HOLLYWOODLAND

HOLLYWOODLAND an american fairy tale

JENNIFER BANASH Impetus Press PO Box 10025 Iowa City, IA 52240 www.impetuspress.com [email protected]

Publisher Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 0-9776693-0-0

September 2006

Copyright © 2006 Impetus Press. All rights reserved. for my father

I’m going to be in the movies if I have to fuck Bela Lugosi to get there.

Actresses are a little like race horses. It’s difficult for us when the race is cancelled.

This is an attempt at the ultimate motion picture.

•••

2:00 am, 82 °

She is in her car when it happens, the black roads around Mulholland winding and twisting, unrolling like the soft dark fabric of a magic carpet. Her eyes blur and she squints them repeatedly, leaning forward to see. The needle on the speedometer flies up past eighty, then ninety, the tendons in her right arm straining, muscles burning as she grips the wheel one-handed. Sierra loves to drive more than anything, the feeling of weightlessness, careening through the air, unstoppable. She was fucking unstoppable. She could feel the kid in the seat next to her getting nervous, moving back and forth in his seat, one hand clutching the belt that cut across his skinny frame. His jeans make a harsh scraping sound. The rasp of denim on leather annoys her, and she closes her eyes. “Sierra.” She could hear the panic creeping into the kid’s voice, tight and measured. “Open your eyes. Slow down.” The kid is a roadie and a distraction. This is what you did in Hollywood. You partied. Pills pooled in an unlined palm, champagne sliding down a long pink throat. White powder, the gleam of crushed stars, the shock of adrenaline hitting the brain, eyes widening. And you did not go home alone. Not if you could help it. Especially if you were a girl famous for being sexy, for getting laid. So, she tries to relax, cranks up the stereo and hums along with the music, one hand grazing the wheel with her fingertips, the bass vibrating through the leather seat, her hair moving in the breeze wafting through the open windows, heavy with the scent of white flowers and scorched earth. Spinning hubcaps set the tempo for the music of your broken window. Camera’s on and the cameras click, we open up the lens and can’t stop . . . As she turns the wheel sharply to the left, negotiating the steep curves which lead up to her house, she does not believe, even for a moment, that she is drunk. Sure, I was buzzed, she’d think later, but I’ve been way more wasted than that and still made it home. The tree rises up through the sky like a mirage, its long branches reaching toward her with sharp, bony arms and scratching fingers. How the hell did that get

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there—then white light, or is it the white picket fence just beyond? The crash, her head hitting the steering wheel with a surprising amount of force, stars clouding her vision in a flash of exploding whiteness. Shit, that really hurts. The pain in her face is sudden and enormous, the bridge of her nose on fire. And the kid in the set beside her, holding his arm and groaning. “My arm, shit, Sierra, my arm.” White clouds billow up from the crumpled front end of her car. We’re going to disappear in a puff of smoke, she thinks, giggling to herself. Poof! Her laugh rings hollowly in the darkened interior, and when she brings her hands up to her face, her fingers nervously searching the fine bones, they come away wet and red. Her face. Fractured. Ruined. She scrambles for the rearview mirror, her nails catching on cold metal, pulling it sharply down. A sliver of light illuminates her features, dissected in fragments, shards reflected in the narrow strip of glass. Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I most beautiful of all? Her eyes are beginning to blacken, her nose distorted and swollen. Dark liquid, the bloody black of rottenness, of decay, runs from one small, perfectly-shaped nostril. “Queen, thou art lovely still to see, but Snow White will be a thousand times more beautiful than thee.” She pushes against the door with a low moan, terror rising in her throat, throwing her whole body weight, one hundred and seven pounds against the hard metal until it finally gives, creaking open. She tumbles out onto the still-warm pavement, her body hitting the asphalt with a sharp smack. When she picks herself up, the kid is standing on the side of the road cradling his right arm which hangs at an unnatural angle from his body, the shoulder jutting up through his thin gray t-shirt. He leans over, surveying the damage to the fence, which is demolished, and the tree, still standing. His face is pale, ghostly in the moonlight and when he speaks, his voice breaks and she shivers, touching her face lightly with one hand, fingers shaking.

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It is two in Hollywood. Eighty-two degrees. “Sierra, we’ve gotta get your car up to the house. See if it starts.” She climbs back into the car and sits down gingerly, the back of her legs scraped raw and bloody from her tumble onto the pavement. The smell of spilled gasoline hangs in the air like toxic waste. She holds her breath and turns the key tentatively to the right, imagining the explosion, the car engulfed in flames: burning, twisted steel, the red-orange heat of the fire consuming her. She realizes that she is sweating, her shirt is wet through, the material sodden and stuck to her skin. After three tries the motor catches, coughing and sputtering its way back to life and with a loud rattle, the engine begins to purr. “Thank you, God,” Sierra mumbles under her breath, and then coughs, blood pooling thickly in her mouth. “C’mon, get in already!” She is panicked, annoyed at the kid, at herself, but mostly she is scared. She hunches over the wheel, concentrating on the brief stretch of road leading up to the house and tries to ignore the fear building in her chest, the incessant chatter of voices on the radio, in her head. She realizes that she is moaning, the sound coming from the deep center of her body, her voice strained and stuttering. Uhhhh . . . Uhh . . . Uhh . . . She pushes the remote with a jab of her thumb and runs into the darkness of the garage, which is cool and dry, leaving the kid sitting open-mouthed in the car, cradling his bent arm. She flips on the overhead light and begins searching frantically under piles of boxes, (C’mon c’mon, where is it, where is it?) and bulging plastic bags. When she straightens up, she is sweating. She can feel the blood dripping from the end of her nose, spattering redly on the concrete floor, the faint sound of bones crunching beneath the skin as she reaches up and wipes her face with one hand, dark fluid staining her pale skin. Her face feels swollen, huge and hot, her features impossibly distended. She holds a nine millimeter in her hands, the black steel cold around her curving fingers. She sighs deeply, relief relaxing the muscles in her back, and suddenly she is so tired. She sinks to the dusty, cement floor and puts the gun to her head, hand shaking. She

  jennifer banash lowers the gun for a moment and cocks it, the sound echoing in the damp, cavernous space, then places it muzzle flat against her temple. Its coolness against her skin is calming, and she concentrates on her breathing, filling her chest deeply with air, then exhaling. Her head begins to feel light. She closes her eyes. Who do you think you are Sharlene Miller? Oh, I’m sorry, Sierra? Crashing your car like that. Spoiled brat. Cinderella, my ass. You’ve got a test shoot with Playboy tomorrow. Face cut up and smashed, nose like Bozo the clown. So attractive, really. Mortgage overdue, credit cards maxed. No one wants to work with you. Fired from Vixen. Too difficult, they say. Bitch-cunt, they say. You can’t get a movie to save your life. Hell, no one even likes you. You Sharlene, not Sierra, the tit job, the curtains of bleached blonde hair, but you. Do you even exist anymore? Whatever happened to Sharlene Miller from Barstow, California? I don’t know, she whimpers. I don’t know who that is anymore.

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Coma I

She was spinning out through darkness . . . A series of shadows looming like ghosts cut from strips of black paper, growing before her closed eyes. This is where I undo the spell, she thinks excitedly, her fists clenching the stiff white sheets. And the prince . . . For there is always a prince, moving through the story like water, his silhouette walking out of the blackness to claim her. The touch of hands on her shoulders, breath in her ear. Sierra, wake up. Don’t leave us. The wind, she thinks with a smile, is picking up. But all at once she is spiraling down through a pocket of light, glittering, more precious than even the diamonds circling her wrists. The view from her house, looking out over the expanse of the valley, tiny lights like stars, the Hollywood sign off in the distance pulsing softly. I’m flying, she thinks, with no small degree of surprise, I’m finally flying! And the hurtling down and down again. Is this the rabbit hole? I shouldn’t have moved so far from the river. The voice, welcoming, as she falls through the endless space. Sharlene, you’re home. She is standing on the porch, gray boards creaking beneath her feet, a figure hazily outlined through the screen door, the smell of bacon rising through the warm air to greet her. But there is something on her chest, weighing her down. Pressing. A book? A cup? She can’t move. Mom, she moans, Daddy, her last words sliding from her lips like toads, the spell unchanged, unbroken— help me.

 

Sharlene •••

One

Once upon a time there was a girl who was born with the purest golden locks anyone had ever seen. She lived in a rich, beautiful castle, with acres and acres of green grass all around. Her mother, a vain and difficult woman, was envious of her daughter’s gold tresses. So much so that, one night, as the girl lay sleeping in her narrow bed, her mother crept up beside the pillow and snipped off the golden curls, strand by strand, and sold them for money at the market the next day. Sharlene turns the page anxiously, one finger licking the candy-smooth paper, the long grass in the yard tickling her ankles. Fairy tales are so much better than the sharpness of everyday life. She prefers the clouds moving aimlessly above her head, a rainbow reflected in their pillowy whiteness. She takes comfort in the illustrations of rough stone castles and golden-haired princesses, prefers fuzziness to concrete detail. She reads them over and over until her lips move effortlessly as she sits in front of the mirror, pulling a brush through her her pale hair. She is hypnotized by the sound of her own voice, her reflection illuminating the glass. She sighs, winding a lock around her index finger, then places the tip in her mouth, sucking greedily. Her hair tastes of soap and dirt, the cloying, chalky taste of flowers and dust. She closes the book and lies back on the rough grass covering the front yard of their house in Barstow, tilting her face to the sky, squinting into the warm sunshine. Her mother is inisde, glued to the television, a drink resting in one hand, ice melting in the syrupy liquid. Cocktail hour, her mother called it. All Sharlene knew was that this was the time of day when it was all right to sit down beside her, her small fingers reaching out to touch her mother’s hand or shoulder, heat radiating out through her fingertips. The strong perfume her mother wears rises up, filling the space between them with jasmine and the pungent scent of musk. Even during cocktail hour, Sharlene sometimes notices a wave of revulsion pass over her mother’s fine-boned features, darkening them slightly, her smile shadowed and grim. At these

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moments Sharlene becomes stubborn, holding on even tighter, digging the pads of her fingers into her mother’s soft flesh. Look at me! she thinks, fighting to hide the tears that spring to her eyes each time her mother moves almost imperceptibly further away. Mom, look at me! But if she is short on physical contact, her mother makes up for it in other ways. She mends Sharlene’s clothes, carefully threading the needle, licking the tip of the thread so it will pass through the tiny eye more smoothly. She cooks her favorite meals—spaghetti and meatballs, pot roast with brown gravy—smiling across the table as her daughter’s lips close over the tender roast, the meat melting like butter against her tongue. When Sharlene is sick, she crushes up baby aspirin with a spoon and mixes it into a glass of ginger ale to mask the medicinal, bitter taste of oranges and chrome. Sometimes she even sponges her head with cool towels and reads aloud to her from the Ladies Home Journal. Things with her father are more complicated. Somehow over the last few months he has moved away from her, and she’s begun, ever so slowly, to lose him. And the fights began. Late at night Sharlene lies in her narrow bed, the moon glowing outside, phosphorescent as an opal. She listens to their voices rise up through the damp walls of the house, up the creaking wooden staircase and into her waiting ears; she claps her palms over them in a paroxysm of nervousness and shame. She tries to shut out the sounds of high-pitched screaming, dishes breaking, the crash of glass shattering against the walls of the living room, the kitchen window (Lower your voice! Do you want the neighbors to hear?) and the front door finally slamming, shaking the very foundation of the house, her bed vibrating in the dark. “Dammit, Lorraine. She’s probably not even mine.” And she is never more aware than at those moments, senses heightened and shrill, her brain buzzing as the sweat pools then dries beneath the nubs of her breasts. Her mother’s voice—both grating and hoarse—echoes throughout the too-quiet house, broken as the shards of porcelain littering the kitchen floor. And then the sound of the freezer door opening, a humming chill, the sudden music of ice cubes dropped in a glass. And the silence that follows.

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The silence. She grows up hating the absence of noise, the stillness in the aftermath of emotion. The quiet after the violence ebbs away. And, for as long as she can remember, she ran from it. To pass the time she makes up stories. She lies in her bed, the crisp sheets drawn up around her shoulders, memorizing whole passages of her favorite books. She speaks them aloud, her whisper in the darkened bedroom merging with the rustle of leaves outside her window, palm fronds hitting the ground with a soft whoosh. Sometimes she sits at her vanity in front of the oval glass, the nightlight tingeing her features pink, a rosy glow in the dark. The glass is liquid silver, the deep water of a pond at midnight, and she speaks slowly, carefully, repeating the lines she’s memorized like an incantation, a talisman to ward off evil. Near the opening of a large forest lived a woodcutter with his wife. They had only one child. A little maiden of three years old, and they were so very poor that they could scarcely find bread to eat from day to day. One morning the woodcutter, full of sorrow, went into the wood to his work, and while he cut down the trees with his axe, all at once a beautiful lady stood before him. She had a crown of glittering stars on her head, and diamonds sparkled in her hair. Then she spoke to the woodcutter: “I am the good Fairy Tell True, and the mother of all good children. You are poor and miserable: bring me your little child; I will be a mother to her, and provide for her with the greatest care.” The woodcutter was very glad to give up his little girl to such a good fairy, so he called her to him, and gave her to the beautiful lady, who carried her up to a delightful palace in the clouds. A palace in the clouds, Sharlene thinks, closing her eyes. Cotton ball clouds, fluffy and weightless in the warm night air. And the castle of silver and gold, windowpanes lined with emeralds, rubies winking blood red in the moonlight. Diamonds sparkling in a golden tiara, the light glinting off yellow hair the color of butterscotch and honey. And the welcoming arms of Fairy Tell True: the pink dress, voluminous

10 11 jennifer banash with layers of spun-sugar fabric, the silver stars studded in her blue- black mane, thick and luxurious as the tail of a prize pony. As she stares deeper into the glass, the hairs standing up along her thin arms, the Fairy opens her hands, beckoning, her face benevolent, full of emotion. And Sharlene runs, her arms stretching higher than ever before, reaching into the endless night, enveloping her in its warm, welcoming blackness. Safety. And dreams.

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Two

The days rush past in a blur of dry air, and the pungent, arid scents of scorched earth, car exhaust, and vegetables piled high on roadside stands. The pebbly exterior of a ripe avocado, the skin soft under her fingers, the tropical scents of mango and grapefruit perfuming the air in a narcotic haze. Apricots and the sweet-smelling rot of fresh figs. The hairy milk-filled coconuts and mounds of ripe yellow lemons, their skins shining in the relentless light. Piles of oranges, their pitted skin oily and fragrant when rubbed between a thumb and forefinger. Barstow is an old mining town, and sometimes, Sharlene thinks she sees bright flashes of silver mixed in with the gravel and dust. But when she bends down, reaching out toward the shining metal, her fingers close around aluminum pop-tops from Coke cans, or thin strips of discarded wire. The corners of her mouth turn down in disappointment as she stands up slowly, wiping dusty palms on her bare legs. Red-tailed Hawks circle overhead, their feathered silhouettes spreading out over the blue sky. There is the occasional, awe-inspiring sight of a Golden Eagle, its wingspan longer than a man’s outstretched arms. The mountains, a series of jagged brown peaks rising from the flat basin of land like a mirage. Certain rock formations are covered with cryptic messages, letters scratched into the rocks’ dry, stony surface. Billy, come back! one such missive reads, the letters quickly carved in desperation. This Town Sux, proclaims another. Sharlene runs her fingers over the gouges carved in the rock, her hands petting the rough surface slowly, languorously. The land is peppered with Joshua trees, their limbs bizarrely twisted, the victims of some unimaginable crash, the bark gnarled and rough under her palms. Sharlene likes to walk into the sand dunes sprinkled onto the baked landscape, granules crunching under her heels, the heat turning her flesh a golden brown. One hand wipes the sweat from her brow, her feet slipping out from beneath her as she moves. When she

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reaches the top and looks down, the town is spread out before her, the buildings framed by the endless expanse of the Mojave. She raises one hand to her eyes, shading them from the barrage of heat and light. We are surrounded by desert, she thinks, shivering despite the heat. You could walk out into it and be lost forever. The only escape from the oppressive heat of the late afternoons is the cavernous darkness of the movie theater. In the summertime, she walks down to Main Street almost every day toward the red letters of the marquee. Main Street, also known as Route 66, is famous, but Sharlene is fuzzy on the details. All she knows is the song her father sometimes sings to her on warm nights, a breeze blowing the hair from her neck as she rolls down the window, the car speeding toward the white-and-red lights of Dairy Queen in the fading dusk of twilight. The sign is a beacon, guiding them to nirvana—cups of sugared cream bought with a five-dollar bill. Nothing bad could ever happen to you at Dairy Queen, Sharlene thinks with some satisfaction, nodding her head and looking around at the people lining the sides of the restaurant, the parking lot filled with dented cars like bouquets of crushed flowers. The taste of ice-cream, soft on her lips, or a frozen Slushie—her tongue startlingly cherry red—mingles with their voices. She tilts her head back in the darkened interior, her small, high voice clashing spectacularly with her father’s deep baritone. Get your kicks on Route 66 . . . Sometimes her father pulls out a road atlas, the pages creased and worn from repeated viewings, a series of curious brown stains skirting the margins. He turns the pages slowly, spread out on the floor of the living room. Sharlene sucks the end of her ponytail between her lips, rubbing her bare legs on the carpet. “Someday,” he says, “we’ll go here.” His finger points to Yosemite, shaded a light purple on the map, “and here.” His finger taps the thin paper decisively. “That’s the Grand Canyon, baby.” Sharlene closes her eyes, imagines a giant crater in the earth—how it would feel to stand on that rim looking down over the jagged rocks, tan, gold, and sienna, the absolute emptiness—the colors fading from light blue to purple, then yellow streaked with a rosy

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hue at dawn. She can almost see it now. They would drive with the windows rolled down, hot air caressing her face, her mother reaching over the front seat distributing pieces of fruit. Plump cherries and pale nectarines, their skin a soft yellow, a paper napkin wrapped carefully around the tender fruit. Clusters of green grapes. But despite her father’s promises, or perhaps because of them, the atlas is eventually closed, put back in its place on the shelf crowded with fat paperbacks, the mystery novels her mother sits up late reading, spines hopelessly creased. The atlas looks sad on the bookshelf, unused, almost depressed. When her father closes its soft pages, she can almost hear the book’s heavy sigh. The car sits patiently in the driveway, reflecting sunlight off the chrome trim, unpacked, the trunk empty. One Saturday her father takes her to the Calico Ghost Town. “One third of it is original,” her father tells her, pulling into the almost empty lot, “the rest,” he adds, putting the car in park, “was restored in 1954.” The place itself is a parody of a town. Dusty and forgotten. Sharlene feels like she is witnessing a bad school play. Actors in period costumes mill aimlessly around the grounds, the women lifting the hems of their long skirts daintily out of the dust, fanning themselves with piles of yellow leaflets, a fine sheen of sweat coating their faces. As they tour the schoolhouse their guide intones proudly that it’s the old mine where eighty-six million dollars of silver were found in only fifteen years. The inside of the abandoned mine is cool and dark, and Sharlene holds tight to her father’s hand as they walk through the narrow halls, searching for apparitions out of the corners of her eyes. “It’s not that kind of ghost town, honey,” her father laughs, mussing her hair with one huge, meaty hand. But still. There is something eerie about the place. Maybe it is the emptiness of the actors’ eyes, the bored way they pose for pictures, smiling woodenly, or the town’s attempts to recreate the past. Something about it makes her kind of sad. It would be terrible, she thinks, holding her father’s hand tighter, squeezing it, to end up here. A ghost. Insubstantial and unreal—fine as mist. The town itself is almost transparent, a shadow. You would just disappear . . . For a

14 15 jennifer banash moment she feels dizzy, the room tilting crazily, and she leans onto her father’s bulky frame for support, closing her eyes. “Please, Daddy,” she begs, tugging at his wrist, “please, let’s go home now.” Her eyes are wide and frightened, impossibly blue, and there is a note of panic, of rising hysteria in her voice, a kind of raw urgency. Without another word he takes her hand, leading her back to the parking lot, the asphalt soft and heat-soaked under their feet. Once safely locked in the car, air conditioner on full blast, he wipes her eyes and cheeks with a Kleenex, tears streaking her face, thin rivulets of water cutting through the fine dust coating her features. “C’mon, pumpkin,” he says, his voice jovial with false cheerfulness as he flips on the radio, music filtering through the car like sunlight. “Let’s go get us a Slushie.”

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The Father Speaks

She was a strange kid. A bit off—if you know what I mean. She took things too damn hard if you ask me. Crying at the drop of a hat and so forth. Anything could set her off—a dead ‘possum in the middle of the road, losing a library book, anything at all. Waterworks, I used to call her. Boy, she hated that. Hey, waterworks, I’d say, swatting her behind as she passed by, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. She’d roll her eyes and stomp upstairs to her room, slamming the door behind her. It was probably her mother’s fault—that woman was always too dramatic, emotional, impossible to live with. I would’ve gone bonkers if I hadn’t gotten out. Sure, I regret the way I left, but at the time it didn’t feel like I had a choice. It was either them or me, and I was selfish—I chose me. She would’ve done much better with some other poor bastard for a father, but I guess it didn’t work out that way. Now, I never wanted kids in the first place. That was my wife’s idea. I was dead set against it from the very beginning. There are already too many damn kids on the planet to begin with. What did we need to be adding to that problem for? If we have to do it, I said to my wife, at least let’s adopt some foster kid or something. There are already enough kids here who have no place to go. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Eventually she just stopped taking her pills—without telling me, of course. So, that’s how I became a father. I wasn’t even factored into the decision making process. It’s no wonder I was so lousy at it right from the start. After I left, I’m ashamed to admit that I kind of just forgot about them. It was like they’d never even existed. Sharlene’s face just got fuzzier and fuzzier in my memory until there was only this vague outline of a daughter left. If I concentrated real hard I could remember certain details, expressions she had, the way she tilted her head to the side when she laughed—things like that. But, after a while they got fainter and fainter, like radio signal when you’re on your way out of town, fading, fading . . . Of course it was an accident. There’s no way that Sharlene would’ve done something like that on purpose. That gun going off was just a freak accident— that’s all it was. She was on top of the world, wasn’t she? I’d seen her on the covers of those Hollywood magazines. She’d grown up to be a looker. Took after her mother, that girl did. She sure as hell didn’t look a thing like me—and thank God for that!

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The funny thing is that even though I havn’t spoken to her in years, I can’t help wondering what she was thinking about those last seconds before the gun went off, if she called out my name, if she was scared in that dark garage, if she even remembered me at all . . .

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Three

It is around this time that her fascination with the movies begins. She is drawn toward the blinking neon light, the cool darkness of the theater, the hushed quiet more sacred than any cathedral. In church on Sunday mornings, Sharlene stares down at the Bible in her hands—the thick, black cover, the rosary clutched in her mother’s fingers, the dark beads covered in a dull sheen—and, though she longs for some kind of divine intervention, she feels nothing. Her chest is hollow and empty. But when she enters the theater, she is overwhelmed by a feeling she can only describe as spiritual. The sacred, she whispers, rolling the words around on her tongue like rosary beads, this is the realm of the sacred. She’s not sure what these words mean, exactly, but she likes the sound of them. Inside the theater she is instantly at peace, her mind soothed by the gradual darkness, the screen alive with shifting color and light. If there is a God, Sharlene thinks, he’s here, in this room. There is always the same heady rush each time she walks through the glass doors and into the butter-soaked interior, the same quickening of her pulse, an overwhelming sense of excitement and promise. Her eyes widen as she scans the offerings posted high on a board above the cashier’s head. The room is a garish swirl of color, the floor carpeted in a paisley design of magenta, orange, and black. The walls are painted a deep blue, the sky at midnight. The paint, although still glossy in sections, is chipping away in patches, revealing the white plaster underneath. She stands, hands in her pockets, lips moving as she reads the titles. The decision is imperative. Whether or not she will sink seamlessly into the soothing celluloid world depends solely on her choice. When E.T. came to Barstow, she stood in line to see it eight times. Each time the alien succumbed to illness, the tears crept out the corner of her eyes, rolling slowly down her cheeks. She can never decide whether she feels more like Elliot—misunderstood, in need of a

18 19 jennifer banash hollywoodland friend—or E.T., lost in suburbia without home or country. This particular theater sometimes shows old movies in black and white or garish Technicolor. Last week it was The Bad and the Beautiful. Lana Turner illuminating the screen with her icy blonde beauty, her satin gowns gleaming in drifts of silver light, the fragile skin of her cheeks luminescent, eyes wide as a china doll. When Lana crashes her car in the pouring rain, her vision blurred by her own tears, Sharlene cries in the darkness of the theater, wiping her nose wetly on her sleeve. Hollywood must be a wonderful place to make everyone so miserable, she thinks, taking a large gulp of cherry Coke and blinking away her tears. Sharlene can barely keep her excitement in check as she looks at the list of titles. To her utter delight, Gone With the Wind is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. She has seen this movie once before with her mother one hot Easter Sunday, ice melting in her glass of lemonade as it sat untouched, her face inches from the glowing screen, transfixed. She slides the soft green bills from her pocket across the glass partition. The cashier, always the same woman, forty-ish, bleached blonde, never looks up from her magazine, the slick pages reflected in the transparent glass between them. Once the film is selected, the candy counter beckons with brightly colored boxes, the lure of sugared death: Good and Plenty, Raisinettes, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, the intense, fruit-flavored limbs of Sour Patch Kids. Sharlene likes to buy a small popcorn, alternating fistfuls of salty corn kernels with a sprinkling of chocolate- covered candy. She also likes to put popcorn on the soft serve ice- cream that spirals from the silver machine that squats determinedly behind the counter—but not today. Today she feels tart and cranky, so she selects a large bag of Sour Patch Kids and a Sprite, the artificial lemon and lime flavoring wafting toward her as her cup is slowly filled, fizz coating the waxed edges. She walks quickly to the theater, her sandals scraping the carpet. They are made of clear blue plastic and rubber, an imitation of a style made popular by the in-crowd at school. The real sandals

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are called Jellies. When she sees her classmates walk by, tanned feet encased in the signature pastel colored rubber, her stomach contracts with longing. There is one girl, it is rumored, who has seven pairs of Jellies—one for every day of the week. Sharlene cannot imagine such luxury. Her imitation Jellies came from K-Mart, and she had to beg her mother for two solid weeks before she finally gave in, muttering under her breath as the sun beat down on the parking lot. Goddamn plastic shoes . . . As she pushes open the swinging doors of the theater, her eyes are momentarily useless. The blackness settles across her shoulders like a blanket as she walks to the third row and sits dead center, her face tilted up toward the glowing white screen as though it is the reflected light of stars, bathing her face and body in transparent rays. Her fingers grip the arms of the chair with anticipation. This is the moment she adores, when the lights go down and the projector begins its soft whirring. The sound works on her like a tranquilizer, the white light cutting through the darkness. A sudden hush falls over the room, silent but for the crunching of popcorn and candy, the wet sounds of liquid slurped noisily through a plastic straw, and then the music begins to swell, rising up from the back of the theater as Vivien Leigh’s celestial face fills the screen with wonder. Almost four hours later she stumbles out into the harsh sunlight, tears streaking her cheeks. Although it is almost seven o’clock, the sun is still high in the sky, beating down on her head and shoulders. She is sweating. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and walks slowly down Main Street, thinking of Scarlett collapsed at the bottom of the long, red staircase, her face tilted toward the sky, her invincible will, the certainty of her voice, her absolute conviction. Sharlene wonders if she’ll ever be that sure about love, about anything at all. She turns the corner and crosses the street, darting between cars, and walks across the asphalt parking lot to McDonald’s. The large, yellow arches shine in the light, beckoning. The Barstow McDonald’s is special, fashioned from a series of abandoned train cars.

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It is the only one like it in the world, Sharlene thinks as she pushes the glass doors open in a blast of frigid air and the oily scent of French-fried potatoes. Even in a place as small as Barstow, there is a kind of magic. One can sit in a train car, look out the window and watch the world go by, body suspended in space. The illusion of travel. Halted motion. Sharlene orders a vanilla milkshake and fries, and carries them to a table by the window. She eats the hot, salty potatoes between long gulps of cold cream and gazes out the window, the sweat drying on her skin. She likes to pretend that she is on her way someplace far away and exotic, someplace glamorous. Today it is Los Angeles. Although L.A. is only a three hour drive away, it might as well be on Mars. All she knows of L.A. is gleaned from movies, television, and the movie magazines she reads obsessively. She imagines that all the women look like Charlie’s Angels: glamorous in white pantsuits like Jaclyn Smith, or blonde and buttery, their long legs cascading from cut-off denim shorts like Farrah Fawcett, hair sculpted into a lemon meringue flip. For Sharlene, L.A. is all palm trees stretching overhead, hot sandy beaches and immaculate sidewalks littered with stars. Rodeo Drive: the cars sparkling like jewels under the sun, the women in expensive tracksuits walking tiny dogs, Dior and Chanel shopping bags in their hands, the names embossed onto the thick, heavy paper. She finishes the last of her shake and delicately brushes the crumbs from her fingers. She imagines her life in a succession of scenes—quick cuts. Take one: fade in on the salty, blue ocean, waves crashing on the shore in a white froth. Her oiled body encased in a black bikini, the shudder and click of the camera, the flashbulbs blinding her temporarily, one hand thrown up in front of her face, shielding it from the onslaught of light. Gentlemen, please, no pictures . . . Fade out. Take two: her legs crossed delicately at the ankle as she rests in a burgundy leather chair. She is dressed in a white suit trimmed opulently with fox fur. A tiny white hat with a veil cascades over her face, accentuating her sharp cheekbones, blonde hair curled into a twist.

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Her exposed skin gleams like crystal. A man dressed in a dark suit leans across the desk toward her, a cigar clasped in his thin hand, a plaintive note in his voice. So soothing, so seductive. You must make this picture, he begins, as a pungent cloud of smoke envelopes her. You simply must. Sharlene, the studio needs you . . . She walks home in a kind of daze, the heat sticking to her like a wet swimsuit. She shuffles her feet in the pale dust on the side of the road. Although they are planted firmly on the ground in Barstow, California, she can smell the salt spray hanging in the air along with the tropical vanilla scent of oil, feel the sun warming the top of her skull and the wind tangling her hair into coarse salty ropes as she whips her head around—finally smiling for the cameras—her lips parted and moist, the teeming crowd reflected in the endless pools of her eyes.

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Four

Her father leaves in her eleventh year, and her mother becomes more distant, estranged from everything around her. She spends days sitting in a chair staring out the front window, watching the cars pass by, a glass sweating damply in one hand as the warmth of Indian summer fades into fall. Sharlene misses her father, the sound of his footsteps in the hall, his booming voice, the touch of his large hands massaging her scalp. But he isn’t coming back. He has fallen into the realm of blackness, a dark void. He waits as prisoner, his body chained to the stone floor of the dungeon, face pressed to the cold granite, eyes closed. Escape is impossible. She knows this. But still, she waits. The sun pummels the walls of the house, the worn red shingles on the roof, the top of Sharlene’s head as she sits motionless on the porch, squinting into the sharp waves of light. She learns to separate white clothes from dark, how much detergent to use for one load, to cook simple meals for herself: spaghetti and tomato sauce, tossed green salad, tuna on whole wheat, a grilled cheese sandwich with tomatoes. Cans of soup warmed in the microwave. She worries about radiation every time it beeps, the soup filling her mouth like strange metallic poison. In the evenings, they move to the living room and sit in front of the television, the sound turned low. The laugh track in Sharlene’s ears is tinny and unbearable. It reminds her of crushed aluminum foil, of the sound of tin cans rolling down a steep hill. Of embarrassment. Her mother stares at the screen, transfixed, seeing nothing. Sharlene watches the images moving across the damp surface of her mother’s eyes, how they rarely blink. Her gaze is frozen, glazed as an ice- encrusted window. Sometimes her mother’s cheeks are wet with tears that fall silently down her plain brown face. Her yellow hair is always matted now. No more neat buns, French twists, or high ponytails. Sharlene dutifully drags her brush through the tangles every day or so, the strands coarse now, like straw. Rapunzel had the most long and beautiful hair like spun gold.

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There is no one making sure Sharlene eats her vegetables, drinks her milk, or goes to school every day. But she does anyway. It is a relief to sit in the classroom, her pencils and pens neatly lined up on the desk before her, their wood-shaving scent soothing her, the teacher’s voice filling the room. There is a strange kind of comfort, kind of security in someone telling her what to do. Direction and safety. Her own house is silent. The ticking clock, the drone of the television, the sound of ice filling a glass, are not the sounds of life, of happiness. The entire house seems blanketed in despair. Even the furniture has begun to look exhausted. Sharlene spends most of her time in her room or on the porch, reading the books of fairy tales she checks out of the library again and again. They work on her mind like a drug, security and hope trapped like ether between the slick, colorful pages. Rapunzel was the most beautiful child under the sun, and as soon as she reached the age of twelve years, the witch locked her up in a tower that stood in the forest, and this tower had no steps, nor any entrance, except a little window. One day the king’s son rode through the forest. While passing near the tower he heard such a lovely song, and could not help stopping to listen. It was Rapunzel, who tried to lighten her solitude by the sound of her own sweet voice. She leans out her bedroom window searching the empty road below, the cars that pass by but never stop, the absence of shoes on pavement. There is no prince to rescue her, but still she waits, craning her neck in order to see further, her golden hair hitting the bottom of the window like a wave of spun silk. And every man who drives a brown Cadillac is her father. Her pulse quickens, heart leaping as she leans further out, her lower body pressed against the windowsill, waving. “Daddy! Hey, Daddy! Wait for me!” But the cars pass one by one, and the men never look exactly right, and the cars don’t stop or turn around. Sometimes she thinks she could go on like this forever, locked in a tower of silence, unacknowledged, her voice loud as breaking glass in the confines of her room, no matter how hard she tries to speak softly, to whisper.

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It is her clothes that finally give her away. She has grown, her arms and legs lengthening at a speed that frightens and exhilarates her all at once. Her wrists poke out from the cuffs of her shirts, her pants riding high on her calves. Sharlene notices the poisonous looks from the other girls, how they stare at her during recess, math, English—their eyes darkening with hatred, or even pity. The whispers behind closed fingers, the narrowing eyes. She hates those girls in their matching pastel outfits, their shiny, conditioned hair like the tail of some prize thoroughbred, but most of all she hates the feeling of not belonging—left out, scorned, unenvied. Outsider. It is her English teacher, Mrs. Lawson, who pulls her aside one afternoon when the final bell rings, peering at her from behind wire-rimmed glasses, her blue eyes moist and kind. And when Sharlene sees that empathy she breaks down, sobbing into her pink palms, tears flowing between clenched fingers. “My mother,” she said, sobbing, “My mother . . .” She could go no further, her small body heaving with grief. But it is enough. Social Services pay a visit the following week. They crowd together on the worn plaid couch. The social worker peers at Sharlene over a clipboard. The noise of her pen is the scratching of some small animal burrowing deeper into its hole, paws raking the earth. The social worker looks at Sharlene with disdain, and she feels her face grow hot in a kind of protest, the bloom of blood moving beneath her skin. Her mother just sits there, staring blankly ahead, refusing to speak. “Where is her father? How long have things been this way? Who has been taking care of this child? Does Sharlene have any relatives she might be able to stay with for a while?” Sharlene can feel her mother’s anger, even though she refuses to voice it. It comes at her like boiling lava, a wave of scalding water, and her face flushes again—this time with shame as she looks away from her mother’s empty eyes and down at the floor. “You wicked child,” cried the witch, “what do I hear you say? I

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thought I had hidden you from all the world, and now you have betrayed me.” After the social worker helps her pack, after she strips the bathroom of toothpaste and shampoo, after a white ambulance arrives, places her mother on a stretcher and carries her body away, lights flashing, Sharlene walks calmly to the bathroom and locks the door. In the second drawer, in front of the bathroom mirror there is a pair of gleaming sliver scissors. She is drawn to them, her hands reaching out to cradle the metal blades, turning them over in her palms. A sliver of her face stares up at her, one jagged blue eye, a lock of hair falling across her forehead. Her mother used these scissors once a month to trim her bangs. “Sit still, Sharlene. Be still. Lord have mercy, you are a wriggly thing . . .” She feels the cool weight of the blades against her flesh, and raising them slowly up to her head, she begins to cut. The sound of her hair hitting the floor is the sound of fluttering white wings, white birds, powdery snow falling on black satin. In her wrath, the witch caught hold of Rapunzel’s beautiful hair, and struck her several times with her left hand. She seized a pair of scissors and cut Rapunzel’s hair, while the beautiful locks, glistening like gold, fell on the ground. And she was so hardhearted after this that she dragged poor Rapunzel out into the forest, to a wild and deserted place, and left her there in sorrow and woe. But whatever is lopped off will eventually return, grow back. She runs her hands over her cropped head, the hair soft as a newborn’s beneath her palms, her eyes hard as the glass of the mirror staring back at her. Her head is round, littered with curious bumps that push out from underneath the skin like tumors. She likes the bumpiness of her flesh, the hard slick feel of bone beneath her fingers. The tears slide down her cheeks as she stares at her own reflection, her hands cradling the sides of her head. She closes her eyes, and out of the blackness her mother’s face appears, glowing whitely, her skin luminescent as distant stars, her expression radiant.

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Justice. She leaves the hair on the floor at her feet—a golden offering, a talisman—the strands glossy and curled as a pile of snakes.

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Five

She moves in with her uncle in Pasadena. A small white house on a dead-end street. “It’s not a dead-end, Sharlene,” her uncle says the first day he drives her to her new home in his red, dust-smudged truck. “It’s called a cul-de-sac.” But Sharlene knows better. Her uncle has soft brown hair that frizzes out like a cloud around his head, which, from certain angles, appears to be too small for the rest of his lanky frame. His body is skinny, his clothes worn soft and faded from too many washings. He is a stranger to her, and old, she thinks. Forty, at least. When she looks at him and squints her eyes tightly, she can see her mother’s face. She had asked about him once. “Your uncle’s a bum,” her mother said, looking up briefly from the newspaper she was spreading out over the kitchen table, her eyes both hard and distant, the rustling sheets of paper obscuring the tabletop with rows of endless words. He is, as he put it that first day, between jobs. As a result, he spends most of his time sitting at the kitchen table, drumming one hand on the chipped yellow Formica as he reads the wanted-ads and drinks coffee, muttering under his breath as the pages rustle and shake. He takes her out for Cherry Cokes or ice-cream after her first few days of school, sitting across from her in a booth at Dairy Queen, the silence awkwardly settling around them as Sharlene stares down at her cup, her foot tapping the linoleum. But, after this, he mostly ignores her, and for that Sharlene is grateful. She tries her best to blend in at school. She is quiet, sits in the back of the classroom, staring down at the well-worn wood of the desk. She spends her lunch hour alone in the courtyard, a brown paper bag propped between her knees, eyes buried in the pages of a book. The other children, girls especially, are merciless. There is the rolling of wide blue eyes and high-pitched giggles whenever she walks by alone. Always alone.

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“Where’d you get your clothes from, honey? K-Mart?” She hates them. And the depth of her hate is perfectly matched to her longing. She is old enough to know now that it is the same everywhere—the same girls in different clothes. The same girls at every school, walking in packs, ponytails glossy and smooth, lashes thick and long. Doe eyes. Socks turned down perfectly on honeyed ankles. Leather purses slung over delicate, shrugging shoulders. Their colors: pink, light blue, the sunniest, most buttery of yellows. Their white leather tennis shoes. A glimpse of tan stomach as they stretch in their seats like cats. Feline. Arms pulled luxuriously overhead. A smug smile. Whites brighter than the sun. Gold bracelets circling slim wrists, charms tinkling in the breeze. That was power. And she has none. Her clothes, like her uncle’s, are worn soft and faded. Jeans too short on the ankles. Stubble on her white legs. Her embarrassment is a brand, a tattoo. Her face burns with it. She takes the bus to the Salvation Army, pawing desperately through bins of vintage clothes, scarves, and hats. She chooses a pink dress, not too ratty looking, still relatively fresh. A pink ribbon to tie around her hair like a headband—her hair still much too short for any sort of ponytail. “Beautiful goods to sell; beautiful goods to sell.” Snow White, when she heard this, peeped through the window and said “What have you in your basket for me to buy?” “Everything that is pretty,” she replied; “laces and pearls, and earrings and bracelets of every color;” and she held up her basket, which was lined with glittering silk. The next morning she takes extra care in front of the bathroom mirror. The dress is washed and ironed, the pink ribbon shining in her short, glossy hair. The color pinkens her cheeks. I look almost pretty, she thinks, peering into the mirror. She remembers Scarlett O’Hara, the dress made from the green velvet curtains the color of fresh moss, the gold tassels knotted around her tiny, corsetted waist. Making do. Creating beauty out of nothing. She feels suddenly alive, almost artistic, as if she is preparing a costume. She pins a fabric flower she found in the ninety-nine cent bin to the sash of the dress: the

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graduating petals of a rose, pink, then crimson, then almost white. She thinks it is beautiful, pulsing with color. Her dark blue sneakers are all wrong, but they will have to do. They are all she has. When she boards the bus, she is careful to sit down slowly, pulling the dress taunt beneath her so that it won’t wrinkle. Her cheeks flush a shade darker than her dress as heads turn to stare. A light shines down on her face, caressing the golden ends of her hair. It’s as if her own personal lighting director travels with her, some invisible, God-like source illuminating her from above. Even if she doesn’t know it yet. She walks through the halls, her head high for once, ignoring the voices that assault her from all sides, hissing like snakes. “Look at that dress, those shoes . . . Oh my God, will you just look at her?” She tries to shut her ears, to ignore the harsh whispers. She walks to the girl’s bathroom, slowly, carefully, her heart pounding. And there, in front of the mirror, stands the inner circle, the most powerful click in school. The Alpha Girls. She knows their names. In fact, everyone knows their names, speaks them in hushed tones, like prayer, or a spell. Potent, intriguing. Infinitely dangerous. Melissa Zaroff, Danielle Rochelle, Kristi Taylor, and Jennifer St. James. Identical reflections of streaked blonde or light-brown hair, pink glossy mouths pursed in a silent kiss. A tangle of tanned arms and legs. The garden scent of flowers: lily and tuberose. Calvin Klein and Louis Vuitton. The room stops when the door swings open, faucets dripping, light streaming in through the row of windows, bouncing off the blue tiled walls. Her eyes widen in the harsh sunlight—then widen even further when Melissa, self-appointed leader, grins at her in the mirror, her smile feline, teeth slightly bared. She is too surprised to question it. She has been alone for so long. Danielle is smoothing Melissa’s hair with a tortoiseshell comb,

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the long blonde strands falling over her shoulders like satin. Melissa stares into the mirror, her gaze haughty and sure. The wicked queen went to her looking glass and asked: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I most beautiful of all?” Then answered the mirror: “Queen, thou art lovely still to see, but Snow White will be a thousand times more beautiful than thee.” “Girls.” Melissa turns to face her, her voice sugary sweet, the comb hanging limply from Danielle’s hand. Poisonous. “Look who’s here!” They turn around to face her, their eyes traveling in unison over her outfit, sweeping down to the worn shoes and missing nothing: the well-scrubbed skin, the pink dress turning her face rosy. Luminous. “Great dress, Sharlene,” Jennifer nods approvingly, then turns back to the mirror with Danielle. She watches as the two girls burst into helpless laughter, wiping invisible tears from beneath their eyes, howling, their mouths distended, lips wet. Sharlene’s eyes fill with tears she knows she cannot spill. She looks down, scuffing one worn-out shoe back and forth against the smooth tile. “Shut the fuck up.” When Melissa speaks, all noise stops. Even the faucets seem to freeze up, not daring to drip in the icy silence. She walks over to Sharlene slowly, deliberately, her perfect features inches away. If Sharlene reached out, she would touch smooth skin, crisp cotton. But Snow White did not see the evil eye of the old woman who was watching her. Presently she said, “Child, come here; I will show you how to lace your stays properly.” Snow White had no suspicion, so she placed herself before the woman that she might lace her stays. Melissa smiles, her eyes hard and dead in their wet sockets.

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She reaches out, fingering Sharlene’s dress, the fabric that felt like it might be silk, but wasn’t, could never hope to be. “Nice material,” she says, taking in Sharlene’s beauty, how the shabby clothes and shorn hair could not even hope to subdue it. “Let me just fix this one thing,” she says, her voice sweet and calm, hands moving down to the pink flower pinned at Sharlene’s waist. But no sooner was the lace in the holes that she began to lace so fast and pull so tight that Snow White could not breathe, and presently fell down at her feet. She pulls, ripping the flower from Sharlene’s dress with such force that Sharlene stumbles backwards, the seam hanging open where the blossom had been, her white cotton underwear plainly visible through the tear. The pack descends, knocking her to the cold floor, her hands reaching out for something, anything to steady her, and coming up empty with air. They rip the dress, tear the pink ribbon from her hair and stomp on it, and their white K-Swiss sneakers leaving black marks on the pink fabric, dulling the shine of the satin. When Sharlene’s dress hangs from her in strips that resemble nothing more than rags, when the tears that had threatened to spill moments ago now stain her cheeks in rivers of inky black, they pull back, glancing at the door as the bell rings, shattering the tiled silence. Melissa smiles that same dead smile, corpse-like, her eyes narrowed. “Now you are beautiful indeed,” said the woman, and, fancying she heard footsteps, she rushed away as quickly as she could. Sharlene picks herself up and bends over the row of porcelain sinks. She feels as if something inside her is splintering, breaking apart, some vital organ punctured, hissing air. Her hands shake violently as she twists the silver taps of the faucet. The water gushes out, and the sound of the rushing liquid soothes her as tears slide hotly down her cheeks. Her body contorts in soundless sobs, her chest aching as the door swings shut behind their muffled laughter and light, sure steps.

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Six

When she is thirteen, it begins. He comes into her room at night. She pretends to be asleep, her eyes squeezed tight against the yellow light creeping like fingers across her bedroom floor. The first few times he only sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out once or twice to stroke the blonde hair curling around her temples in the night’s heat. When he leaves, she exhales slowly, heavily, her heart as tight as a fist, and the noises outside her window, the sounds of the night, ring loudly in her ears. A king once had a wife with golden hair, who was so beautiful that none on earth could be found equal to her. It happened that she fell ill, and as soon as she knew she must die, she sent for the king and said to him, “After my death, I know you will marry another wife; but you must promise me that, however beautiful she may be, if she is not as beautiful as I am, and has not golden hair like mine, you will not marry her.” One evening after she finishes her homework, she decides to take a bath. Sharlene loves baths, the luxury of the hot water coating her skin like silk. She is without fancy soaps or powders, bath oils in cut-glass bottles with bits of shells and dried flowers floating in the clear liquid. There is only the heat of the water, the silence punctuated by splashing sounds as she washes her flesh, her limbs gliding smooth and oiled in the transparent heat. When I am rich, I will have a large, blue bathroom stocked with the most fragrant oils and bath milks. Scents of the sea, of juniper berries, coconut oil and mimosa. When I am rich there will be no more clothes with holes in them, pants that are too short, dresses from the sale rack. Everything I own will be new, shining clean and sparkling white. Yes, she thinks, turning off the hot water, the silver knob squeaking under her palm, I will wear only white, colorless and without history. But for now, there is only water run as hot as she can stand it, and baby oil floating along the placid surface, the scent rising up through the steam and perfuming the room, her skin, with the sweet scent of summer days and innocence.

