Under the Lights (4 page)

But it's clear from the expression on her face that my mother just feels sad for me. Poor Vanessa, who's deluded herself into thinking she's important. Poor Vanessa, who's on the verge of failure, even as she's succeeding. Poor Vanessa, whose being
in
the paper is overshadowed by the fact that she can barely read it.

And poor her, for having only been able to have one child, who turned out to be such an unintellectual disappointment.

I stand up from the couch before this conversation can veer any further into the same familiar territory,
my feet moving toward the stairs as if they've got minds of their own. “I'm going up to read.”

She doesn't say anything as I head up, and I can hear the flick of her newspaper as she picks it back up, as if I were never there.

Once upstairs, I change into shorts and a sports bra, grab my sides, and get on the treadmill to run lines while I walk. But even in my zone, and even though my parents have been pulling this kind of unsupportive crap for
years
, my mother's words continue to penetrate my brain. Because a big part of me knows she's right. Not about the age thing—I look young enough that I'll probably be able to pull off playing high school well into my twenties—but about the fact that I can't guarantee there'll be another role for an Asian-American actress when
Daylight Falls
ends.

Even this past summer, while my costars (e.g. Liam) were starring in career-making roles, I was stuck playing yet another science nerd, this time in a stupid slasher movie. The fact that I actually suck at science only rubbed salt in the gaping wound of my career.

The only person who gets it—like,
really
gets it—is my costar Jamal. Where I get roles like “science nerd” and “med student,” he gets “guy on the basketball team” and “token black friend who bites it first in every horror movie.” We're practically our own freaking drinking game.

We both know we're lucky to be on a show with two people of color in the main cast, but just the fact that it
is
lucky feels crappy. Even with good reviews on the show, I still get people thinking I'm only on it to fill some sort of racial quota—as if the role of Bailey
Summers hadn't actually been written for a blonde and given to me because I was just
better
than everyone else.

Whatever.

I read through all my lines a few times, trying some different tones and affects until I feel Bailey fully inhabit my body again, and then I grab my phone. I need to get out of this house. I'm not really in the mood to see Zander, but he
did
ask me what I was up to tonight in his text earlier, and it's not like Ally's free. I reply to his earlier text with,
Having dinner w/u?

After five minutes of waiting for a response, I give up and go take a shower. When I get out, though, I see I have a reply text.

Sounds good

Zander's really big on smiley faces. He signs his freaking autographs with them. My “nice girl” rep is nothing compared to his “nice boy” one.

We agree on a Jade-approved place—height of trendy, lots of exposure—and then I text Ally.
Need u to pick me a hot outfit ASAP.

She's always slower to respond when she's with Liam, and I get to work on drying my hair and carefully applying my eyeliner while I wait. When there's still no response and I know I'm cutting it close, I huff out a breath and pull on a pair of black leather shorts and a sheer-ish, sleeveless polka-dot blouse I immediately see makes it clear I haven't logged enough time in the sun this summer. I trade the blouse for a fuchsia one that looks way better against my skin and make a mental note to book a spray-tan appointment—something Ally used to do for me once upon a time without my even having to tell her it was time for another one. It's kind of sucked, watching her be
someone else's assistant, but not as much as it'll suck watching her leave.

I glance back at my phone. Still no answer from Ally, but there's a new text from Zander giving me a heads-up that paparazzi will be present at dinner. I smile and go back into my bathroom to add a little more makeup, and swap out my lip gloss for one that makes my teeth look whiter. It's hard work looking this good, and it's always nice to get fair warning there'll be cameras on you. My BFF may have checked out completely, but I still have to be on at all times.

It's your mother. Again.” Ally holds out the phone as if the fifteenth time will be the charm. It's been a week since “Yvette” mentioned that dumbass reality show, which means a week of ignoring her calls. She's getting desperate to shove me in front of the sleazyass producer she's suckered into this stupid idea.

“Well, you can go ahead and ignore it. Again.” I'm sexting with a waitress from one of the clubs I went to last week, trying to get a new topless pic to use as my wallpaper, and I don't have patience for this shit. “Did you confirm my flight to Miami?”

“Confirmed the flight, and that Ronen will be here in time for your pre-flight beauty ritual. I
also
confirmed your audition this afternoon, so please actually show up to this one. I know you don't seem to care about booking anything for some reason, but you
do
realize your personal income flow is pretty lacking, right?”

“You remind me every fucking day,” I growl, but I can barely even hear it. The phone's no longer ringing, but the echo of it—and my mother's nagging voice—are bouncing around in my head like a fucking game of Ping-Pong.

