing a split second later that she’s not paying attention to me because she’s too busy screaming her head off over her own laminated winner sheet.
I pivot to Emo Teen, but she’s got one, too. What the hellustrations? Am I sitting in Winner Row?
Apparently I am, because the first several rows of women are all on their feet, waving their yellow papers above their heads and jumping up and down like the studio has transformed into an adult bouncy house.
The staff steps in, guiding us to move from our seats to the chairs onstage in an orderly fashion.
Oh, hell to the no. I can’t do this—be onstage where anyone can see me.
I didn’t sign up for that. Still, I follow the crowd, brain firmly in lizard mode, eyes peeled for lit exit signs.
I spot one and lurch in that direction only to be blocked by a team of grips toting an enormous cutout of Sean’s head.
I try to wait them out, but the line of women presses against me from behind.
There’s no way I’m strong enough to hold back the Celebrity Crush Sea!
As I’m buoyed forward against my will, Peyton falls into step beside me, further blocking my access to freedom.
“I used an AI program to fill out your questionnaire.” Her eyes shine with pride as she hands me a printed sheet of paper.
“Did you tell it to answer the questions like a sociopath?”
She giggles. “Of course not, Tía. Why would I do that?”
At this point, I’m squarely onstage, and if I bolt now, I’ll call even more attention to myself. In a move born of pure, desperate self-preservation, I snatch the ball cap off Peyton’s head and transfer her sunglasses to my own face. The only thing that’s going to save me now is wardrobe.
“Gracias, querida,” I say, giving her a heartfelt squeeze. Peyton and Emmy are always begging me to teach them Spanish, and I love doing it. It’s a little piece of Mexico I’ve gotten to hold onto. And to share.
“De nada, Tía,” she replies. “?Suerte!”
I don’t need good luck.
I need the opposite.
And just like that, I’m on-camera for the first time in twelve years.