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She has only just submerged her body in the clear water, leaning her head back against the cold porcelain, when there is a knock at the door—a soft, tentative knock that echoes in the silence of the house. Now the king had a daughter who was quite as beautiful as her dead mother, and also had golden hair. She had all this while been growing up, and very soon the king noticed how exactly she resembled her dead mother. So he sent for his counselors, and said to them, “I will marry my daughter; she is the image of my dead wife, and no other bride can be found to enable me to keep my promise to her.” She sits up, water sloshing over the rim of the tub, arms crossed over her breasts. The metal doorknob begins to turn, the door opening slowly, and her uncle’s face appears in fragments, a sheepish look moving over his features. “Sharlene?” He opens the door wider, the air humid, tropical, the bathroom mirror fogged over and faceless. “Can I come in? I have a present for you.” Without waiting for an answer, he is inside, gold glittering in his hands. When the king’s daughter heard of her father’s proposition she was greatly alarmed, the more so as she saw how resolved he was to carry out his intention. She said to him, “Before I consent to your wish I shall require three things—a dress as golden as the sun; another as silvery as the moon, and a third as glittering as the stars; and, besides this, I shall require a mantle made of a thousand skins rough fur sewn together; and every animal in the kingdom must give a piece of his skin toward it.” A heart hangs from a gold chain, a tiny diamond chip glittering at its center. “Look,” he says, walking toward her, a nervous smile turning up the corners of his lips. He sits down on the edge of the tub, steam rising from the water. “It’s a locket. You can put a picture inside if you want to.” She stares at the brushed gold surface, his face, then down at her breasts covered by her own hands, spread fingers. He places the necklace on the edge of the tub and it shines there against the white porcelain. He reaches his hand into the water, her white leg firm and

35 jennifer banash soft as white cake, slick with oil. She never considers telling him to leave. Even at twelve, she knew how the world worked, how to trade one thing for another to get ahead, the cost of it. What is it worth anyway, the price of her flesh? She knows how to harden her features like a pane of glass, her core buried safely behind the transparent surface. She knew instinctively about survival. And if not here, with him, then where? Some group home? Something far worse. And behind the blue eyes and silky hair lay a region of ice and snow. Antarctica. This part would be over soon. She couldn’t wait, could not wait for it to be over. She hates being young, hates the feeling of absolute dependence. And this was a kind of power. The way he looked at her, the desire naked in his eyes, cutting through the clouds of steam that rose up like a curtain between them. And more than anything, Sharlene hates being powerless. If she fought him, he would hold her down, his body crushing hers with brute force, her own flesh trapped and sweating, the skin of her arms and legs on fire. Agony. And that she cannot—will not—allow. She lies back, her breasts plainly visible through the clouds of steam, the nipples pink as sugared candy hearts. “I want new sneakers,” she says softly, looking into his eyes. “And some new clothes.” He smiles wider, teeth bared, his hand moving further up her thigh to the core of her, the curling hairs that bristle against his palm. “Then,” she says, pushing his hand away slowly, a smile playing along the curves of her lips, her blue eyes narrowing, “Then we’ll see.”

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Questions For Fan Club Bio

Stage Name: Sierra Birthday: I’ll never tell. Place of Birth: Barstow, CA Hair: Blonde Eyes: Blue Height: 5’6’’ Weight: 107 Measurements: 34DD-24-34 Favorite Foods: Spaghetti and meatballs, pizza, cereal, CHOCOLATE!!!!! Favorite Music: Rock n’ Roll What Do You Look For In A Man?: Big cock, good sense of humor, SEX APPEAL!!!! What Do You Look For In A Relationship?: Great sex, be your own person, FUN!!!! How Did You Come Up With Your Stage Name?: What stage name? How Did You Get Into The Business?: Fucked the RIGHT people! Favorite Video You’re In: Haven’t made it yet! Please list some info about yourself in the space below (childhood, relationships, whatever): FUCK YOU. I am not willing to discuss my present or past relationships or anything not pertaining to “Sierra.”

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Seven

The rock star has a Jaguar: hard edged, yet fluid lines of metal, scented with leather, gleaming and solid as a bullet. And his own tour bus: the silver of money, furnished with plush red couches, soft as cashmere. The queen size bed nestled in the back where he slept when he did sleep, which wasn’t often. A fully stocked bar, the bottles casting iridescent shadows in the green neon light drifting from overhead. Mirrors. Speakers in the bathroom piping in endless music from the powerful sound system, its chrome dials shining in the darkness. Sharlene took one look around and thought she had died and gone to heaven. She met him at a concert—the first she’d ever seen. She loves the lights bouncing off the stage, how they illuminate her skin in shades of blue, red, and hot pink tinged with the deepest green. The way the crowd rushes forward, carrying her along like the tide, then receding as the music slowed. The bass that pumps through her pelvis, forcing a flush to her cheeks.It’s like being alive, she thinks, finally. She shivers as the man on stage smiles down at her. Could he really see her there, standing almost twenty rows back? It seems that he can, for he looks straight at her, his dirty blond hair whipping around the silver cord of the microphone, strands of the purest golden honey falling halfway down his back. All at once she has the most horrible impulse. She wants to lick the sweat from his neck, tanned as leather, and collect those salty drops with her tongue. And maybe, she thinks, it would be wonderful. Desire. Now, for the first time, it is no longer just a word in books, black type on an empty white page. She is sixteen years old. And so, two hours later, when the music finally stops, and the crowds moving slowly, dazed and drunken toward the exit, she grabs Margaret’s hand, pulling her toward the stage.

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Margaret lives across the street in a white house, paint peeling from the sides in strips, flaking off onto the sidewalk like an itchy rash. She wears thick glasses that magnify her hazel eyes, making them enormous. Margaret’s eyes are textured like marbles: translucent, mottled with planets and stars. Sometimes, Sharlene thinks she can see the whole world in those colored orbs: rivers and lakes, sand, sea, and sharp, gray rocks. Margaret has an abundant amount of dark brown hair that she usually plaits in a thick braid, and she is as skinny as a colt. Her legs are creamy white branches sticking out of cut-off shorts. Sharlene is wearing a pair of faded jeans so tight she had to lie down on her bed to zip them up all the way, and a tiny white t-shirt. Underneath, she is braless, her nipples standing erect as the sweat dries on her body, momentarily chilling her. Black cowboy boots give her two extra inches of height—not that she needs it. Sharlene has sprouted up to 5’8” in the last few months. Her hair hangs down straight, silky and blonde, almost to her waist, and her face is milky white, punctuated by red lips, her lashes thick and black. Dressed like this, make-up on, she figures she can definitely pass for eighteen, maybe even twenty. “Sharlene,” Margaret had gasped when she opened the door that night, “he’s letting you go out like that?” Sharlene just laughed, pushing the weight of her hair away so that it fell down her back, smooth as water. She closed the door behind her and stepped out into the street. “You know he doesn’t care what I do.” As they edge closer to the stage, the roadies load equipment, wrapping cords around their bulging biceps, their black-banded tattoo’s glistening with sweat. Sharlene feels reasonably certain they will be noticed, taken in. Her blood pumps as she approaches, holding fast to Margaret’s hand, her cheeks blushing a deep crimson as one burly, bearded man stops in front of her, his arms filled with the slick black serpents of cords and cables, and lets out a low, long, wolf whistle. “Holy Christ, Mikey! Come look at what we have here . . . babies!” Margaret bites her lower lip and looks at the floor, her lips

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curled in a half smile. Sharlene just stands there, hands on her hips, waiting until the bearded man bends down, pulling her up onto the stage as if she is weightless. Her feet leave the ground, and it is like flying, the air rushing past her face, ruffling the fine feathers of her hair. She is pulled up into the light. They are taken backstage, led down a dingy corridor painted the stony gray of prison cells, and to a red door which opens with a gold key. In another moment down went Alice . . . never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The light inside is dim—candles lit—and there is the sweet, cloying scent of incense in the air. All at once she feels a little sick. Her heart is beating so fast that she is afraid it will explode in her chest. Margaret’s hand grasps her’s tightly, damply, the skin sliding through her fingers. She sees him at once. He sits on a green velvet couch, his blond hair a halo of light, and he looks at her, squinting through the smoke-filled room, a cigarette dangling from his full red lips. “He’s old!” Margaret whispered hotly in her ear. “He’s really old close up!” “So what?” Sharlene’s voice is a harsh whisper. After the last few years with her uncle, she knows all about old. And she is attracted to his power, and his age is part of that. There is no separating one from the other. His age makes him a legend, makes him who he is— what he is. And what he is right now, at this particular moment, is sexy. The music fills the room, swelling and fading, then swelling again: guitars, drums, bass. A chorus of angels. Margaret’s voice in her ear, tiny and unsure. “He’s still cute . . . I think.” And that is how they meet. The music is deafening and the room begins to fade away as he stares into her eyes. The other girls draped around him with their long sinuous arms and legs, their silky hair scented with patchouli and flowers—they all melt away as she steps toward him, her head cocked shyly to one side as she smiles, her teeth white and sharp as a frozen snow bank.

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Eight

The first thing he does, even before he speaks to her, is pass her the joint. She looks down at the smoke curling gracefully around his fingers, the sweet smell rising above the heady stink of incense, the sweaty bodies, the heat of the room. The lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles, folds of flesh invisible from the audience, and she reaches out, taking the joint in her hands. She feels the heat of the burning ember at the tip as she raises it to her lips and draws her breath in. She inhales once sharply, smoke filling her lungs, then exhales. At once she begins coughing insistently, intensely, tears filling her eyes as much from the effort as from the shame of it—this dead giveaway, this marker of inexperience. He then does something that, later, those who knew him best would tell her was completely out of character. He stands up, placing his arm gently around her shoulders, and leads her to the back of the room where there is a long table filled with food and drink of all kinds: mineral water, beer, and bottles of whiskey. He pours a shot into a small glass and gives it to her, one hand resting gently on her shoulder as she tips her head back and swallows. “I know something interesting is sure to happen, she said to herself, so I’ll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it’ll make me grow large . . . for really I’m quite tired of being such a tiny thing!” The heat rushes through her body as she drinks, fire in her chest, warming her. There is a curious sensation in her body, an opening. A plant gently unfurling its green leaves, a cat stretching in the sun, eyes closed. “Curiouser and curioser,” cried Alice . . .“Now I’m opening like the largest telescope that ever was!” When she finishes, she holds out the glass again to him, and he refills it, grinning at her for the first time, shaking his head softly from side to side. “Man, oh man,” he says, softly under his breath, “little girl’s growin’ up.” “I’m not that little,” she says, defiantly, drinking the whiskey

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down in one gulp, and sputtering a bit as the liquor hits the back of her throat. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and he laughs, chuckling softly as he pours a shot for himself, knocking it back smoothly, expertly. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself “That’s quite enough—I hope I shan’t grow anymore—As it is, I can’t get out the door.” “How old are you anyway?” She thinks for a moment, brain racing. “I’m eighteen,” she says, looking him straight in the eyes. His are blue, though not quite as blue as hers—a faded blue of denim washed a thousand times and worn soft, the color of her old clothes. A blue so colorless it is almost white. “Really?” he asks, standing closer to her, one hand moving through her hair, pulling at the silken strands, and all at once she is nervous again, frightened. He backs her up against the table and leans toward her, his face so close she can see the stubble on his chin, his actual pores, his breath on her face. He smells of sweat, smoke and whiskey, the sweetish reek of pot, and underneath it all of something not quite rotten, something she can’t quite place—a scent that is unfamiliar and slightly dangerous. “You can’t go with him!” Margaret yells as she pulls her away from the tour bus by one arm, her fingers gripping Sharlene’s arm so roughly that, later, there will be bruises, large purple marks like bright flowers, purple and green mottling the pale skin. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. “I can,” Sharlene hisses back, pulling away and looking over one shoulder at the bus; its gleaming silver exterior, the promise of something better, the future, and the man inside—his blond hair hanging over a seat of red velvet, waiting for her. “And I will.”

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Nine

The landscape flies by in gradations of brown and tan. Sharlene looks out the window into the harsh light of the afternoon, her eyes shaded by his huge black sunglasses. She has been with him three weeks. She is just beginning to get used to it. The road unfurling out in the sunlight, yellow lines and black asphalt rising up behind her closed eyelids. The private jet where beautiful women in gold uniforms bring her soft pillows, dark chocolate and champagne, the golden bubbles tickling her nose. The shopping trips in Tokyo, New York, San Francisco. The hard angles of his body slumped in a chair of soft leather, salesgirls crowding around his limp form like a flock of excited birds, wings flapping, their arms laden with silk, velvet, and brocade. Her reflection in the three-way mirror staring back at her, face pale from lack of sleep, the sleek material falling over her skin like water. Who’s that? she thinks, moving closer to the glass as if hypnotized, fingers touching her face, a hand on the small of her back as he creeps up behind her, sliding one arm around her waist. Squeezing tight. The undeveloped bodies of Japanese schoolgirls crowd around the limo as it snakes its way through the crowded streets, their thin arms beating against the metal doors. Raw flesh, bright pink tuna, the smell of the sea clinging to her hands. Marine life, seaweed and kelp. Hong Kong, a blur of neon and music, the streets pulsing, alive with color and light. Chopsticks in her hands, the wood snapping as she breaks the thin sticks apart. White rice in an enamel bowl, the herbal scent of green tea in the mornings, the steam floating up between them, hiding his face. Sleeping beside him at night, his tanned heavy leg thrown over her, nailing her to the bed. Claiming her. But she likes the bus best. Traveling, moving from one place to another while sitting still. Opening the window to feel the wind rushing by her face. The towns she would never stop in, not even to sleep, the streets teeming with people she would never meet. Everything that was the past has evaporated, disappeared like magic.

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A sleight of hand. Her mother. She called her mother from a rest stop in Nevada. She was living in a group home now, funded by the state of California. She was knitting blankets, she said, looping long skeins of colorful thread though her long-boned hands at group meetings. A.A. she called it. She was taking responsibility for her actions. The crying caught Sharlene off guard, the tears in her mother’s voice reverberating through the phone. Her mother’s pain is palpable to her, deafening. “When I’m better,” her mother began, her voice wavering, “you can come home and live with me.” Sharlene hung up then, her hands shaking, unable to stand it. Her chest is hollow and aching. Empty. She is leaving it behind for something else. This pain. For him, yes. But also for herself. Freedom. They are on their way to New Orleans and there is nothing better, nothing she likes more than sitting atop his amp on stage. All those pairs of eyes on her, sweeping over her body, wondering who she is. And to watch him play, the sweat running down his face, the intensity with which he holds his guitar. His hands. The same hands that stroke her limbs nightly. The long fingers that can touch her skin so reverently also create heavenly music; make the audience scream with delight. His voice reverberates through the monitors, so deep it gives her chills to hear it—even after three weeks. She watches the groupies waiting backstage after the show, how they stand in the front row, pouting, lifting up their tight tops, the undersides of their breasts exposed, icy white or tanned as leather—it didn’t matter. The band found a use for them all. She is aware of them circling him nightly. She can smell lust rising off them in waves—a wet kind of heat. Humid, the iron tang of blood. But he stays with her. Not that he was much use most of the time, anyway. The drugs made sure of that. The fat joints rolled before one foot even hit the floor each morning, or, more often than not, each afternoon. The bottles of bourbon, liquid the color of iced tea sliding down his throat in large, even gulps. His thirst, bottomless. The pills: blue, red, yellow and black. Yellow jackets. Bees. All the colors of the

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rainbow falling like rain from the pockets of his black leather pants. She likes the pills. Sneaks them sometimes when he’s asleep, fishes them out of the pockets when she borrows his big, leather jacket. He doesn’t like her taking them, will snatch them away if he happens to catch her. But Sharlene can’t get over the way she feels when she swallows them. Like her head is full of air. Weightless. Sometimes she thinks it might just pop off and float away all on its own. The drugs make him kind, talkative even. When he is sober, which isn’t often, he barely speaks a word to her. But late at night, after the show, when they wrap around each other in the king-size bed, he complains about the tour: the fans who don’t appreciate him, his manager. His ex-wives. But, mostly he tells her how she makes him feel, his raspy voice in low whispers, gravel bathed in honey. “Silk, baby. Your skin’s just like a bolt of China silk . . .” She moves her body on top of him, one hand pulling her hair back to give him a better view of the whiteness and perfection of her flesh. She moans, throwing her head back, though, in reality, she feels nothing. Dead. She wonders if there is something wrong with her. Or maybe this is how all women are, and no one talks about it. She thought it would be different with someone she loved. Softer. Sometimes he barely even looks at her. He rarely touches her before he pushes his way in, so most of the time she is hot, tight and dry. Irritated and chafed the day after—sitting down lightly and wincing as she urinates. Burning pain between her legs, blood staining the shocking blue water. What makes it worthwhile is after. Lying in his arms, his breath heavy in her ear, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, she is flooded with a feeling that is unfamiliar to her, warming her right down to the base of her spine. And after a few minutes of listening to his breathing, she can finally sleep. She would stay with him for two years.

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Ten

She leaves shortly after her eighteenth birthday. “But,” she would say later in interviews, “I didn’t really have a choice. He was trying to destroy me.” He begins to party longer and longer into the night until the windows are awash in light, passing bottles around until they are empty, the air a dense fog of pot smoke, the smoky haze of too many bodies packed into a cramped space. Frequent trips to the bathroom and white lines on the smudged mirror, her own distorted reflection, every pore magnified. She’d go up to the room after a few lines, smoke one cigarette after another and flip around on the television, the glow of the set illuminating her face in the bluish light. She likes cocaine. Sometimes she thinks that, if she isn’t careful, she could come to like it more than anything. There is restless movement in the chalky powder, fear as her heart rises and falls, fluttering like the white wings of so many white birds. Frantic flight. It’s the excitement she craves. She likes the rush. And he knows it. “Little girl likes her candy. Candy, candy, candy . . .” She is drowning in the monotony of it all. The same thing day in, day out. His face next to hers on the pillowcase, the scent of industrial strength laundry detergent and bleach. The drone of MTV in the background. The smell of stale cigarettes and day-old liquor sweat. The phones that rang and stopped and rang again, like packs of crying children. The dawn breaking through the curtains as she falls asleep each morning. And, later, the needle. Glinting in the bathroom light bouncing off the tiles like a strobe. The moan that left his lips as he pushed the plunger down. The red blood swelling up in the crook of his arm as his head fell back, lolling against the wall, his mouth opening and closing. His hair dirty and matted, falling over his face. And the beads of chemical sweat rolling down his chest. But she wouldn’t have left him. Except for the “incident,” as she came to call it later.

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It was a late, drunken night at a bar in Hollywood: rock stars, models, film producers circling like hawks. And Sharlene. Smoking and drinking a Diet Pepsi. Watching him humiliate her. He sat at a table full of long-legged blondes, their eyes dim and vapid, ignoring her utterly, his hands absentmindedly stroking their bronzed perfect limbs. Every once and a while, the blonde’s sent pitying, drunken looks in her direction. They seem to move in unison, heads bobbing simultaneously as they raked their manes of hair back with long fingers. The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. “No room! No room!” they cried out when they saw Alice coming. “There’s plenty of room!” said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm chair at the center of the table. They giggled, whispering, hands covering their mouths, fingers splayed and dagger sharp with nails painted shades of luscious peach, vagina pink, the squashed purple of wet, ripe grapes. Plates of brightly colored pills and rolled joints are strewn across the table like some kind of strange buffet. Bottles of Cristal, the lip of the bottle foaming with a sharp pop as the cork is released. The empty wine bottles toppled over, gold labels peeling. “Have some wine,” the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. “I don’t see any wine, she remarked.” “There isn’t any,” said the March Hare. “Then it wasn’t very kind of you to offer it,” said Alice angrily. “It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,” said the March Hare. There had, of course, been other women. She wasn’t so naive as to think him capable of monogamy. She had been with him long enough to discover that rock stars lived in an alternate universe, a place where guest stars were not only respected and allowed, but encouraged. So, sometimes there were three of them, a continuous sheet of young golden skin stretched out along the king-size bed, rumpling the sheets. He liked to sleep with one girl under each arm, but, inevitably, someone always moved, and Sharlene would wake with

47 jennifer banash hollywoodland unfamiliar strands of hair in her mouth, long brunette locks spread out over her shoulder, silkily tickling her face. She didn’t mind—not really. But he had never deliberately excluded her. Sometimes he even let her choose. “Which one, baby?” Hot whiskey breath in her ear, her eyes roaming across the backstage area or the dimly lit club. “Who do we want tonight?” But this—this was betrayal. The way he sat there, smugly drinking, eyes squinting against the smoke, as if she were invisible. Worse yet, as if she’d never been there at all. After so long it was finally clear. He wanted to be rid of her. And he didn’t even have the balls to say it. She wanted to kill him. She lit a cigarette and ordered another drink instead. This time, with alcohol. After two hours of seething rage, two hours of whiskey sours, fishing the liquor-soaked cherries out of the glass, many frenzied trips to the ladies room for lines of cocaine, and then, finally, bottles of Cristal, she stood up suddenly, spilling her glass over the table, surprising herself with the feeling of sudden movement, her limbs swinging naked and heavy. Emboldened by it. This is it? This is how it ends? As she walks out, she can hear his laughter behind her. That low voice like gravel and honey. And the girls, their laughter like the breaking of so much empty glass. “Bye-Bye, honey!” This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off: the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her. She takes the limo back to the hotel, crying all the way up to the penthouse suite. The elevator boy tries his best to ignore her tears by looking straight ahead at the red, paneled walls until a sob catches him off guard and he turns toward her, placing one hand tentatively on her shoulder. “Miss, are you OK?” His face is young and worried above the uniform her wears: a red jacket, gold braid swirling around the sleeves,

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buttons shining like brass. Her face, reflected in the mirrored doors, stares back at her, flushed and swollen, streaked with sodden make-up and tired. So very tired. Her heart throbs in her chest and she wonders if, at last and finally, it is truly broken. “Yes,” she manages to whisper, wiping her face with the scant bottom of her tight black t-shirt, exposing her taut stomach. His hand falls away as his face glows deeply red, matching his uniform. The doors open with the chime of bells, and she steps out into the glow of the carpeted hallway, her boots soundless on the thick pile. She packs what little she has accumulated—too little for two years of her life, years given solely to him, years wasted. Her dresses and t-shirts are thrown in her suitcase in haste, crumpled and wrinkled. She fishes out a handful of pills from a pair of jeans he has left lying on the floor, and throws two into the back of her throat, swallowing hard. Immediately she feels calm enough to venture into the bathroom and wash her face, smoothing her hair back and securing it with a black barrette. When she steps out into the night air, the palms move above her, filling the night with their secret song, and she tilts her head back, trying to decode it, her vision suddenly blurry. The doorman breaks her concentration by asking if she needs a cab. The car is yellow, streaked with black, like rot, like failure itself, and she rolls down the window to better hear the sound of the palms rustling in the night air. As the cab rushes through the city streets, her gaze fixes on a sign illuminated before her, the white letters glowing out of the darkness. Hollywood. Someday it’ll be my name up there in lights. And they’ll all come crawling back. Begging. She rubs her eyes and lights a cigarette, blowing rings of blue smoke out the window and into the warm, dark night. In Hollywood you can smell the jasmine and oleander, the sweet scent hovering somewhere above the smog, the dirt caking the streets like a layer of make-up. She breathes in deeply. Never, she thinks to herself, wiping

48 49 jennifer banash her nose wetly on the back of her hand. No one will ever ignore me like that again. I’ll show them. I’ll show all of them. I’ll be a big star. Even if it kills me.

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Coma II

Was it the lights from the set? Blinding, filling her with flashing whiteness. A length of thick hardness filling her mouth, her throat. She bites down, gagging, gagging after all this time, her eyes fluttering open momentarily. It’s almost funny. Sierra? Sierra can you hear me, baby? Her lips move without sound, dry, her mouth so very dry and cracked. Why can’t I hear myself? she thinks, fingers opening and closing like flowers, blood under the nails, hair matted and sticky. Sierra, stay with us! Her eyes roll back in her head, spinning like pinwheels, shards of broken blue glass. What happened? What happened to my voice?

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Eleven

She moves into a furnished apartment just off Hollywood Boulevard. The apartment, with its brown shag carpeting in the living room and chipped linoleum in the kitchen, is definitely a product of the 1970s. The mattress on the warped double bed sags in the middle, as if the previous occupant had risen moments before her arrival. Her heart dips as she looks around the room at the peeling paint on the walls, the dust motes hanging in the air. She chats with the manager, an old man, white hair combed across the top of his balding pink scalp. His pants are pulled up, cinched tight with a black leather belt. Threadbare velvet slippers hang from gnarled feet. He stares intently at her chest as she speaks, tongue moving back and forth over cracked lips. “You sure you can afford this?” he asks, his gaze moving from her breasts down to her tanned legs. She nods quickly, smiling with a flash of teeth. She bends down, pretending to tie her shoe, giving him a good view of her cleavage showcased in the tight, red tank top she’s wearing, then stands back up, throwing her mane of blonde hair over one bare shoulder. She moves in an hour later. It’s only temporary, she tells herself firmly, throwing a duffel bag onto the sagging bed, which seems to sigh under the weight. She buys some milk and eggs at the bodega on the corner, tries to ignore the odor of stale cat piss permeating the apartment, the mattress riddled with a topographic map of dark stains. Flowers, she thinks, might brighten this place up. But, looking around the room her heart dips with hopelessness. No amount of flowers could rescue this apartment. The only thing that might help is a wrecking ball, or can of gasoline and a lit match. On the Strip she fills out applications. Endless slips of white paper, blue ink staining her hands, the smell of grease clinging to her hair and her clothes long after she leaves the restaurants. The Walk of Fame beckons, and she leans down, crouching above the pink stars set into the concrete, names outlined in gold. She reaches out a hand

52 53 hollywoodland and traces the letters with the tip of one finger, the pavement hot, sun soaked. She tries Rodeo next. The women in the exclusive boutiques that line the well-traversed strip of asphalt treat her like she has plague when she pushes open the cool, glass doors. They purse their moist, beige lips, offering the applications up to her with two fingers, the thin slips of paper held far away from their bodies. They pat their perfectly streaked chignons, the glowing half-moons of their polished fingernails shining in the light. Sharlene looks down at her own well-bitten fingernails, the cuticles ragged and peeling. Her face flushes, and she digs her hands into her pockets as she leaves, bells chiming at her back. After a few hours she quits for the day, preferring to spend her afternoon at Venice Beach—a circus of fire eaters and fine- grained sand. The smatterings of applause for jugglers and mimes mix with the sound of Rollerblades whizzing by, the clatter of wheels on hot pavement. Light glints off the water like a promise of something golden, precious. And she wants it desperately. Whatever it is. Anything. She needs something to clear the ashy taste of disappointment from her mouth, from behind her tongue. She lies in her bed at night, jumping at the smallest sounds, sitting up in bed at three , heart racing. What is it, she thinks, gasping for air, what’s that? Sometimes she is afraid, reaching over to the side of the bed he used to occupy, her hands coming up empty. But at the beach this all seems foolish and far away. She lies under the hot sun, her white skin flushed and rosy from the heat, the tang of salt and island reek of suntan oil hanging heavy in the air. Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects. Each day is more fragrant and beautiful than the next: the palm trees and oleander—fronds and blossoms—are everywhere. In the water she is weightless, fluid as a dolphin. She imagines an entire

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world under benath its silken, blue depths. The sand is cool and wet between her toes as she dives under the waves, her body coated in white foam. Her hands and feet wrinkle from the hours spent soaking in the sea-salt spray, and the sand is comforting and warm beneath her feet, her towel, baked and fresh smelling in the bright California sunlight. The boys stare at her, all bronzed in their brightly colored swimming trunks, muscles rippling, sunglasses shading their eyes. Surfboards bob in the waves. Coconuts and mangoes, she thinks. Paradise, she whispers to herself, pushing her sunglasses up on the bridge of her nose. This is fucking paradise. One hot lazy afternoon as she moves off her towel and toward the water, a man approaches. She stands there motionless, the strings of her white bikini sliding down her hips, light sparkling through the blonde waves of her hair. It is a postcard moment: Wish You Were Here. Framed by the blur of the sea, white, frothing waves, the perfect clouds of the sky and golden sand, she is lightness itself. Bingo, he thinks, stopping in front of her. Cash money. There were six children, but the youngest was the prettiest of them all; her skin was as clear and delicate as a rose leaf, and her eyes as blue as the deepest sea; but, like all the others, she had no feet, and her body ended in a fish’s tail. He stares at her from behind dark glasses, watching the way she absorbs the light, her buttery curves melting into the bikini that barely covers her skin. He is tall and muscular, sporting at least three days worth of dark stubble along his jaw. If you were to kiss him, it would feel like sandpaper, skin reddened and sore for days after. He is tanned and hairy all over. Dark clouds of fur sprout from his chest and belly—even the backs of his hands. His body glistens with oil. He wears Hawaiian-print trunks, green and blue flowers on solid black. But what Sharlene notices right away is the camera hanging heavily from a strap around his neck. She looks up at him and smiles, all innocence and white teeth. Icicles and honeyed flesh.

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His hand on her arm and a slow smile, eyes veiled behind tinted lenses. She tilts her head to the side and licks the salt from her lips, nodding as she listens, fingers twirling in her hair like so much tangled seaweed. “I know very well what you have come here for, said the witch. You want to get rid of your fish’s tail, and instead to have two stumps to walk about upon like human beings, so that the young prince may fall in love with you, and that you may win him and an immortal soul! But you will have to pay me, said the witch. And it is no trifle that I demand. You have the most beautiful voice of any at the bottom of the sea, and I daresay that you think you will fascinate him with it; but you must give me that voice!” And it is the outside that counts. After all, no one ever stops to inquire about her intellect, her soul. She has this body. This face. And it may just be enough. She is more than willing to trade it for adoration, for love and respect. For stardom. And, it seems a small price to pay—a few copper coins for a chest of rich golden treasures, her name in lights, the white-hot glow of the spotlight warming her cold flesh. “But if you take my voice, asked the little mermaid, what have I left?” “Your beautiful form, said the witch, your gliding gait, and your sparkling eyes. With these you surely ought to bewitch any human heart.” She follows him to his car, writes her phone number on a loose scrap of paper he pulls from an imitation leather wallet. She looks down at her feet, scuffing her sneakers against the hot pavement. He pulls a card from his wallet, silver type on glossy black, and hands it to her. A number. An address in Sherman Oaks. Stephen Markson. Freelance Photography. 203-444-5312. Its my body, she thinks, sliding the card under the string covering her right hip. My face. My hair. The world’s only currency. It has nothing to do with who I am inside, this collateral. And if it takes me where I want to go, then rock n’ roll. Let’s go.

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Twelve

She begins posing for him a week later. At first, it is only topless, her hands cupping her upturned breasts and candy nipples. She is entirely edible. Flaxen waves of hair cover one turquoise eye. Peek a boo. “You should do something with your hair,” Steve mutters one day as she looks at him over her right shoulder, chin down, her lips pursed in a slow pout. He lowers the camera from his flushed face, his forehead crinkled. “You know, clean it up a little. It’s a little ragged in the back, babe.” Sharlene visits a salon in Beverly Hills after the first few shoots. The French stylist—her own dark hair cut in a severe asymmetrical bob, lipstick the color of a flesh wound—runs her hands repeatedly through Sharlene’s waist length hair before finally speaking. “Yes,” she says, her thick accent coloring the room. The S is the drawn out, overly theatrical hiss of a snake. Ssssssssss . . . Sinister. She smiles into the mirror. “Two inches off the bottom, I think. And the color. You must take it up.” “Take it up?” Sharlene asks, confused, turning around to face her. “Platinum,” the stylist says, briskly draping Sharlene’s body with a black cape. “It must be platinum.” Three hours later, Sharlene’s hair spills around her shoulders in a haze of white gold. Each time she looks in the mirror, she fails to recognize herself. The light. She carries a halo of light. She is transformed. A stranger. She spends that night in the bathroom searching her own features in the glass, tracing the lines of her tanned face with shaking fingers, the intense blue of her eyes staring back from beneath a sheaf of crisply cut bangs. She looks like a star, airbrushed into perfection. Sometimes Steve photographs her in his studio, an extra room in his depressing apartment. His bed and personal belongings are crammed into one bedroom so that the rest of the space is bare for backdrops, models, harsh lights. And the lights are what Sharlene

56 57 hollywoodland loves best. The persistent, consuming heat warming her limbs, scalding the top of her head. She never feels as whole, as simply right in her own skin, as when they shine down on her. But most often they go to the beach. She loves the sun bouncing off the water, the hot sand between her toes, but especially when people pass in front of the camera, how they stand around as she poses, one hand in her hair, chin tilted to the sky. “Who’s that? Do you think she’s somebody?” And, of course, she was. Some-body. She just wasn’t anybody. Yet. Give me time, she thinks, smiling as they pass, the men, and sometimes the women, turning around for a second look. Just give me time. She wants to be somebody so badly, it actually hurts. An ache in the chest, sitting up nights in her dingy apartment, a blanket wrapped around her waist thinking when, when? And, more importantly, how? Lighting one cigarette after another as she stares into the darkness outside her window, the Hollywood sign glowing, its breathtaking neon sharpness in the distance. White hot. Brighter than the half-bitten moon. Sometimes at night when she can’t sleep, she dreams about having her picture taken in front of it. The white coupe and sparkling chrome. Top down. Red leather seats and glowing white letters. Her tan skin, metal sunglasses shading her eyes. You’re riding in your car in Hollywood You’ve got the top down and it feels so good. The only problem is that after six months of living in L.A., she is still nobody. And worse yet, she has no idea how to make her dream a reality. And the crushing knowledge that there are, at that very moment, hundreds of girls just like her sitting in dingy rooms off Sunset, hearts breaking, smoking their cigarettes down to the filter as the sun rises. How will she stand out, be any different? The mirror does not lie. I won’t worry about them, she tells herself, tossing her head in front of the glass and pouting her lips, because I’m dreaming the hardest.

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Graduating to nudes wasn’t really that different than posing topless. Not really. That’s what she told herself. The first time, the shame of it, the absolute humiliation as the thin strip of spandex came down, falling to her feet in a pink puddle, her vagina exposed, puffy—like a little girl’s. And his eyes that burned through the lens. The sweat rolls off her, falling from the tips of her nipples. Does she smell? Can he smell her? Panic. The tears that suddenly, inexplicably, come from somewhere deep inside her, cracking, breaking open. Her heart as damp and dark as a cellar. A moldy basement crowded with ghosts, mildewing boxes, rats and trash. Except for her breasts, she likes the rest of her body. The breasts, though upturned and rosy, are too small. She will fix all that when the money comes in. Her new breasts will point saucily, heavily upward, defying gravity, natural law, everything. She will be perfect, a golden girl. Untouchable. And Steve has promised to help her. Stephen “Call me Steve, darlin’” Markson came into her life at the right time. The first session, she stood there with her arms above her head, a fan whipping the mass of her blonde hair into tangles of spun silk. He moved in front of her, bending, crouching, kneeling, then springing up again with the energy of a crazed Energizer bunny, clicking the shutter inches from her face. “Good, baby. That’s hot. Yeah, arch your back. Get those nipples hard. Pinch em’. Like that. Just like that.” She is conscious of the heat, the blinding light, the sweat that runs in droplets down her sides, wetting her hair at the temples, the back of her neck, the slick skin of her thighs. Her brain seems to turn over and spin inside the damp cave of her skull. The lights make her euphoric, dizzy. When they are finished she is panting. She crouches down to the floor, her breath coming quickly. She stares at her feet, the painted toes, the red polish that shines like chunks of opaque red glass in the spotlight. He marks the top of the film canisters with an S written on a piece of masking tape. As she watches him she has the curious sensation of being shrunk down, made to fit into the lens of

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his camera—the tight, rolled darkness of the film canisters—even his pupil’s, dark brown and shrunken, almost lifeless. “I am surely so much smaller now . . . I can easily fit down the rabbit hole . . .” She knows that she is nothing to him. Some extra cash. The slick page of a magazine, airbrushed and unreal. But she doesn’t mind. Not really. When she watches him walk around his apartment wearing those stupid, brightly colored surfer shorts that strain against his oversized belly, the burnt tan of his skin like a steak cooked bloody, slashed open, dark hair curled and damp against the back of his neck from the constant heat, it was almost hard not to hate him. So she moves in. It’s easier that way. No rent to pay. And she doesn’t have to wait for him to call her anymore when he needs a model. She’s right there. For the first few weeks they live together like brother and sister, or demented roommates. He gets her a cheeseburger when he picks up dinner for himself at McDonalds, brings home ice- cream as a surprise one late night. Some nights she makes spaghetti, and moving around his tiny kitchen opening jars, the feel of a spoon under her hand, a towel tied round her waist, she feels almost maternal toward him. Adult. Protective. But no one can be trusted for too long. This is certain. Everyone caves in the end. It doesn’t even take much. A glance. A touch. A glimpse of exposed skin. And so she waits, watching as he stares at her fresh from the shower, the briefest of white, terry towels wrapped around her tanned flesh, the smell of flowers and talcum trailing behind her like the pollen of an exotic flower. He is not attractive to her—though not wholly unattractive either. But it is somehow easier this way. He makes her look good in the photographs, and in them she is the girl she has always wanted to be. The girl in the picture. Close-up. There is no messy stickiness, no embarrassment. No love. He can help her. And so she waits for the touch of his damp hands on her flesh, knowing she will turn to him and smile, her lips red as bitten cherries, her tan body in high relief against the cool white sheets of his bed.

58 59 The Photographer Speaks

She was a nice kid. Too nice when I knew her. That didn’t change till she started making films. There was something about her. I mean, she looked like she was designed by fucking Michelangelo. That body. Je-sus! It just wouldn’t quit. You couldn’t ignore her if you tried. Unless you were a dead man. And then, you’d probably still wake up and fuck her. And those tits of hers. Like flotation devices. Man, those things defied gravity—even before she had them done. I used to reach across her back, feeling under her t-shirt, looking for a strap or something. I was goddamn sure she was wearing a bra. But nothing. And then she’d turn to me with those eyes, smiling, those eyes that looked like a puppy kicked one time too many, and blue—I’ve never seen eyes that color on a chick before or since. Turquoise, man. And the camera loved her. She had a goddamn love affair with that thing. All you’d have to do was turn it on and she’d float across the room to it—almost like she was hypnotized. That camera was like a fucking tractor beam. I mean, when we were alone she was almost shy, if you can believe that. Shy. America’s Porn Queen. She’d want the lights out when we fucked, wouldn’t let me see her naked unless we were shooting. I remember this one time, the first time we did a hardcore shoot, I paired her with this other girl I sometimes use, Tiffany. Tiff’s gone on to have a nice little career as a feature dancer. Always had a good head on her shoulders, that girl. But anyway, I get them in position and they start going at it pretty hard, and I’m clicking away thinking to myself, damn, these are gonna be beautiful, when all of a sudden Sharlene stops dead and pulls up from Tiff’s snatch and looks at me. And get this. She says: Steve, don’t show the soles of my feet. Promise. And she’s dead serious, looking at me with those eyes, and there’s this look on her face like she wants to get up and run, and I see that she’s really sweating, and I’m wondering if the lights are getting to her, and I’m thinking—feet? So I say, Hey, babe, trust me, no one’s gonna be looking at your feet—including me. But she’s persistent, this kid, unbelievable, she actually gets up, won’t go on till I say OK, all right, I won’t shoot your goddamn feet, just get back down there. I mean it, she says before she goes back down, it makes me feel too naked. Too naked? Can you believe that shit?

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How does she start making films? It is simple. Like so much of life, it just happens. Events following one another in rapid succession, reels spinning, the dark silhouette of her body outlined in the flickering light. Steve throws her out, packs her things and leaves them outside his front door. And it is another man who is ultimately responsible. Sharlene will not stop seeing him, and Steve will no longer let her stay. His jealously clings to him like a toxic fog. He oozes green poison, a putrid, soupy haze of envy and disappointment. But, wait. Rewind the tape. Back up. She goes to The Whiskey one Friday night with Tiffany. She likes Tiff. Her dark hair that hangs past her shoulders in delicate waves, her easy smile. They spend two hours pulling dresses from Tiff’s closet, spraying their clothes and hair with perfumes, changing shoes. And Tiff is saying, “Wear the blue, Sharlene. You look amazing in blue.” But Sharlene decides on white, as usual. A white leather dress that molds to her curves the way buttercream frosting hugs the sides of a cake. Her skin is as pale as milk since she’s stopped tanning. Apparently, it’s bad for you. Who knew? Tiff wears a pair of black leather pants and a black top that is nothing more than a series of straps wrapped around her lush curves. Shoes with ice-pick heels that should be illegal. And together, they are a deadly pair. Black on white. Tiff knows the band that is playing, Corporate Whore. Sharlene has never heard of them, but she loves The Whiskey, feels at home there leaning up against the bar in the dim red light. When the lights go down and the crowd surges toward the stage, they push up toward the front, inches away from the action. The singer—mid- twenties, tousled brown hair to his shoulders and a rangy, sexy build— smiles down at her, winking in the glare of the spotlights. And the light illuminates her white dress, wet and shiny, a coat of white paint. The light is radiant, reflecting off the ends of her platinum hair. She glows like the moon. But she is pulled in another direction. Her stomach

61 jennifer banash hollywoodland turns over, feet glued to the floor. She can’t move. Is she breathing? She can’t be sure. The guitar player. Older, maybe thirty. Wavy blond hair hanging down to his shoulders, muscular, tanned chest glistening with sweat and fine, blond hairs. He looks healthy, like a surfer. He throws his hair back once, twice, swinging the guitar around his neck like a lasso, lips pursed into a pout. And he will not meet her gaze though she tries her best to stare at him and only him. Focused as a laser beam, she zeroes in on her prey, wants to get inside, to move through him like water, or blood. They would have blond, tanned babies, their chubby arms cutting the air as they ran into the surf, sand between their tiny toes. Azure blue. Flowers in her hair. The lush scent of gardenia and rose petals. The marine sting of the sea. Fresh fish on the grill and the sharp citrus burst of sliced lemon. I’ll make him notice me. So there. She reaches under her dress with one hand and pulls her g-string down until it falls at her feet. Tiff’s elbow sharp in her side. “Shar, what are you doing?” When she picks it up, a small scrap of white satin and lace still warm from the heat of her body, she balls up the soft material with one hand, bringing her arm back and, accidentally hitting the nose of the guy standing behind her, she throws it at the guitar player, mouth open, blonde hair flying. But, instead—comically, unpredictably—it hits his microphone. Shit! Her hand flies to her mouth, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He recoils in surprise as he leans in to sing back-up, smiling, for the first time, down at her, and he leans even closer to the mike, his face inches from her underwear, staring into her eyes as he sings to her, and only her. See me. And the panties hang there, suspended, flapping in the air like a white flag for the duration of the show. Afterwards, they wait. And they do not have to wait long, as all pretty girls are immediately ushered backstage, laminated passes

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slapped over their nipples. The minute she walks in, she sees him standing against a wall, a towel thrown over his shoulders, water bottle in hand, talking to a pretty, black-haired girl with impossibly pale skin and a long, swan-like neck. Her lips are the red of crushed rubies, leaking red fruit. Swollen and overripe. Her eyes black as the discarded pits of cherries. Rose Red, she murmurs under her breath, my long lost sister. But I will marry the prince. Not you. The garden of white and red roses. Thorns and bloodshed. The widowed mother in the cottage. Her two, beautiful daughters. This is how the story goes, my sister. Although you don’t know it yet. And so the story is told, begins again. When he looks up and his eyes meet her own, blue on blue, he walks away from Rose Red in mid-sentence, her mouth left hanging open, her words trailing off into silence. She shoots daggers at Sharlene with her black eyes, the pupils slivers of onyx, pearls of blood dripping from her red, red lips. But Sharlene sees nothing but the blurred motion of his long body walking toward her (my rightful prince), his swift steps as he crosses the room to claim her for his own, one hand circling the pale skin of her upper arm as he steers her out into the night. Bobby. That was the beginning. And they cannot stay away from one another. She tells him that Steve is just a roommate. She tells Steve that Bobby is just a friend. One lie complicating another with its own particular brand of chaotic distortion. She knows what she’s doing is dangerous, but she can’t help herself. Just one look at Bobby from across the room and she’s out of breath, shaking. The blond babies, the house in Malibu. Warm nights in bed, the cool, sea air blowing over their smooth flesh. Crisp, white sheets. Tanned skin. Grains of sand coating the bottoms of bare feet. A jug of water by the bed. Lemon slices. Moisture beading on the glass pitcher. Cobalt. Maybe, with him, it can all be a reality. She perches atop his amplifier while he plays, sleeps in his bed at night, her fingers tangled in gold nest of his hair. She loves the way he sleeps, restless, stretching like a young lion, his body radiating impossible heat.

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The Beast. The Beast was really a prince in disguise. And so she must be Beauty. Conscious only of his needs: he eats, sleeps, makes love, plays guitar, then falls back asleep—only to wake up and do it all over again the next day. She cannot, for the life of her, imagine ever doing this, though she admires it in him. She wants, oh, she wants so much, it seems, and she thinks sometimes as the clock turns closer and closer to the electric dawn, that she will never be satisfied with anything. Though she knows on some level that perhaps she is not meant to be. On these sleepless nights, she rises from between the sheets and sits in front of the bay window in his living room, cigarette in hand, staring out over the lights of the city until he comes to find her, (baby, what is it?), his naked, rosy flesh giving off an amazing heat as his hands gently lead her back up to bed. Steve is, of course, furious at this development. He throws dishes that crack and shatter against the worn linoleum. There are slamming doors and snarling, cynical speech, looks of pure hatred. Hurt and unrequited longing. The brute force of rejection. And she is actually surprised, stunned in her belief that he has, for all this time, been uncaring, uninvolved. She thinks that perhaps he will be happy for her. Perhaps he will even be glad to see her go. He isn’t. “After all I’ve done for you, you go and fuck him? You ungrateful bitch . . .” And she pleads with his rigid stance, his eyes dark with pain, tries to explain that she fell in love. It was nobody’s fault, it just happened—like fate, like magic—but his face closes off and turns to stone each time she begins to speak. “He woke me with a kiss . . . Don’t you understand? The spell must be broken.” And she won’t give Bobby up. She won’t. Don’t even ask. And for two weeks they live together in silence like strangers, or a long-married couple. Until she returns home one morning to find her clothes placed in front of the door, neatly packed in her duffle bag. She stands there

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for a moment, looking at the green paint of the door, imagining Steve’s body resting heavily directly behind it, and, for a moment, she thinks she hears him sigh as the blinds clink shut tightly against the morning sun with a metallic snap as she walks back down the stairs.