“Do you need an Advil?”

“I'm fine. You can go.”

“Is this about your mother calling?”

I lift my head from my phone and glare at her. “My psycho-bitch mother is none of your concern.”

“It would help if you'd tell me
why
she's suddenly calling you every hour.”

“Not much you can do unless you can get her a job so she can get over the idea of me doing a shitty reality show with her.”

Ally freezes. “You're doing a reality show? Seriously, Josh?”

“Certainly not planning on it.” My phone beeps with another text, and I glance down hopefully, but it's just the waitress being boring and trying to get me to come back and see her first. Fuck that.

“Good, because that's a ridiculous move. I
know
you can land at least one of these jobs. If you start with reality TV, you're gonna be done for life.”

“Tell me something I don't know. And tell my mother, too. If you can't do that, keep ignoring her calls.”

It looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn't, and I don't ask what she's thinking. She's not usually one to keep her opinions to herself; I'll take the gift of her silence where I can get it.

“You can go home whenever,” I add, since she doesn't seem to quite get that I don't need her in my face anymore. What I
do
need is another drink or five, maybe a lap dance, but I've got a photo shoot tomorrow for Aspen, the designer jeans brand that keeps me in first-class tickets to Miami—and on major billboards all over the country—and I need to squeeze in a workout and a decent night's sleep. Contrary to what I tell every blogger and reporter who asks, my cut body doesn't perfect itself.

A few more clicks on the laptop she totes around, and then she closes it with a sigh. “Fine. But you
need
to show up to this audition today. And you might want to think about looking at places closer to LA, anyway. Once you
are
working more regularly, you'll realize what a bitch it is doing this drive every day.”

“Subtle.”

“If you're looking for subtlety, I think you hired the wrong assistant.” She slides the laptop into her bag and stands up. “Go over your lines. Kick some ass today. Land the part.
Then
you can let yourself get disowned.”

I shake my head and watch her leave before going down to the gym. One more hour of masochism seems just about right for this day.

The audition sucks. It's obvious from the second casting sees me that they have zero expectations, and they're right to. I can't pretend I think the stupid, derivative shit I've spent the afternoon memorizing deserves any effort, so I don't give it any. And then I leave.

I know the first thing I'm gonna see when I check my phone after sliding into the backseat of Ronen's Escalade is a text from Ally asking how the audition went, and of course she proves me right. I don't have the patience to deal with her now, and I know that early night's sleep isn't happening, either. I need to get out—blow off some steam with the guys and get a good drink and a warm body or three. It's still early, though, so I text Wyatt instead and tell him to get TamTam—his favorite bong—ready because I'll be there in twenty.

It takes forty, thanks to traffic, but not long at all from there for me to get completely blitzed. This is exactly what I need to clear my head after the shitshow combo of the audition and my mother's insanity. By the time I pull out my phone to check the time, it's already ten and definitely time to get out of this house.

I still don't feel like going home, though, so I text a few of the guys, including Liam, even though he never wants to go out. He's the first to text back, and surprises the hell out of me by asking when and where. Guess he's not spending the night with Ally, for once. I tell him to pick me up from Wyatt's, and we go to Circuit, which has a comfy VIP section and very accommodating waitresses.

When we walk up to the roped-off section, Royce Hudson, Jeremy Hill, and Paz—don't even know if that's his first name or last—are already there. Royce is sucking a cherry out of a redheaded waitress's belly button, but when he sees us, he whips his head up. “Look who the fuck is finally good enough to come out with his boys!” he yells out, nearly choking on the cherry. “What'sa matter, Holloway? That girl dump your ass?”

Liam snorts. “Hudson, I almost forgot how charming you are when you're drunk.” We each fist-bump Royce hello, then do the same with Jeremy and Paz. The waitress sits up slowly, sizing us up and smiling slowly as she does, then slides off the table like water and eases out of the section to make room.

“Hey, you chased away our entertainment,” says Royce, nodding toward the waitress.

“I didn't tell her to go,” I say with a shrug, grabbing the nearest open bottle and taking a drink without bothering to check its contents.

“Yeah, but Holloway fucking radiates ‘taken.' Bitches don't wanna be around that.”

“Pretty sure what they don't want is to be called ‘bitches,' actually,” says Liam. I roll my eyes and take another drink. Whatever brand of vodka it is, it's pretty smooth going down. “Plus, plenty of 'em don't give a shit if you're taken. Trust.”

He sounds so damn bitter—getting hit on pisses Liam off even more than it used to now that he's with Ally—and Paz snorts. “Poor Holloway. You getting too much ass? Boo fucking hoo.”