Pop Tart. Kira Coplin
year in high school and she was no different then–always relaying the latest dramas that were unfolding in the hallways as she twisted pieces of her unruly, strawberry-tinged hair around her finger. And even though she somehow knew everyone’s secrets, gossip for Lauren had always been more of a spectator sport. She worked at an art gallery and spent most of her time between the door-chimes of incoming customers compulsively hitting ‘refresh’ on every gossip website and blog in existence. Still, like me, she preferred to watch from the safety of the sidelines, managing to never stick out.
By the time the sixth model strutted down the runway in something that can only be described as ‘contemporary culottes’–if there is such a thing–I had become completely oblivious to the over-oooh’d-and-aaah’d crap being flaunted up and down the runway. If Sheryl puts as much energy into her anger as she puts into her enthusiasm, tomorrow was going to be ugly, a sleek and inspired kind of ugly.
My ringing cell phone provided me with a rude awakening early Sunday morning, confirming my worst fear: Sheryl scorned was a force to be reckoned with.
‘Hello?’ I asked groggily.
‘Jackie…it’s Sheryl.’
She was silent for a few seconds and I had momentarily forgotten all about the blind item in the newspaper as I looked sleepily around my garage apartment, which was basically attached to my parents’ house. The sunlight leaking in from the blinds highlighted the disaster that had become my home–littered with unused chopsticks, empty Lean Cuisine containers, and invitations to showers, weddings, and graduation parties (and thank-you letters from showers, weddings, and graduation parties).
‘Hi,’ I said, stepping over a pile of clothes that I meant to bring to the dry cleaner weeks ago.
‘Listen, you’re going solo to the gig today,’ she said slowly and grudgingly.
‘Okay…yeah, sure. Is something wrong?’ I asked, slightly wincing and wishing I could have taken it back the second I asked.
‘I um–well, my right hand is in a splint,’ she said cautiously as if she was contemplating telling the truth. Then, unwavering, she burst out, ‘It was that stupid bitch Lunt or Klutz or whatever. Okay? Here’s what happened…’
‘…It’s fine, you don’t have to explain, I can do the job—’
‘She wrote this thing about me, which totally wasn’t true–okay, so maybe it was kind of true–anyway, now Ted isn’t speaking to me and I’ve been getting weird looks…’
‘Honestly Sheryl, it’s fine. I can handle—’
‘…It’s been awful, and I told myself, “Sheryl, she is not going to get away with this, uh-uh.” And you know what? You’re never going to believe this Jackie…never, never, never…’
‘Okay…’ I said knowing full well that she wasn’t really waiting for my response.
‘I go to Jubilee last night for dinner with my neighbor Dana, who by the way is the only one of my friends speaking to me right now, bless her heart…we go to dinner and you’ll never believe who is sitting next to us! That bitch…Delila or whatever her name is…’
‘Delia,’ I corrected her.
‘Whatever–I recognized her from her stupid website…you know that picture next to her column–she’s got the frizzy hair and looks like she doesn’t pluck her eyebrows…’ she took a breath before continuing, ‘well I saw her and you know, gave her a little piece of my mind and things sort of escalated from there.’
My blood ran cold. I was scared to ask but knew I had to. ‘Escalated?’
Turns out sucking down one too many sugary sweet custom cocktails could not only influence Sheryl to bat her eyelashes at boys with fake I.D.s and give hickeys to her dates in public, but given the right antagonist, she could even throw a punch.
‘You hit her?’ I asked, feeling her embarrassment for her.
‘Well, kinda. I mean, she went on and on about freedom of speech and then she started explaining “blind item” to me in a very condescending way–I know what a blind item is for Christ sakes–but it wasn’t very blind if you ask me, that’s for sure…’
‘What do you mean you kinda hit her?’
‘Well, she was getting all sassy and in my face and she kind of raised up her hand–Dana later told me that she had started to wave her credit card to the waiter, like a “get me the hell outta here” type of thing, but I just reacted instinctively and popped her right in the nose…I was trying to defend myself. But enough about me. Are you okay to go to the gig by yourself today? Can you represent?’
‘Sure. Street Cred,’ I laughed.
‘That’s an energy drink! Remember that! If they ask you if you want one, say yes! Even if you’re not thirsty!’ And with that, she hung up the phone.
I was feeling a bit nervous by the time I reached the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley, where I quickly whipped into the studio’s parking lot. I was my own worst enemy, obsessing over every little thing that could possibly go wrong all morning. Forgetting my makeup case had been one of those recurring nightmare scenarios and, because I had made a point to triple-check its contents beforehand, I was running steadily behind schedule.
Encompassing nearly 100,000 square feet, the studio loomed ahead. Adjacent production offices that looked unused for the past decade only complimented the mottled eighties signage outside, making the facility look depressingly outdated. Once inside, however, its sound stages buzzed with life. Men in T-shirts and dirty jeans, who looked as if they’d been busy preparing the shoot for hours already, lugged cables back and forth and double-checked the PA systems.
‘Hi,’ I smiled, approaching two men who were busy fussing with one of the cameras, ‘I’m looking for Steve Green?’
Not turning away from his work, one of the men simply shrugged before the other piped up, acting as if my question was a huge burden.
‘Don’t know ‘em…you might want to ask someone back there,’ he said waving his hand to a small hallway lined with doors a short distance away. I maneuvered past the production assistants struggling to lug props and set pieces through the narrow space when a tall, slender man practically hissing into his cell phone caught me off guard.
‘What a fucking bitch! I don’t need to explain myself to a Nickelodeon development exec–I can’t even believe I even just spent time on the phone with her…She was like, “blah, blah, blah…” and I’m like…’ The man stopped as he noticed me staring at him and slowly pulled his phone away from his ear and frowned.
‘Hi, I’m Jackie, I’m here for the job…?’ I said, more like a question than a statement.
‘And what job would that be exactly?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’m, um, I’m here to do makeup for, uh…’ I fumbled, grasping for the call sheet in my purse, ‘Brooke! Brooke Parker.’ I smiled at him weakly. Throwing the phone back up to his ear, he barked, ‘I have to call you back.’ He studied his phone for another second, and wrinkled his nose in disgust, presumably disturbed by another message that had just come in. He was a fairly attractive man in his late thirties with evenly tanned skin, though its texture was conspicuously, almost unnaturally, wrinkle-free. He had Tony Curtis hair, expertly shaping a curled coif on his forehead thick with pomade, while his sleep-deprived, wide-set eyes bore heavy, dark lids. He looked up at me suddenly, almost inquisitively, as if he had forgotten that I was still standing there.
‘Now, what exactly are you looking for?’ With his head cocked he acted as if I had just asked him when the next spaceship left for Mars.
‘I’m doing Brooke Parker’s makeup…Sheryl Lane, my boss–she was going to do it but she…well, she can’t,’ I stammered, thinking fast. ‘So she sent me…I’m Jackie,’ I said extending my hand.