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Fourteen

She moves in with him immediately, and he is glad to have her there when he wakes in the morning, rolling the hard weight of his body on top of her in shafts of sunlight. She opens her eyes to soft butterfly kisses, impossibly gentle, his long lashes scraping the delicate skin of her cheeks. So strong was the fascination which held him, that he could not resist stooping to kiss her. At the touch Briar Rose opened her eyes and awoke. And the spell seems to be broken at last. She is in love, and for the first time in her life, she thinks she knows what it means to be loved back. They live on Wonderland Avenue, nestled high in the hills of Laurel Canyon. Bright petals flutter in the breeze. Hidden pathways and exotic blooms frame the mountains in the distance. Wildflowers. Oleander and ivy. The houses, some of them stone, are pushed back from the main roads. Turrets and castles. The lawns are littered with garden gnomes, their watchful eyes shaded under red caps, immobile porcelain bodies. She counts their inert, brightly colored figures as they fly by in Bobby’s car. Onetwothreefour . . . there should be seven. The paths up through canyon twist and turn sharply, without warning. It is home—the first home she has ever really known. Bobby gives her an extra room just for herself. “To put your stuff in,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “or to just, you know, hang out. Everybody needs their own space sometimes, baby. Even you.” He has the room freshly painted white, and furnishes it with a small loveseat covered in cream-colored satin, smooth and cool to the touch. There is a large window looking over the canyon where she likes to curl up and watch the lights go on in the houses below them—a window seat, a fur pillow behind her back. The moon hanging above. The sheen of stars. “Please,” she whispers into the pane of glass, her head tilted up toward the night sky, “let this last. Let it last forever.”

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“Welcome Beauty, banish fear, You are Queen and mistress here.” She is surrounded by leaves, palm trees, an endless arc of unrelenting green. It is like living in a tree house. The mountains are brown and baked as clay tiles in the distance. The flicker of neon. The silver and white lights like rows of Christmas decorations shining in the night. The house is filled with wood, glass and light. The floors are the color of new-mown hay, the rows of windows illuminating the rooms. His white Corvette, its slick, liquid metal surface shines like the new moon in the darkness of the garage. She covets that car, runs her fingers over the smooth leather seats and sighs. Someday I will have a car like this . . . She cannot bear to be away from him. When he goes to practice, she comes along, happy just to be near him, to watch him play. His long fingers caress the taut strings with the same intensity, the same gentle pressure he uses to stroke her limbs late at night. When they go out to eat, when they go shopping, Bobby pays. She shudders as she remembers the rock star’s glittering tour bus, the stewardesses in their crisp, gold uniforms, the dresses he bought her, just to keep her quiet, the material falling around her legs like a whisper. It has to be different this time . . . for it must. He never brings it up, but Sharlene notices. At the restaurants they frequent, each time the check is laid down, she grinds her fingernails into her palms. The red welts that rise up on the pink flesh remain for days. It is a constant embarrassment, the clothes he buys for her, the glittering jewelry encircling her neck like a slave’s collar. When they saw their father ready to set out, they begged of him to buy them new gowns, headdresses, ribbons, and all manner of trifles; but Beauty asked for nothing . . . But she does pay—with her body. And she gives it freely. He loves to look at her, to touch her long silky hair, her legs. It’s almost as if he can’t believe his luck, can’t believe she belongs to him. And she loves being loved. The pleasure for her is not in the sex itself, but the touching, the endless caressing of her limbs, the adoration and worship

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of her flesh. Only reflected in Bobby’s eyes does she come alive. Only then does she feel real, connected to the earth. “Baby, I love you,” he says, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Oh, lover-man . . .” She blushes and snuggles closer to him, burying her face in the warmth of his t-shirt and the bare salt skin beneath. Loved and wanted. He calls her sweetie and baby-doll. Honey- pie. She loves to press his hands to her face, his calloused hands, to bury her face in the warmth of his neck. At night, she wants nothing more than to curl up beside him in bed, his arms wrapped around her waist as he rocks her off to sleep. Safe. For a while, she even forgets her ambition. Let it be like this forever. Until Bobby leaves on tour. Ralph, the band’s manager, has laid down the law. “No girlfriends or wives on tour. Period.” He doesn’t like Sharlene and stares at her with eyes that burn into her very center. He is hairy, covered all over with a thick, black mat of fur—even on his fingers. He reminds Sharlene of a spider, or some other disgusting insect with far too many spindly legs. She doesn’t trust him. Rumplestilskin, she thinks, wrinkling her nose. Straw into gold, the squat, ugly little man. The fools bargain. He laughs at her behind her back, she’s sure, smirking, his thick, wet lips turned up at the corners when she pronounces a word incorrectly. He is intent on catching her, finding her out. She knows he is out to ruin her. And that perhaps he is in a position to do so. Bobby tries his best to reassure her, but she won’t, can’t listen. There is only the sound of blood rushing through her brain, a rising panic. She feels like she is drowning. Suffocating. “Baby, don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.” Sudden darkness, a black cloak falling around her face, soft and luxurious. The ultimate seduction. She won’t get out of bed, won’t eat. She grows thin, pale and more luminous, almost translucent. When Bobby looks at her sometimes, he thinks he can see through to her innermost life, the blood moving lethargically below the surface of her skin. And it scares him. She’s too sensitive for this world, he thinks, restlessly turning in the sheets.

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At night she sleeps fitfully, rolling the sheet around her body until she is stuck. He can feel her heart beating fast, so fast in her chest that it frightens him. How can she sustain herself? Is he responsible? Is anyone? He doesn’t know anymore. He sits up at night with a glass of bourbon in his hands. Sometimes he paces. He knows, somewhere, deep down, that this will be the end of them, but he’s not quite sure why, or how to stop it. Sometimes he is even angry with her for the hysterics, and the night before he leaves, his words ring out into the far corners of the house and echo into the canyon itself, mingling with the broken wail of coyotes. “What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Why can’t you be normal for once? It’s just a six-week tour. I’ll be back before you know it.” He grabs a pillow, punching it with one fist, and stomps downstairs to sleep on the couch, shoving the pillow over his ears to muffle the noise. And then the sobbing. She sits on the floor, her feet drawn up beneath her, her head resting on her knees, shoulders heaving with effort. She can’t breathe. She knows that she is not being even the tiniest bit rational. So what? And she doesn’t understand, can’t figure out why it is so hard for her, this first separation. Only that it is tearing her apart. Why is he leaving me? Why does everybody leave? When she wakes the next morning, he is gone. There is money on the kitchen table in an envelope, and a short note. Babe, I’ll call you tonight from Phoenix. Love, B. She sits down at the kitchen table, head in her hands, and cries for what seems like a very long while. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Alice. “A great girl like you to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment I tell you!” But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all around her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall.

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When she finally raises her head from the glossy wood surface, she is surprised to see that only ten minutes have passed. He left me. Just like everyone else. She dries her face with a paper towel and walks upstairs to shower and dress. When she leans into the bathroom mirror to look at herself, her eyes are red and bloodshot. “I wish I hadn’t cried so much!” said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears!” She stands under the hot water for a long time, and the water rushing over her body is soothing as a tongue. She puts on her make- up, and lifting the small brushes to her face and peering close to the lighted mirror takes almost all the energy she has left.

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Fifteen

Sharlene goes out that night to The Whiskey and orders one Kamikaze after another. The bartender, dressed entirely in black leather, stares repeatedly into her cleavage. The drink tastes of lemons and disappointment, stings her tongue and matches the bitter flavor that has lingered in her mouth ever since Bobby announced his departure. She orders a double. Then a shot of Cuervo Gold. Anything to drown out the pain. The ice cubes clink against her front teeth, and blinding pain shoots through her head. Thoughts frozen. She is lonelier than she has been in a very long time. Her chest aches. Can hearts actually break? She pictures her own heart buried deep in the cavity of her chest, a jagged crack running down its center. She runs her fingers through her hair. The music swirls around her and the lights move in a haze of colored smoke. Where is my prince? My strong and terrible Beast? The band throws their long hair around in a shower of gold. Sequins and spandex. The metallic sheen of guitars flash in the lights, ice blue and rocket-ship red. She leans her elbows on the bar and lights a cigarette, eyes squinting against the smoke. The phone rings and rings in the empty house. When she spies Steve from across the room, her heart leaps a little in her chest. Not out of love, but with the gratefulness she feels at seeing someone she knows, someone she can talk to. Someone who will take this god-awful feeling away, if only for one night. Even if he may not be so happy to see her. As she walks over, his face tightens. He is holding a bottle of beer, the label torn, peeling off the wet green glass. She places a hand on his arm, and she feels the muscles beneath the surface of his skin tense and coil. His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a sneer. “Well, look who it is. Everyone’s favorite houseguest, little Shar-lene.” She rolls her eyes and smiles, moving her hand from his arm, and playing with the straw in her drink instead, poking at the lime resting at the bottom of her glass. “To what do we owe this occasion?”

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“I just thought I’d come over here and see how you are,” she says nonchalantly, widening her eyes which are startlingly blue, even in the dimness of the club. “You’re not mad at me anymore, are you Steve?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, she scrunches up her face, and, when he raises the bottle to his lips and drinks, she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue like she’s choking. He looks back, and when he does, he can’t help but laugh, the beer spraying froms his mouth. She is cute. Very cute. He’d almost forgotten how gorgeous she is. And his mind begins to work. “You know,” he whispers conspiratorially, leaning in, “I’m working on this film right now that you’d be perfect for.” She smiles, her face lighting up with surprise and delight. “Oh yeah? What’s it about? What kind of film?” She speaks rapidly, excited, tugging at his sleeve like a child and throwing her hair back from her face. In spite of himself, he’s a little charmed, and it’s almost hard to go on. Almost. “There’s some people coming over later,” he says, pointing in the direction of the bar. A group stands in a circle. Two of the band members that finished playing are happily swilling free beer, their heads tilted back, laughing. There are two girls in the group. One is dark and exotic. Sharlene recognizes her instantly from The Whiskey. It is Rose Red, the girl who was hanging all over Bobby until Sharlene entered the picture and led him away without so much as a backward glance. Tonight she is wearing a black catsuit that laces up the front, and silver stilettos that are so high that she has to lean back and hold onto the bar every few minutes for support. The other girl is blonde and tan, dressed in equally high heels and a black dress. Pretty, but in a completely obvious way that includes huge breast implants that resemble a pair of rawhide footballs straining the seams of her skin- tight dress. Her blonde hair, although shiny and honey colored, is streaked with at least two inches of black roots. To Sharlene, she resembles a yellow jacket, stinging and poisonous. There is something

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about the way her black outfit contrasts with the mane of light hair that frightens her. A peculiar and unsettling mix of light and dark. “You should come,” he says, breaking her thoughts. “And I’ll tell you more about it.” She nods, draining her glass. And this is how she finds herself back at Steve’s place. The brunette, whose name is Astrid, shoots her withering looks from across the coffee table for over an hour before condescending to speak to her. But once the ice is broken, she is actually nice, complementing Sharlene on her dress, her hair, asking questions about Bobby as if she is really interested. When Steve takes a small, framed print off the wall and lays it down in the center of the coffee table, the bottom drops out of her stomach. All at once she is sweating, even thought the air conditioner is on full blast and the room is as frigid as a meat locker. Think of the babies, tanned babyflesh smelling of sweet powder and the salty sea, the house in Malibu, the sand in your bikini, wet hair and Bobby’s strong, brown arms. But, when Steve takes a square of folded paper out of his jeans pocket, emptying its contents onto the smooth, glass surface, Bobby seems so very far away. And the hurt is overwhelming. She wants it to go away and leave her. Just for a while. The powder is white as baking soda, and Sharlene can almost feel the burning in her nose, the drip bitter as baby aspirin down the back of her throat as she watches him cut thick lines with a gold American Express card. “Expired,” he says, looking up with a smirk, his eyes narrowed, and the group erupts into drunken laughter. The blonde laughs so hard that she actually snorts, grabbing her stomach with both hands, doubling over. All at once she can’t wait, can’t wait for the rolled up twenty to be passed to her. Her palms are sweating and she realizes that she is insistently, obsessively tapping her foot against the bottom of the couch. When Steve hands her the twenty, he bends down next to her ear and whispers, “You know what this is, don’t you, Shar?” His tone is slightly condescending, and she rolls her eyes, grabbing the bill from his hand. “I’m not a moron, Steve. Of course I know what it is.” Her

72 73 jennifer banash voice is sarcastic, imperious as a queen as she leans over the glass and inhales sharply, one fat line, then another. Her nose burns, and she rubs it with both hands, dropping the bill. “Next,” someone says, and the voice is muffled, garbled and strange in her ears, like she’s gone underwater. How could I have done that? I must be growing small again. The room has gone blurry so she blinks, shakes her head, then blinks again. Hard. She can feel herself shrinking up, getting smaller, sliding down the smooth leather. “Sharlene? Shar, are you OK? Hey, Steve, she doesn’t look so good. Fuck, she’s passing out!” It was much pleasanter at home, thought poor Alice, when one wasn’t always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down the rabbit hole—and yet—and yet, it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what can have happened to me! When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! The room spins and the faces blur, distorted as a funhouse mirror, mouths stretched, and then the sweeping blackness tunnels open, carrying her down through the dark confines of the rabbit hole and far away.

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The Guitar Player Speaks

I loved her. I really did. When I first met her I couldn’t believe my luck. She wasn’t like the girls that usually come backstage. You know, the kind that will let you do anything to them: throw lunchmeat at their ass, spit on them, make them use a litter box. Well, you get the picture. But not Sharlene. She looked pure. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, she’d been around, I knew that. Hell, she spent two years on a tour bus, so I wasn’t fooling myself about what she’d been up to before she met me. But, dude, she didn’t look it. She looked like a schoolgirl. And it didn’t matter what she wore. She was just . . . innocent. I remember this one time we took a trip down to San Diego. I took her to the zoo—she loved animals. She was always stopping strangers on the beach to pet their dogs, and she was always watching Animal Planet on TV. I thought it would be fun for her. But the minute we pull up in front of the place, she gets real quiet, goes stone cold. I pay for the tickets and we go inside, but she’s not talking. She’s wearing dark sunglasses and when we stop in front of the lion cage, I can see that, underneath them, she’s crying, that these big, fat tears are rolling down her cheeks. So I ask her, Hey, baby-doll, what is it? She’s just staring at the lion, crying, and she won’t look at me. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lights up, and I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. Honey? I say again, what’s wrong? Finally, she pushes up the glasses and looks at me, her eyes all red and swollen and she says, I hate this place, Bobby. I hate that they keep them all in cages. It’s like they’re entertainment. Like a show on TV. I can’t stand it. She starts crying again, this time pretty loud, so I get her the hell out of there and back in the car. The slightest thing would set her off, and then she’d be crying for a few hours. She loved babies. She was always talking about the kids we’d have someday. I played along. I knew we weren’t headed in that direction. But she’d stop in the supermarket when we’d be shopping and she’d play with the babies on line in front of us, grab their little feet. And the kids loved her. Actually, so did the Moms. Even though Shar looked like walking sex, she had this quality about her—everyone that met Sharlene fell a little bit in love with her. She brought that out in people. Actually, I think she cultivated it.

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So I get home from the first tour and I’m worried. I’d only talked to her a handful of times the whole time I was away, and she didn’t sound right on the phone. Her voice was slow and sleepy—no matter what time I called. I didn’t like the sound of it. Plus, when I asked her what she’d been doing, she was really vague about it. Oh, she’d say, yawning, this and that. Shopping. Some modeling. Modeling? I didn’t like the sound of that at all. Especially when I found out who she was modeling for. Markson was a sleaze. He’d sell his own mother to make a buck. He didn’t give a crap about her. She was a cash register. But she said it was just topless, so I thought, well, fine. Do what you want, I trust your judgment. But when I get home, this is over. You see, I didn’t want people exploiting her. So, only topless, she says. But, that all changed when we left on the second leg of the tour. Next thing I know my bass player shows me this magazine one day as we’re getting back on the bus in Austin. Hey man, he says, isn’t this your lady? I look down at the rag, and there she was right on the cover naked as the day she was born. She’s looking straight into the camera, wide open eyes and all that blonde hair. Anyway, when I got home again, we had this big fight, and she told me she would quit, that we’d get married and she’d settle down, stop running around without her clothes. I don’t know who I thought I was kidding. I mean, she was barely nineteen. It would’ve never worked between us. But I wanted to protect her. It was all lies anyway. She never quit, she lied and lied until there was no way out left for her at all. I tried, you know? I got her a bit part in some piece of crap that a friend of mine was producing. No nudity—real acting. She was happy for a while like I’d never seen her. But it all fell apart. I don’t know. I still can’t really talk about it. Three months after we broke up, I saw her picture in a magazine. It was an ad for some new porn flick. She was wearing tiny, white bikini bottoms, some guy’s huge dick crammed in her mouth. Bright red lipstick. I stared down at her picture and thought, congratulations, Sharlene. You just got your first starring role. Then I ran to the bathroom and puked for what felt like hours, my stomach in knots. I mean, Jesus. She was just a kid . . .

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Sixteen

She loves the warm drowsiness, the languid calm. The days are like waves rushing over her, leading straight to the shadows of liquid- blue twilight. No sting of saltwater, just a river of warm calm leading to the dark night. She likes nights best anyway. Cinnamon sunset and red dusk. Heroin gets such a bad rap, she thinks, her eyes closing. It doesn’t deserve it. Not when it makes everything so tolerable, so textured and rich. Her feelings are a hazy memory just out of reach. But there are limits. She won’t ever shoot. She hates needles, shudders when Stephen takes out his gleaming set of works, laughing. “Yeah, babe, that’s what I thought too, a long time ago . . .” Smack doesn’t affect Steve—at least, not in the same way it affects her. It makes her high and out of touch. Floaty. It just makes him straight, able to function, which is probably why she never suspected him of using in all the time she lived with him. “I’m with Bobby now,” she tells him. “This is just business. The pictures.” And now this talk of films. She woke that night in the bathroom submerged in icy water, cubes floating around her body like miniature icebergs. I’ve ruined Tiff’s dress. Fuck. This is leather. And the faces peering down at her. Steve, his hair wet with sweat, sleeves pushed up and pants soaked. Astrid, kneeling by the tub, splashing water on Sharlene’s face with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher at nap time. Whatever, she thinks, closing her eyes again. She knows the water must be freezing, but she can’t really feel it. She can’t feel much of anything, really. The realization washes over her in a massive relief. She is free. It is an entirely different kind of numbing sensation than cousin cocaine. On coke, you can still feel your heartache. Your limbs. Only your nose is numb. This is a kind of miracle—like having her heart amputated. She realizes, with a start, that she could get used to this. She is living a kind of spilt life, a shadow life. With Bobby she is the perfect girlfriend. She makes love, loads the dishwasher, tidies up the house when she has a spurt of energy, listens to him bitch about the

76 77 jennifer banash hollywoodland band, stands in the front row at his shows. She stays away from Steve, and the drugs—at least when Bobby is in town. But when he leaves on tour, everything changes. She can’t seem to stay away from the camera’s heat. The photographer circling around her as she bends forward, hands in her hair. The flashing lights. That feeling of absolute fullness more intoxicating than the drugs coursing through her veins, the whispers as she leaves the room. “Who is that? She must be a star . . .” But at first, she promises. Pleads. Lies. Tells Bobby what he wants to hear, mainly, that it will be different. That she’ll quit posing and settle down, stop embarrassing him. She screens her calls, ignoring those from Steve or Tiff. And she doesn’t call back. In fact, she pushes Steve, the films, the magazines, the whole sordid scene to the back of her mind and tries to behave. Really, she tries. But she is restless. Dissatisfied and anxious, her foot tapping incessantly against the rug. When she watches TV at night, the mere mention of some new starlet will cause her to claw the couch in envy. It happens so often that she actually wears away a spot on the leather. Why her? She thinks, taking quick, angry drags of her cigarette, a gin and tonic resting on the end table. Why not me? She talks to Bobby less and less, her eyes glazed and unfocused. No longer can she slip into the fantasy world of the babies, the house in Malibu, the happily ever after. Most nights she is sullen and withdrawn. Distant. The remote clenched in her fist like a gun. And Bobby tiptoes around her, helpless. He can’t stand to see her so depressed and unreachable, so he tries to help. He has a friend that produces B-movies. It’s crap, he thinks, but still, it’s a start. He makes a call, pulls some strings, gets Sharlene an audition for a low-budget horror movie shooting next month. At the mention of the audition, she’s all smiles. She makes an appointment for a facial, gets her hair trimmed, buys a new outfit—a white lace skirt with a matching camisole. The morning of the audition she wakes at six am to work out, running on the treadmill in Bobby’s

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weight room. She takes her time with her hair and make-up, wiping the finished cosmetic mask off three times and reapplying it to her burning skin before she is finally satisfied. And when she is finished, she gleams like chrome. Her eyes are the blue of lapis lazuli, rare sapphires against the paleness of her skin. Looking at her, it is impossible to believe that she will ever age, her face crumpling in, the skin growing faded and translucent as tissue paper. A ripped silk stocking. The producers are many things, but stupid is not one of them. Three guys from Orange County that have been making low-budget horror flicks for years. Blood, knives and tits. Check, check and check. They are looking for some eye candy to spice up an otherwise uninspiring, done-to-death plot. Mad killer invades high school. Girls die. Killer gets away only to strike again a year later in the sequel. The end. Sharlene is reading the part of a ditsy blonde—a cheerleader—a popular girl. Something she never was. She relishes the chance to do it now, to live her adolescence all over again—even if it is only a fantasy. And she knows those girls, she’s watched them long enough now to know, instinctively, what a role like this means and how it’s done. Her heart pounds, and when she speaks, her voice sounds high and nervous in her own ears. There is a breathiness that is unusual for her, and the nervousness exaggerates it, forcing her to gulp large quantities of air between sentences. She feels like she’s been running hard, running for miles, that the atmosphere has suddenly, inexplicably thinned, that she will never get enough air into her lungs to completely satisfy her. This is it, she thinks, looking down at the single sheet of paper in her hand, the black type floating before her eyes. My big break. She knows it’s just a small low-budget horror movie. But, even so, people may see it. Important people. People who matter. Studio executives. Directors. Casting agents. And she will be seen. Recognized and raised up. She’s sure of it. She reads lines with a production assistant, a geeky guy in paint-splattered pants whose wire-rimmed glasses slide perpetually down his nose. She is gorgeous, blonde, and not too bad an actress,

78 79 jennifer banash hollywoodland really. She has a kind of vulnerability that sears through the lens. She’s no Julia Roberts, but still, there’s something about her, some ineffable quality that rivets their eyes to the screen. They like her immediately. After much smiling and nodding at the table of producers—all who look like they need a vacation, a tan, and maybe a handful of vitamins—Sharlene feels like her head is going to fall off. When they tell her she has the part, her cheeks flush and she smiles from ear to ear, a wide white grin that is so optimistic, so hopeful that the producer seated on the end actually has to turn away, a strange feeling in his chest, a smothering tightness. She wants it so badly that its painful to watch. He’s seen too many of these girls and knows that few of them make it any further. They end up wives or mothers, pushing their kids around the playground, skin stretched a little too tightly across overly-tanned cheekbones. Or in hotel rooms, diamond bracelets circling their wrists, their legs spread for some studio executive. Or worse, their still, slender bodies found after days of unanswered phone calls and loud knocks at the door. The reek of spoiled meat. Pills in one hand. Vodka. Lifeless, blue fingers. A body thrown in the trash. He saw a story on TV the other night about some nobody, a porn star found dismembered in a dumpster somewhere in Hollywood. He shudders, remembering. When he looks up, she is standing before him, smiling down, holding out one small hand for him to shake. “Thank you for this opportunity,” she gushes, shaking his hand a little too vigorously, “I won’t let you down.” He smiles weakly, dropping her hand and stands up, pushing his hair back with one hand while walking quickly to the bathroom. He is nauseated, and sways slightly as he sinks to his knees in the stall, retching twice, three times before leaning his forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes closed. We use them up, he thinks, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a shredded piece of toilet paper. We use them up and throw them away. He walks out of the stall, checks out his reflection in the mirror over the sink, and fixes his hair. “Straighten up,” he mutters under his breath while turning

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the faucet on. “This is no time to grow a conscience. Stop being such a pussy.” And outside, somewhere on Ventura Boulevard, Sharlene is driving home. She drives with the top down, one arm hanging out the side in the rush of warm air, slender, graceful fingers moving like a dance, her smile so bright that if you saw her right now, this very second, you would almost swear that the Hollywood sign, lit up in sparkling white neon, would look dim beside her. You would almost swear it.

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Seventeen

It is the happiest time of her life. Each day she wakes at 5:30, but there is no grumbling, no hand darting out from beneath the comforter to hit the snooze button, no standing groggily in the shower as shampoo scented with kiwis and limes floats down over her skin, eyes burning from lack of sleep. For the first time in her life, her eyes fly open moments before the digital alarm sounds. She is always careful to turn it off before it blares into the still, blue darkness, waking Bobby. He stretches and mumbles in his sleep, and she smiles, pushing his sleep-damp hair back from his face. Sharlene has never been a morning person, but now she hums softly to herself as she wipes the clouds of steam from the bathroom mirror, pulls her hair slickly back into a low ponytail. Every morning before washing her face, she brings a cupful of ice from the kitchen up to the bathroom sink, which she then fills with cold water. She splashes the ice water on her face, bringing handfuls of ice up to her eyes and holds the cubes there a moment before grabbing a soft, blue towel. She saw this in a movie on late-night TV about the life of an old film star, and it does seem to help with morning puffiness—especially around the eyes. She applies a light moisturizer, patting anti-aging, de-puffing cream to the tender skin beneath her eyes. She dresses in a pair of black stretch pants, a white t-shirt, and sneakers. A pair of black sunglasses perch on top of her head, holding back her wet hair. She grabs a light jacket and the car keys on her way out, closing the front door softly behind her. She sings along with the radio as she drives, her fingers drumming out the beat on the steering wheel. Her nails are painted with a sheer, beige polish. A local station is playing hits from the eighties, a mega-mix, and she reaches over, turning up the bass. Life is so strange, when you don’t know. How can you tell where you’re going to? You can’t be sure of any situation, Something could change, and then you won’t know.

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She pulls into the lot, letting the motor run for a few extra minutes until the song ends, then turns the engine off, grabs her bag and steps out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Once inside the studio, her eyes take a moment to adjust, and she blinks rapidly in the hallway. She is comfortable here now. This worn building in downtown Los Angeles feels like home to her—not like the first day. The first day on the set she was scared. She arrived a full half-hour early, standing out front of the building and smoking one cigarette after another, willing herself to go in, hands shaking. What if I’m bad, what if they can see right through me, what if they fire me? What if, what if? Finally, she takes a deep breath and opens the door, walking inside to smiles, coffee, make-up, and the ever present shriek of bright, hot lights. For the first time in her life, she is utterly consumed. She knows this character, Jessie. As she moves through each twelve- hour day, she is constantly reminding herself to stay in character. Would Jessie eat this doughnut, she wonders in front of craft services, would she think the director was cute, or just old? She knows that Jessie lives in a small, middle-class neighborhood on a street lined with tall palms. That her family lived in the Valley when Jessie was first born, but in recent years, they’ve moved up to Brentwood. Her mother goes to weekly Parent Teacher Association meetings and her father doesn’t seem to do much of anything except work, mow the lawn, and complain over the newspaper at the breakfast table. She has one younger brother. He plays shortstop and is, in general, a pain in the ass who tries to pull up Jessie’s cheerleading skirt at every opportunity and throws handfuls of cereal at her across the kitchen table. Jessie never, ever goes to his baseball games. Sharlene knows that Jessie’s room is painted a pale, milky blue—the blue of the ocean and the white of hot, air-filled clouds. There is a large conch shell on her bookshelf, the interior a rosy, flesh- colored pink. Sometimes Jessie puts her ear to the shell and waits, her breath held tightly in her chest, but there is nothing, only the rushing of passing cars outside the window. She wears a gold charm bracelet

83 jennifer banash on her left wrist and likes the way it chimes, the sudden music when she moves her hands—which she does often. She is afraid of the dark, and always checks beneath her bed before going to sleep at night. Sometimes, when she’s in the shower, she imagines that she hears someone screaming over the rush of water. She turns the knobs on the shower frantically to the left until the water is silent, but she hears nothing. This is why the shower scene, the large knives, will terrify her, Sharlene writes. It will be the realization of her greatest fear. Sharlene writes all this and more in a black, spiral-bound notebook that she carries around with her on the set. What surprises her most about working on the movie is not how much she enjoys the experience of acting—her firstpaid acting job—but how nice everyone is to her. On the set, she is treated with something not unlike respect. When she passes Donald, the hair and make-up artist, with his gray hair combed back from a high forehead, and prominent, almost beaky nose dominating his tanned face, he nods his head slightly in greeting, his eyes radiating kindness and warmth. Well, hello, Miss Movie Star . . . How are we this fine morning? Each day he is dressed in a variation of the same outfit: a crisp dress shirt tucked into pleated, cuffed pants. He looks unnaturally neat. It’s unnerving. Whenever she is around him, she has the uncontrollable urge to spill coffee all over herself. He wears a white apron over his clothes while he works, but it is a formality, completely unnecessary. He never, ever spills. He is around forty-five and quiet. In fact, he is so quiet that, at first, Sharlene is convinced that he doesn’t like her. By the third day of shooting, he begins to speak to her in the mornings as he works, moving a series of brushes over the planes of her face, his voice soft and measured. She balances a coffee cup on her knee as he leans over her with brushes and paint, his peppermint- scented breath drifting across her face as he works. She likes the caring way he touches her, placing one hand under her chin, tilting her face gently upwards. His hands, unlike hers, never seem to shake at all.

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This is the time of day when Sharlene is most relaxed. Donald’s deft fingers on her face, brushing away a bit of stray powder, his voice a low murmur in her ear. They talk about the new host on E! and how ugly she is, Donald’s cat, Mr. Whiskers, and whether the Internet is really the wave of the future. Too complicated, Donald says with a sigh, exhaling loudly. I’d rather read a book . . . She laughs, throwing her head back. She feels infinitely safe in Donald’s chair—nothing bad could ever happen to her there. But the best part of the morning ritual is when he is finished. He steps back, cocking his head to the side and says, dramatically, in a low, breathy voice, “Mr. Demille, I’m ready for my close-up.” Sharlene has no idea what he is talking about, and Donald never explains, but she can’t deny the power of the face in the mirror staring back at her. Whoever she is, she’s gorgeous. Blonde hair cascades past her shoulders in ringlets. Wide, blue eyes smolder, made the tiniest bit dangerous with a little dark powder brushed on the lids. Her eyes are framed by a thick fringe of lashes, her eyebrows perfectly arched and slightly darkened for extra emphasis. Attention. A gleam of shimmering pearl on the brow bone. And the mouth. The mouth incorporates seven different shades of red chosen from Donald’s immense black treasure box. Shades so luscious and crimson that the first time she sees those lips reflected in the slick surface of the mirror, she actually begs, begs him to tell her how its done. The mouth is then slicked over with clear gloss. Her lips are wet and ripe. Strawberry and cherry. Utterly sensuous. And yet, the make- up looks light. Seamless. As if her natural good looks have merely been amplified. On the last day of shooting they spend hours in the dressing room armed with brushes, powders—both matte and shimmering—and paint. “Your face is like a canvas,” he says, guiding her hand with his own soft fingers. “It can be anything you want it to be.” At first, she is clumsy, walking back and forth to the sink where she scrubs off her first efforts over and over again, until the skin on her face is raw and red. On her first few attempts, Donald removes

84 85 jennifer banash hollywoodland the cosmetics with a liquid make-up remover. But after what seems like the fiftieth mistake, she can’t bear the way the product begins to burn her skin. After washing, Donald smoothes cream beneath her eyes, across her cheekbones, calming the irritated skin. And they begin again. “You must create a flush that is perfectly natural. Undetectable. As if you are glowing from within.” He hands her the pots of rouge, the shades and shimmers of red, pink, and the palest of peach—like a pot of blushing, delicate baby skin—while pointing to the apples of her cheeks. “But, Donald,” she asks, smiling, “don’t I glow on my own?” “Darling,” he says, laughing softly, bending over her, “of course you do. But isn’t it nice to be able to fake it when one . . . oh . . . can’t quite manage it? Yes?” Yes. It was perfect. After her face is painted on and she squeezes bit by bit into her cheerleading costume, sometimes holding her breath, she walks onto the set. And she loves the sudden attention, the hushed silence, fifty pairs of eyes turning toward her, mouths open as she walks into the room. When she entered the ballroom, looking so beautiful in her rich dress and slippers, her stepmother and sisters did not know her; indeed, they took her for a foreign princess. Sharlene feels safer with the make-up on, dressed in borrowed clothes. It’s like being herself and someone else all at the same time. She needs that make-up, those clothes—she doesn’t like the way she looks without them. She never, ever wants the film to end. At night when she returns home, Bobby marvels at the transformation. In all the months that he’s known her, lived with her, he has never seen her as happy as she is now. When he visits her on the set, he is surprised at how professional she is, penciling notes into her script, listening attentively as the director places her on her mark. She talks excitedly over dinner, no matter how late or how exhausted she is. She is animated, dragging

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him off to bed mid-sentence, his fork still in hand. During these months she is voracious in her need for sex, for him. And he is sure that when the film is finally released, things will be even better between them. She has IT, that indefinable quality. Real screen presence. She’s bound to be a star. When the film wraps, there is a small party, a cheap sheet cake, then drinks at a local dive. Sharlene hugs and kisses the cast, the crew, the director. There are tears in her eyes as she moves from one body to the next, throwing her arms around each one in turn. “Thank you,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks, “thank you all.” In spite of himself, the director finds himself moved, and he has to turn away to hide the tears that spring up suddenly in his eyes. He’s made hundreds of these movies and knows them for exactly what they are. But this girl seems to think she’s leaving the set of some epic masterpiece. Either that, or she’s a really great actress. He suspects the former. In any case, her outpouring of affection, her vulnerability, is unexpectedly touching. The wait until the premiere seems interminable. Sharlene keeps up with her routine. She works out, goes on auditions for a car commercial, an ad for soap, but doesn’t get any callbacks. She is not worried. Not yet. Just wait till the movie opens, she thinks. Then I should be able to get some work. Maybe even another film! She spends time with Bobby when he’s not on tour, and when he is, she stays away from The Whiskey, doesn’t return Steve’s calls. Her feelings for Bobby are the same. Well, mostly. It’s not that she doesn’t love him anymore, it’s just that she doesn’t have room to think about anything . . . or anyone else. She is focused on the movie. Her career. Getting another acting job. Any acting job. She reads for a part on a nighttime drama, but as soon as she walks into the room, the director takes one look at her and barks, “Nothing personal, honey, but we’re looking for someone a bit more sophisticated.” Sharlene tosses her hair back, gives him her best winning smile. “I can be sophisticated,” she says, one hand on her hip.

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The director snorts, shuffling the papers in front of him, then looks up, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “Somehow, my dear, I highly doubt it.” Sharlene walks quickly from the room, eyes hot with unshed tears. Fuck, she thinks, riding down in the elevator, fuck fuck fuck. Who does he think he is anyway? Time slows to a crawl as she waits for the premiere, but finally, it happens. The day before, Bobby hands her a small, thin envelope, grinning, his face boyish and open. It is a gift certificate to a spa on Rodeo Drive for a day’s worth of pampering: manicure, pedicure, facial. Maybe a hot-stone massage? Whatever she wants. She throws her arms around him, holding on to his thin waist so tightly that he can barely breathe. Fragile? he thinks, leaning into the warm weight of her, this girl’s as strong as an ox . . . .

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Eighteen

She arrives at the spa at ten the next morning. The night before she slept badly—first too hot, then too cold, the sheet tickling her bare legs. She scratched her limbs heavily in annoyance, kicking the covers off and crumpling them at the foot of the bed. The spa is all hardwood floors, glass and chrome. Sharlene would like to see dye spilled, bright red, against the sleek wooden planks of the floor. Two women in pink smocks take her back to a quiet beige room. If she listens carefully, she can hear the sound of water falling somewhere in the building. The incessant trickling makes her feel like she has to pee. She lies back on the leather covered table, crossing one slim ankle over the other, and closes her eyes. The door opens and another pink-smocked woman steps inside, a bowl of something hot and steaming in her hands. Sharlene has a facial, a deep-tissue massage. Self-tanner is applied to every inch of her flesh by two women wearing large mitts made of soft material. She feels like a car being waxed as they buff her skin in a heavy, circular motion. A French manicure and pedicure is next. When they are finished, her nail tips are an unearthly white next to her nut-brown flesh. She wears a long, simple black dress with spaghetti straps that hug her curves. Donald arrives at six to do her hair and make- up. She is so nervous that she fidgets relentlessly in her chair causing Donald, usually completely unflappable, to sigh heavily, put down his brushes and exclaim, “Please, Madame movie star, you must sit still!” Her hair is left down, gleaming, and the make-up is decidedly minimal with red, red lips. Bobby wears his usual rock-n-roll gear, tan leather pants, embroidered jacket, cowboy boots and sunglasses, but she doesn’t mind. She likes it. After all, actresses do date rock stars. Pamela Anderson, for example. When the limo pulls up to the theater, it is everything she has ever dreamed of. The crowds and photographers, the flashing lights as she exits the limo, one slender, tanned leg at a time, her dress riding up to expose one smooth, golden thigh.

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“Could it be Cinderella? . . .” She waves at the crowd with her free hand, blowing kisses to the photographers, lost in a frenzy of activity. “Here!” They yell, flashbulbs popping. “Over here!” She cannot believe it is really happening. Its me, she thinks, dazed, her eyes bright and glassy. It’s really me they want! Bobby is holding her hand as she walks into the theater. When she takes her seat and the lights go down, she grabs onto his hand again tightly, so tightly that, as the opening credits begin to roll, and swollen droplets of blood begin to rain down upon the screen, he feels his fingers begin to go stiff, white, and numb. She plays a Valley girl, a cheerleader, hopelessly vapid. But the camera loves her. And she is actually kind of funny, Bobby realizes with surprise. She’s pretty good up there, he thinks, and his eyes widen slightly in the darkness of the theater. She has this look on her face throughout much of the movie, a dirty smile, a kind of in-joke with the audience. Her eyes seem to say, C’mon guys, we know this is a pretty stupid movie. But, really, aren’t I great? I’m pretty great, right? How cool is this? The audience loves her, laughing along with the film’s jokes, many of which Sharlene utters in a comic, deadpan, baby voice. Bobby is laughing along with the rest of the audience when he feels his hand grow damp, and then, downright wet. She is sweating profusely. They’re laughing. Laughing at Jessie. He looks over, her face illuminated and angelic in the white light emanating from the screen, and realizes, with a start, that she is crying. You dope, Jessie is you. You are her. You’re the same. The same . . . Her tears are streaks of silver in the light, but she is silent, noiseless, her eyes fixed on the screen.They’re laughing at me, she thinks, disbelief washing over the fine features of her face. We’re a goddamn joke. And yet, she can’t take her eyes off of her own image moving across the screen. It’s me. Laughing at me. Oh, God. And I look fat up there. I’m some kind of funny pig to these people. And they’re all laughing at me. I wanted to be up there so bad. So bad. And now I’m a goddamn joke. God, why won’t they stop laughing? The audience erupts again, and she cringes at the sound of

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their laughter, their voices harsh and mocking in her ears. They’re making fun of me! All at once she is up on her feet, wrenching her hand away, and running down the plush, velvet aisle, out of the darkness of the theater and into the neon night. She twists her ankle, tripping on the red carpet and falls face down in her black dress. There is a ripping sound, a sudden tear in the hem, her heel catching the silken fabric as she falls. There is bright light, a backdrop of garish neon, and, God help her, the cameras. The cameras, everywhere, circling like vultures. “Is that stupid goose to sit in the parlor with us?” they said. “Send her into the kitchen with the kitchen maid.” Then they took away all her nice clothes, and gave her an ugly old frock and wooden shoes, which she was obliged to put on. “Look at our fine princess now! See how she has dressed herself!” they said, laughing. Bobby rushes out behind her, his eyes frantic. “Sharlene? Shar? What is it baby? What’s wrong?” He bends over her, prostrate under the glare of spotlights, his voice low beneath the din of the crowd, the taunting voices of the photographers. He pulls her to her feet, her make-up, once perfect, now streams down the angles of her cheekbones, tingeing them black. Never, she thinks, pulling away from his touch and running out into the night. No one will ever laugh at me again.

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A needle jabbing into her left arm, digging in. Not another fix, she thinks, pushing it away from her. I’m still flying from the last shot. She is giggling, eyes rolling back. Hands on her legs, moving the sheet back, exposing her. Am I naked? The growing heat of lights on her skin, the lines of sunlight falling across her thighs. Roll camera, she thinks. And . . . Action! What’s the scene today? What’s my motivation, she remembers asking the director on one of her first films. Your motivation? he asked, a half smile fracturing his face, Your motivation is that you’re horny. You want to get fucked. Got it? My make-up must be a mess . . . Where’s Donald? Are we on the set? Who am I now? She moves her head back and forth on the pillow in the high, white bed, her eyes snapping open, a rattle in her throat, her breath caught. Nurse? NURSE! Cool hands on her forehead, a flock of white birds, the wind on her face as she drives her Corvette through Laurel Canyon, the Hollywood Hills, the freeway, top down. Nurse? Is she awake? Her eyes just opened! Can she hear us? No. I’m sorry, sir, but its just a reflex . . . The cool sheet sliding back up over her legs, the director with a glass in his hand, murky, green olives floating, suspended in the clear, stinging liquid. OK, everybody, that’s a wrap . . .

92 Nineteen

A week after the premiere, she moves out. He saw it first hand: her disappointment, her inability to cope. She can’t look him in the face anymore, can’t look at the vision of herself she sees reflected in his eyes; the hurt floating in his craggy, tanned face. There’s no way, she thinks, he can love me now. Who could love me? Who? I’m a failure at nineteen . . . She watches her reflection in the mirror until she has to put her hands over her face, sobs racking her body. She avoids him for a week after the premiere, but it’s no use. It’s over. Bobby argues with her for days, his voice loud and strangely, finally empty. There are many nights spent on the couch. There are two weeks of staring blankly out the window as she listens to him toss and turn in the bed, throwing pillows across the room, impotent in his anger. One day when he is at practice she packs her things, what little she has taken from him, and leaves in his old Ford pick-up left over from his days before he made it, delivering pizzas at night just to make the rent. She leaves a note, promising to return it as soon as she can, but she never does. She moves into a rent-by-the-week motel off of the Strip. Lime green shag carpeting and red lamps. Dark, wood-paneled walls. Still, she tells herself, it could be worse. It has been worse. She lines up her make- up and facial cleansers on the bathroom sink. She does not unpack her clothing. This will be temporary. A few nights, at best. This is not the rest of her life. But it is the first time in a long time that she has lived alone. All alone. She thinks about the fact that no one knows where she is, and the thought, though admittedly frightening, thrills her a little. I could be anyone. She lies back on the bed, the spread bunched under her feet, the pillow beneath her rock hard. She looks up at the ceiling, dark watermarks spreading in patches across the cracked plaster. The air smells of bleach and bug spray, the unmistakable stench of failure. Sharlene wonders about the other people who have stayed here. Who were they? Did the red lamps drive them insane? And, more importantly,

93 jennifer banash hollywoodland did anyone ever commit suicide in here? She thinks about blood against the blinding white tile of the bathroom floor, how she might do it. A gun. Maybe jump off a building. Something fast, like a car wreck. Velocity. Drama. Fuck that, she thinks, putting a pillow over her head. Except for the whoosh of passing cars, the room is quiet, the air conditioner a low hum. She rolls over, hugging the pillow to her chest, and falls asleep. When she wakes, it is morning, milky light streaming in through the gaps in the plaid curtains. She sits up and stretches her arms overhead, bones cracking. The phone sits on the bedside table, squat and dark. The silence is making her crazy. She realizes that she hasn’t spoken to a soul in the last twenty-four hours. She picks up the receiver. The first call she makes is to Steve. The phone rings and rings in his apartment. She tries his cell, finally reaching him. “I need work,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “Whatever you’ve got right now.” There is silence on his end of the line, and she hear the small, metallic click of his lighter, the intake of breath as he lights a cigarette in turn, exhaling heavily into the receiver. “I don’t have any modeling jobs,” he says, pausing slightly, his tone cautious. “But I am working on a film. Remember the film I was telling you about?” The girls in their tight dresses, the ice cubes falling against her skin like hail. The warmth running through her body despite the cold water. How she had to fight herself not to call him for days afterwards, her hands snaking out toward the phone. “You mean porn?” Her voice cracks when she speaks, despite her attempt to remain calm. “Yeah, but, you know,” he says, his voice rushing faster, picking up speed, the words close together and almost garbled. “It’s gonna be tasteful and everything. It’s called Pussy Galore. Look, if you’re nervous, don’t be. It’s all girls. I could even put you in some scenes with Dallas, if you want.” Dallas. The reigning pin-up turned porn queen. Sharlene has seen her picture countless times in magazines, her airbrushed body

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languidly stretching across two glossy pages, her lipstick the color of tanned leather. She is silent for a few moments. She hears the hiss of the open line, the static as Stephen drives through a tunnel, the sound of rising wind. She stares at the curtains, knowing that her life is about to change. And she feels powerless to stop it. She can’t go home again. I don’t even know where that is anymore. She thinks about her mother. Before her father left, her mother made the beds every morning, pulling the crisply laundered sheets tight, tucking in the corners. She remembers the feeling of climbing in between those sheets each night, taut and smooth, smelling of fabric softener, the low buzz of insects outside her open window. When she returned home from school each afternoon a plate of apple slices and honey sat waiting on the kitchen table. A glass of thick milk. Her mother’s face, the lines radiating out from her tired eyes, her skin clear as a pane of glass. “All right,” she says, exhaling. “I’ll do it. . .” “We’re shooting at this guy’s house in the Hills tomorrow at noon. Lemme give you the directions . . .” He talks and talks, but the words, his voice, the actual sounds that Steve is making ring hollowly in her ears. She can’t concentrate. Who am I now? Who will I be now? There is static mixed with silence, words rushing unintelligibly into one another on an empty page. Once upon a time there was a princess with golden hair . . . She lived happily ever after . . . the golden dress, the crystal slipper . . . the prince and . . . the end. Isn’t that the way the story ends, the way the story must end? How will my story end? In a dirty motel in Hollywood? All at once she interrupts him, her voice abrupt, like ice. “Look, I’m going to need some things,” she says, crushing out her cigarette in the ceramic ashtray by the phone, her voice cool and measured. “You’ll need to get me some stuff.” There is a pause. “Don’t worry,” he says finally, his voice soft. “They’ll be plenty at the shoot. I’ll have whatever you want.” There is a sudden click as he hangs up.

