We Would Never Tell

The Girls

Let’s face it: You have no idea who we are.

No surprise there. We’re used to being ignored. Unacknowledged. Unseen. We are the little pawns in the game of Hollywood, the concealed cogs in the bejeweled machine that propels so few of us to the top, no matter how hard we all try to claw our way there.

This is who we are: the people behind the People.

You know, the ones whose names are on everyone’s lips, the ones lighting up the screen, the red carpet, and every champagne-fueled party in between.

Also: the ones setting ablaze gossip columns in all corners of the internet, with their fame and their latest flame.

Meanwhile, we lurk in the shadows. We watch from the sidelines as the show goes on, because it must. We hate that for us. So we think, and hope, and strategize about our next play, the one that might, the one that could push us up the ladder or, better, into the spotlight.

But for now, we could kill in plain sight, with the whole world watching.

We are invisible.

Or so we thought.

Or so we were.

Until they found the body.

Even in this world of glitz and glam, a dead body changes a few things. The dynamics shift. It reshuffles the cards.

Once the police came to us with all their questions and their interrogations, we existed. We weren’t so invisible anymore.

And maybe we’ll claim it was a great injustice. It was an accident. They have no proof. You can get away with anything if you spin your story right.

So that’s what we’re doing, telling our story and hoping the truth doesn’t get in the way.

What truth, you ask?

There was no accident.

The other truth: We’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

No regrets.

Well, maybe just a few.