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She sits on the bed, arms wrapped across her chest, rocking slightly, back and forth. It calms her. It’s OK, she thinks over and over, it’s OK it’s OK it’s OK. The tears streak down her cheeks before she can stop them, and she cries for a while, eyes burning. She takes a shower, watches some TV before going to bed, one hand on the remote, restlessly changing the channels. She tosses and turns for most of the night, finally dropping off to sleep around 4:30. She dreams of bright lights and handfuls of naked flesh. She dreams she is spiraling downward, air rushing past her face, her hands reaching out to break her fall, hurtling headlong into the darkness of the night. When she wakes again at eleven , she’s sweating and in a panic, her t-shirt damp under the arms. She races to the shower, washes, dresses, and blow dries her hair in record time, pulling it back into a low ponytail, fluffing her bangs in the mirror. She grabs her make-up case, keys, and stuffs some outfits into a large, black tote. She brings black thigh-high stockings made of lace, one pair of white fishnets. Lace g-strings. Cut-off denim shorts. A bikini covered in white sequins. In the car she drives for a long time, missing her exit twice, pounding her fist on the hard rubber of the steering wheel, fuck, fuck, before finally pulling off onto the exit ramp.

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Twenty

The house is large and white and made mostly of glass. Looking through the walls at the people milling around within is unreal, like watching television. Steve answers the door, his feet bare, sunglasses on, a joint hanging from his lower lip. He ushers her inside. The interior is minimalist: wood floors and large windows, a few pieces of white furniture scattered here and there, a stone fireplace so big it takes up most of one large white wall. Smooth river rock in shades of gray. It is almost brighter inside the house than out. “Who lives here?” she asks, her voice low, a whisper. “This friend of mine.” He inhales deeply on the joint before passing it to her, his voice strangulated with smoke. “He’s like, never here, so he rents it out for films.” She hears music, and Steve leads her into a large room with two long, black leather couches. Silver lights are set up everywhere, and the room is bright and hot, even though Sharlene can feel that the air conditioner is on full blast in the house. Two girls sit on one couch, brushing their hair and applying pots of lip gloss to each others full lips. They both have equally tremendous tit jobs that strain against the smooth satin of their robes. They look so remarkably similar that, except for the hair color, that they could be the same person. The girl nearest to Sharlene has long black hair and is wearing a blue robe. The other girl is a redhead in a robe the color of ripe peaches. The gleaming satin catches the light. “Sharlene, this is Mara and Mercedes.” The girls look up for a moment, startled. “Hey,” they say in unison, blinking, their expressions cool and flat. They immediately return to digging in their matching make-up bags. They look comfortable, expert, like they’ve done this before. She is introduced to the cameraman, a burly guy with dark hair who looks her up and down, grinning as he holds out his hand for her to shake. “You’ll meet Dallas later,” Steve says, guiding her over to a chair in the corner, where a mirror has been propped up against the

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wall. “You can do your make-up here,” he says as she sits down, staring first at herself, then at him. “You don’t have a make-up artist?” Her voice is as flat and dead as the look in Mara’s eyes. “Sharlene, honey,” Steve says, leaning closer and squeezing her shoulders before walking off, “it’s not that kind of movie.” Sharlene sits in the chair and tries to calm herself by pulling out her brushes and tubes of paint and powder. Black eyeliner and mascara. Her reflection in the mirror calms her, and she leans into it whispering, breathe, breathe. Steve appears at her side with a gin and tonic in a tall glass. “Drink this,” he says, smiling, “you’ll feel better.” Before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. He disappears again, up the stairs. She is leaning close to the mirror, separating her eyelashes with a tiny comb when she feels movement behind her. She feels it even before she sees her standing there. The atmosphere in the room shifts, changes, becomes thicker, more electrically charged. The hairs on Sharlene’s arms stand at attention. Dallas. The name conjures visions of front porches, peaches and hot, humid days. Skyscrapers and steel on hot pavement. Pitchers of iced tea with so much sugar that the spoon stands straight up. Cool, blue eyes and curls of bronze hair. Her body lean and muscular with large, soft breasts that look real, even though they probably aren’t. She is deliciously brown, almost baked. Like roast chicken. Guess I’m a little baked myself . . . She giggles, running a hand through her hair. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself “That’s quite enough—I hope I shan’t grow anymore—as it is I can’t get out the door— I do wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much!” “Are you laughing at me, or with me?” Dallas asks, a faint smile playing at the corners of her caramel lips. “But you’re not . . . you’re not . . . laughing.” Sharlene trails off, looking helplessly in the mirror, her forehead scrunched, confused.

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And, with that, Dallas does laugh—a deep, throaty sound—her lips parting to reveal teeth that are straight and blindingly white in her tanned face. “So, you’ve got a sense of humor,” she says, dragging a director’s chair over from the far wall. “That’s good. You better hold onto it, honey. It comes in handy in this business.” Sharlene can’t believe how beautiful she is in person, how radiantly alive. She gleams like a finely tuned machine, even her legs are shiny, calves reflecting the light. All at once, Sharlene is nervous again. She likes this woman, likes her loose, throaty laugh, her bronzed skin. She’s going to have sex with her. On camera. In front of the crew, everyone, the world. Why did she think this would be easier than being with a man? Easier how? In what way? What, in God’s name, was she thinking? I don’t know what I’m doing. Fear turns her stomach, and she takes another sip of gin and tonic to help wash it away. This is the first time, really, that she will have to do this. She’s not sure she can. She’s not sure she remembers how. There was that one night she slept over at Margaret’s, the sticky fumbling under sheets when she was twelve. But, somehow, it doesn’t seem to count anymore. It was experimentation, she thinks, nothing more. And it was so long ago. Margaret’s fingers softly between her thighs, the intake of breath, her own breath, catching in her throat as Margaret’s soft hair brushed across her cheek as she bent down, moving lower. Her eyes, wide and naked without glasses, white flesh in the moonlight. “Like this?” Margaret’s voice buzzing in her ear. “Do you like this? Or here? . . .” Sharlene remembers the taste of her own hand in her mouth, how the pleasure ripped through her with such force that she bit down on her own flesh to keep from screaming aloud. And when it was done, they lay close together like spoons nestled in a drawer, her arm draped around Margaret’s waist, listening to her easy breathing as her chest rose and fell, her body warm and familiar under her hands. In the morning, with sun streaming in through the pink, gingham curtains, it had seemed like a dream. The charred scent of toast in the air, Margaret’s little sister doing her homework at the

98 99 jennifer banash hollywoodland kitchen table, a ribbon looped through her brown hair. They ate bowlfuls of Frosted Flakes in the sunny kitchen, their teeth squeaking from the excess of sugar, Margaret’s mother standing at the kitchen counter marinating a roast. They smiled at one another across the mahogany table. And neither of them spoke of it ever again. Maybe they were embarrassed. Maybe, Sharlene thought after, maybe they were just afraid. But it never happened again. Though sometimes, as she watched Margaret undressing before bed—her long, pale body flaring in the moonlight—she really wanted it to. Panic washes over her, and this time, no amount of gin can force it to recede. There isn’t enough gin in the world to make her relax. She gets up suddenly, dropping her make-up on the floor, her hairbrush hitting the wood with a dull, clacking sound, leaving Dallas staring languidly at herself in the mirror, her legs stretched out in a V in front of her. She rushes through the rooms of the downstairs looking for Steve, her flesh damp and clammy, sweat beading on her brow. She finds him coming out of the bathroom, lighting a cigarette as he exits, closing the door onto the gurgle of the flushing toilet. “I can’t do this,” she says. “I don’t think I can do this.” “Baby girl, calm down.” His hands are on her shoulders now, and the weight of them is comforting, reassuring, the skin of his palms rough and hot. “What is it? Tell Steve what the problem is and we’ll fix it. I’m the magic man . . .” “I can’t do this straight.” Her voice, panicked, desperate. “I can’t.” Her eyes are wide with fright, bloodshot. Steve reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a bottle of Visine. “Here,” he says, holding it out to her, “let’s start with this. Your eyes are all red.” Her face crumples in on itself, and her head hangs down on its long stem, shoulders shaking. He pulls her to him, whispering in her ear. “Shhhhh . . .” She wipes her face on his t-shirt and steps back, expertly dropping the clear solution into her open eyes, then blinking rapidly, the saline solution mixing with the tears and smeared eyeliner on her

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face. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her make- up even worse. The thick, black streaks look like war paint on her skin, like she’s ready for combat. “Steve,” she says, calm now, reaching for one of his cigarettes. “I can’t do this straight. You have to give me something. I need a fix.” He looks at the floor, then back at her, running his fingers through his hair and exhaling heavily. “A fix? Shar, you won’t be able to walk.” “I don’t need to walk,” she says, blowing smoke directly into his face so that his expression is hidden, unreadable. “I’m getting fucked, remember? I’ll be lying down.” “Actually, I haven’t decided yet.” He grins, putting on his Vaurnet’s. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling, shaking her head back and forth. “Look, Sharlene, if I give you smack, you’ll be too out of it to work and I can’t have that. Dallas has sunk a lot of money into this film and I’m not gonna have it ruined cause you’re nodding out like some smacked-out junkie through the whole thing.” His voice is strained, almost pleading with her. “So, just do the scene, all right?” She stands there for a moment, smoking, looking away from him. She hears Dallas laughing with the crew in the next room—that deep growl—and she feels hollow, emptied of all emotion. “All right!” he says, throwing up his hands. “You sure you don’t want any coke? It’ll pick you right up.” “Thanks,” she says, crushing out her cigarette under her heel, “but I’d rather go downtown.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, coming out with a prescription bottle filled with pills. The amber plastic makes it difficult to see what colors the pills actually are, but Sharlene hopes for Percocet, Percodan, anything to keep her numb and empty, her limbs infused with warmth. “Take two of these,” he says, opening the top and shaking two pills into the palm of her hand. They are round and yellow, a precise, sharp V cut out of the center. “Valium?” She cannot keep the disdain from her voice. “You have got to be kidding me . . .”

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“It’ll just chill you out ever so slightly, Shar. I want you awake.” She tosses the pills in her mouth, swallowing hard. The cake in her hand, the bold label, black letters on white paper. Eat Me. “C’mon,” he says, putting an arm around her narrow shoulders and leading her into the living room, lights blazing. “Let’s shoot this thing.”

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The Photographer Speaks Again

Sometimes I can’t believe anybody even bought that fuckin’ thing. Even though I still think Pussy Galore is a great title. We should’ve done a Bond rip- off though, really capitalized on that shit. But we were too goddamn cheap. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, Dallas was great—she always is. Totally professional, shows up on time, gives a red-hot performance like its business as usual, cleans up her shit and goes home. End of story. The two other girls were all right too. A little stiff, but, still, you could tell they really dug eating pussy. But Sharlene. Jesus Christ. She was completely out of it. I remember she stood around for a while, watching, waiting for her big scene, pacing back and forth in front of the lights until Charley finally got pissed and told her to cut the crap—that if she wasn’t careful, she’d knock over a light, and then we’d be fucked. Literally. We wanted this bright, really clean look to the thing. At the time, we thought it was hot. Now it just looks cheesy, if you ask me. Anyway, as it gets closer to her scene, she gets more and more agitated. Starts coming up to me every ten minutes or so and asking for another V. Goddamnit, girl, I say. I just gave you one. But she wouldn’t quit, tugging at my shirt, her eyes all watery and everything. So I gave her another, just to get her off me. She goes away for like, another ten minutes, and then, guess what? Surprise! She’s back. And she wants another V. Sharlene, I tell her, you’re not going to be able to stay awake if I give you another one. When it came to drugs, the girl just didn’t know when to stop. She didn’t want to stop—not even for a minute. I need it, Steve, she says, and all at once she’s being nasty, her eyes all hard in her face, her voice sharp as a knife. I tell you, it was a complete change in attitude. This sweet, little girl had suddenly transformed into a complete bitch on wheels. Her eyes were hard and flat and she was gonna get that Valium. She was gonna fight me for it if she had to. Either way, I was gonna give it up. I was reeling. But it worked, I guess, cause I was too surprised to say no. And I knew if I didn’t give in, she would go out of her way to be very, very difficult. All right, I say finally, shaking another pill into her hand, but if you pass out, you don’t get paid. You better remember that. And she just walks away, popping that pill in her mouth and washing it down with a shot of vodka.

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By the time we get set up, Dallas is good to go, and she still looks goddamn flawless, even after two other heavy, wet scenes with Mara and Mercedes. For one shot we even moved outside to the pool. But, like I said, that girl’s a total professional. That’s why she’s still working today, if you want to know the truth. That and she’s a goddamn gorgeous piece of ass. If Sharlene had watched Dallas a little closer, really learned from her, maybe things would’ve worked out differently for her. I don’t know. Anyway. So, by the time we’re ready for her, she’s propping her back up against a wall trying to stay awake. Her eyes are closing, and every once in a while she slides halfway down the wall before picking herself up again. Man, I had to carry her onto the set and arrange her on the couch like a bowl of goddamn fruit. She can’t even walk. Her eyes are fluttering shut, and Dallas is slapping Sharlene’s face lightly with the back of her hand going, wake up Sharlene, wake UP! She finally wakes herself up enough to do the scene, but it was far from hot or anything. She just lay there, not moving, while Dallas did all the work. And she’s really working down there, eating Sharlene out like her life depended on it. Sharlene’s barely moving, her eyes closed the whole time. Charley told me after that he’d never, not in all his years in the business, seen such a dead fish on camera. Actually, when I think about it, I’m not even sure that Sharlene particularly liked sex, if you know what I mean. Even at the height of her career she never gave anything even remotely resembling a hot performance. She was always looking off into space, staring out the window in the middle of it all. When we’re done, she’s sleeping on the couch as we’re breaking the set down and packing up. Where does she live? Dallas asks, watching her curled up on the couch, wearing these cut off denim shorts that are sliced so high you can practically see her pussy. I’m not sure, I tell her. I think she’s staying in some shithole off of Sunset, but I don’t know for sure. Dallas just stands there, looking at her. Sharlene’s hair is all over her face, hiding it. So when Dallas says to me, help me get her in my car, I’ll take her home for the night, I was relieved, if you want to know the truth. Hell, I didn’t want to take care of her. To be completely honest, I was more than a little pissed off. I mean, she could’ve ruined that film, and I had to spend all day worrying about her ass on top of it. So, I didn’t think twice about it. I picked Sharlene up like she was a sack of potatoes and threw her over my shoulder. Her hair hung down almost all the

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way to the floor, and her eyes were closed, mouth open. I remember a kind of chill went through me when I looked at her like that. She looked dead or like a doll or something. Beautiful but lifeless. You know? Anyway, she didn’t even wake up when I put her in the backseat of the car and pulled the seat belt across her waist. From what Dallas told me later, she slept through the whole goddamn night, didn’t wake up until ten the next morning, if you can believe that. That’s when I first knew that girl was in trouble.

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Twenty-One

This story deals with mirrors and fragments. She wakes to the light in her face. Where am I? Sunlight warms the skin of her cheeks, falling across the bridge of her nose, burning through her closed lids. She opens her eyes to shapes of fuzzy whiteness. Lace curtains hang from the windows, a creamy waterfall of fabric falling in delicate folds to the floor. There is a white velvet comforter pulled up to her chin, but the sheets have been kicked to the foot of the king-size bed in a messy clump. She reaches down with her toes, caressing the rough lace with the ball of her foot as she stretches languidly, arms overhead. Wherever she is, she is safe. No axe murderer could have a room this pretty. She is sure of it. The palace walls were made of drifted snow, and the windows and doors of the biting winds. There were over a hundred rooms in it, shaped just as the snow had drifted. The biggest one stretched for many miles. They were all lighted by the strongest northern lights. There is someone behind her—a lump with light hair—its head huge, out of proportion with the rest of its slender form. She jumps, moving rapidly, her heart racing in her chest. The lump twitches. She moves, and it moves. She raises one hand from beneath the covers, stretching it overhead, her vision still blurry with sleep. Across the room, a hand waves back at her. She turns around. Three out of the room’s four walls are covered in mirrors that stretch from floor to ceiling. The room seems enormous. The bedroom is empty. She is alone. And she is scaring herself half to death as she looks around, frightened by her own reflection. All the rooms were immensely big and empty, and glittering in their iciness . . . Immense, vast and cold were the Snow Queen’s halls. A large, abstract painting hangs on the far wall, a swirling ball of candy colors: red and orange bleeding into hot pink. In the all- white room, the burst of color is like a punch to the chest. Sharlene sits up, rubbing her eyes, head pounding, her feet flat on the wood floor. Slowly, cautiously, she stands up, holding onto the bedside table for

106 107 hollywoodland balance. She is wearing a t-shirt she doesn’t recognize—black, and about three sizes too big, it hangs almost to her knees, swallowing her in its voluminous cotton folds. She is still wearing her panties, but her bra is mysteriously absent. She crosses her arms over her chest and walks to the bedroom door. There is a white robe hanging from a hook, and she puts it on. The terry cloth is soft from repeated washings, warm from the sunlight streaming through the room. It smells of Tide and perfume—flowery and light with dark undertones of musk, like herbs crushed between the soft, textured pads of fingers. She is aware of just how quiet the house is as she walks down the stairs. At the bottom is a large living room, also done entirely in white, with plush carpeting that appears so fresh and new that she is almost afraid to walk on it. The room is icy and bright—almost frigid. A coffee table made of some thick, frosted substance, (plastic, Formica, what?) sits between two velvet couches the color of French vanilla ice- cream. The light in the room is opaque and painfully glacial. The northern lights came and went with such regularity that you could count the seconds between their coming and going. In the midst of these never-ending snow halls was a frozen lake. It was broken up on the surface into a thousand bits, but each piece was so exactly like the others that the whole formed a perfect work of art. She walks over to touch the coffee table, running her hand across the smooth surface, expecting it to be cold, her palm caught and held against it. But it is warm. Warm and smooth as yards of human flesh. “You like that?” Her head comes up like a hunting dog, her face flushing bright pink. The Snow Queen sat in the very middle of it when she sat at home. She then said that she was sitting on “The Mirror of Reason,” and that it was the best and only one in the world. Dallas stands there, glass of orange juice in her hand. She wears a pair of crisp cotton shorts the color of fresh snow, and a white

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t-shirt, her hair pulled back from her face in a low ponytail. Her skin is burnished against the light-reflecting fabric. Immaculate white sneakers. Sharlene is surprised at just how young she looks with her face scrubbed clean. She holds out the glass, and walks closer. “Want some juice?” Sharlene wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. “I don’t like juice. Do you have any Diet Pepsi?” Dallas laughs, throwing her head back so that her silky ponytail hits her shoulder blades. Even her throat is tan. “For breakfast?” she asks, incredulous, taking a sip of the juice. “Are you kidding?” Sharlene doesn’t answer, simply shrugs her shoulders, helpless. She really doesn’t like juice, hasn’t liked it since her mother forced her to drink a thick glass every day before school, strands of stringy pulp tickling her throat. C’mon, Sharlene, it’s just juice. It’s good for you. It has vitamin C . . . Actually, it makes her want to throw up, just thinking about it: the juice, her mother. The sugar coating her lips. Does she want to be taken care of? Yes. No. Maybe. First she needs a Pepsi, then aspirin, a hot shower. She feels dirty, an invisible layer of grime sticking to her skin. She needs to be clean. Then, maybe, she can decide. “All right, then.” Dallas tilts her head and turns around, walking into the kitchen. Sharlene follows, the sleeves of the bathrobe falling down around her hands. She feels small in Dallas’s bathrobe, vulnerable, and she isn’t sure that she likes it. Not yet, anyway. The kitchen is white with shiny appliances, and the stove looks glassy and unused. No handprints on the sleek, sub-zero door, no particles of spilled food staining the wood floor. The cabinets are covered in clear glass and she can see bright pieces of Fiestaware: plates in cobalt blue, turquoise, orange, and red stacked neatly on top of one another. The small, glass-topped kitchen table only has two chairs. A black vase of red poppies sits on top, their velvet petals marred by spreading black centers, spilled ink mixed with fresh blood. A wrought-iron birdcage stands in the corner holding a lime-green bird,

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its tail peppered with bright red and blue feathers. Sharlene walks over to the cage, making soft clucking noises to the bird, who stares back at her coolly, as if to say So? So what? Whatever. The bird frantically grooms its feathers, head tucked beneath its own bright wing. “That’s Carlito.” Dallas is at the counter, pouring cola into a glass filled with ice. It hisses and bubbles over the cubes, loud in the silence of the kitchen. Sharlene walks over to the table and sits down, hands in her lap. She feels like she’s back at school, on her best behavior, and she tries to sit up straight, pushing the hair out of her face, even though her head feels like at any given moment it just might explode. Dallas places the glass and two Advil in front of her on placemats that look like comic strips. A blonde girl on the telephone, waves of marcelled hair falling over one eye, a tear dripping from the other, hanky clenched in one fist along with a red telephone receiver. The bubble above her head reads: I thought he was Prince Charming . . . guess I was wrong . . . again. Sharlene swallows the smooth brown pills, bubbles tickling her nose. “Thanks for taking me home,” she says, placing the glass carefully back down on the placemat. “I guess I was a real mess?” It comes out like a question, and Dallas smiles, her eyes a clear blue. Not the blue of the Caribbean, but an icy, measured blue, the blue of a crystal stream. Glacial. Dallas’s eyes appraise her coolly, taking in the disheveled hair and bare feet, how the robe engulfs her in its all- consuming whiteness. Her eyes are the blue of a white feline’s tilting, half-closed orb. Siamese. “Yeah,” she says, getting up and walking over to the counter, returning with a glass ashtray and a pack of Marlboro Lights, “you were.” She places the ashtray in the center of the table and lights a cigarette, the smoke momentarily obscuring her face as she speaks. “It’s all right,” she says, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been there myself.” Sharlene drinks rapidly, the ice falling against her teeth, numbing her brain. She presses her fingers into her temples, hard, then releases. All of a sudden, she is suspicious, watching Dallas across the table, watching her. What does she want from me? Why take me home?

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Does she want to help me? Sleep with me? Both? She fidgets with her empty glass, reaching across the table and lights a cigarette with Dallas’s red lighter, hands shaking. Dallas is watching her with cat eyes. “Do you want to stay here for a while?” she asks, her voice casual. “Steve told me you were living in a real dump.” Sharlene looks down at the floor, then out the window—anything to avoid that unrelenting gaze. “It’s not that bad,” she says, crushing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Its cut-glass facets sparkle and reflect the sunlight, showering the wood floor with a thousand fractured rainbows. But the ashtray is nothing compared to the ring sitting magnificently on Dallas’s index finger: the diamond is huge, square cut, and possesses such fire, such mind-numbing brilliance, that there is no doubt in Sharlene’s mind it is real. Dallas follows her eyes. “George Jamison gave it to me,” she says, walking over to the refrigerator, pulling out skim milk and a pint of strawberries. She spoons a white powdery substance into the blender, adding milk and fruit. “Do you want a protein shake? “Sharlene shakes her head vigorously from side to side, watching with a fascination that could easily border on horror as Dallas turns on the machine, whipping the mess into a smooth, pink elixir she pours into a frosted glass. “Do you know George?” Sharlene shakes her head no again, lights another cigarette. “Well, you should. He owns Vixen Video. I’m a Vixen girl myself.” She sits back down at the table, her throat moving smoothly as she drinks. “What about yesterday?” Sharlene asks, drinking her Pepsi in small sips. Dallas rolls her eyes, placing her glass down on the table. “I’m producing that piece of crap, not to mention starring in it. But it’s good experience. I had to beg and plead with George just to fucking do it. I’m supposed to be exclusively with Vixen. But it might just make me a quick little profit—if Steve doesn’t fuck it up.” The doorbells rings and a series of chill, celestial chimes echo throughout the house. Dallas gets up to answer it, and returns with a squat, blond man, his eyes obscured by mirrored sunglasses, his arms, legs and face tanned to a crisp.

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“You’re late.” Dallas’s voice is husky and playful, a smile turning up the outer corners of her lips. He looks over at Sharlene, smiling broadly and exposing teeth that are slightly yellowed. “Traffic was a bitch, babe.” She can see herself reflected in the lenses of his glasses, her own figure far away, so very small and white. He is wearing jeans and an expensive looking silk shirt embossed with a pattern of palm trees. A gold cell phone is clipped to his black Gucci belt. Now when we get to the end of the story, you will know more than you do about a very wicked hobgoblin. He was one of the worst kind; in fact, he was a real demon. One day he was in a high state of delight, because he had invented a mirror with this peculiarity, that almost every good and pretty thing reflected in it shrank away to almost nothing. “Sharlene, this is Bill Knight.” Dallas gestures toward the man with her hands, a playful expression on her face. “Bill owns Exclusive Video Unlimited. I used to work for him a long time ago. “ “Jesus, Dallas,” he says, his voice clipped and more than a little sarcastic. “It wasn’t that long ago.” He reaches over, messing up her perfect ponytail. He has large meaty hands. “A star,” he says, laughing, his tone almost reverential. “She’s such a big star now . . . are you sure you have time for us little people?” Dallas smiles, eyes narrowing. She punches Bill lightly in the stomach with her closed fist. He feigns injury, staggering backwards, colliding with the sharp edges of the kitchen counter. He does not remove his sunglasses as he walks over to Sharlene, rubbing his hip with one hand, holding out the other. “Good to meet you, Sharlene. Are you in the business too?” On the other hand, every bad and good-for-nothing thing stood out and looked its worst. The best people became hideous, or else they were upside down and had no bodies. Their faces were distorted beyond recognition, and if they had even one freckle it appeared to spread all over the nose and mouth. The demon thought this immensely amusing. Sharlene opens her mouth to speak, her lips pink and parted, but Dallas interrupts her, cutting her off. She sits there, mute, her voice stripped (What happened to my voice?).

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“She did her first scene yesterday.” Bill steps closer, sliding one hand under Sharlene’s chin and tilting it upward to meet his eyes. “Well, now,” he says grinning widely, his teeth exposed, the lower row slightly jagged and wolf-like. She can’t stop staring, transfixed, at his mouth. “Isn’t that interesting.” Behind the silver shades, his eyes bore into her. Twin mirrors reflect her own image, hair disheveled, head grotesquely bloated and swollen, neck like a twig. She is aware of the rolling in her stomach, as if she is suddenly at sea. He releases her face, briefly stroking her cheek before letting go. “Wanna work for me?” Sharlene looks away from his eyes, smile, those teeth . . . She reaches over and picks up her glass, draining the last of the fizzy brown liquid, her throat working fast. She is cold all over, her blood flooded with ice chips, frost glazing in a film over the clear, blue wetness of her eyes. Dallas stands at the kitchen counter, smoking, curiously silent, waiting. She tilts her head to the side ever so slightly, questioning. Sharlene opens her mouth to speak, but there is no sound, no words. The words, she thinks, one hand moving nervously to her throat, the words have left me. “Here’s my card.” He pulls out a black, lizard skin wallet from his back pocket, pulling out a black card, his name and number embossed on the front of the glossy surface in shiny silver lettering. Bill Knight. Exclusive Video Unlimited. There is a silver line drawing of a woman, reclining on her back, one hand behind her head, knee bent at a sharp angle. “Call me if you’re interested. I’m always looking for new talent.” He winks at her, and she flushes, dropping her head and looking away. “Dallas,” he says, taking her hand, “walk me to the door, babe.” Dallas looks at her, almost apologetically, and walks out of the room holding onto his arm. All of the scholars of the demon’s school, for he kept a school, reported that a miracle had taken place: now for the first time it had become possible to see what the world and mankind were really like.

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They ran about all over with the mirror, till there was not a country or a person which had not been seen in this distorting mirror. They even wanted to fly up to heaven with it to mock the angels; but the higher they flew, the more it grinned, so much so that they could hardly hold it, and at last it slipped out of their hands and fell to the earth, slivered into hundreds of millions and billions of bits. Even then it did more harm than ever, some of these bits were not as big as a grain of sand, and these flew about all over the world, getting in people’s eyes, and, once in, they stuck there and distorted everything they looked at, or made them see everything that was amiss. Each tiniest grain of glass kept the same power as that possessed by the whole mirror. Some people even got a bit of the glass into their hearts, and that was terrible, for the heart became like a lump of ice. Some of the fragments were so big that they were used for window panes, but it was not advisable to look at one’s friends through these panes. Other bits were made into spectacles, and it was bad business when people put on their spectacles meaning to be just . . . . But some of these fragments were still left floating about the world, and you shall hear what happened to them.

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Dallas Speaks

She moved in with me for a while, yeah. She was scared of the dark. Hated to sleep alone. Hated to be alone. Tagged along with me to my shoots. When George saw her, his eyes popped. He wanted her right then and there, wanted to sign her to Vixen as soon as he could press the pen into her hand. Greedy motherfucker. But she wasn’t ready yet, and I knew that. She just shined him on, like she did everyone, batting those blue eyes and giggling, her hair falling around her face. She was signed to Exclusive Video at that time, so she couldn’t take a piss without Bill’s permission, much less work for anyone else. We went everywhere together. The supermarket, the movies, clubs, on dates. She loved junk food. Every week, she’d load the cart with Cocoa Puffs, Frosted Flakes, Fruit Roll-Ups, potato chips, microwave popcorn, chocolate chip cookie dough—you know, the kind that comes pre-mixed, in a long, squishy tube. Cases of Pepsi. Bottles of Stoli. Corona. And limes, limes, limes . . . She was making money now, working for Bill, and she could buy what she liked. She loved, I mean LOVED, having her own money, counting it in the car on the way home from the bank, knowing that she earned it. She even held it up to her face and smelled it occasionally. She always said that the smell of money turned her on. But I guess it affects everyone that way—doesn’t it? I mean, there’s not much that people won’t do for it. She liked to ride on the back of the cart like a little kid while I pushed us down the long aisles, her head thrown back, absolute glee in her eyes. Wheeeeeeeeeee . . . I liked having her there. It had been a long time since I’d been that close with anyone. She was so sweet and soft in the beginning, like a little girl. The food she ate, the Saturday morning cartoons that blared from the television, the way she snuggled close to me in bed at night, her face buried in my neck, one hand wrapped around a strand of my hair, so she could sleep, she said. So she knew I was there when she woke in the middle of the night, shaking, breathing fast, the sheets soaked with sweat. What is it, I’d ask her, rocking her back and forth till she fell asleep again. Why won’t you talk to me? She’d just burrow in closer, and I could feel her hands in my hair, shaking like a tiny, broken bird. She needed so much love. She was like a little puppy, constantly licking your face and wagging

114 115 hollywoodland its tail. Always looking for affection. Never wanting you to leave. Now, I like men. But there’s something about being with a woman that’s different. Softer. Not that it isn’t difficult in its own way. Its just more low key. Tender. Women just know how to be soft. And I tried to be really good to her. I took care of her. But nothing was ever enough. No matter how much you stroked and petted her, no matter how much of yourself you gave, she always wanted more. And she couldn’t give anything back—not really. She could give things. Things weren’t the problem. She was always coming home with little presents for me. Lingerie. Perfume she thought I might like. Chocolates. But never herself. There was always a little part of her that was locked away where no one could ever get at it. And I think she liked it that way. I set her up with Bill because I knew he’d be good for her, in a way. He’s a great person to work with if you’re really green, and I knew from watching her on set that she wasn’t exactly ready for the big time. EVU is a good place to start if you’re new in the business. Hell, I started out there. Bill can be a little rough, I mean, he has a bit of a reputation. But, still, I thought she’d be fine with him. After all, I was looking out for her. And nobody, I mean nobody, was going to hurt her with me around. I was going to make damn sure that she didn’t make any of the stupid mistakes I made when I was starting out. Settling for too little because you don’t know any better, wasting time with the wrong people, throwing your money away on fancy dinner for thirty leeches you don’t even know, buying truckloads of trash in Rodeo’s finest. In the end, things don’t last. None of that shit really matters: cars, houses, designer drugs. In the end, all you have is yourself. But did she listen? Oh, she’d nod her head and smile with those perfect white teeth, and go right out to do whatever she damn well pleased. She spent every cent she ever made—and she spent it on crap. Vuitton bags, fur jackets, jars of Crème de la Mer. She took me out to dinner at least twice a week. And, if I had let her, it would’ve been more. Let me, she’d say, slapping my hands away and reaching for her wallet, let me pay. It gives me pleasure. She could spend hours washing and blow drying her hair, applying different night creams, whitening her teeth, but she didn’t take care of her body, didn’t watch what she ate at all. She liked crap: Twinkies, Ring-Dings, cheeseburgers and fries, chocolate milkshakes. Loved to go to Denny’s late at

115 jennifer banash night and order a big breakfast of bacon, hash browns and omelets stuffed with peppers and cheese. And in the beginning, none of it mattered. She ate what she wanted and never gained so much as an extra ounce. And after the drugs came into the picture, well, she wasn’t exactly eating regularly, if you know what I mean. She’d go three days on champagne and a stick of gum, then gorge herself on stuffed crust pizza and a bag of Doritos. Wash it all down with a six of Corona. Me, I’m always at the gym, on the treadmill, the bike, always watching everyone else order dessert, obsessively counting calories as I crunch down on a tasteless salad, no dressing, and an iced tea with extra lemon. No sugar. And cocaine. She loved her candy. For her screen credit on that first shoot, she even took the name Kandy Kane. I’ve been clean for over a year now, but, I have to admit, at one time, it was as big of a problem for me as it was for her. Happy dust, we called it. At first it was just a recreational thing, something she might do on weekends at a club if it was offered. Nothing she’d ever buy herself. God forbid she actually had to pay for her drugs. And to be truthful, most of the time, she didn’t. She was a beautiful girl, a porn star, not exactly respected, but, you know how it is. We’re not ever really respected, just idolized in some bizarre way. It’s the strangest thing. But after a while, things changed. She started calling dealers at two am. Her coke was delivered to the set by messenger. She was doing lines before breakfast, in the car, toots to get her amped up before a shoot. And the pills. I can’t even really talk about the pills. But that came later. In the end, before she finally moved out, she always had the vials of pills close by, slept with her lines laid out on a mirror on the bedside table, at arms length from where we lay, our heads resting on the same pillow.

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Twenty-Two

Sharlene and Bill get along like two cats in a sack. That’s what her mother would’ve said, shaking her head from side to side, lips thin and tight, pulled into a straight line. But she doesn’t speak to her mother anymore. She tries not to think of her at all. She ignores the dull ache behind her temples when she closes her eyes and conjures the smooth, familiar planes of her mother’s face, the brown skin stretched taunt over high cheekbones, tendrils of yellow hair escaping a neat bun. It isn’t that Sharlene and Bill dislike each other. They just don’t mix. Oil and water. Salt and sugar. Sandpaper and silk. It seems that every day there’s another incident. And she hates it. Sharlene thinks that Bill acts more like a pimp than the owner of a legitimate business. Dallas’s face, her laughter when Sharlene says as much, cuts her like a thousand angry blades against her skin. “Honey,” she purrs, rolling her eyes against the brightness of the kitchen glare, “don’t be silly . . . they’re all pimps.” His bodyguards. The flame-red Lamborghini Diablo that raced into the Exclusive Video parking lot each day around noon. His entourage of ex-strippers, porn stars, and junkies. The way he throws his money around: picking up checks, buying Cristal by the case to stock the fridge in the office. The men who arrived each Friday like clockwork, slipping into Bill’s office without saying a word to Porsche, Bill’s secretary. Porsche makes a point of looking busy when they come in, fiddling around in the file cabinet. Dark glasses cover their eyes as they stride into Bill’s spacious office of glass and honey-colored wood, their powerfully muscled bodies swathed in tailored black suits. Sharlene knows that if she reached out to stroke the fabric it would feel like butter under her fingertips. Sometimes they even visit the set, stand in the back watching her under the hot lights, arms crossed over their broad chests. Watching. Just watching. Sunglasses on. They make her nervous, and on these days, her skin runs with sweat. Wolves. All of them, wolves. She can almost feel their rough paws scratching her skin, their teeth

116 117 jennifer banash hollywoodland sharp against her softest, most vulnerable parts, devouring her with their eyes. She tries to ignore them, pretends they’re invisible, locking her gaze on the empty space just to the left of their bodies. When she knows they’re watching, she is startled to realize she is holding her breath. And when she looks up after finishing a scene, they’re gone. Vanished. As if they’d never been there at all. For some reason, this bothers Sharlene most of all. She tries asking Bill who they are, but he brushes it off the way he brushes most things off that he doesn’t want to talk about. “They’re friends, baby. Just friends. Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.” She looks at him, nervously playing with the pens on his desk, rolling them back and forth against the grain of the wood. “I don’t like them,” she says, her voice small. “I don’t like them at all.” Bill looks up sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Baby, you don’t have to like them. You just have to show up and be sexy. That’s your job. Don’t fuck with mine. Are we clear?” She is silent, furious, her nails digging into her palm so fiercely that she draws thin dots of blood. “Yeah,” she said, her voice like ice, “we’re clear.” She turns on her heel to walk out of the room, one hand on the doorknob, and then spins around, eyes blazing. “Oh,” she whispers, “one more thing.” “Don’t call me baby.” The door slams behind her so hard that the floor shakes under her feet as she leaves the building. These things happened on a daily basis. And there were the films. She liked working with women best. She could do the scenes with the guys, and she did—often. The veins on their neck in high relief as they pump into her, one large, meaty hand slapping her ass. But the women are softer. Liquid flesh and sweet perfumed thighs. Silken hair falling over her shoulder. No real pounding, her uterus bruised and sore, bladder burning for days. Girls are less likely to push, pull, or hurt. But even with the ladies, she still needs something to help her through it, the soft waves of vulnerability that crash over her as they lean in to stroke her flesh. Their touch

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is seductive, a cat’s paw on her skin, a bristle of fur against her outstretched fingers. When she’s sober, she feels almost vulnerable to all that silken flesh. Sometimes her eyes fill up with tears as she spreads her legs, a soft sliding touch on her inner thigh. This was a kind of drowning. Lungs filling with fluid, gasping for breath. Sober is no good. Sober is a nervous shaking, palms sweating, head-pounding kind of terror. So she has a few drinks. Shots of vodka. A couple of lines. Brightly colored pills, covered in lint, warm from the depths of her pockets. Whatever is around. In the beginning it doesn’t seem to matter much. And as the pills dissolve, the soft drowsiness sets in, mixing with the liquor, and the edges of the world recede, become manageable. Permeable. She slips back and forth across the membrane. Seamless. She floats in a sea of warm, dark water. “Sharlene, goddamn it, pay attention! Keep your goddamn eyes open when he’s fucking your face. Sharlene! Open your eyes!” But everything is hazy and so very far away. The director’s voice floats out over her head in a clear bubble shot through with rainbows, and she reaches up, tries to touch the colored air as it slides by, giggling, her face moist and sweating. She is taken aside after this. The director’s face is stern up against her own, his fingers fluttering like agitated wings. “You’ve got to get it together, Sharlene. This is bullshit.” And then the meetings in Bill’s office, screaming at each other across the desk, voices echoing in the stone-still silence of the office gone quiet outside the door. Porsche even stops talking on the phone. “At least look alive when they’re fucking you! This tape looks like you’ve slipped into a fucking coma!” She is livid, hands balled at her sides. Does he think this is easy? When she speaks, she can barely keep the rage from creeping into her voice. “Interesting choice of words, Bill. Why don’t you hire some guys who can actually fuck if you want a good performance out of me?” But she does tone it down. Takes less before a shoot. Makes

118 119 jennifer banash hollywoodland sexy faces. Penis, dildo, vibrator. It doesn’t matter. It all feels the same. Invasive. Prying. Unwanted. She opens her mouth wide and moans, running her hands through her hair, lips wet and parted, shining with red gloss. She comes home after the shoots feeling fragile and exposed, as if she needs more skin covering her frame. The white gleam of bones poking through. Dallas orders Chinese or Indian, sometimes even sushi— though not often. Sharlene can’t face sushi if she’s done a lot of girl/girl scenes. She showers, then pulls on sweatpants and a clean t-shirt and curls up on the couch with Dallas, sometimes falling asleep watching a movie on the VCR, her head resting in Dallas’s lap, the scent of their perfumes mingling with the clean smell of her own soap. She doesn’t think about whether or not she’s happy. She thinks of this time in her life as paying her dues. “It’s not forever,” Dallas whispers, stroking her hair, planting soft kisses along her hairline. “It won’t be forever, sweetie. You’re just getting your feet wet.” And Sharlene knows that she’s right. Porn is a stepping stone, a rest stop on the way to stardom—that’s all. Porn stars go on to be actresses—don’t they? Famous ones. Some must. And she plans to be one of them. Famous. And not for taking off her clothes either. After seven months, she’s ready to leave Bill and Exclusive Video behind and move on, but she’s under contract. She’s sold her soul on the dotted line. And now she owes two years of her life to Bill and the company. She goes to see Dallas’s lawyer at his office in Beverly Hills. She wears her favorite red dress and bright red lipstick. She carries a summer purse made of woven white straw. She is trying to look demure, vulnerable, yet still sexy. From the look on his face when the secretary shows her into his office, she can tell she’s succeeded. “Samantha, please hold my calls.” He is a thin, wiry man who reminds her of a weasel in an expensive suit and Prada loafers. A weasel, or maybe a wolf. Those teeth—straight, white, and obviously bleached—are positively feral. She shivers when he grins at her over the contract she hands him, his black eyes shadowed by heavy brows. “What great teeth you have got!” cried Little Red Riding

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Hood, who began to be frightened. “The better to eat you!” cried the wolf, jumping from the bed; and, seizing poor Red Riding Hood, he swallowed her up in one mouthful. She stares out the window at passing traffic as he reads, crossing and uncrossing her legs. “Well,” he says, grinning at her over the contract, “it will be very difficult, but I might be able to help you. He’s got you, iron clad, for the next year and a half. But there may be a way.” It is more than she’d dared to hope for and in spite of herself, she leans forward, eyes blazing with excitement. She feels the sweat break out under her arms, and she holds them more tightly to her body. “How?” she asks, her voice trembling, “how can I get out?” He places the sheaf of papers down on the desk in front of him. The black lacquer gleams in the afternoon sunlight. “It will be expensive,” he says, grinning at her slowly. “Very expensive.” He stares at her. His eyes are flat and black in the hollow of his tanned face. She can tell that he frequents a tanning salon, as his skin is vaguely orange colored all over, not the golden toasted hue that is cultivated out-of-doors. “I have money,” she says, opening her purse and pulling out a wad of bills, sliding them across the glossy surface of his desk. The paper crinkles under her palms. He waits a beat, his eyes holding hers, then pushes the money back toward her. He stares at the front of her dress, his eyes making their way down her body. She understands. She stands up slowly and walks over to the windows, closing the Venetian blinds, bathing the room in shadows. She walks back over in front of his desk and stands there, motionless. He leans back, hands clasped behind his head, his face expressionless. She unzips her dress. The metal buzz in the dark, quiet room, is enormous. The dress slips slowly from her shoulders. Beneath it she is all but naked. A white g-string rides high on her hips, and her skin glows pearlescent in the shadows. She leaves her high-heeled sandals on as she walks over to him and sinks to her knees on the plush gray carpet. Later, as he bends her over the desk, his appointment book

120 121 jennifer banash cradling her cheek, the leather soft and reassuring against her skin, she tunes out, disconnects, lets her thoughts fly away and out of the room. She knows that she has found a way out. This man on her back, the weight of him, may feel like captivity, but it buys freedom. Escape. She turns the volume down on his grunts, the sweat she can feel breaking out along the ridge of her spine. When she leaves his office thirty minutes later, she can feel his sweat on her clothes. The vague scent of cigars and spicy men’s cologne hovers around her in a cloud. She tilts her head to the side for a moment and stops in her tracks, sure she can hear the howling of wolves in the distance, but there is only the sound of traffic outside the front door, whizzing by along the boulevard. The white wicker basket, the red cloth covering the cakes and wine. The path. I must stick to the forest path. “Don’t stop and pick flowers,” mother said. “Don’t dawdle.” But the woodsman is gone. There is no hatchet to pry her from the wolf’s jaws, red tongue lolling in the back of the throat, hot breath in her face. She will have to save herself from the dark, wet confines of his belly, the sharp, pointed teeth. His stickiness slides down her thighs, creeping like a thief over her smooth flesh as she turns and smiles at the perky blonde receptionist on her way out the door.

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Twenty-Three

After leaving the lawyer’s office, she drives to The Beverly Center and purchases a red alligator briefcase. She likes the way the rough skin feels under her hands. She stuffs the bright crimson bag with papers, extra pens. A compact. Her lip gloss. Anything to make herself feel more professional. She poses before the long mirror in her bedroom, the bag hanging from her hand and a tight, determined expression hardening her features. She narrows her eyes coolly. The polish on her nails is the color of a cracked pomegranate. She is ready for battle. She wakes at ten the next morning and takes a quick shower before donning what she thinks of as her power clothes. Black pants and a crisp white t-shirt. A lightweight black suit jacket. Heavy silver jewelry. The weight of the cold metal against her skin is reassuring. There’s something about wearing black that makes her feel large and imposing. Indestructible. After a quick bite of buttered toast and black coffee, she’s on the freeway, heading west by 11:15. When she pulls into the lot, it’s 11:45, the sun beating down almost directly overhead. It’s already hot, the thermometer soaring past the ninety degree mark. There is a heat advisory in effect even though it’s late September, and her t-shirt sticks wetly against her back as she walks into the building. The air conditioning hits her like a sharp slap, a welcome blast of frigid air as she enters through the glass doors. The waiting room is empty. The phone rings and rings, echoing off the white walls. The lights on the phone are lit up. Line one. Line two. Line three. A symphony of blinking red lights. Porsche’s chair is empty, pushed neatly behind the desk, her papers arranged efficiently in stacks, but she is nowhere to be found. Bathroom, Sharlene thinks, she must be in the bathroom. Bill’s office door is standing open, just a crack, and Sharlene can see sunlight falling in strips on the carpet right outside. Good. He’s already here. She knocks lightly, getting no response, then pushes the door slowly open.

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Dark, splotches of blood sink into the carpet. Blood so dark it appears almost black against the thick white fibers. Spilled ink, she thinks, it looks just like spilled ink. But the dark stains are mottled here and there with shards of spongy material, stringy bits of gray flesh. Brains? The thought is too horrible to contemplate. The phones ring and ring in the office, which is otherwise so quiet that Sharlene can hear the clock on Bill’s desk ticking away as she stands there, one hand clapped over her mouth. Is she making noise? She can’t be sure. Bill is tied to the leather chair behind the desk. Lengths of extension cord snake around his middle, crossed over his chest which is covered in a thick mat of black hair. He is otherwise naked, white cloth shoved in his mouth, eyes bulging above it. His underwear, she realizes, is in his mouth. They gagged him with his own boxers . . . There is blood running down his face from some sort of head injury, and gelatinous black blobs cover the top of the desk. The heavy, coppery scent of blood hangs like a metallic curtain in the air. His lap is so dark that she thinks, just for a second, that he is wearing pants. She moves closer and looks down. Where his penis should be is simply an empty, blood-soaked space. Void. She backs away from his prostrate body and now she is making noises—she is sure of it, a kind of keening, her breathing ragged as a beaten animal in the absolute stillness of the room. She backs out of the office, slamming the door as she goes. The sound snaps her awake, and she realizes, terror rising in her chest, they could still be in here. She turns and runs for the door as if there is someone just steps behind her, gaining. When her hand closes on the aluminum doorknob, the relief that sweeps through her body is so intense that, once she is standing out in the parking lot, the oppressive heat beating down on her, she almost collapses. Across the blacktop she runs, heels clicking beneath her, the sound on the asphalt a chant, an affirmation: I’m here, I’m here . . . She does not feel completely safe until she is locked into the tight confines of her car, engine revved, air conditioner on full blast, erasing all sound. Her hands on the steering wheel are shaking violently. She peals out of the lot so fast that her tires squeal as she turns onto the street, heading for the freeway.

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Tears blur her vision as she leans into the wheel, trying to see clearly. She is ashamed of herself. Disgusted. For what she feels over and above everything else—the fear, the adrenaline—is an overwhelming sense of relief. She wouldn’t have chosen this particular scenario as any kind of resolution. She is free of Bill, of her contract, and for that she is grateful. “Oh, I have been so frightened; it was dreadfully dark in the wolf’s stomach!” The light breakfast she ate before setting out rises in her throat and she turns the car sharply to the left, parking on the emergency lane of the freeway. As she struggles with the door handle, she heaves once, twice, toast and coffee staining her black pants. The blobs of half- digested food clinging to her legs reminds her of the amorphous black matter staining Bill’s desk, and she wrenches the car door open with a heavy shove and retches again. She does not call the police, and more curiously, they do not come looking for her either. When she stumbles into the house, tears streaking her face, her clothes covered in vomit—which by now has begun to stink—Sharlene can tell by the look on her face that Dallas is visibly shaken. She turns pure white under her tan, the blood draining from her all at once as if someone had stuck a knife in her back suddenly, watching as the vital fluids drained out. “It’ll be all right,” Dallas says, putting water on to boil for tea. Sharlene watches, reassured by Dallas’s deft hands dropping soft white tea bags into large ceramic cups, although she does notice that Dallas’s grip is far from steady. As she measures out the sugar, her hands shake so violently that the grains spill all over the countertop and floor. For days after, every time she is in the kitchen, Sharlene will hear an almost imperceptible, granular crunch under her heels. She grits her teeth just thinking about it. The story makes the papers, but the case is never solved. There is no mention of Porsche in any of the newspapers. For some reason, this bothers Sharlene most of all. Porsche never did anything to anyone. It isn’t fair. A detective finally comes around a few weeks later,

124 125 jennifer banash just as Sharlene is beginning to feel normal again. She tells him that she doesn’t know anything. “I’d only been working for Bill for a little over six months. No, I don’t know who his business partners were. I didn’t know he had any. I don’t know anything.” Friends call, wanting the story. “Hey, what happened over there?” Sharlene shudders, cradling the phone beneath her chin, winding the cord around her wrist like jewelry or handcuffs. Changes the subject. Even Steve calls. But Sharlene won’t talk. And, after all, as she tells anyone who asks, she really doesn’t know anything anyway. And when Sharlene drives by the office a month later, the parking lot is deserted. A large, red For Rent sign hangs loosely from the front door.

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Coma IV

Tubes snake across her chest. Something over her face, pressing down hard. The taste of black rubber in her mouth, pushing down her throat. Is she bleeding? Something wet crawls down the skin of her arm. It must be raining. But rain in L.A. is so very rare. Isn’t it? Monsoon. She must’ve forgotten to put the top up . . . There will be damage, she’s sure of it. The seats are leather. Tanned, beaten skin. She paid extra. The scent of flowers. The cloying sweetness of open petals. Pink, red, and yellow. Or is it hairspray? And something else. Medicinal. Sharp and metallic. Her mouth tastes of blood. Thirsty. So goddamn thirsty. Why won’t her eyes open? It’s not that she isn’t trying. And then a more terrifying thought surfaces: Maybe they are open. A hand on her face. Fingers. She feels nails lightly grazing her cheek. So light. Perfume coming in waves. Violets and musk. Nail polish remover. Dallas? Is that you? There is a pressure on her chest. She tries to move, to cough. Soft hands smoothing her hair back. She can feel it. Almost.

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Twenty-Four

A month pass and the money she’s managed to save begins to run out. Every day she checks her hiding place at the top of the closet, feeling the panic rise from her stomach all the way to her brain as the piles begin to shrink. She’s ready to go back to work anyway; this time it will be different. She’s not willing to accept the same level of exposure. She can do better. She has experience now. And Sharlene wants more. Always more. If she’s going to be an adult film star, she might as well be the best goddamn adult film star anyone’s ever seen. She has to believe. This can’t possibly be it. Can it? She wants the best tables. Complimentary bottles of Cristal. The red carpet. Yards and yards of fabric the color of fresh blood. Joan Rivers with a mike in her hand, paparazzi flashing like a swarm of bees struck by lightning. “Who are you wearing tonight?” Joan will ask. “Oh this?” she’ll answer, modesty coloring her cheeks. “Versace.” She will make it. She has to. And she doesn’t care what it costs her. Since being a Vixen girl, like Dallas, is what will make her a household name, she goes to see George Jamison one cloudy, Tuesday afternoon. Dallas picks out her clothes, smoothes a slick mask of cosmetics over her face. “White,” Sharlene says, pointing at the closet. “I don’t care what you pick out, but it has to be white.” Dallas smiles, smoothing Sharlene’s bangs down with Aveda’s Brilliant Elixir. “Good idea,” she answers, rubbing rouge onto the apples of Sharlene’s cheeks. “You can do that whole innocent act you’re so good at.” Sharlene looks away from the mirror and up into Dallas’s face. She’s not smiling, and her expression has turned as tight and hard as a block of wood. “What makes you think it’s an act?” Sharlene reaches up to touch Dallas’s hair, her voice plaintive. Dallas’s face relaxes, and she smiles, leaning down and placing her lips on Sharlene’s forehead and lingering there for a long moment before she straightens up, fluffing Sharlene’s hair with her long fingers.

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“There,” she says, her voice full of pride, and a strange kind of satisfaction. “You’re perfect.” She shows up at the Vixen office at around noon. The receptionist, an ash blonde, willowy girl in a shocking pink dress, takes one look and picks up the phone. Five minutes later she is sitting in a plush leather chair staring across an intricately carved desk at the man who just might change her life. George is in his early forties and—unlike Bill—he seems to be all business. He wears an impeccably cut, three-button black suit, and a silver tie streaked with a subtle pattern in a darker shade of gray. He stares at her, reaches over and pulls a cigar from a small wooden box the color of darkened, slightly rotted cherries. His eyes never leave hers even as he places the cigar in his mouth, lighting the tip. The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. Who are you? said the Caterpillar. “So,” George says, exhaling a voluminous cloud of smoke, “you want to be a Vixen girl.” It is a statement, not a question, and it hangs there in the air with the smoke until she answers, sitting up straight and pushing out her chest. “Yes,” she answers with the kind of simple, direct clarity she’s practiced in the mirror for days. She’s almost humble, he thinks, puffing away. Easy to handle. He places the cigar down in a crystal ashtray directly in front of him. “I’ve seen some of your films,” he says. “They didn’t exactly make the most of you over at Exclusive, did they?” He smirks, picking up the cigar again, puffing away on it, almost furiously. “Well, we’ll change all that.” He waves his right hand in the air languidly as he speaks, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got a certain look, my dear. There’s no doubt about it.” Sharlene smiles. Her face feels thick and rubbery.

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“But you have no fan base to speak of. Not really.” Her smile freezes, then slowly fades, like ice melting. “Let’s start with your name.” “My name?” She is perplexed and anxious all at once. She’s platinum blonde, toned, clothed in expensive fabric and rare perfumes. She’s changed it all. Can she keep nothing for herself? “What’s wrong with my name?” “Nothing, my dear. Absolutely nothing.” His face disappears behind an opaque wall of smoke. “Sharlene is a perfectly lovely name. And you can use it to your heart’s content when you’re not working for me. But it is not the name of a major star.” “What about my screen name?” she asks, her voice plaintive. She has begun to dig her nails into the palm of her hand, grinding them against the soft meat. “Kandy Kane? My dear, you must be joking. You need something that expresses more of you.” He gestures wildly toward her with his hands. She notices that he has short, stubby fingers, each knuckle covered with a discreet tangle of hair. “Your personality, your essence. We need a name people will remember. Not some pathetic joke they’ll forget the minute your face fades from the screen.” She feels cold all over. Numb. She can’t feel her feet. Her cheeks flush bright red. She feels as if she has been slapped. Pathetic? All this time, she’s been a joke. For a moment she considers getting up and walking out of the office, running into the parking lot. She pictures herself slamming the door behind her with a satisfying crack. Her heart thuds in her chest, breath shallow. She won’t give in this time. Nothing will ever break her like that again. She tries to regain her composure and makes an effort to hide her discomfort and her humiliation. She smoothes down her dress over her knees, clearing her throat before she speaks again. “This must be the wood,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “where things have no names. I wonder what will become of my name when I go in?” “Well,” she says, her gaze level and such a bright metallic blue

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that he wonder is she’s wearing contacts. “What would you suggest?” He leans back even further in his chair, propping his feet up on the immaculate surface of the desk. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at all—because they’d have to give me another, and it would be almost certain to be an ugly one.” “Something that’ll grab em’ by the balls,” he says, grinning. His rows of teeth, white and perfectly even, remind her of tombstones. “We’ll keep the S sound—reminds ‘em of sexy, seductive, sexual, you understand—Sssssssssssssssss . . .” He draws the sound out until it fills the room like a nest of angry cobras. “Maybe just a first name, like Madonna or Cher . . .” Sharlene is staring at the painting directly over George’s head. It is a desert scene painted in neon shades of purple, pink, blue, and yellow. Hot colors that sting her eyes if she stares too long at them. None of the boring, flat earth tones that are traditionally associated with the hot, dry landscape of the west. This is a desert for the new millennium, glowing electric under blue and pink incandescent skies. A neon desert. The fuchsia sand sparkles like powdered granules of rose quartz under the magenta sunlight. It comes to her in a rush, like a sudden song, a heavenly choir, a chorus of angels: “How about Sierra?” The words come out of her throat in a rush, hurried on by an invisible wind. The air in the room shifts as George falls silent, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar and nodding, his head tilted to the side. The hairs on her arms stands up, body tingling, and she knows that, at long last, this is the moment she’s been waiting for. Her life is going to change. She can feel it.

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Sierra •••

One

The days pass in a flurry of activity. There are contracts to sign, lawyers’ offices to visit. She examines the heavy sheaf of white paper with Dallas, with the lawyer, by herself, sitting alone on the couch at home and running her hands over it, black type staining the tips of her fingers as she reads. Her breast augmentation has been written into her contract. A perk, they call it. And she will have a car. The interior will smell of unlined leather, her own perfume. The keys will shine silver in the palm of her hand like the bodies of small-boned fish. She will hang a white rabbit’s foot from her keychain and a tangle of metallic silver beads from the rearview mirror. Luck. She already knows what she wants. Each day when she passes by the showroom window of the Corvette dealership, her gaze is automatically drawn to the cool gleam of white metal, the silver emblem on the front proclaiming Corvette. It acts on her like a magnet. And when she drives by at night, the car glows in the front window like a slice of moon—a pale, phosphorescent light illuminating the pavement. She wants that light, wants to bathe her body in it till it gleams white as the dust of ground-up bones, blemish free. And speaking of blemishes, soon her small breasts will be gone for good. They stand tiny and upright, like new pears. Defenseless. She cups them in her hands the night before the surgery, turning to the side in the mirror to further inspect them. Her flesh is tender and smooth beneath her fingers. Her nipples harden under her palms. She can’t help but wonder if they will continue to do so after the surgery. After she is sliced open and rearranged. She has heard rumors. Loss of sensation. She can’t believe that tomorrow, it will be as if these small breasts never existed. Erased. She will be wiped clean and rebuilt. She wonders if she’ll remember what they looked like in the first place. If she’ll regret it. If she’ll miss them. “I’ll miss them,” Dallas says softly, reading her mind and coming up behind her, slipping tanned arms around Sharlene’s small waist—made even smaller with cocaine and relentless anxiety. Worry.

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Dallas buries her face in Sharlene’s hair and begins kissing her neck. But Sharlene can’t relax. She’s too nervous. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Dallas pulls back, turning Sharlene around to face her. Dallas’s brow is creased in a series of deep, horizontal wrinkles, and Sharlene reaches up to stroke them away with the palm of her hand. At the touch of her hand, Dallas closes her eyes. “I’m scared,” Sharlene says, stroking Dallas’s hair for a moment before turning around to face the sink. She picks up her toothbrush and covers it with toothpaste. “Actually, I’m beyond scared. Weren’t you?” Dallas laughs, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Her eyes in the mirror are hard. “Yeah, I was scared, but George went with me.” She picks up a bottle of hairspray and drenches the sides of her hair, using the moisture to slick back the unruly strands. “I’m not going to lie to you, baby. It’ll hurt. A lot. But, when it’s over, and you’ve healed up, you won’t be able to remember what it was like. That’s the strangest part, I guess.” Dallas puts the bottle down, places both hands on Sharlene’s shoulders. “Let’s go to bed,” she says, a smile turning up the corners of her lips. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” Nothing is more frightening to Sharlene than the bright lights of the operating room. But then there is the reassuring prick of the needle in her arm, its tip glinting sharply silver in the unrelenting light. “This will set you free . . .” The anesthesiologist’s face bends close to her own. She can feel his breath on her forehead as he leans over her. He smells both sharply medicinal—like drain cleaner—and cloyingly sweet. She remembers the cotton candy she used to buy when her mother took her to the circus: pink spun sugar, lighter than air; how it melted away, leaving nothing but the memory on her tongue, and a surprisingly bitter taste. The brightly colored ring, the garish, grinning pack of clowns. She didn’t like clowns, would hide her face in her mother’s lap when they came to amuse her. She was frightened of their white faces and red lips, the rainbow wigs that covered—she was sure—bare skulls. There’s something of death in there . . . She could never quite put it into words, her revulsion mixed

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with the stale smell of popcorn that permeated the Big Top. Sharlene, honey? Don’t you like the clowns? Look, baby, see how funny! Her skin is bleached white, vaporized, her bones arranged on the operating table like some sort of elegant skeletal sculpture. Macabre modern art. “She’s going out . . .” The room spins away as she goes under, and the white-masked figures bend over her silent body, shards of silver in their gloved hands, shiny with stretched plastic, palms snowy with talcum. Then the little mermaid drank the magic draught, and it seemed as if a two-edged sword went through her delicate body: she fell into a swoon, and lay like one dead. When she wakes, the room is blurry. She blinks once, then rapidly. She is in the hall, the walls painted a dim green, the color of bile. She is moving. She can hear the wheels of the bed rolling beneath her as she moves, flat on her back. Dallas’s face leans over her, grabs her hand through the aluminum safety bars that are pulled up to protect her from sudden movement. She looks worried, Sharlene thinks, opening her mouth to speak. Her mouth is so dry. What she wouldn’t give for a bottle of water. She can almost imagine it in her hand, how cold the plastic would be against her palm from its stint in the refrigerator, how it would slide down her throat like liquid ice. But before she can speak, the pain slams into her chest. She tries to scream, but the only sound that comes from her open mouth is a desperate squeak, her eyes wide, tears squeezing out from the corners. When the sun arose and shone over the sea, she recovered, and felt a sharp pain; every step she took was as the witch had said it would be, she felt as if treading upon the points of needles or sharp knives. She tries to sob, but even that is too much effort, too dangerous to consider. She wonders how she will ever get up from this bed, this sea of cool whiteness enveloping her. There is a mass of bandages wound around her torso splotched here and there with rivulets of bright red blood. The blood terrifies her. She imagines a crimson sea

136 137 jennifer banash hollywoodland of it running out of her wounds, soaking the crisp sheets on the bed, dripping down to the floor in great red drops. “Nurse? NURSE! Can you give her something for the pain for God’s sake?” A cool hand on her brow, wet with hot sweat, an injection of clear liquid, then, merciful sleep as she passes out once again. When she wakes for the second time, she is in the recovery room, white curtains dividing her from the other patients. But she hears them anyway. A woman in the bed next to her quietly sobs, her breathing choked and rasping. The saccharine voice of the nurse rising over her tears. “Dear, you did realize there would be some discomfort after the procedure . . .” The woman cries louder. “Just think,” the nurse says, her tone eminently reasonable, “of how good your new nose will look after you’ve healed!” Despite the pain, Sharlene’s lips curve into a slow smile. For the first week or so, she can barely move. Dallas takes her to and from the bathroom, bandages her chest and cleans the fine web of stitches under each arm. There is hot soup that is poured into her mouth, one small spoonful at a time. Most of the time, she lies on the couch wrapped in a blanket, dozing in and out of sleep, the bottle of painkillers within arms length along with a glass of orange juice Dallas has left for her. One day she wakes, and the pain has miraculously vanished. She stands up and stretches, arms overhead for the first time without pain. She takes a long, hot shower, scrubbing her skin vigorously before toweling off. She examines her new body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The image reflected in the glass is shocking. Now that her breasts are large, her waist appears even smaller, more defined, her hips gracefully rounded, curving out in a perfect hourglass. Her breasts themselves are round and heavy—but not too full. Milky. There is some light bruising left, but she is sure she can cover it with make-up. Actually, she rather likes the contrast of the

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purple bruises against her pale skin—dark petals blooming on her chest with their inky, ominous centers. Marked. She lifts up one arm to examine her scars, but finds only a faint, pink crease staining her white skin. I did it, she thinks, lowering her arm and turning around to examine the rear view, the supple curves of her buttocks like two scoops of vanilla ice-cream. I’m finished. They shop in the exclusive boutiques of Beverly Hills. Dallas clucks her tongue as Sharlene counts out seemingly endless stacks of hundred dollar bills, handing the soft folded paper over to the salesgirls, their pink manicured fingers closing around the money still warm from Sharlene’s hands. “Don’t spend your whole advance, Shar.” Dallas’s voice is a sharp hiss in the exquisite silence of the boutique, its interior furnished in varying degrees of beige and tan. “You won’t have anything left to show for it!” Sharlene turns to face her, dropping a blouse she was in the process of holding up to herself in the mirror. She knows that she is living a Hollywood starlet’s lifestyle on a porn star’s budget—but she doesn’t care. Someone, she thinks to herself. Someone will have to pay. “Listen,” she says, rolling her wide, blue eyes in exasperation, “I’ll spend what I want. I can always make more.” She walks over to a rack of dresses, begins pulling out brightly colored silks in crimson, turquoise, and cream. A stunning white pantsuit is snatched off a rack and tucked under her arm. As she moves toward the dressing room, she turns back to face Dallas, her expression hardening. “And by the way.” Her voice is a slow touch, a purr as she moves closer, touching her lover’s face briefly with her fingertips while skillfully balancing an armful of imported silk. “Don’t call me Sharlene anymore.” “My name is Sierra.”

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George Jamison Speaks

She was a goldmine. They don’t come around often, but every once in a while a girl walks in the office and I get that tingle down my spine. My cock gets hard and I break out in a sweat. That girl had the ambition of a missile. Not jailbait, but innocent. Naïve, almost. Unaffected. Or maybe she was a better actress than anyone ever gave her credit for. She was probably yanking my chain from the beginning, but I didn’t give a damn. That was the thing with Sierra, she could keep you waiting for hours on the set, not return calls, treat you like you were just some servant there to do her laundry and amuse her—but you always forgave her. Always. Somehow, when she turned that smile on you, the world fell away and you didn’t care about anything. And I thought, if I could capture that on film, that quality, the whole world would fall in love with her. And they did. The surgery? It’s standard. If we sign a girl who’s not augmented, I’d say about 99% of the time the surgery is written into her contract. It pays for itself, believe me. For Sierra, it was the finishing touch. Icing, that’s all it was. She had everything else. The body, the hair. Platinum blonde. There’s nothing like a platinum blonde. It sells. It just looks, I don’t know, cleaner, more expensive. And that face. She won the genetics lottery with that face, I’ll tell you. Now, don’t get me wrong, Sierra could be a complete bitch until she got her way, but most of the time, especially in the beginning, she was soft. You wanted to put your arms around her and protect her. Hug her. She really brought that out in people. She called me Daddy George—and I let her. The little girl voice, the bangs. She would stand in front of me looking up under that sheaf of blonde hair, one foot tucked behind the other, teeth sinking into her lower lip. She had that something. It’s indefinable. You can’t explain it, but you know it when you see it. Monroe had it. Garbo. That’s where I got the idea to put Sierra in the fairy tale remakes. That was six months after we signed her. Well, she looked so young, so innocent that I thought, great, let’s capitalize on it. Exploit that innocence, because its so much more powerful watching it break down, corrupting it. And what’s more innocent than a fairy tale? That’s why the series was so successful. Who isn’t interested in the

140 141 hollywoodland corruption of youthful naiveté? Everyone. And if you say that you aren’t, that it’s disgusting and exploitative, that you don’t want to watch, that you’re turning it off, that you don’t care—it doesn’t matter. We know you’re lying.

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Two

When she pulls up to the location in her new convertible, she feels like a million bucks. The speakers of her new car are powerful, and she leans her head back against the seat for a moment, the guitars reverberating through her body before turning the ignition off in the middle of the song. It’s understood that Hollywood sells Californication . . . She slams the door shut, pressing the tiny black button hanging from her keychain, activating the alarm. She runs her hands over the smooth, vinyl top, shaking her head in disbelief before walking inside. Her new breasts, snug inside a tight white t-shirt bounce jauntily as she walks. Inside the studio she is all smiles, teeth like lightening as she passes the cameraman, the crew, and the other actors, swinging her hips from side to side. She has her own dressing room now. It’s only an extra room in the back of the building that had previously been used for storage, but still. It’s all hers. George did have it redone according to her specifications, with a long counter for her to sit at and apply her make-up. Actually, he’s redone it twice. The first time, it was all wrong. Now, rows of bright bulbs circle the mirror, illuminating her skin like multiple camera flashes. And there’s nothing she likes better than looking in the mirror, falling into that slick silver. She can stare into its glassy depths for hours, mesmerized by the slope of her bare shoulders, the liner applied to her eyelids, a careful dusting of kohl. She walks over to a full-length mirror framed in gold, running her hands from her neck to her hips. “What merchandise!” she murmurs, turning around to inspect the rear view, “and, boy, how it sells!” The walls have been painted a soft ivory, and a large bouquet of white lilies stands on the counter along with a bottle of Chardonnay, and two long-stemmed wine glasses. She likes lilies. Their sweet, cloyingly morbid scent is comforting to her, their star-shaped petals promising the uninterrupted sleep of death and silence, a muffled

142 143 hollywoodland suffocation she thinks of as a kind of rest. An ivory loveseat nestled in the corner, a tall standing lamp with a white silk shade looming over it. Throw pillows covered in warm, subtle shades of white and beige velvet are tossed casually onto the soft material. Under her feet is a leopard rug that travels the length of the room. She drags the ball of one foot against the plush nap. This is her first major production for Vixen and she is nervous as she leans into the mirror, expertly shading and blending the paint into a seamless matte finish. Her skin glows with health, her body evenly tanned again. She can hear the crew setting up on the soundstage, the high pitched whine of sawing wood, the low mumblings of cracked jokes. She knows, without opening the door, that they are assembling the set for the prince’s castle—a scene which will not be shot until later in the day. And her heart begins to pound as she remembers how his gold curls fall over impassive blue eyes. Dorian. She whispers the name to herself, a mantra, a quiet prayer—or something more sinister. An incantation? A spell? As she leans closer to the glossy surface, dusting the tips of her lashes with the mascara wand, her spine contracts. It was George’s idea to remake Cinderella. A naughtier Cinderella. A pornographic Cinderella. Sinderella. “Think of it,” George’s voice caught in his throat as he puffed heavily on a cigar, the cloying odor circling around the perimeter of Sierra’s head, making her dizzy. “Instead of the foot, the glass slipper, we’ll have the cock. The perfect cock. And, if the cock fits, well . . .” He broke off with a chuckle, snuffing out the stub of his cigar in a glass ashtray, already full with wet cigar ends. “And yours really is a Cinderella story. You come from nothing.” His eyes narrowed. “You come from shit. And now you’ll have everything.” She hopes. She still has that. And sometimes her desire looms so large—a giant, swollen shadow, red and pulsing—threatening to engulf her. It’s like drowning, she thinks. It is heartbreaking how much she wants, how much she has always wanted anything to fill the space

143 jennifer banash hollywoodland that grows larger with every passing day, each hour. And this was a big production—much bigger than she was used to. They are going to shoot the adult film world’s very first feature film on 35mm. Not since the early days of stag films and blue movies has this been done. This is not only a huge expense for Vixen, but a professional risk as well—the audience is used to the graininess, the gritty intimacy of video. Some members of the team are skeptical and aren’t quite sure the adult video audience will appreciate the slickness of film itself, the sumptuous colors, the elaborate eighteenth-century costumes: ruffles, lace, and tights for the male actors. “Cool,” Dorian said, his full, red lips curling into a slight smirk. “The tights will make my cock look massive.” Sierra had only met Dorian once downtown at a new club called Prey. The room was freshly decorated in an Asian-inspired motif: red, pulsing walls, white lanterns and soft, red sofas lining the expanse of the room. Models lounged seductively, straws between their perfect teeth. The ringing of cell phones was ever present, even over the music. A DJ stood in the corner, his booth swathed in red fabric, silver headphones gleaming. There was a tap on her shoulder, a voice in her ear as Dallas leaned close. “That’s Dorian Gray, I’ve always wanted to work with him.” Dorian is, unarguably, the most famous male porn star in the business. He is famous for his face and body, which are both exceptional. In a world where most male porn stars are passable, at best, this means something. Sierra, for one, was really tired of having sex with ugly men. Even if she was getting paid for it. “Why,” she asks over and over again, “oh, why do they have to be so hideous? I mean mustaches? Didn’t those go out in the seventies?” Dallas just laughs. “Honey,” she said, flipping her hair back with a toss of her head, “they assume that no one’s looking at them anyway. Most porn is designed with the guy’s pleasure in mind. It’s only important that we look good. Besides, most men are totally average looking. They don’t want some gorgeous guy onscreen that’s gonna make them feel inadequate. I mean, Ron Jeremy? C’mon, please. Do you think Ron

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Jeremy would’ve ever gotten laid once in his life if he wasn’t a porn star? He’s a fucking gorilla! And I like the guy.” Dallas laughs softly to herself, draining her Long Island iced tea in one long, thirsty gulp. Sierra knew that Dorian was most famous for his sexual status which was everything and more—more being the operative word. He was the first openly bi-sexual male porn star and worked happily in both gay and straight porn, preferring neither one over the other. It was rumored that Dorian would do anything, that he lived for the thrill, the experience. When you watched Dorian on screen, you had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t acting, but that he was pushing the limits, making it hurt. “The more you feel,” he was fond of saying, “the freer you are.” In a world of faked orgasms, bright lights bleaching features to a kind of pale purity, sweat running in rivulets down impossibly twisted spines, this was considered a rarity. He was an adrenaline junkie: jumped off cliffs in his spare time, fell out of planes, leaned welcomingly into the hairpin curves of Mulholland Drive on his vintage Triumph motorcycle which he kept gleaming—the chrome bright enough so that he could look down as he drove, distracted by his own tanned, chiseled visage. He never wore a helmet, but preferred his silky locks to tangle as he sped along, merging into the heart of the sun. But there were rumors. Stories of handsome young men sequestered away at Dorian’s luxe suite at the Beverly Hilton. Boys hanging onto his arm at The Abbey, the dim lights of the club’s interior playing off of Dorian’s perfect bones, sunglasses shading his eyes. No one knew where he got his money, but it was doubtful that a porn star’s salary could pay for such plush surroundings. And there were rumors of a locked closet in his suite—a room to which only Dorian possessed the key. Dorian went through one young man after another—none of them lasting more than a few months. For weeks he’d be seen around town with the same gorgeous, young piece of flesh. They’d be inseparable—at club openings, bars, the hottest new restaurants.

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Dorian had a penchant for dark-skinned Hispanic boys—some said it was just more vanity, that he liked nothing better than to see his own blondeness reflected against the burnished glow of their skin and hair. Whatever the case, weeks would pass, and then the young man would disappear, suddenly and without warning. And Dorian did not discriminate. One week his protégé might be the star of a hot new sitcom, the next, a runaway he’d picked up on Hollywood Boulevard. Because of his beauty and charisma, Dorian had the ability to walk among the rich—but the rumors. The rumors meant that he was never really accepted into their circles. There were incidents with up-and-coming young actors, names like Affleck and Damon were whispered on the sets of his films and in the darkened VIP rooms. Everyone speculated. When one young, promising actor disappeared, leaving behind a note that stated in no uncertain terms that he’d been “ruined,” the whispers became louder for a few weeks. But no one really knew for sure. And most knew that to keep their distance was probably a wise move indeed. The club was dim at best, but even through the muted light, even through the smoke, Dorian stood out. He paced the narrow space like a caged lion, appraising firm flesh with a cool, studied expression from behind dark lenses. Blonde curls fell over his face, tumbling in a waterfall streaked by the sun to his broad shoulders. Sierra thought she could actually see the muscles of his arms straining against the sleeves of his black t-shirt. His skin was as gold dusted as her own, and she guessed that behind those dark glasses, his irises were as cool, blue and expressionless as a lake in January. And now she is working with him. Her stomach lurches painfully whenever she thinks about kissing him, running her hands over the skin of his torso. Prince Charming, . . . maybe he’s the one that will save me . . . And she still believed in saving, in some way. Still. It’s just a job, she tell herself, another job. But something in her knows that it isn’t true. She is as drawn to him as she is to the cold, hard surface of her dressing room mirror. She sees something of herself there, behind his eyes, and it makes her more than just the tiniest bit uncomfortable.

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She gives her hair one final toss, turns around and stares at her ass in the mirror, then opens the door, calling for the P.A. to help her into her elaborate costume. The dress is made of panels of silver and gold, sparkling with iridescent embroidery. Underneath she is wearing a metallic, silver corset that must be laced tightly so that her breasts are pushed up and out of the top of the dress in spectacular motion. A mousy, female assistant stands behind her, pulling the laces until they are taut, while Sierra places one hand on the wall, holding on. “Tighter, goddammit!” she snarls, whipping her head around. “I want my tits to really pop.” The assistant sighs quietly and then pulls again, with more force this time. Sierra feels as though her heart will burst from her chest with every yank. The corset is like a steel cage holding her spine erect. She takes greedy gulps of air, lightheaded. A crinoline is then pulled over her head to allow the dress to billow out around her slight frame—a whipped-cream cloud, a delicious confection. One last glance behind her reveals matte, red lips, platinum blonde hair pulled into a careful twist that sparkles under the lights, eyes deeply shadowed to appear twice as wide and blue. The final touch is the rhinestone tiara placed on top of her shimmering, blonde head. The bottle of chardonnay is finished, the crystal glass empty. She takes in a deep breath, holds it, then lets it all out slowly, willing the tension locked into her spine to release. On the set, she feels better already. At home. The noise of the crew bustling around her is comforting, a welcome babble in her ears. It’s the first scene of the film, and they are beginning at the very end— the ballroom scene. The crew is busily putting the finishing touches on the set. Chandeliers above, sparkling down. She likes that word— sparkly. The backdrop is painted to mimic the opulent interior of a castle. She wants to walk onto that set and disappear. It is the physical embodiment of everything she has always longed for. All eyes are on her from the moment she leaves the dressing room. They can’t help it. She is silver, surrounded by white light, the kind of light that forces eyes to squint if stared at for too long.

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Mesmerized. One may be sun struck, go blind. The director, J.T., races over, apologizing already. “Sorry about the time, love. We’re running a little behind schedule. And the set’s not finished yet, but you’re an absolute angel for bearing with us . . .” She smiles gracefully, tuning him out, his voice fading like a bad radio signal into more ambient noise, pure static in her ears. “Is there anything you need, love, anything I can get you?” She knows this means cocaine, pills, whatever she might need in order to wait it out, keep quiet. But, although the corset is painful and she can barely breathe (in fact, every breath she takes threatens to dislodge her new breasts permanently), she doesn’t want anything extra today. She wants to remember this moment, not float through it in a haze or speed along blindly, her body numb and disconnected as coils of unplugged speaker wire. She waits for about an hour, sitting in the corner, her breath shallow from the tightness of the corset, her own metal cage. She keeps her sunglasses on while smoking one gold-tipped cigarette after another until J.T.’s voice fills the room. “Let’s go people, we’re behind schedule! Sierra, we’re ready for you now, love.” Dorian appears at the far end of the warehouse, the bright sunlight through the open door backlighting his muscular frame so that he appears to glow around the edges. He walks to the set, his steps confident in spite of the dark tights, his curls just brushing the shoulders of his waistcoat. The two of them together produce a beauty that is startling. An audible hush falls over the set, and there is a moment of silence as they stare at one another for a long moment, neither wanting to be the first to look away. J.T’s voice breaks the silence with a shout. “OK, cue the music.” “Speed.” The cameraman’s voice is smooth as caramel and the music begins, a lush orchestration of the Disney classic, “Someday My Prince Will Come.” The crew all think this is very funny.

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“Even the song’s pornographic,” the set designer quips, slapping his knees in delight. Sierra and Dorian are supposed to stare into each others’ eyes, then begin to dance gracefully, beautifully. It is what has been written in the script—if you can call a scrawled page of notes on a yellowlegal pad a script. “And . . . Action!” Dorian smiles—a smirk really, one corner of his mouth turning up, and takes her hand. The current that rips through her is electric, and all at once, she’s dizzy. The lights in her eyes reflect off the metallic silver of Dorian’s waistcoat, her own dress as she stares up into his face, the waves of his blonde hair tickling her cheeks as they move. Dorian is a beautiful dancer, smooth and fluid. The set, the lights, the costumes, the music—it really is romantic she thinks, smiling up at him. Dorian looks vaguely amused, and Sierra wonders exactly what he is thinking. The King’s son took a great deal of notice in this unknown lady, and danced with her several times, till at last he would dance with no other, always saying, “This is my partner.” Up close he looks so young—no creases around the eyes, and although his skin is tanned, it is not leathery. She wonders how old he really is, where he was born, what he likes to do in bed for real—not on the set. The pressure from his hand at her waist as they dance is unbearable. She can feel the heat from his palm right through her intricately embroidered dress. The music ends abruptly, then starts again, and J.T.’s voice booms out over the set. “OK, let’s move in for a kiss.” Dorian’s fingers close around the soft flesh of her cheeks and pull her face toward his. She gasps for breath. His fingers are brutal, closing around her flesh like pincers. The kiss, when it comes, is savage and probing. Dorian’s tongue is hot and pointed. It actually hurts to kiss him, and Sierra struggles in his arms as he pulls her closer, tighter to his broad chest, finally releasing her only after he has bitten her lip. She backs away, frightened now.

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“The corset,” she mutters, her breathing rapid and shallow, breasts heaving. “The corset was poisoned . . .” Her back hits the wall of the set and she whimpers at the sudden contact, tears welling up in her eyes. Dorian advances with a smug smile, pulling her toward him once again and turning her around so that her back is to him. With one savage movement, he rips her dress to the waist where it hangs in tatters, frozen in midair before slipping softly down to her ankles, the fabric whispering over her thighs as it moves. She stands only in her corset, sheer white stockings, and heels. She is shivering, the harsh lights illuminating her tanned skin, the shudder and flash of rhinestones at her neck and wrists. Her fingers pull helplessly at the ribbons adorning the sleek satin, the knots and metal hooks iron clad under her hands. She can feel the sweat rolling down her spine, between her legs, and she begins to pant, gasping for air. Poison . . . invisible and sure. Dorian stands behind her, so close that Sierra can feel his breath on her back. The hair on her arms stands up. He runs his hand down between her legs. She closes her eyes and arches her back, mouth open, a low moan escaping her lips. There is another sharp ripping sound, like something being pulled forcibly from her body. Her eyes flash open in surprise, and the camera zooms in. The thong she is wearing, a white, lacey string that matches the corset, is lying at her feet. His hand reaches down again, between her legs, insistent, and Sierra notices for the first time that she is holding her breath. One of his hands grips the back of her neck tightly as he bends her over at the waist. As the music swells, the orchestration grating in her ears, mocking her, Dorian slams himself inside her. His cock is large— almost too large for her small frame. Luckily she is lubricated by a mixture of sweat and her own fear. She is too shocked to say anything, especially when he begins to speak. “You’re just a slut in a fancy dress. You want to be a princess, baby? Then you’re gonna have to learn how to take it. ‘Cause your prince likes it rough.”

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“That’s great—so sexy you two. But hang on—let’s get some lube for Sierra.” A crew member advances, Sierra can hear his steps behind her, and then the loud, obscene sound as the clear, thick liquid is nosily squeezed onto Dorian’s hands and cock. “OK—Action!” And with that, Dorian slides back into her body, moving slowly at first, then gathering momentum, thrusting deeper and harder until she cries out in pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. The cameras move in closer until they are almost inches from her, the lens focused on Dorian’s cock as it slides in and out. The lights are in her face, blinding her, and Dorian begins to spank her as he thrusts, grunting with pleasure. The director’s voice is loud, shouting above the syrupy arrangement. “Look like you’re enjoying it! He’s hot, he’s sexy. He’s giving it to you like you’ve never had it before. He’s your goddamn Prince Charming!” Sierra’s face is slick with tears, and she brushes them away with the back of her hand, suddenly angry. She’s playing right into his hands. Crying is giving Dorian exactly what he wants. More power and control. He’s enjoying this, she thinks, furiously. Well, fuck him. I’m the star of this film—why should he get all the attention? She reaches back and pinches the skin of his thighs viciously between her long fingernails, leaving welts he will have for days, marring his perfect flesh. At the same time she throws her blonde mane back so that it whips him across the face, stinging his cheeks. He hisses under his breath “fucking bitch,” as she contorts her features into the perfect semblance of ecstasy. She tilts her head to the side and smiles into the camera, her hair falling softly across her face. She licks her lips as her mouth opens, moaning. She stares into the lens as if hypnotized. You love me, don’t you? You love me, love me. Let them all love me . . . The camera whirs and clicks, a soft reassuring sound, like a cat purring, curled up in her arms. She is, like so many before her, making love not to Dorian, but to the camera itself. J.T’s voice seems drowned

150 151 jennifer banash and waterlogged, so very far away. “You’re a star, baby—a big bright shining star!” That’s right. One hand in her hair, the light shining on her face, warming the skin of her eyelids as they close then open, then close again, pupils dilated. Her own thoughts, the bright, hot lights, and the unrelenting eye of the camera searing down to her very bones—they’re all suddenly bringing her close to orgasm, her mouth open, lips wet and red. I’m a star. And everyone’s going to love me. Whether they like it or not.

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Three

“Sierra! Sierra, over here!” Lights like radiation, cameras snapping in a symphony of metal and glass. With the release of Sinderella she has made it. She has climbed to the top of the wedding cake, pink frosting dense and slippery underfoot. The view from the last layer is sugar sweet; it tastes of triumph, of absolute victory. Suddenly, everyone wants to touch her. They all need a piece of her now, a photograph, that frozen slice of time as she smiles into the lens, a red pen scribbling across the glossy planes of her own airbrushed visage. Love and Kisses, Sierra She steps out of the white, stretch limousine and onto the red carpet, her silver rhinestone slingbacks sinking into the plush, crimson weave. The crowd lined up at the MTV Video Music Awards goes wild, arms waving, her fans reacting with such fervor that she cannot hear the sound of her own voice over the clamor. She blows kisses at the crowd. “I love you! I love you ALL!” The drummer follows behind her, one black-booted foot catching against the car door before he pulls it free with an exasperated yank, ripping the butter-soft leather encasing his ankle. “Whatever,” he mumbles when she turns around to stare at him, eyes clouded behind black shades. “Let’s rock n’ roll.” She is wearing a dress of hand-beaded silver sequins that falls like a ripple of ice water to her feet. From a distance she resembles a mermaid, a silver-backed fish shining and iridescent under the hot lights. Her fist couture dress. Versace. The funny thing is, now that she is famous and can afford to buy what she likes, when she likes, she is given practically everything. After the campaign for Guess? wraps, she is given a complete wardrobe by Georges Marciano himself. A perk, they call it. She likes perks. She wants more of them. Always more and more.

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The Guess? ads feature Sierra dressed as a modern day Cinderella, demure, proper in the first few photographs. Snap! A kerchief covers her blonde head, dirt artfully smudged across her pink cheeks. Snap! Her traffic stopping body hidden beneath the folds of a dowdy, brown dress. Snap! Cinderella down on her hands and knees washing the floor, and the step-sisters, shirts tied up at the waist to expose their taut, flat stomachs, dumping brooms and cleaning supplies at her feet. The word Guess? is sprawled across the top of the page in a splashy silver font. As the pages are turned, the word Who? appears, and Cinderella—poor, dowdy, dusty broom-carrying Cinderella—is suddenly transformed in a flash of light (snap!), to Sierra with the help of RuPaul, her fairy godmother, dressed in a spangled, golden gown that displays his dark skin to bronze perfection, a curly blonde wig atop his secretly bald head. And snap! Suddenly, there she is, shining across the slick pages with her platinum mane and million-dollar pout. She is dressed in black knee-high boots, a black miniskirt, and a white t-shirt. Her breasts, unfettered, hang heavily against the thin, white cotton. The evil stepsisters are down on the floor, hogtied with duct tape, the heel of Sierra’s stiletto boot resting on the skin of one exposed, perfect back, a wicked gleam in her eye, the broom thrown to the side, her stance is triumphant, hips cocked. In the last photograph, the prince is down on all fours, a bucket of soapy water at his side, an apron embroidered with a pattern of roses and lilies tied around his slim waist, the muscles of his arms straining as he scrubs in circular motions. He is otherwise naked. Sierra sits off to the side in a Chippendale chair, legs crossed, drinking a martini, winking lasciviously into the camera. Along with the release of Sinderella, which quickly becomes the most popular porn film ever made—its sales out-grossing even Deep Throat or Behind the Green Door—the Guess? pictorial, released shortly after the film opens, is a huge success. No one expected this. Has Porn Gone Mainstream? Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight want to

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know. Exposés of the industry and Sierra’s glamorous life as a porn starlet are splashed across the media superhighway. She is blown up a hundred feet tall, in Technicolor. It’s Sierra in 3-D. She hires Donald as her make-up artist and personal assistant shortly after Sinderella opens. She trusts him, even though sometimes she keeps him waiting for hours outside the bathroom door as she takes marathon soaks in the tub. This is not personal, but she does pay him by the hour—so what if he has to wait two hours before she will emerge, sweet and scented with floral perfumes and baby powder? “Deal with it,” she snaps, sinking lower into the bathwater’s reassuring, floral fragrance, bubbles coating her skin like whipped cream. She is worth the wait. The studios begin to call. She hires a publicist. There is something about the combination of sexiness and vulnerability that makes her appealing to everyone. Men want to take care of her, wrap her in their arms at night in a nest of blankets. They also, conveniently, want to fuck her. Women want to be her. She is living their secret dreams, and her blonde, buttery curves are the physical embodiment of all of their unfulfilled suburban fantasies. She is given the title porn starlet on Hard Copy, and it sticks. She is more than simply a porn star—she is a media phenomenon. She attends the Venice Film Festival strapped to a gondola, wearing nothing but a tiny bikini made of soft fur. “That damn mink must’ve been microscopic,” one photographer quips, raising the lens and snapping away maniacally. She smiles into the camera, head thrown back, the perfection of her body framed by the endless expanse of water and sky. Tonight she is presenting the award for best hard rock group. Pun intended. The drummer is from the most famous metal band around right now, but more famous for their backstage antics than their actual musical abilities. One episode is rumored to have involved a live goat and a belly dancer. Sierra doesn’t ask. The drummer is cute enough, but he’s so very stupid that she can barely stand it. All he ever wants to talk about is his most recent tour, and how much he can party. “Honey, no offense, but you’re no rocket scientist yourself,”

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Dallas quips when Sierra arrives home dejected after their first date. But still, it’s good publicity. And they are a hot couple, a couple that everyone wants to watch. So she keeps seeing him. But secretly, she is bored out of her mind. Besides, the media is convinced that she is having a secret affair with Dorian anyway. She is having a secret affair, but of all people, it isn’t with Dorian. If money weren’t involved, she wouldn’t go anywhere near him. He frightens her. And she doesn’t even want to know what’s in his closet. Let some desperate, unsuspecting runaway find out. She’s not even sure that Dorian really likes women. Actually, she’s not sure that Dorian likes anyone except himself. Narcissus and the beckoning turquoise pool. Sierra knows this better than anyone. Better than even Dorian might suspect. Her new lover is a secret from everyone but herself. She repeats his name in her head endlessly, smiling, her expression dreamy and faraway as the flashbulbs pop and sputter in her face. The crowd swells, moaning and shaking as she makes her way down the red carpet. They first met on Jay Leno. Sierra was petrified. Dallas held her hand backstage, looking into her eyes, and squeezing her hand tightly every five minutes. “Breathe, Sierra. You’ll be just fine.” It wasn’t Leno she was frightened of, or appearing in front of millions of people in her first television appearance, but the man she would be seated next to on stage. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” He strides out onto the stage carrying a saxophone, confident in a navy blue striped suit and a bright red tie, his silver hair thick and luxurious, a slight redness to his face and nose, as if he’d had one too many drinks before arriving at the studio. But the President is not drunk. Far from it. He stops midway across the stage to shake hands with members of the audience, maintaining eye contact as he clasps each pair of hands firmly between his own. The President has large, meaty hands and the body of a high-

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school athlete gone to seed. The producers thought it would be funny, hysterical actually, to put the President and the porn star together on stage. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill stodgy old politician, but a President for the new millennium, a rock n’ roll President who plays the sax. The sexiest President since JFK! The tabloids scream steamy headlines during the election, featuring full color pictures of the President as a young man at college. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the most beautiful woman in the world—Sierra!” The crowd goes wild as she takes a deep breath and enters from stage left, walking behind the President who turns in his chair to stare at her in her eye-popping gold lamé gown, four carats in each ear—borrowed from Fred Leighton, of course. She hadn’t expected him to be so handsome up close, so, well, intense. Sitting together on the couch, demurely crossing her legs and throwing her hair back, they are generating enough sexual heat to re-bomb Hiroshima. Backstage the President shook her hand warmly in the haze of the photographers’ lights. Although he is smiling, looking into her eyes, there is something about his expression that is faintly dirty, as if he knows exactly what color panties she is wearing beneath the flash and sparkle of her dress. Looking into his eyes, she feels dazed. She is delirious with expectation, her bones loose and limp under their slick covering of tanned skin. Only after he disappears through the back door flanked by his security, two hulking men in black suits, sunglasses covering their eyes, does she notice the piece of paper folded into her hand, a scrawled series of numbers written on it in a slanting, masculine hand. The President is a well-known womanizer. Although he tries to keep his image of the proud husband and father intact, there are always rumors, innuendo, and sometimes outright accusations. There was that librarian in Florida. Sierra doesn’t think the word rape was ever actually used in the media. But, in any case, whatever the circumstances were, the scandal was hushed up almost immediately.

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And the woman disappeared. The President is often seen in the company of starlets, musicians and the like, and his guest lists at White House functions are perpetually putting him on the hot seat with his Republican opponents in Congress. There is always explaining to do, and the President does it flawlessly, sincerely—coached within an inch of his life by the First Lady, of course, who, it is rumored, is the real brains behind the good humored, sexy politician with his slow, southern drawl. After winning the election by a veritable landslide, the new President of the United States was profiled inPlayboy magazine. During the course of the interview, and over several gin and tonics, the conversation inevitably drifted around to sex. “Once I get a woman, I’m not really interested anymore—with the exception of my wife, of course! I like the conquest. The contest between male and female, the battle. It’s the chase I like—not the kill!” The interview is reprinted relentlessly in the press. And, somehow, against all odds, it only serves to make the President more popular with the American people. Sierra doesn’t dare call. That night, she sits up in the living room while Dallas sleeps soundly upstairs, turning the tiny piece of paper over in her hands, sometimes pressing it to her lips, eyes closed, heart racing. It is the first time she has kept something this big from Dallas, and she feels slightly guilty as her hand traces the smooth curves of the cordless phone. When the sun begins to color the sky in pinks and purples, she falls asleep, the white paper, now a dingy gray, crumpled in one closed fist. When she wakes sometime after four , the phone is ringing. She sits up startled, one hand clutching her chest, the other reaching in the direction of the loud, insistent ringing. “Hello?” Her voice is low and hoarse, as if she’s been gargling glass in her sleep, and she clears her throat delicately, wincing at the taste in her mouth. “Please hold for the President.” The voice is monotone in its asexuality, and Sierra is instantly awake, pulse racing. She sits up, runs a hand through her snarled and

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sweaty hair, then waits, elbows on her knees. There is a click on the line and for a moment she is panicked, wondering if the connection has been severed as the transfer was made. “Hello?” She says, her voice frantic. “Hello?” “Hello, gorgeous.” His voice fills the line with a warm richness, his faint southern accent more noticeable on the phone than on television. She wonders if this is deliberate. “Hello, Mr. President.” Her voice is light, playful, utterly charming. He chuckles softly, and her heart skips a beat in her chest. Her hands are sweating and she grips the phone with quiet desperation, her knuckles quickly turning white. She is so nervous. “I know its short notice, but I’m having a small dinner at the White House this Friday evening, and I was hoping you might be able to attend. I can send a plane for you Friday afternoon if that’s agreeable to you.” The White House? Her? At the White House? Something in her brain short circuits and explodes. Would she sit next to him at the dinner table? And what would they possibly have to talk about? And what about the wife? She’s seen pictures of her, television appearances during the campaign. She remembers a tall, thin woman resembling a scarecrow with mousy brown hair in skirts that were far too long for her. “She’s no Jackie,” Dallas snorted, changing the channel to MTV. She may not be Jackie, Sierra thinks, still holding the phone, wordless, but she is his wife. The President’s wife. When she finally speaks, her voice is tiny and meek, so she clears her throat again before moving her lips. “I’d love to,” she purrs. She is pretending, as she holds the phone, the President’s breath in her ear, that she is used to this kind of treatment, private phone calls from the President, private planes. White House dinners. She has, without even realizing it, slipped into survival mode. Otherwise, she would never have the courage to go through with it. She’s seen something like this in a movie once—the blonde starlet, the secret political affair, the nation in an uproar. Maybe

158 159 jennifer banash on late-night TV? The movie of the week? The publicity, she thinks, will be priceless. “I’ll send the plane at noon.” His voice is gruff now, clipped. All business. “That should give you plenty of time to dress for dinner. You’ll be staying with us, of course.” Their goodbyes pass in a haze for Sierra, who sits, dazed, on the couch, biting her fingernails, which doesn’t really get her anywhere considering they are acrylics, plastic and impervious to her sharp teeth. She contents herself with biting the skin around her nails, chewing nervously until her cuticles are ragged and red. Great, she thinks, looking down in disgust at her bleeding fingers, now I’ll need a manicure.

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Coma V

His hands on her shoulders, the soft, helpless sound of her moans. She reaches her hand out, touching cold metal instead of soft skin, straining to open her eyes. I hate these new contacts . . . Her head is a large, swollen thing; a bloated balloon, round, so very heavy. The poison apple . . . She tries to reach one hand up to touch the swaddled mass, but her arms are useless. Did I take too many pills again? She cannot grab onto anything. Fingertips numb and buzzing. There is the sound of glass breaking, a high, clear chime of a bell ringing. Maybe it’s time for church . . . Am I dressed OK? Her skin in contact with something cool and wet, fingers dripping. Is it holy water? The basin filled with clear fluid, her blurred reflection. Nurse, she’s knocked over a glass again! The hallway, a long maze of yellow. A figure, patiently waiting for her at the corridor’s end. A glimpse of silver hair, light glinting off of the silk sheen of his tie. He’s come back for me! He’s come back at last! She begins to run, but her feet are leaden, useless. When she looks down in frustration, there is nothing but empty space below her. How will I ever catch him now? Hey, wait for me! Her head twists from side to side on the pillow, white bandages stained with crimson, the opening petals, poppy red and soaked with liquid. Sodden. Her mouth opens and closes repeatedly without a sound. This script is so difficult to remember . . . Who am I again? Suddenly and without warning her eyes snap open with a dry click. The whites of her eyes visible as they roll sharply back in her head, her body arching off of the sterile, white sheets.

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Four

The remainder of the week passes in a blur of activity. To Sierra, the three days she must wait before seeing him seem to drag on interminably. Friday morning, Donald arrives to do her make- up and keep her company as she bathes and dresses. She is agitated: the bedroom strewn with clothes. Cashmere and sequins cover the large, soft bed. Dallas sits on the floor, packing Sierra’s Louis Vuitton garment bag with silk dresses and high-heeled shoes. When Sierra describes the phone call, Dallas turns white, then bright red as her face fills with excitement. “Holy . . . shit! Maybe you’ll be the next First Lady!” Sierra closes her eyes. Her body sheathed in a short, but tasteful black dress. Pearls light as oyster shells. Triple-strand. A platinum clasp. Blond babies, their brightly- colored sun suits. Pinks and oranges. Acres of green, sun-dappled grass. The President beside her in a navy suit, one hand placed protectively at her waist. They are squinting into the flurry of flashbulbs, the White House rising up behind them like a mirage. The American Dream. All she has to do is go and get it. After the shock wears off, Sierra can tell that Dallas is slightly jealous. There is something off-kilter about the way she is folding her clothes, balling them up before pressing them flat. Something about the way she pulls away whenever Sierra tries to kiss her, to stroke her face, or smooth her hair. Sierra knows that Dallas would like nothing more than to be in a relationship. Monogamous. Committed. Sierra can’t quite go that far. She wants children someday, a family, to be normal and respected. Above all, admired. Most of the lesbian couples in Hollywood are forced to hide, to pretend they are straight in public, to show up at awards ceremonies and dinners with dates of the opposite sex, to have steamy off-screen romances with their co-stars. Sierra doesn’t think she could live like that, always lying outright, living her own lies so very blatantly—even if nobody else knew. As Donald smoothes translucent powder over her face and

162 163 hollywoodland neck, Sierra looks up at him, her face set with concentration, squints one clear blue eye, and demands: “Donald, if you were going to have dinner with the President of the United States, what would you ask him?” She wants to appear intelligent, more intelligent than she really is. She prefers cartoons to CNN, and is suddenly embarrassed of her ignorance. In order to move up in the world, she will have to improve herself intellectually, become cultured, smarter. Or at least appear that way. After all, looks are everything. Thinking back through the past, she laments the days she cut school—how she slept through classes on literature, politics, even algebra—and her stomach contracts painfully. Under the powder and carefully applied paint, she is a seething mass of regret. Stupid, she hisses through clenched teeth. Stupidstupidstupid. She can’t remember the last book she read, it has been so long since she’s picked up anything more substantial than People or The National Enquirer. “I’d ask him what he was doing later on,” Donald quips. Sierra laughs. She knows in her gut there will be no need to ask such a question—it’s almost certain that, by evening’s end, she will know the President intimately. She shivers in anticipation as Donald runs a brush through her hair. When her hair and make-up are finished, she chooses a simple white, silk dress—understated, elegant—a long way from her usual sequins and glamour. She holds the hair back from her face with a large pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses. Very Jackie, she thinks, slipping them into place and checking her reflection in the mirror for the last time. A black Lincoln Towncar; its chrome gleaming in the sunlight idles at the curb, the windows double-tinted. When she boards the small, private plane at LAX, she can hardly believe it. Me, Sharlene Miller! On her way to meet the President! She settles back in the plush red seat, staring out the window as a flight attendant saunters down the aisle dressed in a crisp, white button- down shirt and a black pencil skirt, a glass of champagne in her hand. Sierra takes the glass, bubbles sparkling on the rim, thanking her. Although the plane is relatively tiny compared to a commercial

163 jennifer banash jet, the space seems gigantic to Sierra, who has traveled first class, but never alone. While the engines whiz and whir preparing for take-off, Sierra rummages through the train case she has placed on the seat beside her, removing a small prescription bottle with the label rubbed off, the writing illegible. Since she has become more successful, Sierra hasn’t felt the need for cocaine or harder drugs. The looming space inside her has been quieted—at least for the moment—and most of the time she feels something not unlike contentment. But those moments of nervousness persist. What if I’m not good enough? What if no one really likes me and it’s the fame, the fame they want to be close to, not ME, never ME? It HAS to be ME! Besides, Valium just relaxes her, smoothes out all her rough, jagged edges until she is as calm as a lake in September. She pops open the child-proof cap, taps three yellow pills into the palm of her hand with a cut-out V in the center—as reassuring as a glass of warm milk. She pops them into her mouth, swallowing the pellets with a gulp of champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose. She finds that the Valium effectively stifles her fear, and if she takes two or three a day, so much the better. What she really likes is to crush the Valium into a fine, yellow powder with the back of a spoon. When she drops the powder into champagne, the bubbles froth into white foam that dances dangerously close to the rim. It’s like a party in a glass. The suffocating, nauseating panic never has a chance to surface. It is driven down into the depths of her, somewhere black and awful that she does not want to see. A slow warmth moves through her as she swallows, the liquor relaxing her tight chest muscles, and she breathes deeply. Uncrossing her legs and repacking the train case, she snaps the lid shut with a tight click.

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Five

When she lands, she is met by two Secret Service men who escort her to a black limousine. No one speaks to her, not even the driver who holds the door open, tipping his hat before she gets in. The men sit on either side of her, adjusting dark sunglasses that hide their eyes. One agent takes a walkie-talkie from his back pocket and speaks into it, his voice a low mumble. “We’ve got her and we’re en route. Our ETA is fifteen minutes.” When they pull up to the White House, Sierra is in a state of shock. She didn’t expect it to be, well, so large. So imposing. The fear comes back in one giant rush, and she leans back and closes her eyes, willing her pulse to cease its manic dance before her heart explodes all over the leather seats. The car pulls around the back of the building, away from the bustle and noise of the main entrance, the fleets of tour-buses lining the drive. The façade looks just like it does on TV, the building’s corners gently rounded and crystalline. Sierra takes a deep breath as they drive around. It looks exactly like a wedding cake, all dense spun- sugar columns and creamy white frosting. The American flag waves triumphantly in the breeze, a splash of bright color against the stark purity of the building. She is brought in through the back door, and the men hold her bags as she is led through a maze of hallways lined with antiques, gilded, curved mirrors, tables made of rich wood—mahogany, cherry, and oak. People rush by dressed in dark colors—black and navy blue—the women’s shoes low and sensible. Suddenly she feels out of place. The white, silk dress that had seemed so right, so classic earlier at LAX now looks like something a hooker might wear to work. The carpet underfoot is plush and crimson under her feet and she wishes that it would just open up and swallow her. The White House staff seems so intelligent with their glasses and sensible shoes, their clipboards and walkie-talkies. What was I thinking coming here? She closes her eyes, exhaling

165 jennifer banash hollywoodland loudly. I’ll never fit in. Never, never . . . Momentarily dejected, she is guided to a small wood-paneled elevator. As she waits, a tall and striking blonde walks down the corridor toward her, her light steps quick and purposeful. She is wearing a simple navy dress with pumps to match. Dark stockings encase her legs. As she gets closer Sierra can hear the sound of her slim legs rubbing together, the swish swish as she walks the long, red hall. There is a smile on her face as she approaches, but her eyes are hard, and they narrow slightly as she moves closer. It is not the first time Ann has seen a women like Sierra invited to the White House. Actually, it happens enough to make her fairly uncomfortable. Her loyalty is really to the First Lady, whom she works with extensively on a daily basis, and she doesn’t much like the idea of floozies staying in the family’s quarters, of all places. But there is simply nothing to be done about it. What the President wants, the President gets. Even at the expense of everyone else—especially at the expense of everyone else. This is not the first time he’s humiliated his wife, and it certainly won’t be the last. For whatever reason, the President seems to have taken an interest in this girl, so much that he’s willing to risk the First Lady’s wrath by allowing her to stay in the house, within close proximity. Usually the President’s bimbos would be sequestered on the other side of Pennsylvania Avenue at Blair House, a former private residence—now a kind of hotel for White House guests, as well as foreign diplomats. However, the President’s instructions were clear. Miss Sierra was to be staying in a guest room in the White House. Right next to the White House’s private chef’s quarters—one floor up from the President’s bedroom. The woman sticks out her hand, still smiling. Sierra takes it, grasping the woman’s fine boned fingers with her sweaty palm. “Hello.” Her voice is low and warm. “I’m Ann Stark, White House Social Secretary. You must be Sierra.” It comes out as a question, as if she might not be sure. Sierra panics, thinking that one wrong answer could get her shuffled to the front door and thrown out on

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that vast expanse of obnoxiously green lawn, so she nods vigorously. The woman’s face visibly relaxes. “I’m sorry the President isn’t here to welcome you personally, but he’s in a very important meeting.” Yeah, right. Sierra thinks. He’s probably arranging his vast paper clip collection, or sharpening pencils in the Oval Office. She camouflages a giggle with a nervous cough, and Ann releases Sierra’s hand as the elevator door opens with the ringing of bells. The men step in first, holding Sierra’s bags. The wood-paneled elevator is oiled into buttery richness. The elevator lurches then moves smoothly upwards. Sierra’s ears begin to pop. She is still congested from the plane. Her throat feels swollen and dry and she swallows hard. The sound, she thinks, is terribly loud in the small, cramped space. She tries to breathe quietly through her nose. “I’m here to give you a quick tour of the building, but let’s show you to your room first, OK?” Sierra nods again, running her palm over the satiny wood. “The paneling is gorgeous isn’t it? The First Lady ordered the covering that used to be up in here taken down and the wood stripped and restored. I think it looks just lovely. She’s actually done a lot of re-decorating since the family moved in. We’ll get started on that tour as soon as we drop your bags off in your room.” The elevator lurches to a stop, the doors gliding softly open. Sierra steps out, following Ann down another long, carpeted hallway. Photographs line the tasteful cream-colored walls: the President shaking hands with Eric Clapton on the White House lawn, the President with Gorbachev, the President standing next to Steven Spielberg, smiling into the camera. The photographs go on and on, lining the expanse of the hallway. Ann stops in front of a closed, white door, pulls a key from her pocket, and opens it. The room is decorated in shades of navy blue and cream. It reminds Sierra of the sea, of sailboats, and salt winds. The carpet underfoot is soft and creamy white, the walls painted a deep blue. The bed is covered in a luxurious spread that matches the paint exactly. A curving, gilded mirror hangs on one immaculate expanse of plaster, and a large bouquet of white lilies stands in a crystal vase atop the

166 167 jennifer banash hollywoodland cherry desk, the wood waxed and gleaming. She can smell the sweet scent of the flowers as she enters, breathing deeply. The men follow behind her, placing her bags down on the bed gently as sleeping children, nod at Ann, and are gone as silently as they came in, closing the door behind them. “Would you like a few minutes to freshen up, or would you like to see the rest of the building right away?” Ann’s sharp eyes, the color of grass, soften slightly as she takes in Sierra’s expression, so dazed and out-of-place. Why, she’s just a child, she thinks. She studies Sierra, standing awkwardly on the cream carpet, teetering unsteadily in those ridiculous high heels. Sierra notices Ann’s gaze and straightens up, flashing the blinding smile that is her trademark. “I think I’m pretty fresh already,” she purrs. Ann blushes, then looks down at her pumps, embarrassed, trying to regain composure. A child, yes, but trapped in the body of a sex goddess! Oh, Lord, help us all . . . Sierra walks to the mirror and fluffs her hair out before speaking again. “Why don’t you show me around the place?” They take the elevator back down to the ground floor. Ann leads her through another maze of red hallways. The White House is bustling. Aides in dark clothes stride briskly past, their arms full of papers, leather bound appointment books, headsets clipped on tightly, their mouths moving softly as they pass, speech clipped but unintelligible. Ann makes a sharp right turn and opens a door. Inside the room is filled with metal scaffolding. The windows are large and bare, extending from the floor to almost the top of the ceiling. Men in white overalls work at what seems to Sierra to be a feverish pace, dipping their rollers in paint and applying them to the wall in broad, sure strokes. There is an aluminum ladder set up along one wall. The blue carpet underfoot is faded and threadbare from the traffic of so many feet. “The Blue Room gets a lot of sunlight. The First Lady feels that it should take priority in the renovation process. We’re going to replace this worn-out carpet with a bright blue version—staying as

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close to the original as we can get, of course. The First Lady was adamant that the room be refurbished and preserved—not changed completely. Just improved.” The workmen briefly turn from their buckets to stare at Sierra, her blonde hair glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. She smiles and they are instantly hypnotized, paint dripping from the ends of their brushes onto the plastic drop cloth below their feet, spattering like white rain. Ann turns to Sierra, her eyes alive with passion as she points up at the elaborate moldings circling the ceiling. Sierra wonders, watching her, what it feels like to be so enthralled by what you do that you are driven into a frenzy of excitement simply by discussing something as boring as wallpaper. “The First Lady has selected an early nineteenth-century design for the wallpaper and borders, as well as sapphire blue and gold for the draperies. They should be up next week.” Ann smiles, almost apologetically, before moving on, sweeping the expanse of the room with one outstretched hand. “The First Lady has been adamant about choosing the perfect color blue—she’s driven the decorators mad for weeks over the color samples! She wants a blue that will withstand the heavy amounts of light that this room is subjected to on a daily basis, but also a color that will appropriately reflect both the room, and its extensive history.” Sierra nods and smiles. She’s not sure exactly what Ann is talking about. She doesn’t know anything about history or the responsibility one has to it. All that matters to Sierra is the here and now. The past is dangerous. She likes the intensity in Ann’s voice, the way she waves her hands as she talks, her speech becoming faster, more fluid as she paints the air with fine-boned fingers, her wrists wrapped in heavy, gold bracelets. She likes this woman with her simple blue dress, her brisk walk. Ann turns and smiles at Sierra, takes her by the arm and gently leads her from the room. The workmen’s eyes follow her as she goes, closing the door behind her. As they move down the hall, Ann’s voice is low and conspiratorial. She is almost whispering.

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“You know, it wasn’t until 1961 when Jackie Kennedy suggested it, that anyone even thought about preserving these rooms and their furnishings. Jackie had the idea that the White House should be protected and preserved, much in the same way we preserve museums. Her idea was to create the White House Historical Association, an organization which is responsible for raising funds for the redecorating of the rooms open to the public. “The First Lady hopes to raise twenty-five million dollars in the next two years for continued preservation of the White House. This money would be able to pay for all of the renovations the house will require in the future, solely off the interest!” Ann waves her hands excitedly in the air, her expression flushed and girlish. As she speaks, she looks ten years younger. “The First Lady wants to ensure that their successors will never again be burdened by the responsibility of raising money for the preservation of the house. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?” “Yes,” Sierra says when she can get a word in, “it is. But, tell me, what are the President and the First Lady really like?” Ann stops outside a doorway and leads Sierra into a huge, cream-colored room. The room is dominated by a massive mahogany dining table; it’s long, extending almost from one end of the room to the other. Dining chairs upholstered in faded, yellow jacquard line the table. A brass chandelier hangs directly over the center of the table, its arms dull and coated with years of grime and neglect. Ann walks directly in front of Sierra, her eyes pulsating with intensity as she begins to speak. “The First Lady? Well, she’s a hard worker—committed. Liberal. A real risk-taker.” Her rapid speech suddenly stops, eyes narrowing. “As for the President, I suppose you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.” There is a pause, a deadly silence. Their eyes lock and hold and Sierra’s stomach flips over. “Won’t you.” Her voice is as sly and insinuating as a cat, claws bared. The mood is tense as they stare at each other for what seems like ages. Ann’s face is impassive, but her eyes are alive with anger. Sierra is supremely uncomfortable.

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Oh, she doesn’t like me at all. She hates me! Or maybe she just hates the idea of me being here. But she doesn’t even know me! She thinks I’m the President’s whore. Waves of panic wash over her as she looks down, her cheeks flushing bright red as she studies the pattern in the worn rug intently. Maybe she’s right. Is she right? God, I need a Valium . . . Ann’s eyes widen in surprise as she studies this girl whose eyes are suddenly focused on the floor, looking as though she’s about to cry, lower lip loose and trembling. She’s in way over her head . . . The urge to protect Sierra confuses Ann. She doesn’t want to like this girl, or feel sorry for her. She likes her against her will. Truth be told, she doesn’t want to feel anything at all for her. After all, Sierra is no one special—just another girl in the seemingly unending procession of the President’s girls. And the girls are like the White House furniture, constantly in flux. The President has a large appetite in all things, always hungry for something fresh and unspoiled, something new. Next month it will be someone else. Ann looks away, turning her attention once again to the room, her voice once again brisk and efficient. “Believe it or not, this room used to have these massive, animal heads mounted on the walls.” Ann furrows her brow in a sign of disgust. “Theodore Roosevelt insisted on mounting them sometime after 1901. The First Lady would like to bring it back to the way it appeared during Roosevelt’s Presidency—without the animal heads, of course!” Sierra laughs hollowly, running one hand through her hair. She is suddenly exhausted and would like nothing more than to soak for about six hours in a hot bath, with lots of bubbles and a tall, cool glass of white wine in her hand, moisture beading on the sides of the glass. Pretending to be interested in decorating for so long is simply exhausting. Really, why don’t they just hire somebody? Doesn’t the First Lady have enough to do without wasting all this time with fabric swatches and carpet samples? Ann’s voice becomes insistent

170 171 jennifer banash hollywoodland and meaningless, the noisy drone of a mosquito in her ear, pesky and unrelenting. “We’ve ordered a new silk brocade for the drapes and the seat cushions, and a gorgeous new carpet with a pattern of flowers and acorns—a popular pattern during the Colonial Revival period when Theodore Roosevelt was President. We’re also going to clean that chandelier and restore the gold sconces on the walls. They’ll look beautiful when they’re done, don’t you think?” Sierra nods enthusiastically, then stifles a yawn unsuccessfully, one hand fluttering over her full lips, eyes sheepish. “Oh, you poor dear! You must be quite exhausted from your trip.” Ann places one arm around Sierra’s shoulders and steers her toward the door, pulling it shut behind them as they exit into the hall. “Why don’t I show you back up to your room, and you can rest for a while before dinner? Does that sound all right to you?” “Yes,” Sierra answers, her voice small and strained. “I am a little tired all of a sudden.” She runs a hand through her thick hair, smiling sweetly. “Dinner this evening will be in the Map Room at eight. I will have one of the President’s aides come to your room and escort you back downstairs.” Ann stops, looking Sierra swiftly up and down, her eyes at once both calculating and dismissive. “You may want to wear something, oh, a bit more appropriate.” Ann smiles a hard, slightly bitter smile, her eyes brittle as she turns on one heel and walks back down the hall. Sierra is left to trail meekly behind her, taking small, nervous steps on the plush carpet as she is led back to the elevator and up, up, up to the safe confines of her room, turning the brass lock securely to the left before collapsing on top of the bed. She reaches for her train case, rummaging through it for a few moments before finding the bottle of Valium. She tips the bottle over, spilling two small, yellow pills into her palm. She throws them into the back of her mouth with one practiced hand, swallowing hard. Her throat is dry from nervousness, and the pills stick there for a moment before starting their slow slide to her stomach.

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Her saliva is bitter and medicinal and she wonders if it is the pills, or her visit with Ann that has left this metallic taste in her mouth. Sierra hates being disliked more than anything. It gives you no leverage. There’s nowhere to go from active dislike. Sierra knows that once a woman has made up her mind about you, she rarely changes it. Women don’t relate well to her anyway. They see her as a threat before she even opens her mouth to speak. It doesn’t matter how nice she is, how complimentary of their hair, their clothing or make-up, they will usually hate her for no reason aside from the simple fact that she is more beautiful. “My lady Queen is fair to see, But Snow White is fairer far then she.” “Wear something more appropriate.” She mimics Ann’s voice in the empty room, and her sarcastic tone seems to reverberate off the tastefully painted walls. “Appropriate is so boring. And it certainly wasn’t looking or acting appropriate that got me here, now was it? Appropriate never made anyone a star.” She stands up, walks over to her suitcase, and unzips it. Against Donald’s advice, Sierra has brought one flashy dress. A dress guaranteed to render all other women within a five mile radius completely invisible. Long, black satin with a low V-neck and an even lower back. Although the gown is floor length, it will expose yards of supple skin. She smiles as she holds the sleek fabric up in front of the mirror, one hand gathering the hair from her neck as she turns to the right then left, studying her perfect profile.Appropriate my ass. She lays the dress carefully out on the bed before sauntering into the bathroom and turning the tub on full blast. They invited a porn star. A starlet. Sierra. And that’s who they’re going to get.

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At eight o’clock the small brass clock on the bedside table tinkles softly. There is the sharp, rapping of knuckles on the door, the authoritative sound of bone on wood. Sierra takes one last look in the mirror: are the false eyelashes, luxurious and thick as mink, glued on tightly? Is the hair, brushed into a sparkling lion’s mane, disheveled just so? Check. And, check. Satisfied, she smoothes the fluid silk over her hips, tosses her hair back and throws open the door. A young man stands there, clean cut and clean shaven, dressed in a dark suit (does the White House buy them in bulk?), a clipboard under one arm. His eyes widen at the sight of her leaning in the doorway. “Miss Sierra?” he stammers, face blushing a delicious, rosy red high up on the cheekbones. Apples, she thinks, decidedly. I could eat him right up. “I’m here to escort you to the Map Room for dinner.” His voice is nervous, almost cracking as she takes his arm and steps out, pulling the door gently closed behind her. “How lucky for me,” she purrs, her voice low in his ear, her heavy, floral perfume smacking him in the face, a full-frontal assault. “I’m ravenous . . .” The walk to the Map Room is short, and after another brief elevator ride, they walk briskly through a labyrinth maze of hallways and doors. “How do you ever find your way around this place?” He chuckles nervously, looking down to check his watch. “Oh, you get used to it after a while, believe me.” As they approach the end of the hall she can hear music—what sounds like an orchestra—the low murmur of voices, light spilling out into the hall in a golden pool. “Well, here we are.” He motions toward the open door. Over his shoulder Sierra can see a group of elegantly dressed party goers, waiters circling the room with champagne glasses, round tables set with flowers and china.

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Large crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, bathing the room in a buttery glow. The tablecloths are stark white against warm, yellow walls. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Sierra.” He smiles, his eyes twinkling with what? Amusement? Sarcasm? Does he know something she doesn’t? Does she have something on her face? Lipstick on her teeth? Panic sets in as he turns on his heel and walks away, his steps brisk down the long, red corridor, muffled by the luxurious carpeting underfoot. All at once she’s nervous again, her palms sweating onto the smooth satin of her evening bag as she stands just outside the door, frozen. Cinderella wasn’t supposed to go to the ball . . . She was there under false pretenses, dressed in borrowed clothes. And it all fell away at midnight. Gone and swept away. Where is my carriage richly plated with the finest silver and gold? And the four white horses? Hooves gathering dust. Lips exhaling white clouds, heads bobbing. Manes and tails sparkling with silver glitter, diamonds braided into their backs . . . The President is in the center of the room, surrounded by women dressed in dark suits, their hair pulled demurely back from their faces, a twinkle of diamonds at each ear. They surround him like flowers, and the President is the most beautiful bloom in the bouquet. Sierra cannot take her eyes off him. He glows with a light that belongs to him alone. It forces the guests to jockey for position, fighting, ever so quietly to stand near him, to touch the rich material of his jacket, and steal just one glance from his kind, bloodshot eyes. It was those eyes that helped him win the election. That, and his nose, slightly red with burst blood vessels—a drinker’s nose, jovial and relaxed. She stands waiting for him to turn and notice her, the way the light in the room is slowly leaching the other guests of their color until they are cold and bland. Sierra, like the President, is in Technicolor. The other guests are as boring as black and white TV with the sound turned off. When he finally turns toward her and their eyes meet, her heart skips and stops in her chest momentarily as his eyes, blue and slightly crinkled around the edges, stare into hers. It’s going to happen!

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It’s really going to happen now! And as he walks over she smoothes the folds of her dress against her hips, tossing her hair over one smooth shoulder. “Are you enjoying the party?” The President’s voice is friendly, conspiratorial, as he takes her by the wrist, leading her into the room. He hands her a glass of champagne. The glass is cool, reassuring. She sips her drink before answering, and the bubbles tickle her nose. The instant rush of the alcohol in her bloodstream give her the courage to speak. “I’m enjoying it . . . so far, Mr. President.” His laugh, the way he takes her by the arm and leads her to his table, his commanding presence—all of it adds up to just one thing—she is crazy about him already. And they have barely spoken a complete sentence to one another. She wants to take off his crisp, white shirt, that blue, silk tie that matches his eyes, and lay her head on his chest. She wants the scent of his cologne all over her. She wants to crawl inside him and never come out. She notices, as they are seated, how everyone defers to him, watching his reaction to gauge their own behavior, their queries, the respectful tone in their voices when they speak. She wants that power, that respect. And maybe some of it will rub off on her. To be known not just as Sierra—the porn star, Sierra, the body—but Sierra, the President’s girlfriend. A whole new world would open up, and she would be among the sort of people who send embosed invitations. Her name in raised up in inky script. The soft, cream-colored envelope. The black tie events, dinner parties, diplomats rubbing elbows with socialites in their glossy couture gowns. The roses, yellow and crimson, their heads lost, floating in crystal bowls, water shimmering. She wants a liquid slip of pearl satin sliding like a sheet of ice from her hips. Glacial. She wants more parties like this one, and that wanting is familiar and ever-present. When will it be my turn? That ache in the stomach, the feeling of absolute emptiness. “My dear, would you like some wine?” The President seems almost nervous as he leans toward her, his face furrowed. She smiles prettily at him and nods, her hair sparkling under the chandeliers as

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he summons the waiter with one raised hand. The tables are set with gold plates and cutlery that shines in the candlelight, and she briefly wonders if it is real gold or just plated, and if it really matters. There is an enormous flower arrangement made up of soft yellow roses, baby’s breath, and white lilies. The heady perfume of the flowers, the hot, waxy scent of the candles, the President at her elbow—the combination is intoxicating. Her head lolls momentarily on her neck, a bent flower. She wishes that she hadn’t taken quite so many tranquilizers today as her eyes close briefly, then open once again. The President is monopolized by the other guests, and Sierra lets her eyes drift over the room, the hum of conversation heavy all around her. The First Lady stands across the room, her lanky frame sheathed in an understated black dress (Armani maybe?), her hair pulled back in a twist. Pearl studs decorate her ears with a soft glow of creamy whiteness. Her mousy brown hair has been subtly streaked with shades of light brown and golden blonde. But, in spite of this, her face is plain, her body a bit too thin, legs too long to be purely beautiful. She resembles an elegant, slightly homely stork. There is something almost masculine about her, as if the dress, jewelry, and the carefully applied make-up are part of an elaborate game of dress-up. Window dressing. Sierra gets the feeling that the First Lady would much rather be in dirty jeans and a t-shirt, gardening gloves on her hands and sneakers on her feet, instead of the tasteful Prada heels in black satin that she is currently wearing. The First Lady looks over, noticing Sierra for the first time, and her blood runs cold. The look that the First Lady gives her is pure ice, eyes narrowing in a sullen stare. Sierra feels the heat drain from her face as she turns away, pulse pounding in her ears. When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said, severely, “Who is this?” She said it to the knave of hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply. “Idiot!” said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, “What’s your name, child?”

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The President is at her elbow, concerned, attentive. “My dear, what’s the matter? You’ve turned pale.” His brow is a mass of wrinkles as he leans toward her. She can smell his cologne, the sharp scent of his desire as he angles his body closer, one palm pressed flat against the bare skin of her back. She shivers as she feels the almost imperceptible pressure of one lone fingernail tracing its way down the length of her spine. Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute, “And then,” thought she, “what would become of me? They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here: the great wonder is that there’s anyone left alive!” Just as she’s getting ready to lean toward him, to whisper in his ear, Sierra notices the First Lady approaching from across the room, her steps determined. She can hear the click clack of the First Lady’s heels on the floor and although she is smiling, her eyes are as hard as slivers of agate. The President, with some kind of sixth sense, turns around to meet her well before she arrives in front of them. “Ahhh,” he says, looking over and winking as she marches toward them, “meet my better half.” The First Lady is like a Stepford Wife. She nods, she smiles, holding one hand out for you to shake, but you really never know what she is thinking. She’s like the wallpaper decorating the halls of the White House—perfectly chosen and in very good taste, but without any real presence of its own. You don’t really notice it as you walk through the building—its impact is dwarfed by other, more opulent treasures. But when you finally begin to focus on the pattern, the rich colors and the impeccable design, you realize just how important it really is. Sierra imagines that the First Lady would be maddening to live with. You’d never know when she was angry, unhappy, or depressed even. She’d just stare at you with those dagger eyes and that perfectly calm face, daring you to speak, one eyebrow raised. Her pulse probably never climbs above sixty. “How do you like the Queen?” said the Cat in a low voice.

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“Not at all,” said Alice. “She’s so extremely—” Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on “—likely to win that it’s hardly worth while finishing the game.” When she finally speaks, her voice is as impenetrable as her eyes. “Well, I see you’ve made a new friend.” Her tone is mocking, slightly amused. Sierra wants to crawl into a hole and die right on the spot. But the President is unfazed. In fact, he doesn’t seem nervous at all, which Sierra finds a bit surprising given the circumstances. After all, she has been brought here for the President’s amusement—not to give a speech on the war in Iraq. She’s not even sure she knows where Iraq is, now that that she thinks about it. She was never very good at geography. Is Iraq a state or a country? She makes a mental note to ask the President about this later. If anyone can explain global politics to her, surely it would be him. She pictures herself dressed in an understated Chanel suit, calmly addressing the United Nations. Ropes of pearls around her neck, her hair smoothed in an elaborate French twist. The First Lady holds out her hand and her grip is like steel. She wants to intimidate her, to drive her out, make her fold. She coolly looks Sierra over from head to toe, her glance taking in the yards of young skin, the golden hair. Those eyes miss nothing. They speak to her directly, the way her voice cannot. They say, go home, we don’t want you here, you don’t belong. “Off with her head!” But she has something that the First Lady does not: youth and beauty. And Sierra knows that not only can they bridge class barriers, they have the power to destroy first wives. So she swallows her nerves and does what she does best—she dazzles. She pulls herself up so that she is standing tall, and throws her hair over one shoulder, her smile as luminescent as the cut-crystal chandeliers swinging above their heads. “Charmed,” she purrs, “I’m sure.” The First Lady drops her hand like it is a dead fish, like garbage that has been left out in the sun for days. She actually wipes her palm on the material of her dress, her lips curling into a sneer.

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Sierra can feel the waves of pure hatred coursing toward her. The First Lady’s stance is rigid. If the First Lady was a cat, the sleek, brown fur along the ridge of her spine would be bristling with indignation. She would be hissing. “Now I give you fair warning,” shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; “either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice!” The First Lady’s hands curl into fists. Sierra stares definitely back at her, raising her chin slightly, refusing to lower her eyes. The very fact that she’s having such an affect, this righteous indignation mixed with terror, tells Sierra that she is winning. The First Lady’s territory has been breached. This, she thinks to herself, is war. The First Lady’s smile fades as she turns her back and briskly walks away. Sierra isn’t quite sure what to say or do next. She stands there awkwardly. The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled. “What fun!” said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice. “What is the fun?” said Alice. “Why, she,” said the Gryphon. “It’s all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know.” The President is speechless. His expression is puzzled, quizzical, as if he’s not quite sure what to do himself this time. His hands fall to his sides heavily. “Well,” he says, shrugging, running one palm through his luxurious silver hair, “shall we sit down?”

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Seven

The night passes in a champagne blur: tiny bites of rich dishes, endless toasts, glasses sharply clinking, and a very boring speech given by the First Lady—something about Somali orphans during which Sierra closes her eyes frequently. The President sneakily strokes her thigh under the table. She is amazed that he is able to do this while simultaneously engaged in a heated debate on foreign policy with the plump, gray-haired senator seated directly across from them. His face betrays nothing. Although there are many courses she eats very little. Later, when she is asked what was served, she won’t be able to remember. She doesn’t know which fork to use anyway—there are so many of them. On the table was spread a white cloth, and there were seven little plates, seven little loaves, and seven little glasses with wine in them; and seven knives and forks laid in order. The food, though expertly prepared by the White House chef, is as tasteless as Styrofoam on her tongue. Everything is blotted out but the President’s eyes—the same blue as her own—and the naked desire behind them. She has never felt so visible, so alive in her own skin. She is sure that everyone can see just how obvious her infatuation is, and she blushes with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. The President only leaves her side for a few moments at a time, and even then he is constantly searching over rows of heads, craning his neck, his gaze seeking her out, burning holes through the fabric of her dress. The First Lady sits across the room at a table of foreign diplomats. No one seems to think this is strange. In any case, it isn’t mentioned. The First Lady ignores her for the rest of the evening. When the President joins his wife for a few moments over in the diplomat-heavy zone, Sierra notices that the First Lady pulls away from him, shrugging his hand off when he places it heavily on her shoulder. The First Lady is quietly furious. The President will probably be in the doghouse for the next week at least—maybe even the next month. But it will have been worth it. Sierra is sure that

180 181 jennifer banash hollywoodland whatever follows the thick, black coffee and elaborate flambéed apple dessert, will exceed any expectations she has had up until now. This is the big time. She is going to sleep with the President of the United States. The President cleans his plate, digging into the crisp layers of sugar-dusted pastry and ripe apples with obvious relish. Outwardly, it looked like a beautiful, white-and-red cheeked apple which made everyone who saw it want to take a bite out of it, but anyone who did so was sure to die. A shiver wracks Sierra’s spine, and the President turns toward her, one hand holding a forkful of flaky pastry. The slight paunch above his belt buckle tells her that this is a man who enjoys his food. She imagines him visiting her in L.A., the walks on the beach they will take. The President at the kitchen table, a glass of cool, amber-colored beer at his elbow. A yellow apron tied at the waist, cinching it, holding her in place. A spatula in one hand, the metal shining in the light from the open window. The potatoes steam on the serving plate, their crispness and grease clinging to her hair, her clothes, a kind of rich perfume. His arm around her shoulder, a white sweater knotted carelessly across his shoulders. The swollen sea, sun setting into a rose-colored sky. The ice-cream colors of the beach at sunset: orange sherbet, strawberry sorbet, vanilla cream. Meringue clouds drift across the sky. The President’s hands on her face. His lips on hers as the waves crash at their feet, the milky foam soaking their ankles. She makes a mental note to look into cooking lessons as soon as she gets home and to buy some cookbooks. All she has in the kitchen are take-out menus. After all, how hard can this cooking stuff be? People cook every day, don’t they? She is sure it will be a snap. She knows how to cook basic things: pasta, sandwiches, and green salad with dressing—but nothing that would qualify as fancy. She also makes a mental note to buy a pretty apron—pink maybe? And, after all, when she is First Lady she won’t have to cook anyway. The White House chef is on-call twenty-four hours a day, and has been known to be woken up at three am by the President, who has a sudden craving

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for ribs, or a steak sandwich with fries and extra ketchup. She is vibrating with desire as the President touches her hand under the table and whispers in her ear, “How about a private tour of the White House?” She shivers as his breath tickles the smooth skin of her neck, her earlobes, and nods demurely, eyes wild with love. She is out of control. She likes the feeling and is greedy for more. The candles have burned down in their silver holders, the wax dripping onto the tablecloth, now marred here and there with discreet red stains: wine, a sprinkling of salt. She picks up the shaker and throws a handful over her left shoulder, closing her eyes. “For luck,” she whispers. The room has emptied out considerably, but the few eyes that remain are on them alone as they prepare to leave the table. The President beckons with his hands, and Sierra drains the dregs of her glass, pushes her chair back and stands up. She weaves unsteadily for a moment before regaining her balance and the President offers his hand in order to escort her out of the room. Pulling her close to his side, her arm is linked firmly with his own. Entwined. The Secret Service follows close behind as they exit the room, and the President releases her and pulls them aside, whispering furiously. She cannot hear what is said, but the President’s tone is forceful, heated even, although the men’s smooth faces remain expressionless. Sierra notices that the younger of the two reaches up to play nervously with his earpiece while the President addresses him, nodding his head in perfect agreement. The other man furtively looks around the hallway while speaking into a tiny microphone attached to his sleeve. Sierra holds onto the wall, waiting. Her feet hurt. She knew that she should have never worn these heels. They are Jimmy Choo and she loves them, but the heels are like ice picks. They’re good for about four hours—after that waves of mind-numbing pain set in. She surreptitiously slides one shoe off, flexing her toes against the carpet. It feels so good that she almost moans aloud. She wants to lay down on the thick rug and close her eyes.

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Being the President’s girlfriend is exhausting. It’s probably much easier being First Lady. The President turns around and walks toward her with a curt nod to the Secret Servicemen. She fumbles with her shoe, struggling to get it back on her foot with some kind of grace. The President doesn’t seem to notice her clumsy pas de deux with the shoe— he is too busy staring at the way her breasts push the material of her dress away from her sculpted body, how her legs extend long and lean from the flatness of her torso. Without a word he takes her by the hand, leading her down another long hallway. The corridors are a series of labyrinths that seem to go on forever. He’s leading me into the maze! she thinks, head reeling with anticipation. Hansel and Gretel dropped breadcrumbs to find their way home. But all these hallways look the same, and my pockets are empty. How will I ever find my way back? The President points out his favorite paintings to her as they pass, his voice low and warm in her ears. Sierra feels as if she is underwater. The effect is disconcerting. It’s like a dream—strolling the corridors of the White House with the President as a private tour guide. “This is the West Wing, where I spend most of my time.” The hallway looks like every other they have passed, but leads into a large, circular room filled with White House agents involved in various activities. A series of phones ring constantly. “This is the Greeting Room.” The President pulls her by the hand, rushing her out of the Greeting Room before she has a chance to really take it all in. Heads turn with whiplash speed as she walks through, the clipboards rusting and, in their wake, the whispers begin in earnest. The President stops in front of a large wooden door, turns the knob and ushers her into a dark room. He closes the door behind them, quietly. She closes her eyes as she hears the lock click, and she is at once engulfed in darkness. His hand reaches out frantically into the space in front of her, but comes up empty. Sweat breaks out on the cool skin of her forehead and for a moment, her heart catches in her chest. She has to remind herself to breathe. With a rustling and sudden

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movement, the light is switched on and she is bathed in its warm glow. With surprise she looks around, her rosebud mouth opening in awe. They are in the Oval Office.

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Eight

The experience is surreal. This is a room that she has seen so many times on television—the President addressing the public from the very place where she now stands, dazed. From behind this very desk. It looks exactly the way it does in pictures, the colors blue and gold illuminating the room. The quiet majesty of it. Long swaths of golden fabric richly frame the large picture window behind the desk. She runs her palm over the smooth wood, the surface cool and hard under her fingers. The carpet is decorated with a large gold circle superimposed onto the blue, its border a pattern of stars. An eagle sits in the center holding an olive branch and a handful of arrows. The eagle’s head is turned toward the olive branch, its gaze aloof—even slightly annoyed. What the hell’s wrong with that bird? she wonders, smoothing her hair with one hand. It looks hostile. She is surprised to notice that the carpeting underfoot is worn in spots, the fibers frayed from constant foot traffic. When I’m First Lady, she thinks, surveying the room, I’m definitely redecorating. The First Lady has an obsession with blue. Maybe a nice orange would warm things up in here. And the President could really use an easy chair—somewhere to relax. Maybe a recliner? After all, running an entire country is hard work. The President sits on the edge of the desk and reaches into a carved, mahogany box that rests on the corner of the desk, taking out a large, brown cigar. “Montecristos,” he says, leaning forward to pass one under her nose so she can smell the rich tobacco, the sugar-sweet reek of vanilla and earth. “They’re all I ever smoke.” The President gives her a slow wink and the corners of his lips turn up into the smile he is so famous for—one part boyish charm and one part rakish seducer (there is a palpable Aw, shucks quality about it in spite of the obvious sexual undertones). The smile is what helped him win elections—two of them, to be precise. “Cuba,” he says, fumbling on the desk for a gold lighter. “The country’s a pain in the ass, but goddamn, do they make good cigars!”

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Sierra’s a bit shocked at this outburst. Is the President supposed to talk that way about other countries? And aren’t Cuban cigars illegal? Really, she thinks, he should act a bit more presidential. She can’t help feeling a little disappointed. She thought that she’d be folded into his arms by now, her dress pooled on the floor of the Oval Office. Instead, she is standing awkwardly in front of the desk, watching the President fondle his cigar instead of her own smooth flesh. She realizes that she will have to take matters into her own hands, and she moves toward him slowly, deliberately. As she takes the cigar from his hands, her eyes never leave his face. Placing it on the desk, she reaches up, pulling the straps of her dress down until her bare breasts are exposed. She knows the effect all that smooth, round flesh will have. She halts there for a moment, the dress still bunched at her waist before wiggling out of the sleek fabric until it falls around her ankles. She steps out of it delicately and stands before him. Except for her g-string and heels, she is naked. She watches the blood rise in the President’s face, how his desire flushes his cheeks, turning his rough skin the color of a good Bordeaux. She holds his eyes with her own and begins to unfasten his tie, her hands expertly slipping the knot and releasing him. The President has begun to sweat. Great, clear drops bead on his forehead and darken the gray hair at his temples. He is breathing rapidly. Sierra feels as though she’s on the set. She can almost hear the director’s voice in the background as she moves down to unfasten his belt buckle, the leather cool under her fingers. Presidential seduction scene, take one. And . . . Action! She shakes her head to banish the thought. She doesn’t know when to stop performing anymore. The line between personal and professional is tricky, keeps moving. It makes for very confusing relationships. As she begins to free the President from the confines of his trousers, he suddenly comes alive. He reaches down and grabs her hands, pulling her to her feet. She looks at him quizzically, but his gaze is focused elsewhere—on her breasts. He turns her around so that they

187 jennifer banash hollywoodland can change places—she is now seated on the desk and he is standing directly in front of her. He pulls his zipper down and the sound of metal teeth is loud in the silent room. She shivers. Sierra can hear the ticking of the golden clock, the almost imperceptible sounds of the White House staff outside the door, the soft noise of their shoes on plush carpets as they move busily in the hall. Whatever they are doing, she is almost sure that they are carrying clipboards, taking notes. The President’s pants drop to his feet with a whisper, and he steps out of them with unexpected grace, folding the fine material carefully over his desk chair, smoothing the creases with one hand. The President wears bright blue silk boxers. His legs are unexpectedly pale and skinny, like a chicken before it is cooked. The sight of the President in his underwear, black dress shoes and socks, his suit jacket and tie askew, strikes her as amusing—hilarious even—and she tilts her slightly forward so that her hair covers her face, hiding her grin. He leans toward her so close that she can smell the wine from dinner on his breath, and reaches one hand up to her face. It lingers there, tenderly stroking her cheek, softly, with feeling, and something inside her begins to melt. She is staring at her lap, afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what she might do or say. He places one hand underneath her chin and gently tilts her face up to meet his. His fingers are warm and strong on her face. Commanding. When he sees the slick, wet trails marring her perfect skin, his expression softens around the eyes, and some emotion moves in, clouding his desire, muddying it. “Shhhhh . . .” he says, pulling her close to his chest, “shhhhhh . . .” She leans her head onto his solid warmth, the Bay Rum scent of his cologne a cocoon, a tropical island, swaying palm trees enveloping her, spinning her senses into chaos. Is it him? she wonders, is he the prince who will save me? For surely this must be the castle, and, upstairs sleeps the Red Queen. Her bed a golden cage draped in the sheerest of muslin, the crown on the bedside table sparkling with rubies the color of dried blood.

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He is rubbing her back in strong circles, the other hand tangled in the silk of her hair. She is lulled into a drowsy warmth, the low murmur of his voice a lullaby before sleep. When she is finally able to hear what he is saying, his words shock her out of her slumberous state. “Shhhh . . . baby, let daddy take care of you. You’re daddy’s sweet baby girl. Aren’t you?” Something inside her freezes, and her body stiffens slightly. The President releases her and pushes his boxers down so that he is completely exposed. The President’s penis stares directly up at her like a creature with one eye, standing stiffly at attention. It is larger than she expected, and a curious reddish-purple. The President’s pubic hair is gray, perfectly matching the hair on his head, and she realizes for the first time just how old he really is. He pushes her head down, with one strong, meaty hand, forcing her off the desk and onto her knees on the worn, blue carpet. He pulls her hair sharply until her mouth opens, and her lips close over his penis. Under the subtle pressure of her tongue, the wetness of her mouth, it jumps like a loose fish against her soft palate. As she moves back and forth expertly bringing the President to the edge of orgasm, then backing off gradually, something in her shifts gears, changes. He wants to be her daddy—big daddy. In fact, he is good at playing daddy—he has rehearsed the role with the entire country on a daily basis. Why not with her? She’s never had a daddy— not really. And she needs someone to take care of her. She needs the attention desperately. She can be his baby, if that’s what he wants. She knows the part, what’s expected of her. She’s played it before—dozens of times. “Oh, baby,” he is moaning in a soft voice, so as to not be overheard. “Oh, Christ, that’s it. Take it all, take it all in for daddy . . .” And with that he shoves himself violently against the back of her throat. As experienced as she is, she cannot help it—she gags and pulls back. He springs from her lips with a satisfying pop, a pacifier leaving the mouth of a small child. “Get on the desk,” he growls, his voice as hard

188 189 jennifer banash hollywoodland as the rest of him, authoritative and uncompromising. She scrambles onto the cold, wooden surface, her pulse racing. This is it! Now, it’s going to happen! She lies back, arching her spine and rubbing her own breasts in slow circles. She cannot feel anything due to the nerve damage from the surgery, but the doctor said the nerves would probably regenerate—its only a matter of time. Sierra spreads her legs in anticipation of the President’s hardness filling her—she is always so empty, and her hands leave her breasts and pull him forward, greedy for him now, impatient. “Shhhhh . . .” the President whispers, leaning forward to stroke her hair again. “Shhhhhhh . . . Daddy’s gonna take care of you.” Her brow wrinkles in confusion. He’s still hard, so that can’t be the problem. So why isn’t he inside her already? The President reaches over and grabs the cigar from the corner of the desk where she had placed it earlier. He runs his fingers over it, stroking the smooth wrapper instead of her skin. He reaches down between her legs, and she feels the cigar against the inside of her thigh. It moves up, higher, until the tip presses tentatively against the opening of her vagina. He can’t, she thinks, panicked. This can’t be what he wants. It was supposed to be different this time! As he inserts the cigar, moving it back and forth with a practiced motion of his wrist, the tears well up in her eyes. They slide down the planes of her face landing with a sickening plop, marring the immaculate surface of the President’s blue desk blotter. As he slides the cigar in and out of her body with one hand, the other expertly maneuvers his own flesh. He is panting loudly, grunting as his orgasm approaches. When he comes, the hot, white fluid is discharged across her stomach in a sticky pool that flows downward with the force of gravity, collecting in her belly button. The President turns around and pulls up his pants. She hears the fastening of his buckle, the decisive way in which he moves over to the mirror on the wall and straightens his shirt and tie. She sits up, wiping her stomach with a Kleenex from the gold tissue box on the

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President’s desk. I could keep this, she thinks cynically, and sell it on eBay. She tosses the tissue into the trash can behind the desk. The President turns around as she struggles back into her dress. He smiles at her, his expression slightly sheepish. “Thanks, baby. That was great.” She pulls the straps of her dress up over her shoulders and smoothes the fabric over her hips, running a hand through her tangled hair. She wipes the tears from her face, reaching into her black evening bag for a compact. Her reflection in the tiny mirror is reassuring as she begins to compose herself, erasing the track marks, wiping translucent powder under her eyes and across her cheeks. Her knees are red and stinging from the carpet, and she aches slightly inside from the President’s ministrations—which weren’t exactly gentle. The President moves back behind the desk and sits down in his chair, tilting it back and resting his feet on the desk, crossing them at the ankles. He is still holding the cigar in one hand as he runs the other through his hair, smiling boyishly. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do here, baby. Do you think you could find your way back to your room without me? Or,” he says, snapping his fingers, “better yet . . .” He picks up the telephone on his desk and punches a button, then abruptly hangs up the phone. Seconds later, there is a knock on the door. “Come in,” the President yells, and the door opens. An agent stands there, clipboard under one arm. “Steve,” the President says, his tone jovial, “can you escort Miss Sierra up to her room?” Steve nods. His gaze is mocking, and his tie is in a perfect, tight knot. Steve has seen this before, she is sure. His eyes are knowing and hard. He has the look of someone who has escorted more than a few women upstairs in the middle of the night. Sierra picks up her bag and walks toward him, her steps silent. As she closes the door behind her, she turns around for one last look. The President is seated at the desk with his hands behind his head. He leans back in his chair, cigar in mouth, feet propped up. The fine leather soles of his shoes are immaculate. As the door slowly closes, he takes the cigar from his lips and passes it under his nose,

190 191 jennifer banash breathing deeply and closing his eyes with pleasure. He pops the cigar back into his mouth, lips sliding sensuously over the brown wrapper as he lights the tip. The sweet scent fills the room as his eyes close. A fragrant cloud drfits above his head as she pulls the door quietly shut.

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The President Speaks

No comment.

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There is a knock on her door the following morning. The sharp, tapping sound reverberates off the heavy, wooden surface, filling the room with its authoritative melody, her pulse racing in response. She is in the midst of packing her suitcase, slowly, methodically smoothing soft fabrics with the flat of her hand, making neat, colorful squares. With the loud knock, she throws a cardigan in the air, her blood running fast, palms damp. Is it him? Oh, God, how do I look? She runs to the mirror and brushes her hair with her fingers, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Come in!” she calls out, her voice shaking with anticipation. But, when the door swings open, it is only Ann Stark standing there. “I’m here,” she said carefully, her voice measured, “to escort you to the plane.” Sierra’s stomach plummets, her face distorting noticeably. Tears spring to her eyes and she has to concentrate fiercely on the task of brushing her hair in order to stop them from spoiling her carefully applied make-up. Her disappointment splashes out of her, unchecked; it covers the navy walls with the gray, sickly pallor of unrealized hopes. Sierra feels the bile rise in her throat, green sickness floating around her, the air a sick poison, intoxicating and lethal. As Ann looks at her for the second time, she almost weakens. It takes all the self-control she can muster to stop herself from reaching out to this girl. She wants to place her arms around Sierra’s hunched, tense shoulders, soothing her. There, there, she would whisper, rocking her body back and forth in her arms. It’s uncanny, she thinks, shaking her head from side to side. There’s something about this girl that forces an emotional response from you. She picks up Sierra’s garment bag with one hand, walking toward the door. Her vulnerability, she thinks, may be even more seductive than her physicality. The story is somehow leaked to the press. A black and white photo: the President’s arm around Sierra’s waist, his lips close to her ear. Her eyes are closed, partly closed, her expression serene. The headline splashes over the front page of daily papers across the

194 hollywoodland country in bold, black type. Secret Love! The President and the Porn Star! The picture was taken with a telephoto lens and although her face is grainy and a bit out of focus, she can still make out the smile on her lips, her dreamy, far-away expression, her hope outlined in stark black and white. It makes her sad to see it, her expectant face blown up larger than life. She crumples the newsprint angrily between her palms, flinging it across the immaculate interior of the private plane, ink staining her hands like disease. When the plane touches down on the runway, Sierra smoothes the sides of her hair with her fingers, checking her face in her compact and expertly applying more gloss, then snapping the case shut. The decisive noise of the lock catching makes her feel calmer, more prepared. She is getting ready, taking deep breaths. The air in the cabin is thin and dry, and when she remembers the President’s hands, the cigar lying on the hulking, wooden desk, a wave of nausea sweeps over her. She closes her eyes and takes a quick swallow of scotch, draining the glass. She loves the feeling of the liquor burning down her throat. The magic potion, she thinks. Alice tried so many . . . will I grow big or even smaller this time around? The plane lurches violently to the right, and she has to place one hand on the small, round window to steady herself. When she exits the plane in her white sheath dress, her hair subdued, pulled back from her face in a twist, the reporters are waiting, their cameras raised like weapons, chrome gleaming. “Sierra! Over here! Sierra, is it true about you and the President?” She reaches into her bag for her sunglasses as she walks down the stairs, smiling brilliantly. Once the dark lenses have covered her eyes, she relaxes and begins to breathe normally. She feels safer with them on, protected from the unrelenting barrage of questions. She stops for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. She turns her head to one side so they can shoot her from her best angles. Even after a rough night she is flawless. “Sierra, are the rumors true? What’s going on with you and the President?”

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The voices which surround her are insistent, relentless. “Boys,” she purrs, holding up one hand while lowering her large, dark sunglasses, “My only romance is with myself—in front of my mirror daily.” The reporters go wild as she moves on, the camera clicking madly as they follow her into the hired car waiting patiently for her on the tarmac. The press is unstoppable, tireless. They stand outside the house for hours at a time, eating sandwiches. Whenever she and Dallas go out, they fight their way through throngs of reporters, pens racing across white pads, flashbulbs flying. Questions hurled like rocks. Sometimes they have to push and shove people away from their car in the process—just so they can squeeze in. “No comment,” they say, struggling to fasten their seatbelts. “No comment.” Although it is tempting to talk, and her heart is fairly bursting, she knows that she will never see him again if she does. So she keeps quiet. She closes her eyes and thinks about the President’s kind, blue eyes staring back at her, his strong hands on her arms, the way he expertly led her out of the room, daring the guests to utter even one word. She chooses to focus on those moments. The anticipation of them. The incident with the cigar has been magically wiped from her consciousness and replaced with another, more palatable tale—one she repeats to herself late at night when sleep is late in coming, the streaky violet light of morning so very far away: His hands, long fingers raking her scalp. Eyes shut, breath ragged and short. The tanned mahogany of skin, the wooden desk, his wet mouth fastened on her neck. Vampiric. His dark suit, tie loosening. Her name heavy in his mouth, the unexpected weight of it. Sweat cooling on skin. Possession. Her body laid waste. Destroyed. Murmured whispers, the dark of the room, the moon outside hanging like an intoxicated jewel in the sky. She has succeeded in rewriting history. She waits for him to call and the wait seems endless. She sleeps on the couch at night, one hand next to the phone. “Come to bed,” Dallas whines at around 2:30 each morning. But she refuses to move.

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In some strange way, she believes she is keeping herself pure for him. Untarnished. The air in the house grows perceptibly chillier each night she refuses. She doesn’t go back to work. Each time the phone rings, the Vixen secretary waiting on the other end she shakes her head, and Dallas makes her excuses, hangs up the phone. The phone rings off the hook from the time she steps off of the plane, but it is never, ever him. Her heart sinks with disappointment each time she speaks hopefully, breathlessly into the receiver. She cradles the phone as if it is her own small infant, a child she must handle gingerly. Studios, producers, directors call constantly. Sierra notices that they don’t call her baby anymore, or ask her to come in and get naked. They treat her like a serious actress. They want to develop scripts for her, send her pilots to star in. Everyone has, it seems, some kind of “project” for her to consider. Packets of scripts pile up and cover the kitchen table until it’s glass surface is entirely hidden. She is still under contract to Vixen, so legally, she must make three more films before the year is out. But she won’t think about that now. She’ll think about that tomorrow. Finally she feels that she is being taken seriously and it is all because of him. “Well, this is grand!” said Alice. “I never expected that I should be Queen so soon!” “You should really get an agent,” Dallas suggests after hanging up the phone and taking the twentieth message of the day—and it is only one o’clock. She takes advantage of this sudden vertical movement and hires an agent, a publicist. She goes everywhere that she is invited— and a few places she’s not. If a red carpet is rolled out, Sierra is on it. It is her favorite thing—the moment she steps gracefully from the limo, breathless. It is endearing the way she is always surprised to see the fans lined up behind the red, velvet ropes, jockeying for position, for just one glimpse. No matter how many times she exits the limo to the roar of the crowd, she is always, still, slightly shocked. Me? Is it really me that you want?

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The photographers love her because, unlike so many other stars, she is happy to wait patiently until every photographer has had his fill. As she exits the limo, one slim hand waving at the crowd, her jewelry sparkles under the lights in a meteor shower, a spray of precious stones. “I love you,” she yells, blowing kisses with both hands cupped together then flung open with abandon, “I love you all!” And she does love them. It is the only entirely pure love she has ever known. “The fans,” she murmurs aloud in the limo one night, whispering into the backseat, its interior womb-like and cavernous. “The fans are life and death to me, baby.” She goes on endless rounds of auditions, nodding and smiling so much that her face begins to ache from the effort. Her wrist is strained and limp from shaking so many pairs of hands. It is exhausting to pretend to be so happy all of the time. And, the truth is, she should be happy—she’s finally getting what she’s wanted all these years. It’s happening. But there must be a price, she thinks, her eyes narrowing. There is always a price to be paid for your heart’s desire. She sits up at night at the large bay window in the living room, staring up at the globe of the moon, heart aching. She checks the answering machine constantly. The phone mocks her, sitting on the table like a squat black bug. “What right do you have to call yourself a Queen? You can’t be Queen, you know, until you’ve passed the proper examination.” “Play hard to get,” Dallas whispers after a day full of readings. She’s good at being elusive, disinterested. And her careful tactics only make them want her more. When Darren Star calls, she finally gives in and agrees to speak with him. After all, this is the man responsible for creating one of her favorite television shows of all time, Beverly Hills 90210. Star is very convincing on the phone, his voice warm and friendly. At first, she is hesitant, but despite her reservations, she agrees to meet him at the Polo Lounge. The restaurant is located inside the Beverly Hills Hotel. She drives down Sunset, then turns onto Rodeo Drive, the light glinting

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off the store windows. She turns sharply into the parking lot of the hotel and walks the ten feet into the restaurant. The Polo Lounge is legendary, the site for many clandestine meetings, as well as million- dollar deals. The walls are painted in a flattering shade of peachy pink, the inside of a conch shell. Her stilettos sink into the thick carpet underfoot. Deep, emerald green booths. A phone on every table, lights flashing. Pink tablecloths and vases. Rosebuds. A wall of windows, and the sunny patio just beyond where the stars never sit, the most coveted tables being inside—away from prying eyes. Legend has it that Mia Farrow was banned from the Polo Lounge for wearing pants. Sierra looks down at her own denim-clad legs, knees poking through the holes, and smiles. “I declare it’s marked out just like a large chessboard!” Alice said at last. “There ought to be some men moving about somewhere—and so there are!” she added in a tone of delight, and her heart began to beat quick with excitement. Darren is already there, speaking rapidly into his cell phone. He gets up and shakes her hand, motions for her to sit down without ever halting his conversation, smiling apologetically. Darren has a kind of boyish quality that she warms to immediately. It reminds her of the President. He resembles an aging frat boy, or an ex-football player— the muscle on its slow, inevitable slide toward fat. She looks around the room and notices that the lighting and the color of the walls are flattering to her skin, her hair. She surreptitiously checks her lipstick in the silver knife at the side of her plate. When he closes his phone with a snap of the wrist, she leans forward across the table. “I don’t have any real acting experience,” she says, twisting a lock of hair around her fingertips. God, I need my ends trimmed, she thinks, inspecting the gold strands, momentarily distracted. They are a disgrace. “It’s not a problem,” he says, excitedly. “I’ve seen your, umm, other work.” He drops his eyes, clearing his throat before continuing. He raises a glass to his lips and takes a quick swallow of ice water.

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“And you’re a born actress, Sierra. You’re very natural. People are going to love you. I’ve seen the roles you’ve been given, the fairy tales. The Guess? ad was genius. Actually, the character I’ve written for you was inspired by that ad.” “What’s the character?” she asks, nervously toying with the rose in the bud vase. “I want you to play a real bitch,” he says, laughing. “You’re going to be the villain of the show—isn’t that great?” She considers for a moment, her mind racing. “Of course,” she says, her tone silky, “you’ll have to agree to my terms. I’ll need to speak to my agent.” “It’s a great, huge game of chess that’s being played—all over the world—if this is the world at all, you know. Oh, what fun it is! How I wish I was one of them! I wouldn’t mind being a Pawn, if only I might join—though of course I should like to be a Queen, best.” “Not a problem,” he says, signaling to the waiter who crosses the room immediately. “A bottle of Cristal,” he says, “and two glasses. So,” he turns back to face her, “do we have something to celebrate, or should I cancel the order?” She reaches her hand across the table. Her wrist jangles with gold bracelets. Darren’s lips turn up in a slow smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, how glad am I to get here! And what is this on my head?” she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, as she put her hands up to something very heavy, that fitted tight all round her head. “But how can it have got there without my knowing it?” she said to herself, as she lifted it off, and set it on her lap to make out what it could possibly be. It was a golden crown. “All right,” she says, firmly shaking his hand, which is surprisingly softer than her own. “You’ve just bought yourself a bitch.”

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Ten

The show is called Sunset Place. The plot revolves around the daily lives of a group of young, urban singles who live in an apartment complex just off the Sunset Strip. The show is rife with corporate greed, manipulation, incest, infidelity, murder, and blackmail. Backstabbing is de rigueur, applauded in every episode by both the TV audience as well as the other characters. There is a hospital full of corrupt, scheming doctors, and an advertising agency where the majority of the characters desperately try to claw their way to the top. Sierra is cast as Jessica Broward, the sultry head of J&P advertising. Star describes her character as “a bitch on wheels with a heart of gold.” It is in her contract that her skirts must not be longer than eleven inches from waist to hem. Apparently, women who run powerful conglomerates also wear skirts that expose their cracks as they bend over to retrieve dropped pencils. Her love interest on the show is Steve—a sexy, young mechanic who rides a motorcycle and is clearly being written as the show’s resident bad boy. Steve flits from job to job and is in stark contrast to Jessica’s cutthroat tactics—in the boardroom and the bedroom. There are also two philandering surgeons, Darryl and Marcus. Alisa is the show’s requisite good girl who works as a receptionist. Last but not least, there’s Mike, the token gay guy. She goes in to read with Jason Ward, the actor cast as Steve. “Nice to meet you,” he says, smiling and shaking her hand, his grip firm and friendly. He makes her feel right at home on the set, shooting her reassuring glances in-between scenes. Although it’s a little disconcerting having Darren right there when they are reading, their chemistry together is unstoppable. There is a slight problem, though. Sierra can’t seem to be mean enough for Darren, or for the team of producers who file silently into the room, their eyes cool and unimpressed. “Don’t be afraid to be more of a bitch, Sierra.” Darren pushes

201 jennifer banash hollywoodland his chair back from the long metal table he is sitting behind and races over to them. “Listen,” he says, one hand held out in front of him for emphasis, “the only time your character acts vulnerable or lets down her guard is when she is alone—never in public.” Sierra runs a hand through her hair, exhaling loudly as Darren returns to his seat. He immediately begins conferring with a woman dressed from head to toe in black, dark, rectangular frames covering her eyes. Jason smiles at her, showing rows of expensive dentistry. “Hey,” he says, one hand on her arm. “You’re doing great. Really.” “Thanks,” she says, eyes downcast and suddenly shy. “This is all really new to me.” “I bet,” he quips, chuckling. Her face falls, then darkens slightly as her cheeks flush and she turns away, pretending to look through the pages of her script. “Wait,” he says, his voice softer this time, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” His eyes are the light blue-green of beach glass. They widen with concern as they peer out from the surface of his tanned face. She shrugs it off, smiling once again. His face relaxes and he squeezes her shoulder lightly before walking back over to his mark. She is starting to get a distinctly gay vibe from him, especially when he compliments her shoes—discreet Prada pumps that she bought right after her visit to the White House. In the store, she fondles the wall of shoes, one hand reaching out to caress the soft leather, pigskin a deep caramel, or the chic sandpaper of alligator. Baby blue, canary yellow. It is her first time in Prada. She can’t get over how relaxing it is: the large expanse of glass and light, a glass of champagne chilling her hands. He holds one palm protectively at her waist, the scent of expensive leather mixing with the President’s island scent. She picks up a pair of lipstick- red crocodile loafers and wonders, would the President prefer these, or the black alligator pumps? Get the pumps, baby. The President’s voice is almost a growl in her ear, so sexually charged that she shivers delicately, sweat from her palms staining the box as she walks languidly, dreamily to the cash register. “Sierra,” Darren shouts from across the room. “Let’s have you read with Michelle now.” Michelle has been cast as Alisa, the show’s

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good girl receptionist who the public will dub the “Queen of Misery,” since everything bad that could possibly happen to a person in the course of a life will be inflicted on her before the first season is out. She will be raped, beaten by her boyfriend, recover memories of sexual abuse, and get thrown in the pool on her wedding day during the season finale. Sierra hates her at first sight. She has a kind of bland, all-American prettiness that is entirely unremarkable. Honey blonde hair swings past her shoulders. The strands framing her heart-shaped face are streaked the color of dandelions. Her chin narrows to a sharp point, and her eyes exude the wide, empty blue flatness of the Midwestern sky. She wears a tight, pink t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans which are alarmingly distressed. Her knees poke out charmingly through the holes in the denim, her skin the color of boiled milk. She looks wholesome enough to eat. They step toward each other and the look that Michelle shoots her is saccharin, with a slight undertone of malice. “Now, Sierra, try and be a little meaner this time. Get in touch with your inner bitch.” Darren’s voice is beginning to get a little strained, a little irritated, and her stomach turns over with fear. What if I can’t do this? she thinks. Her face is contorted with effort and fear. She stares down at the wrinkled pages she holds in her hand as if they miraculously hold some kind of answer. I’m not an actress yet—not really. “Don‘t worry,” Michelle’s voice is all maple syrup as she leans closer, honey hair brushing Sierra’s own icy platinum. “Sometimes it takes a while before you really get into character.” Her tone is smug and knowing, and Sierra has the urge to roll up the script she is holding in her hands and slap her with it across her earnest, Midwestern face. As her temperature rises—anger flaring like a match struck in her chest—it comes to her in a flash. I know who they want! she thinks excitedly. The Wicked Queen! Her gaze, cold as icicles in January. The palace of ice and snow, soft flakes falling outside frozen windows. Crystals shatter like glass. The castle of hard stone, weathered as winter sky. Her lips are clouds of blue snow. The glass

202 203 jennifer banash hollywoodland chariot, the silver-backed wolves. Her eyes are the silver blades of ice skates, the high, tinny sound of bells ringing. She can smell the heat of this girl’s blood, the viscous exuberance beneath the dense violet cloud of soap and powder. Long, red fingernails extend, sharp as talons. They itch to rip vulnerable, heated flesh. A tight, black vinyl jumpsuit. High black boots and elbow-length gloves. Her expression haughty and disinterested as she tilts her chin high, lips curling into a sneer. And . . . Action! She moves closer to Michelle and without warning, reaches out and pulls the neck of the girl’s t-shirt toward her so that their faces are almost touching. Michelle’s gasp is audible and Sierra knows by the way her blue eyes widen that she isn’t acting. She is really afraid. The Wicked Queen smiles slightly, tilting her head to the side before speaking. “Did you really think,” she says, her voice calm, almost a whisper, “that you would get away with this, Alisa?” “But, Jessica,” Michelle stammers, her voice shaking as hard as her hands, “I didn’t steal anything from the company! You have to know that I wouldn’t do that!” Michelle’s voice is desperate and she exudes the fear of a cornered animal, belly exposed, eyes watering slightly. The Wicked Queen, Sierra thinks excitedly. The Wicked Queen would move in for the kill! Her eyes narrow. She leans even closer so that their lips are almost touching. Michelle’s breathing is fast and ragged. All at once, she releases the pink fabric bunched in her hand and Michelle stumbles backward, one hand to her chest. “I’ll let it go this time,” she says, her voice measured and arctic, “but, just remember.” She pauses for a moment, her face set. “You owe me.” She turns her back on Michelle sharply, and begins to walk away. All at once, she stops suddenly and turns on her heel. The look on Michelle’s face is pure panic as the Wicked Queen starts toward her again. “And Alisa,” she waits. The silence in the room hushed and electric, “I intend to collect.” She turns her back on the girl’s cowering figure and stalks off, her heels clicking on the icy pond, the trees dripping droplets of snow into her hair.

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“Thank you, Jessica,” Michelle says, calling after her receding form, groveling now, “you won’t regret it.” “See that I don’t.” The Wicked Queen’s head whips around and her tone is as lethal as an M-16. Her eyes are fiery enough to burn down Sepulveda Boulevard, cool enough to freeze out even the most jaded hipster drinking latte’s at a sidewalk café, Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness tucked under one slim, tattooed arm. “And, cut!” Darren jumps out of his chair and bounds over, grabbing her by the shoulders. “That’s it! You’ve got it, Sierra. That’s exactly what I want!” His fingers are tight on her shoulders. She can smell the exuberance coming off of his body in sharp waves. She blinks her eyes languidly. It’s like waking up out of a dream you can’t quite remember, snatching at images in the air and coming up empty handed. She feels drugged, her tongue glued to the back of her throat, her gaze unfocused and blurry. She smiles tentatively, and her face feels as if it will crack. Darren’s face is so close that she can see the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, his very pores as he leans in to hug her. She feels completely unreal. “They’re gonna love to hate you, baby!” He releases her, cupping his hands around his mouth, “Hey!” he yells over to his team of black-clad henchmen sitting back behind the table. “I think we’ve got a hit on our hands . . .”

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Eleven

From the very first broadcast of the two-hour pilot, the show is an unqualified success. Bars and coffeehouses host Sunset Tuesdays. The show is projected on large screen TVs, and half-priced well drinks are served. Crowds pack the rooms, singing along with the theme song, and the heat from their cramped bodies necessitates air conditioning— even in winter. Everyone has their own favorite character, but Sierra is the main reason everyone tunes in each week. What will she do next? Tongue snarling, wet with insults, her endless legs falling from miniscule skirts. Blood-red lipstick. Blue eyes reflecting the turquoise waters of the community swimming pool. Her porcelain face filling the screen, knowing, haughty. I see you . . . Her fame skyrockets. She can no longer leave the house alone. Even such simple tasks as going to the mall to window shop are taboo—even the grocery store is off limits. The weekly pleasures of pushing a metal cart, the linoleum squeaking under rubber wheels as she inspects boxes of cereal, blueberries like sapphires beneath her fingers—are gone. Tomatoes pulsing with watery blood. The ripeness of seeds. She’s taken it all for granted, this everyday freedom. She drives her car fast through the twisting roads of Laurel Canyon, one foot pressed hard to the accelerator, hot wind on her face, radio cranked. Gravel spits against the smooth paint. Blooming oleander and bougainvillea. Fuchsia and creamy white against the baked heat and unrelenting sunlight. The scent of hot metal, the chill of the air conditioner as she adjusts the vents with her fingertips. Instead she has supplies delivered. That way she can just stay home, curtains drawn, the living room an icy cave. Bottles of amber- colored scotch. Single-malt. Oranges. Kiwis. After premieres and other drawn-out events—she wants breakfast most. The yellow eggs on white plates, the yolks quivering on the plate are reassuring, they smack of normalcy, familiarity. The glint of a silver fork in her hand.

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Her silk robe, a shroud, a silver veil. A cigarette dangling between two slim fingers, a crystal ashtray gleaming in the sunlight. Her shadow moving behind the white gauze, a thin silhouette outlined for the photographers, their high-tech equipment poised. Those around her complain about the intrusion into their lives. Donald has to adopt elaborate disguises just to leave his house, and Dallas makes her distaste for the situation known each time Sierra refuses to allow her to accompany her to another premiere, or an awards ceremony. “C’mon,” she says, tugging at the sleeve of Sierra’s robe—which is all she wears when she isn’t on the set. “Let’s go out for dinner, have some fun. I could call Steve, get some people together.” Dallas’s voice is almost pleading, desperate, and Sierra is reminded of Alisa and her incessant groveling. She recoils inwardly, coolly raising the cigarette to her parted lips and inhaling deeply. “I can’t be seen with those people anymore, Dallas.” She says, her voice affectless. “It’s not good for my career.” “Those people?” Dallas’s tone is sarcastic, angry, her face reddening. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” The question hangs in the air, deadly, unanswered, until Sierra shrugs it off with one icy shoulder, her face impassive. She turns back to the flickering light of the TV as Dallas stalks out of the room. It’s so hard, she thinks, to see where the Wicked Queen ends and I begin. She doesn’t want to be mean, but she can’t help it. It’s been so long since she’s had a moment to herself to be alone, to simply breathe. The constant scrutiny puts her on edge. She pours a glass of bourbon and leans back into the cushions. She doesn’t want to go out anywhere—it’s too much like working—always being on-camera. It’s safe in the darkened living room, curtains drawn, the silk robe a waterfall against her skin. And, besides, what if he calls? When the show is nominated for an Emmy, Dallas is not invited to the awards dinner, and all hell breaks loose, plates flying. “Don’t you understand?” she screams, her voice coming to a silver point, the eye of the needle. “I can’t, Dallas. I just can’t.”

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The pills have dulled her emotional responses so much that just to feel anything at all takes monumental effort. After this outburst, she spends the entire rest of the day in bed recovering—a cool cloth against her forehead, a glass of scotch in her hand. It is clear that Dallas can no longer live with the media scrutiny, the constant interruption and most of all, Sierra’s diminished affections. Sierra decides to buy a house high in the Hollywood Hills. A fortress of a house. A house where a moat and a drawbridge would not look entirely out of place. The walls fashioned from white stucco scrape the skin of her palms as she surveys the exterior, drawing blood. When she leaves the lawyer’s office, stacks of papers in her hands, ink smudged, she has to lean against the white Corvette for a moment, just breathing. It is the biggest thing she has ever owned, this house, and the responsibility frightens her. She turns the key in the ignition, P.J. Harvey’s sultry, slightly sinister voice growls from the speakers, the hum of fingers on strings: In my glass coffin, I’ll wait . . . The house is the color of chalk, has actual turrets, and a tower room on the third floor. It is completely circular with a stone floor. She imagines it cool under her bare feet—even on the hottest summer days. There will be a canopy bed, a froth of intricate, antique lace the color of sea foam, white mosquito net dangling from the ceiling and heaps of lace pillows. The living room has an elaborate security system already installed. Rows of glittering televisions reflect the empty gaze of cameras placed outside the property. Rapunzel became the most beautiful little girl in the world. When she was twelve the sorceress shut her up in a tower in the middle of the forest. It had no stairs and no door, only a little window right at the top, and when the sorceress wanted to come in she would stand at the foot of the tower and call out: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your hair.” The kitchen shines with stainless steel equipment, glazed terracotta tiles, and a marble-topped island. She can almost see the

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friends she will surely make, their shadows seated around the kitchen table, glasses of sparkling wine in their hands. On the first floor, the house is largely glass on the garden side, offering up sweeping views of the elaborate bed of plants and flowers. Outside: wildflowers, dandelions, and fragile purple violets have run wild, scenting the air with a delicate perfume. The grounds are dominated by manicured hedges, a circle of red and pink roses blooming violently at the center. There is even a dovecote, the chicken wire encasing a pair of white, cooing birds, feathers flapping in the sunlight. Sierra packs up her belongings and hires a moving van. Dallas follows her around the house, her eyes wet and huge as a kicked puppy. “What did I do? What did I do wrong?” she asks again and again, determined to find an answer and break the spell. “Nothing,” Sierra answers. “You did nothing.” Her face softens. She tries to reach out and pull Dallas’s long, lean body toward her, but she is rigid with anger. Trembling. “It’s just time for me to go. That’s all.” Dallas’s face crumples and she runs upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. It will be months before they speak again. Sierra sighs, folding a sky blue cashmere sweater and packing it gently, lovingly, in a cardboard box. She feels terrible and thinks for a moment about following Dallas upstairs and knocking softly on the bedroom door, knuckles grazing the hard wood. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your hair . . .” She would put her arms around her, wiping away the tears matting her tight curls. Maybe they would order in a pizza, watch a movie together curled up on the couch, their feet touching. But if she does she’ll never have the strength to leave. The guilt will be too much. The packing tape sounds like a scream as she pulls it roughly from the roll, covering the seam in each box thoroughly. Due to the incredible popularity of the show and her dalliance with Our Fearless Leader, she is flown to New York to appear on Late Night with David Letterman, Good Morning America, and Oprah. She is sure

208 209 jennifer banash hollywoodland that Oprah, with her sly smile and well-meaning banter, is mocking her with her roundabout questions about the President. She is too tired to care. Whatever she is asked, her answer is always the same. “I’m sorry, but I won’t discuss my personal life.” “I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly; “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” Backstage in the green room, she falls asleep as Donald straightens her hair with a flat iron. She doesn’t know what she would do without him there. His very presence has a sophomoric effect. His hands in her hair are a tonic, a muscle relaxant that unlocks the lumps in her spine. Just to see his impassive, weathered face as he pencils in her eyebrows is infinitely comforting. Her hair reaches her waist now, a silken curtain that floats around her, lighter than air as she moves, trailing behind her like a flag. They have scheduled ten more episodes to be shot in the next month. No one was ready for this kind of success. They don’t even have a full season ready. And the public is hungry for more. The pace is exhausting. Now that she’s famous—really famous—everyone wants a piece of her. She is invited to dinners, black-tie events, premieres. She is on the A-list—finally. And she is simply too exhausted to care. She reaches into her bag for more and more pills each time the plane sets down on the black, oily tarmac. First class. China plates of arranged fruit. Wet melon slices, the shocking lime green of a kiwi. Hard, black seeds stick in her throat like pieces of gravel. “Can I get you another glass of champagne, Miss Sierra?” The jumble of pills cupped in her hands is more beautiful than ripe colors of the tropics. She is holding a rainbow in the center of her palm, a tiny world. The yellow pills are sunlight, vital and warming. The blue discs are the turquoise of ocean waters, the stinging salt spray captured, its essence distilled. The black pills are the deepest hours of midnight, the darkness of the soul at three am. As she boards one plane after another, she thinks of his face. Each time she looks out the small, round windows she wonders

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what the President is doing today and if he ever thinks about her at all. She pictures him seated at his desk, jacket askew, tie loosened, talking animatedly on the telephone with one hand while eating a steak sandwich with the other. He hasn’t called. Why hasn’t he called? Everyone else has: Colin Farrell, Leonardo Dicaprio, Robert Deniro, Jack Nicholson, Matt Damon. She declines all of them. She sighs, popping another canary yellow pill in her mouth under Donald’s watchful, disapproving glare. “Hon,” he says, tentatively, “maybe you’ve taken enough of those for today. Why don’t you try to eat something? You’re wasting away.” And it is true. She has lost a few pounds on this trip. Her ribs stand out in sharp relief against the lushness of her breasts, and her curvaceous body has shrunken to almost boyish proportions. The food has no taste. All the nourishment in the world is contained in the bottles of pills filling her purse. The sparkling glasses of champagne, the golden lightness of bubbles, the rich, burnt amber of bourbon filling a crystal decanter. In the tower, she thinks. Locked in the tower without bread and water. Masses of yellow hair drying on the stone floor. The constant damp. Flaxen braids draped over the windowsill. Prisoner. All at once she is frantically, unreasonably angry. “Just do your job, Donald, OK?” she snarls, pulling her sunglasses over her eyes. “And remember: You’re just the hired help around here. You’re not paid to have an opinion.” Donald’s face visibly tightens, his lips pulling into a straight line as he gets up without a word and moves to another seat.

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Twelve

Shortly after she moves into her new house a package arrives: simple and neat, wrapped in brown paper and tied with white string. A flat, square box, the size of an album cover. The handwriting on the front is messy as a child’s, her name scrawled in black ink. There is no return address, but when she spies the postmark, her heart skips a beat. Washington D.C. She opens the paper carefully with scissors, to preserve it, and folds the coarse brown wrapping in a perfect square, smoothing the creases with her fingers. A face stares up at her from the cover—a perfect, unblemished face drenched in whiteness. Skin the color of clean snow. Blonde hair framing heavy-lidded eyes painted with sparkling white shadow, a darker blue gray in the crease, the upper lids heavily lined in black. The lips are a glossy red-orange, a Hollywood sunset, slightly parted, exposing straight, white teeth. The spine of the book is tight and unbroken. She holds it up to her nose before opening it. It smells delicious, like old libraries and brown paper. The title page is a glossy white with stark, black type: Marilyn: by Norman Mailer. And underneath, in a broad, messy script: Thought you might enjoy this. B. His lone initial, written in his own hand makes her shiver, and she runs her fingers over the letter, tracing the arc of his pen.He remembers! It wasn’t a dream after all! Her mind is spinning. His own hands wrapped the book in brown paper and addressed it. She’s received a gift from the most powerful man in the America—nothing as commonplace as flowers, chocolate, or diamond jewelry, but a personal gift. There is a mystery hidden between its covers that he wants to share, some secret lurking behind the muted color photographs and pages of dense text. She sits down on the staircase and turns the pages slowly, languidly. Except for a bed that was delivered yesterday afternoon, she has no real furniture. Yet the empty house gives her a kind of

212 213 hollywoodland peace—she likes the expanse of bare, white walls, the new paint fresh and creamy. The windows are swathed in eggshell-colored sheets of gauzy fabric that she hung herself, teetering barefoot on a stepladder, a bandanna holding the hair from her face. The honey-toned wood floors fill the space with warmth and endless light—a field of unbroken gold, crushed, autumn leaves underfoot. In her tower bedroom, the mattress on the floor covered in white, lacy sheets has a kind of purity she responds to viscerally. When the sunlight enters the room in the early morning hours, the whiteness seems to pulsate around her, pulling her from the depths of sleep. She doesn’t know a lot about this actress, famous as she is. Of course, she has heard of her. But she’s unsure of the particulars of her life, the arc of her stardom. All she knows is that she was unreasonably beautiful and that she died young. Sometimes, late at night when she can’t sleep, she turns on the TV to find her flawless face filling the screen, her blondeness and kittenish sexuality just as compelling in icy black and white as in heady Technicolor. Her voluptuous body all perfect, coy sexuality mixed with a kind of overwhelming vulnerability. Her breathy, baby voice smacks of old injuries, the insecurities of the soul. There’s something about Monroe that makes Sierra slightly sad, something empty and aching behind those luminous blue eyes. When Donald arrives in the afternoon to prepare her for a talk show appearance, she opens the door, eyes shining. She throws her arms around his slight frame and he almost falls backwards from the force of her exuberance. He is slightly taken back. Displays of affection make him uncomfortable and he responds by patting her back carefully with one hand, as if he is feeding a baby bird rather than hugging a grown woman. He can’t seem to ever stay angry at her—one look at that angelic face and he’s done for. He’s tried to coolly study the effect that she has on him, and winds up each time more confused than ever. She grabs him by the hand, pulling him inside the house. “Look!” she says, holding up the book, her voice breathless with

213 jennifer banash hollywoodland excitement. He places his make-up case down on the floor, taking the heavy volume from her hands, his fingers shuffling the slick pages. “I read this when I was nine,” he muses, turning the book over in his hands. “I wanted to be her.” Sierra rolls her eyes in exasperation and her laugh rings in the empty house like a glass hitting the tile floor. Donald realizes, with a kind of shock, just how long it’s been since he’s heard that sound, since she’s been this happy. No good can come of it, as Sierra’s expectations, he’s learned, have little to do with reality. Immediately his brow is lined with deep creases, and he begins to worry. “No, no,” she says, grabbing the book and opening it to the title page. “Look at this!” Her index finger taps on the inscription, her nails painted a metallic silver. Donald cranes his neck to read it, and bursts out laughing. In fact, he laughs so hard that he has to sit down on the staircase, wiping the tears from his eyes. “What?” she asks, sitting down next to him and shaking his shoulders in frustration, impatience, her tone shrill. “What’s so funny?” She is, at once, angry again, her voice quivering. “Why are you laughing at me?” She is panicked now. “Why is everyone always laughing at me?” The red carpet under her feet, her knees scraping as she hits the ground. Red welts and bruised flesh. The white-hot glare of flashbulbs burning through her. X-ray. The all-seeing eye. The laughter filling the theater. The noise and force of it stunning her. Brain reeling. Plunged into darkness. A kind of nausea. Sweat breaking out on skin, cold, then hot. Tears soiling her dress. I’ll never go to the ball now . . . the fabric wet and stained. The unrelenting glare. Shrinking. The rabbit hole. Spiraling darkness. The glow of white fur. The pocket watch. The gold chain. I’m late, I’m late . . . The prince. His arms pull her up, his face set in anger and disappointment. She shakes her head violently, wanting to be rid of the memory. A sharp taste fills her mouth, bitter as castor oil. Donald catches his breath and looks at her, surprise moving over his features, eyes widening. “Sierra,” he begins. “It’s just that Marilyn and the Pres . . .” His voice trails off as he is taken by another fit of giggles. He wipes his

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eyes with a white linen handkerchief he pulls from his pocket, dabbing delicately at the corners, and attempts to compose himself. “Honey, I’m not laughing at . . .” She turns and runs, leaving Donald standing alone in the foyer, looking on in amazement as she races up the long flight of stairs, the book held tightly to her chest. She turns the lock on her bedroom door and immediately her breathing slows with the relief of it—isolation. There, she thinks with a sigh, that’s better. She moves to the bathroom, the bottles of pills lined up in the medicine cabinet like good soldiers. It is the only unpacking she has done so far, and the neat rows of amber bottles give her a feeling of quiet calm. She reaches for a bottle and taps the contents into her palm, selecting three bright yellow pills, then pouring the rest back. She tosses the pills, round as stones, into the back of her throat, swallowing hard and without water. The drowsiness that comes over her is sudden and slightly violent. The spindle pricking her finger, a drop of rosy blood, the princess falling into a deep, deep sleep. The curse. The curse of the witch overpowering her soft body . . . One moment she’s angrily straightening the sheets of her rumpled bed, the next she is simply lying on it, dazed. With her head lolling on the pillow, fluffed with goose down, her gaze is fixed on the whiteness and purity of the ceiling. A blank canvas, she thinks, drifting off to sleep, her body leaden and heavy, thought as thick as cotton wool. I want to be a blank canvas . . . Later that evening, refreshed—hair braided into a smooth plait, her skin dewy from her toilette—she curls up with the book in bed, resting it on her knees, turning the pages methodically. She is fascinated with the glamour of old Hollywood. Monroe’s little white gloves, the way she holds a handkerchief to her eyes in one poignant photograph, a mob of reporters surrounding her on the courthouse steps, her divorce final. The pearls around her throat—the strands reflecting even more lightness up to her already luminous face. Monroe dancing around a metal pole dressed in a long sweater and black tights, black ballet shoes on her feet. The beach, her short

214 215 jennifer banash hollywoodland hair windswept, a glass of champagne held to her lips, her body wrapped in a heavy, beige fisherman’s sweater, its seductive curves hidden from plain view. Her face starkly beautiful without make-up, the slight freckles across her cheeks, a dusting of cinnamon on white frosting. And then, turning the page, the hair on her body stands on end, a thrill running through her. Monroe cloaked in a stole of fluffy white fur, her flesh-colored dress sparkling with row upon row of rhinestones. A large, silver microphone stands in front of her, mouth open as she leans in to speak. Her lipstick flares under the lights. The caption under the photo reads “Happy Birthday, Mr. President, June, 1968.” The caption under the photo is circled with the same black ink as the inscription on the title page and once again, she traces the path his pen has made with her fingertips. Of course, she thinks. Jackie’s face scowling from the confines of the page makes her blood run cold. The Red Queen, she whispers, her voice echoing off the bare walls. The black dress. Her ready executioners. The silver axe. The rules of the game spinning and changing. Endless. A pack of cards. A croquet game. The red ball and wire hoops in soft grass. Red hearts and black diamonds. The President. A black diamond, his sharp suits. The shadows, the black limousine . . . The final pages. A photograph of a bedroom: white sheets, the bedside table cluttered with bottles, Monroe’s lifeless body stretched out across the bed, one hand reaching for the telephone. Nude. Her skin whiter than the fine cotton of the sheet. Sierra feels a shiver run through her as she stares down at the photographs. The poison apple, she thinks, tears filling her eyes.Its white flesh tempted her, the glowing red peel a kind of promise. Seeds black as malignancy. She brushed the golden strands with a silver comb. Poison. She turns the page. The athlete is at her grave, rose in hand, his face ruined with grief. The glass coffin, she whispers as tears roll down her face, the deep, endless sleep. Red roses on her grave. She wipes her eyes on a corner of the sheet and flips back through the pages to a photograph of Monroe in a fuschia dress, rhinestones at her throat

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and wrists, her arms sheathed in long, pink satin gloves. Her hands are thrown triumphantly above her head, chin tilted high. A pink staircase rises up behind her, lined with a row of tuxedo-clad men. Some hold sparkling jewels in their hands, rhinestones spilling out of their pockets, while others brandish cutouts of giant, red hearts. The caption at the bottom of the page reads, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Monroe’s face is flushed. Victorious. Hit with a flash of inspiration, she reaches for the cordless phone and dials her agent’s office. After the secretary puts her call through she begins to speak, first tentatively, then with gathering momentum. “Hello?” she says, “It’s Sierra. I’ve had the most brilliant idea for my first feature film . . .”

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The pink staircase. Red confetti falling softly onto her hair, her shoulders. A kind of rain. One hand reaches up to her head. This wig feels like straw . . . A fountain of champagne, the sparkling pocketfuls of gems. Diamonds and rubies. A glass eye. Corks flying through the air. A wall of mirrors. She peers closer at the silver surface. Where am I? I must get home before the clock strikes . . . No footpath. The dark wood filled with beasts. The sound of howling. Trees looming. An arc of branches brushing her check. Threatening shadows. The silver cloak, torn and ragged . . . OK, Sierra, try to hit your mark this time. Let’s take it from the top. Blondes, take thirty-seven. Playback, and . . . Action! She opens her mouth, but the words won’t come out. No sound, an intake of breath. The princess had the most beautiful voice in all the land . . . Traded for a gliding gait, acres of white skin under her fingers . . . The music swells, crashing cymbals and the thunder of drums, her arms thrown triumphantly in the air, chin tilted to the sky. And, cut! Print. OK, everyone, moving on to scene two . . .

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The shooting schedule on Blondes lasts for thirty-six weeks, and they are the most excruciating Sierra has ever known. Everyone on the set is shocked at how hard she works, how determined she is to get it right, to be perfect. To be her. And it is this focus that proves to be her undoing, as it is interpreted by many of the crew, including the director himself, as bitchiness, or rudeness. And her reputation as a diva is born. She insists on take after take, never quite sure that any are good enough. She begins to despise her own image projected onto the screen each night. Watching the dailies, she squirms in her seat, rubbing her legs against the red velvet. I’m not good enough, she thinks, biting her lip, turning her head away from the screen to bark at the director seated at the back of the cavernous room, the smoke spiraling up from his cigarette the only indication he is there at all. “Tom? Let’s re-shoot this scene tomorrow. I don’t like my expression on that last line.” The silence in the room is deafening. The film is already over budget, the musical numbers requiring huge, expensive sets swathed in luxurious materials. And now this demand for constant retakes. She stays late at the studio running her lines for the next day, shuffling the worn pages with her fingers. She forces Donald to stay with her in the dressing room, ignores his exhausted face, the skin stretched tightly over his cheeks, the sickly pallor of cottage cheese. After washing the heavy make-up from her face, she settles down in front of the TV with her script, pen in hand, black ink furiously smeared in the margins. Her red lipstick is a permanent stain—no matter how much make-up remover or plain soap and water she uses. Lips the color of blood. She reads the Mailer book from cover to cover before making trips to the local bookstore, her basket piled high with biographies, Monroe’s perfect face staring down from each glossy volume. No matter how hard she wishes, the phone remains curiously silent. When

219 jennifer banash hollywoodland the film comes out, she thinks, studying a pin-up of Marilyn, her nude body cushioned by red velvet, hair streaming out behind her in a shower of reddish gold, then he’ll call. She sleeps with the book under her pillow at night, one hand caressing the smooth paper. During the shooting she becomes obsessed with Monroe’s films, watching them again and again, inches from the glare of the set, effectively mimicking her poses and body language. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. The Seven Year Itch. Niagara. The Misfits. Bus Stop. One night she spends three hours in front of the mirror perfecting the tilt of Monroe’s head in a certain scene, her fingers under her chin. Much like everything else, it is more difficult than it looks. She cries at the end of The Misfits, tears streaming down her face as Rosalyn struggles to release the horses, their bodies contorted beneath the ropes, Monroe’s perfect features wracked with despair and solitary purpose. In The Seven Year Itch, she is only known as “The Girl.” For some reason this makes Sierra sadder than anything else. They already took her name once, she thinks, turning up the volume to better hear Monroe’s breathy whisper. You’re not even important enough to have a name in this picture, she murmurs, her face illuminated by the white light of the TV. You’re a paycheck. You’re disposable. Monroe, in her heyday, was extremely voluptuous. Her weight immense by today’s Hollywood standards, fluctuated anywhere between a size ten and a size fourteen. Sierra, weighing in at a perfect size four, decides to gain a few pounds in lieu of uncomfortable padding. It’ll be more authentic, she thinks, raising a glass of bourbon to her lips. And besides, Hollywood actresses always seem to win awards for putting on weight, or wearing uncomfortable special-effects make-up—like fake noses. She indulges in junk food with unbridled restraint. Cocoa Puff’s for breakfast. Cheeseburgers and fries from In-N-Out Burger for lunch. Gooey slices of pizza for dinner. Handfuls of peanuts and potato chips. Chicken and waffles from Roscoe’s. Tail O’The Pup. Although she eats constantly, her waistline expands slowly, almost reluctantly. In the end she is just slightly more voluptuous than usual,

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her arms rounded and graceful, her ass curving out softly from her waist. An extra handful of flesh circles her stomach. Her thighs are slices of plump, white cake. She has a particular preference for milkshakes, as they are calorie rich, but don’t require the commitment of an entire meal. She usually drinks her first of the day while Donald is perfecting her make-up. The summer has been uncomfortably sticky and humid, and it is a relief to sit in the air conditioned make-up trailer at five am, the sky still silent and dark, a frosty vanilla shake in her hand. It’s like drinking snow, she thinks, her mouth working greedily on the plastic straw. She sings softly along with Monroe’s voice as she gazes into the mirror, watching her face come alive with powder and paint. A kiss on the hand may be quite continental But diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . . When Donald brushes the iridescent powder across her face—the bristles soft on her skin, highlighting her cheekbones—the transformation is complete. Donald stares over her shoulder into the mirror admiring his handiwork. The resemblance is truly startling. “I have goosebumps,” Donald shivers although the room is fairly warm, his slight shoulders shaking. “I feel like she’s in the room with us!” One day, as she is struggling into an elaborate sequined gown, the telephone in her dressing room rings, the tone insistent. She rolls her eyes in exasperation and motions to Donald to pick it up. He is lounging on a red velvet sofa, languidly turning the pages of the latest People magazine—Sierra’s airbrushed visage shining from the cover. The headline in bright, red type is Gentlemen Prefer Sierra! She waves her hands at him furiously. He gets up with a sigh, walks over and picks up the phone. She turns back to the mirror, the wardrobe mistress working behind her is busily attacking the fabric with needle, breaking the thread off with her teeth as she finishes. The pads of her fingers are cold as ice cubes on Sierra’s exposed skin and she shivers, turning around to shoot the dressmaker a withering look. “Sierra,” Donald’s hisses excitedly, one hand clamped over the

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mouth of the receiver. “You might want to take this one.” Annoyed, she picks up the skirt of her dress with a huff, and minces over to the telephone, taking tiny steps in her bare feet. Ever since Sierra read that Monroe’s dresses were often sewn onto her body, she has demanded the same treatment. As a result, her dresses are so tight that she can barely move. The fabric, whether it sequins or lace, appears painted onto her flesh. After she is sewn in for the day, she cannot breathe too deeply as the intake of breath, her body filling with air, lungs expanding, will surely dislodge the careful stitching. She cannot even use the bathroom. As a result, she tries not to drink any fluids on the set and is often dehydrated, her lips dry and cracked. She picks up the phone and speaks into it, her voice stretched thin. “What?” she barks, pushing her hair away from her face. “Please hold for the President.” Again, the same sexless voice, robotic, no inflection. She hears a subtle click, then the sound of an open line, the hiss of wind. The President’s voice fills the line with sudden warmth, the sun moving from behind a dense, white cloud, the heat palpable on her cold skin. “How’s my girl?” She smiles and closes her eyes, hugging the phone to her body with absolute happiness. He remembers! It’s really me that he wants! “Hello, Mr. President.” Her voice is a perfect, breathy imitation of Monroe. Her wit, coupled with the repetition of their first phone conversation, makes him chuckle immediately. His laugh makes her stomach turn over and for a moment, she feels almost queasy with anticipation. She tries to calm herself, motioning frantically for Donald to hand her the purse sitting over on the vanity table. He throws her the soft, leather bag (Gucci), and she digs into the deep interior pocket for her pills as she waits for him to speak. “How’s the movie business, baby?” He sounds genuinely interested. She finds her Valium and pops four into her mouth, gulping hard before answering. She hopes the sound of her swallowing isn’t audible over the phone, and there is a slight hesitation before she

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speaks. “Did I call at a bad time?” He sounds almost worried, and she rushes to speak before he gets the wrong idea. “No, no,” she says, hurriedly, emphatically, “not at all. I was just dressing.” Elegant! she screams to herself, think Jackie, think like a lady. Keep your cool! “Good,” he says, his voice brusque, suddenly all business. “Listen, how about when that thing wraps I meet you out in Hollyweird? Your turf this time.” He chuckles again. Her hands are shaking, and she reaches into her bag for her cigarettes. After fumbling with the lighter, she exhales, blowing smoke across the room. “That would be wonderful,” she says quietly. “I would love to see you again.” She takes another deep drag on her cigarette, waiting for him to answer. She hears the sound of the President’s palm over the receiver, the muffled hum of voices in the background, the sound of pages flipping rapidly. She closes her eyes and waits, thinking, please, please . . . “How about Saturday the 29th? Does that work for you? It’s the only night I’ve got free for a while.” “That would be fantastic!” she gushes, then tries to regain her composure, afraid of how eager she must sound, how desperate. “All right, then. The Chateau Marmont, Ten o’clock? I’ll have someone meet you in the lobby.” “Yes,” she says, turning away from Donald and the assistant and shooting them both a withering glare. She notices that during the course of this brief conversation, they have both moved almost imperceptibly closer to the phone. “Yes, yes. I’ll be there.” “And, Sierra?” he says his tone lower now, more personal. “I miss you, baby.” There is a sharp click and the line goes dead, the dial tone humming in her ear.

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Fourteen

The last three weeks of shooting rush by like a crystal meth binge. Sierra barely remembers the final days, her lines moving woodenly, numbly over her tongue. Her throat is a strip of sandpaper. The endless takes, the unforgiving camera eye. “Sierra, goddammit, what do you need me to do—feed you the lines myself?” She can’t concentrate, and the director becomes more hostile with every repeated mistake. One legendary day, she misses her mark thirty-seven times. She can’t think. She can’t remember her lines. Who am I? she thinks, staring into the mirror and pulling the tender skin of her eyes back, stretching the skin taut. Who am I now? Out of sheer desperation, one of the PA’s scotch tapes the pages of the script to the back of a door on the set, the letters blown up in bold, black type. Even so, she continues to flub her lines disastrously, the words garbled and disjointed in her mouth, causing the nerves of the cast and crew to be stretched razor thin. It borders on comic. It would be hysterical if the crew were in a better mood. The words themselves— all that carefully typed dialogue—are meaningless. All she can see are his blue eyes, his silver hair reflected back at her in the camera lens. This particular director is unmerciful in his treatment of her—both on the set and off—and wastes no time ranting about her performance to the press. “She could be rude, spoiled, and inconsiderate. And she was unprofessional and inconsiderate in her rudeness.” She hates his black, rectangular glasses, his three-hundred dollar haircut, and the fact that the ring tone on his cell phone is the Notorious B.I.G. She thinks he’s a pretentious hack. He thinks she’s a no-talent primadonna. They spend much of the shooting schedule at each other’s throats, until finally, he stops communicating with her at all. He thinks that her desire for perfection, the relentless work on her craft, is laughable. “The trouble with Sierra,” he drawls on 20/20, smirking into the

224 225 hollywoodland camera lens, “is that she actually thinks she’s an actress.” It is almost a relief when he decides to give all his on-set direction to her through one of the production assistants. She doesn’t fare much better with the rest of the cast. Her love interest in the film, a young actor with a hot TV series, is asked in Entertainment Weekly to describe his love scenes with the icy-blonde sex goddess: “Like kissing Hitler,” is his famous response. It is reprinted everywhere. The cast has lost patience with the endless takes that slow down the production, her need to be perfect at whatever the cost. Once upon a time, these comments printed in unforgiving black and white would’ve thrown her into a depression that would’ve lasted for weeks: phone unplugged, pills clutched in the palm of her hand, cases of champagne, her own blurry smile in the mirror, the crash of empty bottles hitting the floor. She can’t turn on the television without seeing her own luminous face staring back at her. She calmly turns off the set and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling, his face imprinted even on the white plaster. She shakes two more pills into her mouth— red ones this time. At the wrap party, she appears in a vintage white lace dress, her hair pulled softly back from her face in icy waves. She smiles and nods, shaking hands and hugging crew members, but her mind is always with him. The Black Diamond, the White Knight . . . The rumors that fly around the backlot are rampant and vicious. The director purposely avoids her and his dislike is palpable. Animosity fills the room with a thick, red haze. He makes a point of circling the room and thanking everyone involved from the key grip to the director of photography, but he never comes within ten feet of her. In fact, he manages to ignore her entirely. The night before the President arrives, she goes to Beauty Bar with Donald to unwind and have a few cocktails. Besides, anything associated with grooming relaxes her, and her stomach is a tight bundle of nerves. “Sierra,” Donald says, his tone slightly horrified, “we’ll be mobbed.”

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“I don’t care,” she snaps, pulling a cap down over her hair, “I’m too nervous to sit around this house.” Her stomach growls insistently, but she can’t eat. The slice of bread she tried to swallow earlier sticks in her throat like a block of concrete, which is fine with her—she wants to take off the weight from Blondes as soon as possible—her white pants are straining at the seams. The bar is decorated in the style of a beauty salon from the 1960s: chrome hair dryers and pink walls. Sierra orders a Cosmopolitan and gets a fuchsia manicure to match. She looks admiringly down at her nails, which are now the same shade as the bright pink liquor she holds in her hands. The scene quickly becomes frantic, crowds circling around their table, pushing in. Sierra begins to feel overwhelmed and thinks about hiring a bodyguard. Kelly and Jack Osbourne introduce themselves, and Jack sits down at their table for a few moments, flirting shamelessly with her. She likes his head of wild, curly hair, and his slight pudginess. She writes the number for her private line on his palm in broad strokes of black pen. Kelly’s hair is as shockingly pink as the drink she holds in her hands, and her eyes are friendly underneath the tangle of bangs falling over one blue eye elaborately lined in black. Sierra signs countless autographs on paper napkins. When those run out, she begins signing breasts, arms, and the pink, creased flesh of naked palms. Out of sheer desperation, the crowd begins handing her bottles of nail polish: ruby red, sugar pink, a violent yellow shade that reminds her of canaries. She signs the glass bottles with a felt-tip marker. Her wrist aches from signing her own name. The letters begin to look strange to her as she repeats them over and over. The crowd swells, and her drink is knocked over into her lap, staining her favorite pair of white pants with potent pink liquid. “Sierra, c’mon!” Donald’s voice is panicked, yelling over the music. He pushes his chair back and grabs her arm. “We’ve got to get you out of here.” They make their way slowly to the entrance of the club, and

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push through the crowd to get to Sierra’s car. Fans actually throw themselves onto the metal hood of the Corvette, and she has to swerve sharply to the left, pulling away from the curb, before they will consider scrambling off. Minutes later, as they are driving down Mulholland, Sierra realizes that they are both, sweating, breathing heavily. She lights a cigarette, then begins to laugh uncontrollably. Donald looks over at her and joins in, his high-pitched giggle melding with her lower, smoke-filled register as they rock together in the metal shell of her car, radio blaring. Long after Donald wipes his eyes and lights one of her cigarettes, exhaling loudly, her laughter continues, the sound of her voice rising higher and higher. Tears are streaming down her cheeks from the effort, moonlight glinting off the clear moisture, her lips glossy and wet. Her frame is shaking under the force of it, her body convulsive. Donald’s eyes widen, suddenly afraid as he turns in his seat to stare at her, one hand on the steering wheel, his touch imparting a steadiness into her wildly trembling hands. Her laugh rises in the air, gaining momentum, her head thrown back. “Stop it!” he cries, turning toward her, shaking her shoulders roughly with both hands. “It’s not funny anymore!” The car swerves violently to the left and the bright lights of an oncoming car blind him momentarily before he grabs the wheel, turning it quickly toward safety. Her foot eases off the accelerator and they drift over to the side of the road, tires crunching on a thick layer of gravel. Donald reaches over and roughly pulls the emergency brake, sweating heavily. Her tears are coming faster now, but at least the awful laughter has stopped. “Who am I?” she moans, her voice ripped and broken, the words tearing at his heart. He feels his stomach flip over. The two martinis he drank at the club rise in his throat, the sour taste of bile thick and nauseating. “Who am I now?” “Please, honey,” he begs softly, whimpering as he pushes her hair back, wet with tears. She cries harder, her eyes staring glassily out the windshield and into the night. “Please, stop.”

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Fifteen

The Chateau Marmont is a Hollywood landmark. It is a place known for secrecy and the keeping of secrets. It is not a well- known celebrity hotel outside of L.A., and for that reason it is capable of providing something for its famous guests that most other hotels cannot—complete privacy. It rises from Sunset Boulevard like a castle in the mist, the white towers and lush gardens hanging over the smog filled city like a mirage. The private bungalows. The whispers. The sounds of crying in the night. The rumors. John Belushi died there. Some say the ghost of Natalie Wood floats through the lobby in the night’s darkest hours, her thin nightdress purely white against her shock of dark hair. Sierra is a little early, so she pulls up to the Bar Marmont for a quick drink before going into the hotel. Bar Marmont is almost as famous as the hotel itself. The long patio is lined with A-list actresses and the men who do their hair. Agents speak loudly into their cell phones, business cards pressed into their damp, waiting hands. Although Sierra is wearing a simple black dress and low pumps, her gaze shaded by a large pair of sunglasses, all eyes follow her as she walks briskly inside. She sits at a stool and orders a bourbon and water. A double. When the bartender absentmindedly begins to pour, his wrist is too loose for her liking. “Hey! That’s enough water!” she snaps, pulling the glass away before he can add any more. His face is impassive, jaded. He shrugs his shoulders and walks away, sitting back behind the bar with a large sigh. She drains the glass in two large swallows, signaling for another. The bartender gets up reluctantly, heavily, and refills her glass. She smirks at him and lights a cigarette, draining the glass again in minutes. She looks down at her watch compulsively. The hands are like quicksand, barely moving. To the obvious annoyance of the bartender, she orders another drink, sipping this time, trying to make the amber liquid last.

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The gilded clock above the reception desk strikes ten as she enters the hotel lobby. Almost immediately, two men rise from the plush sofas and move toward her, their walk purposeful, hair clipped short above their ears. They are dressed exactly the same. Clones. They even look alike. The same dark, short hair and navy blue suits. The same black metal sunglasses shading their eyes. Maybe they don’t even have eyes, she thinks, shivering in the frigid air of the expansive lobby. Just black, empty sockets. Torn and gaping. “Good evening, Miss Sierra. We’re here to escort you to the President.” Their voices are low and modulated, and they speak in unison. The agent to her right looks down and briefly checks his watch. They take her arms on either side and lead her through the lobby and out a glass door before she can say a word. Their grip is tight, authoritative, and she realizes that even if she wanted to break away, she probably couldn’t. As they step outside, she can smell flowers and fruit. The paths leading to the bungalows are lush and green, and the scent of honeysuckle and mimosa hangs heavily in the night air. She very soon came to an open field with a wood on the other side of it: it looked much darker than the last wood, and Alice felt a little timid about going into it. However on second thought, she made up her mind to go on: “ for I certainly won’t go back,” she thought to herself. The full moon glows above: watchful, protective. Its presence is strangely reassuring to her, and she looks up frequently as they walk along the path. The men are completely silent and their grip on her upper arms is like steel. They are taking her to the White Knight. “Black Diamonds and White Knights,” she mutters under her breath, and the men turn to stare at her quizzically before moving on. As they walk, the only sound on the path is the loud clicking of her heels on stones. The men abruptly turn off the path and walk toward a bungalow resting on a green lawn. She breathes in deeply, then begins to cough, her lungs filled with the cloying stench of flowers, the tickle of pollen, golden flakes lodged in her throat. She came to the middle of the forest, where it was darkest of all,

229 jennifer banash hollywoodland and here she found an isolated house. She didn’t like the look of it. It seemed gloomy and sinister. She went in but there was no one there and everything was very silent. A light shines softly and Sierra can hear a slight rustling. There is, surprisingly, music coming from within. Soft jazz is playing, and Sierra can hear the President humming along absentmindedly with the melody, adorably off key. When the door of the bungalow swings open, the room is dark, and Sierra follows the glow of light coming from the bedroom, follows it toward the waiting body of the President. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? she thinks, giggling softly as she moves toward the light, stumbling a little now, all those doubles catching up with her. Of all the strange things that Alice saw on her journey Through the Looking-Glass, this was the one that she always remembered most clearly. Years afterwards she could bring the whole scene back again, as if it had been only yesterday— When she steps into the bedroom, the President is sitting in a large arm chair, a glass of scotch in one hand, eyes closed. He is wearing a crisp, white dress shirt, and a pair of tan pants, the color of doeskin, impossibly soft. He is humming along with the music, one hand hitting the chair in a steady rhythm. His foot, encased in brown leather, taps the rug. The reading lamp beside him bathes his hair and skin in a circle of light and when he looks up at her and smiles, something in her begins to thaw, melting the rug beneath her feet. . . . the mild blue eyes and kindly smile of the Knight—the setting sun gleaming through his hair and shining on his armor in a blaze of light that quite dazzled her—and the black shadows of the forest behind—all this she took in like a picture, listening, in a half-dream, to the melancholy music of the song. The President jumps up, draining his glass in one fluid movement before walking over to her, opening his arms wide. She falls into them heavily, leaning against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. His hands are stroking her hair and he is rocking her slightly back and forth, his weight shifting to each foot.

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“Shhhhh . . .” the President is whispering. They are almost dancing there in the dim light, the thick carpet tangling around her heels. At the touch of his hands on her skin, she begins to cry, silent tears running from her closed eyes down her cheeks. A door inside her has unfastened, swinging open, banging heavily in the wind. She feels turned inside out—all the naked, red pulsing interior stripped away and exposed to the light. She is limp and vulnerable in his arms. He is hope and desire. Acceptance and respect. The fulfillment of her destiny. Safety. The relativity of stars. He releases her suddenly and pulls back, smiling. He is gazing at something just above her head, and she turns around in slow motion, time stretching out, suspending as her body moves. The Secret Service men are still there, standing just inside the doorway, watching, sunglasses covering their eyes, hands folded in front of them. The sight of their wordless voyeurism frightens her, and she begins to back up, her thigh smacking soundly into the glass coffee table, breaking the skin. Tearing it. One of the men swings the door shut with the tips of his fingers. The sound is ominous, even over the loud, disjointed melody of the music. Suddenly a voice called out into the empty house: “Go home, go home my lady bride, This is a house where murderers hide.” She is conscious of the blood running down her leg in a thin stream as she backs up, tripping, her body falling over the bed. The President advances, holding a champagne bottle. The icy rivulets of water dripping from the cold, green glass calm her momentarily, and she can almost feel the liquor bubbling down her throat. The President opens the bottle expertly, and she is dismayed to see that he pours not two glasses—but four. He holds a glass out to her. She stands up and drinks it greedily in one large gulp, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. The President laughs, throwing his head of silver hair back, shoulders shaking. “Baby, how are we going to have a toast if you drink it all right away?”

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She tries to laugh, but nothing comes out. Her face feels paralyzed. “I guess I’m just a little nervous, Mr. President.” Her voice is shaky, and her eyes dart around the room. One of the men turns and locks the door, slowly, purposefully, smiling at her as his hands work the shiny metal locks. The sound of the chain fastening to the door is like a razor blade gliding along the back of her neck. She doesn’t like that smile of his. It reminds her of something bad and nameless: garbage rotting in the disposal, rats in the basement, the black, bloated bodies of bugs. Sewers and disease. The godless crew returned home, dragging another young maiden with them. They were drunk, and paid no heed to her screams and lamentations. The President’s smile grows wider, more reassuring as he searches in his pants pocket, his fingers scrabbling around, restless. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to have a little party. You like to party, don’t you, baby?” She cannot smile back at him. The corners of her lips are set in cement and refuse to turn up. He leans over and pours her another glass of champagne. The men walk over to the bed and gaze down at her. She is surrounded by dark suits and expensive, shiny black shoes. The President pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket and snaps open the top. Sierra notices that the bottle has no label at all—it is just smooth orange plastic. Her leg throbs and she begins to shake violently, uncontrollably. What about the White House lawn? The babies, the black, tasteful dress? The press, cameras snapping shut, the sun above shining down, warming her bare arms, the President’s hands around her waist, caring and protective. Steadying her. Her blonde head tilted back, welcoming the sun, the camera flash stunning her eyes. The President shakes a handful of blue capsules into his hand, throws two into the back of his throat and swallows hard, chasing it then with a gulp of champagne. He then turns and offers the contents of his hand to the men before turning and breaking two capsules into

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Sierra’s drink, the liquid foaming uncontrollably over the sides of the glass. The President smiles again at this, but this time his smile is dry and tight, and when he hands the glass back to her, his eyes are hard. “Drink it.” They gave her some wine to drink, three glasses full, one of white, one of red, and one of yellow, that made her heart burst. She holds the glass, looking into the crazily foaming liquor, happily bubbling over the sides of the glass, and hesitates before raising it to her lips. Her hands are shaking so badly that she spills a bit over the expensive down comforter, the cold liquid dripping over her hand, shocking her with its dampness. The music ends, clicking off, and the room is suddenly bathed in quiet. The President, noticing her hesitation, the still-full glass, grows impatient. He reaches over and pushes the glass up to her lips, his eyes narrowing. “I said, drink it.” His voice is hard and menacing. She opens her mouth and the champagne slides down, powdery granules sticking to her throat, choking her. She pushes the glass away and begins to cough, spasms racking her body until they break off suddenly, only to be replaced by laughter, first soft, then louder, until tears are streaming from her eyes, arms crossed in front of her body, head down. The White Knight, the Black Diamond. Armor shining in the sunlight, the melancholy song. Who will save me now? Where is the white horse, the chariot, the glass-topped carriage? Is this the wrong way through the woods? The path is dank and overgrown, choked with weeds, insects climbing her calves. Coiled snakes hang from trees, the forest polluted. Spoiled. Where is the prince? My wicker basket and red cloak? I’ve lost my way . . . Her head is spinning as the President pushes her back on the bed, colors flashing behind her closed eyes. She feels hands on her legs, nails scraping the tender skin of her calves, and she looks up to see the men removing their jackets, throwing them carelessly on the floor. “They have no eyes,” she mumbles, turning her head from side to side, her hair scraping the blanket. “Mr. President, let me see their eyes . . .” The President is loosening his tie, working the knot from side

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to side, his face set. Her vision blurs, and she blinks frantically, trying to see through the fog that has descended over the room: the furniture, her own face disappearing behind a dense, white cloud. She is flipped over roughly, and she can feel several pairs of hands, fingers probing insistently between her legs, rough calluses and the cool air on her suddenly naked flesh. Then a mumble of voices and a fierce rocking movement. Are we on a ship? The water is so rough this time of year . . . There is a trickle of liquid down her leg, cold on her hot skin, something damp against her thigh. The whir of a machine, motors turning, muffled grunts. Urgency. Hands rhythmically slapping her ass, fingers snarled in her hair, her head pulled violently back and off the bed. Her body a dead thing, eyes squeezed shut. Her mother’s face floats before her closed eyes, hovering against the blackness, rising up ghostly pale. Mom? Mom is that you? Her hands open and close, grasping nothing. The silken fabric is slippery, unyielding under her hands. She tries to speak, but she can only moan, the room tilting and sliding away from her. Then they tore of her pretty clothes, laid her out on a table, hacked her fair body to pieces, and sprinkled them with salt. “Hold her down, goddammit! She’s moving around too much . . .” Her mother holds out her arms, beckoning, and her eyes are moist with tenderness. Is it the Fairy Godmother? Her dress a confection, pink froth, a gold wand shining in her hand. Three wishes, the new dress, the ball. Is it midnight yet? The hands on the great brass clock spinning, turning . . . Sierra struggles to stand, but her legs are wooden, useless, and she slips back, facedown, her speech muffled and weak. Sharlene, its time to come in now, its getting dark. “Coming, Mom!” she yells out into the dimly lit room, her voice echoing, and the man on her back places a meaty palm over her mouth—a hand she immediately bites, teeth closing down with surprising force.

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“My, what big teeth you have!” “Fucking bitch! Jimmy, shut her up.” Something is shoved in her mouth violently, and she gags on soft cotton. The taste of the President’s aftershave is oily and slightly floral on her tongue, coating the inside of her mouth. She moans against the cloth, a strip of whiteness flaring in the dark as her eyes close and she quickly, mercifully spins into blackness, going all the way out.

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Sixteen

When she awakes the next morning, sunlight is streaming through the room and the curtains have been thrown open, letting in the small, chirping sounds of birds, and cool, fresh air. She’s cold, her hair matted and stuck to one cheek. Her head throbs, and when she tries to move, the pain between her legs makes her cry out in the empty room. Her thighs are sticky with dried blood, the skin chafed and stuck together. When she struggles to her knees, she can see that her dress— her simple black dress—so elegant ten hours ago, is ripped to the waist, the material hanging in shreds. Beneath it, she is naked. The fabric is pushed up above her waist, and her legs are bruised. Purple handprints decorate the skin of her calves, her hips. She pulls the tatters of her dress closer, hugging the ripped material to her body. She sits on the side of the bed, head lowered, a wave of sickness rising in her stomach, turning and empty. She takes deep breaths, concentrating on the carpet, the sensation of her bare feet on the floor until the nausea recedes, pulls back. Standing up, the room spins violently and she has to grab onto a chair to keep from falling onto the bed. Every step she takes toward the bathroom is painful, her muscles cramped and aching. The flesh between her legs feels impossibly swollen—huge and burning—and she walks with her thighs as wide apart as possible, wincing with every step. But he didn’t love me . . . She stops on her way to the bathroom and leans havily against the wall. She sinks to her knees, her face in her hands. He didn’t even love me . . . No one will ever love me . . . The tears spill over, hot and fresh, and she hates herself for shedding them. Angrily now, she gets to her feet, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She cleans herself up as best as she can, dressing in a clean pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. She pulls her hair back into a low ponytail. Every movement is a new assault on her flesh. Her hands are rough as she tucks the material of her t-shirt into her jeans, cinching a leather belt tightly around her waist. All this seems to take hours, and

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she is so sore that the pain rips through every step. By the time she is ready to leave the sharp, needling pain has been replaced by a dull ache, her muscles relaxing, acquiescing to the tasks of the day. Maybe there are no fairy tales or happy endings, she thinks, closing the door to the room with a bang. Maybe nothing ever works out. For anyone. In her car, she turns on the radio and lights a cigarette before turning onto Sunset. At home she paces around the empty house, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. She resembles a beautiful but very angry dragon. There are messages on her machine from Donald (Hey Miss Thing, what happened last night? Do call and tell all!) and an angry message from Darren Star (Sierra, this is the third time you’ve failed to show up for a taping. We’re all getting a bit tired of this. Call me immediately). It’s true, she has been largely ignoring Sunset Place. They were scheduled to begin shooting season two last week, but with the President’s impending visit and her work on Blondes, she just couldn’t seem to make it in. Some mornings when the alarm shrieks in the dark quiet of her room, she simply hits it with the palm of her hand and rolls back over. In any case, she no longer cares. All that matters is finding something to quench the rage swelling inside her. Her stomach is a pit of boiling lava, and she pours a glass of bourbon—no ice—to soothe it. She knocks back the shot greedily and reaches for the bottle, drinking straight from it this time, the liquor moving steadily down her throat as she swallows smoothly, easily. She picks up the phone and dials. When she hears Dallas’ silky, sleepy voice on the other end of the line, something in her unfurls, relaxing the tiniest bit. Dallas is late nights on the couch, her warm arms wrapped around Sierra’s body. Safety. When Dallas realizes who it is, her voice turns cold, dropping an octave. The effect is like a door slamming in Sierra’s face, and she exhales loudly, running a hand through her hair and releasing the ponytail. “What do you want, Sierra?” Dallas’s tone is harsh and malicious, but Sierra can hear the hurt beneath it, the obvious desperation. After all, if Dallas didn’t still care about her in some way,

236 237 jennifer banash hollywoodland she wouldn’t want to hurt her. And it is to this small hurt that she speaks, her voice apologetic and plaintive (love me, love me, love me . . .). “I know you’re angry with me,” she starts, trying to keep her tone neutral while blowing smoke across the kitchen, “but I really need a friend right now. If nothing else, I thought we were at least that.” There is a long pause, then the intake of breath as Dallas prepares to speak. “Why don’t you call one of your new friends, Sierra? Maybe they can help you.” Dallas slams the phone down. It rings in Sierra’s ears until the dial tone begins to buzz frantically. She looks at the receiver in her hand—an alien, useless thing—before throwing it across the room where it shatters against the tile. She picks up the bottle of bourbon again, swallowing until it is empty before throwing it across the room where it too explodes on impact, shards of glass mixing with black plastic. She rather likes the color combination of black and white, the way the translucent pieces of glass shine in the relentless sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows, and she drops to her knees in the midst of the wreckage. This is a story about mirrors and fragments. She grinds the soft skin of her palms into the mess, glass piercing her skin, drawing blood. Poppies, she thinks, closing her eyes, the endless sleep of poppies. Blood-red centers, the quiet field in sunlight. She grits her teeth, closing her eyes against the pain, mouth open in silent protest. The pain feels right, somehow, clean and pure. It cuts through the chaos buzzing in her brain, clears a path through the detritus. She can feel glass under her knees, the sharp points sticking into her flesh. When she stands again, the blood runs down her arms and legs in thin rivulets. The sight of her bleeding skin brings a kind of clarity, and a feeling of calm overtakes her. She breathes deep, her pulse slowing as she walks upstairs to the shower, the blood dripping from her torn and stinging limbs, staining the white carpet in the hallway. That night she goes to The Roxy to see Powder. Ninette, the lead singer changes her hair color as often as she changes her

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underwear. Sierra likes her outfits, the in-your-face attitude of the band. Tonight, Ninette’s hair is dyed pink, the brightness of the short strands in direct contrast with her blue latex dress and bile-green heels. A silver crown sits atop her head, and matching silver cuff bracelets squeeze each bicep tightly, her pale flesh constricted by the heavy metal. Sierra wears a wig tonight—a short ebony bob—her eyes elaborately outlined in brilliant blue liner. Silver lipstick. Ripped jeans and a black t-shirt. A D&G jacket thrown over it, a riot of copper zippers adorning the black fabric. She has picked this outfit deliberately, carefully. They’ll never find me under all this . . . She sits at the bar drinking glass after glass of bourbon, swaying drunkenly in time with the music, the cuts on her palms stinging whenever they come in contact with the alcohol she spills frequently. A nest of bees, swarming and buzzing. In spite of the wig and the elaborate make-up, the longer she sits there the more people begin to recognize her. The bartender waves away her money with a wink when she tries to pay him, pushing a scrap of white paper, his digits scrawled in black ink, into her open hand. She crumples the paper in front of him with a sardonic smile, dropping it deliberately on the floor before crushing it under her heel. She shoves her wallet back into her purse, looking around in the beginnings of panic, fear gripping her throat like silent fingers. Can’t they just leave me alone? Can I have no private life at all? The girl in the black latex dress sitting next to her holds out her arm and a fat, black marker for Sierra’s autograph. Her lipstick, the black of day-old blood, shines under the colored lights. She resembles a corpse, her face powdered dead white, the skin coarse and grainy. She should be on a slab somewhere. Sierra shivers before accepting the pen. She signs her name with a flourish of ink around the series of tribal tattoos adorning the girl’s pale flesh. The echo of Ninette’s voice is brash in the room, the sweat on her body turning it slick under the spotlight as she grasps the microphone, swinging it around her head

238 239 jennifer banash hollywoodland with a fierce velocity. How’d I get up here? I always thought I’d end up way down there If only I could stop to even care . . . Fans begin to crowd around her small body, closing in, a black wave smothering her. The music is streaming from the huge speakers on stage and Sierra raises her hands to her ears, blocking out the constant noise, the ringing in her head. White froth fills up the empty space in her brain. Her eyes are wild, confused, and she bends forward on the stool, hands covering her ears, rocking back and forth. The crowd pulls back in horror, and she feels the soft grasp of a hand on her arm. “Don’t touch me!” she snarls, jerking her arm away and raising her head, eyes snapping like rubber bands. A man stands there, clean cut, dressed in a pair of dark jeans , a white, button down shirt covering his muscular chest. He looks like he’s in his early thirties. The white shirt reminds her of the President, and she has to turn her face away, water filling her eyes. She ignores him, sucking at the ice cubes at the bottom of her glass. A shooting pain rips through her head as the ice clinks against her teeth. “Sierra,” he leans close to her ear, shouting over the relentless drone on guitars, “I’m the manager of the club. I can take you to the VIP room, if you’d like.” She nods vigorously and stands up, stumbling over her heels, her body falling into space. She wonders why she didn’t go to the VIP room in the first place.Because you were trying to be normal—remember? She shakes her head, trying to clear the fuzz from her thoughts which are muddled in a sea of alcohol. Her glass is knocked to the floor, shattering on impact, but the sound is muted beneath the music and the high-pitched screams that surround them. He grabs her arms, steadying her, and leads her out of the room. They move slowly through the crush of the crowd, and up a small red staircase near the entrance. Two huge black men stand in back of a velvet rope, arms folded, guarding the passage. Their shaved

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heads have a slightly pink cast in the red light. A halo. Their arms are massive, their dark skin rippling as they move. They lift the rope without a word, and the staircase is so quiet and empty compared with the madhouse back in the bar that she sighs in relief, her body going limp under unfamiliar hands. The VIP room is dark and lit by red light. Models and the men who buy them cocktails lounge on the velvet-covered furniture, limbs bronzed and airbrushed. A beautiful head tilts as she enters the room. Flaxen hair. The scent of creams and perfumes in the air, a rare incense: smoke and sweat, ripe, heated flesh. Whispers behind closed hands, mouths covered. Sierra is walked to the bar where she sits down on the red leather stool with a thud. It takes all her energy to arrange herself on the barstool, legs dangling to the floor. Her scalp itches under the wig, and she scratches at it absentmindedly, screwing up her face in concentration. “Do you want me to call someone for you?” The manager looks worried. He’s probably scared that she’ll fall off the stool and have a seizure. She’s not sure what would be worse for him, the possibility of being sued, or the embarrassment she might cause flopping around on the floor like a fish. She smiles, signaling for a drink and reaching into her purse for a cigarette. “I’m fine,” she says, reaching up and patting his cheek. “Really.” “If you’re sure,” he says, leaning closer and placing one hand on her arm. To steady her? Is she sitting crookedly on the stool? She can’t be sure, as she lost all feeling in her body hours ago. Numb. Her limbs are heavy and dead. She nods, smiling faintly, and turns back to the bar. Her drink has magically appeared in front of her, ice cubes jingling like sleigh bells. She is aware that the room has quieted, its occupants twisting in their chairs to look at her. They are fairly panting with the lust for gossip. Innuendo. They can all go fuck themselves. She doesn’t care anymore. She just wants to drink until she can’t see, the world blurry around the edges, the pain receding into nothingness. Her cell phone rings incessantly from the dark confines of her purse. She switches

240 241 jennifer banash hollywoodland the ringer off before leaning over the bar and throwing the offending machinery into the trash. The bartender looks at her in shock, and then begins to laugh. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a few pills stuck to the bottom, lint covering the yellow orbs. She swallows them anyway, lint and all. She has just closed her eyes, waiting impatiently for oblivion, when she feels another tap on her shoulder. She looks up, bleary eyed, her blue gaze fractured with splinters of red. Her eyes meet the leonine gaze of Dorian Gray. She notices that his eyes are shot through with gold flecks. She wonders why she has never noticed them before—not even up close. The flecks glint under the light, giving him an otherworldly appearance. Alien. All at once she is almost sober, her high diffused. The air rushes from her lungs, and she nervously readjusts her wig with her fingers. Dorian looks over at the profusion of mirrors lining the back wall of the bar. He tilts his chin up, tossing his mane of hair from his face with the precision that comes from nights of staring into reflective glass. This is a story concerned with mirrors and fragments . . . “Hey, princess,” he says, his voice sending shivers down her back. Tonight he is dressed in an impeccably cut pair of black leather pants and a white t-shirt, the word fuck printed across the front in bold, black lettering. “You want to go to a party? This scene is tired.” Dorian checks his reflection in the mirror once again, smiling, pleased with what he finds reflected in the cold surface framed by the multi- colored glass of liquor bottles. Sierra closes her eyes. Snowflakes drift down in the blackness, covering her hair and skin in a drift of sudden whiteness. The mirror of truth, the evil demon, a palace of ice and snow. The Snow Queen, the mirror of reason gleaming beneath her long limbs. Silver robes. A white fox cloak. Dunes of blue snow. Icicles. The cold, dreamless sleep. Eternal oblivion. A shifting snow globe. Cracked light. Even though she knows better, she takes his hand, allowing him to help her down from her stool. She stumbles slightly when her boots hit the ground, and Dorian’s arms close around her suddenly,

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like a vise. She cannot move. Once upon a time there was a wizard who used to take on the shape of a poor man and go from house to house begging and snatch beautiful girls away. A group of young boys stand defiantly behind him, waiting silently for his next move. Dorian looks over at them, throwing his mane of hair back, his gaze cool and measured. “You,” he says, pointing at a young Asian man in his early twenties, maybe even younger, who looks impossibly innocent. His skin is smooth as licked candy. The most touching thing about the boy is his stance, which is overly aggressive, an exaggerated pose of masculinity. He wants so badly to be seen as tough, defiant, but his posturing only makes him look even younger than he really is. Something about it saddens her as she looks at him. How lost everyone is, trying to make a place for themselves in the world at whatever the cost. She turns away as Dorian selects another young man, Hispanic this time, dressed in shredded jeans and a ripped t-shirt, his bronze skin the color of café au lait. His eyes shaded behind mirrored sunglasses, and a small, dark-haired girl, badly dressed—Sierra has seen her hanging around Hollywood Boulevard—a runaway, she is clearly underage and in awe of Dorian. Sierra has seen her begging for change, a paper cup placed in front of her small feet. Her black Converse sneakers are torn and filthy. Her dark hair hangs in dirty tangles around a face as clear and smooth as a china plate. She looks at him with unabashed longing, her eyes brimming with desire. One day he turned up at the house of a man who had three beautiful daughters. He asked for a bite to eat, and when the eldest daughter came out and was going to hand him a piece of bread, he just touched her and she had to jump into his basket. Then he strode quickly away and carried her to his house which stood in the middle of a dark forest. Sierra wants to take her aside and speak to her forcefully, implore her to go home, to go back to high school, to at least call her parents who are probably sick with worry. She can almost see the girl

242 243 jennifer banash walking through a hallway crowded with metallic green lockers, her arms filled with books, Dorian’s name written in sharp, black letters on her binder, the pen scratching sharply into the smooth plastic. She knows this girl has a dog that waits outside her bedroom door, confident of her return, paws under its chin, its sighs heavy each night she fails to appear in the doorway. Her mother probably knits, winding the smooth yarn around her fingers, her gaze unfocused and blurry. She would like to tell this girl, standing there in her dirty sneakers, that she knows all these things, but her tongue is cemented to the back of her throat. She knows that if she tries to speak, the words will come out garbled and unintelligible. So she stands there and does nothing, her chest aching as she lights a cigarette, offering her pack to the girl, who refuses it, pushing it away with what little pride she has left. When he chooses the runaway—pointing one long finger at her budding chest, wordless—her pale face lights up, a bright bulb glowing silently in the dimness of the room, and Sierra has to turn away, her hands suddenly shaking.

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Seventeen

They pile into Dorian’s black Ferrari. The runaway sits on Sierra’s lap as Dorian speeds around corners, sunglasses on, his hands deft on the wheel. He steers with one hand, his head leaning back in quiet confidence. The girl’s bones dig into Sierra’s legs, and though her clothes seem clean enough, she smells like she could use a good scrubbing with lots of hot water and plenty of soap. The music blaring from the speakers drowns out any hope of conversation, so they bob their heads to the rhythm, the hum of the engine buzzing through their skin. Sierra leans her head back, bass thudding in her chest, colors swimming around beneath her closed lids. Swirls of red and purple. She feels vaguely nauseated. Her stomach skips and turns. Dorian’s apartment is arctic, the air conditioner on full blast. She rubs her arms, the skin covered with goose bumps. The colors black and silver, long walls of mirrors like sheets of ice. She runs her fingers down the slick surface, the glass cool beneath her fingertips. She leans closer, her face distorted from the angle, features spread, and stomach churning. She walks toward the darkness of the bedroom. The walls are painted Chinese red, a lacquered, glossy finish. A large bed covered in black satin takes up most of the floor. And then there is the closet. Lengths of chains wrap around the double doors, a huge silver lock glinting under the lights. Is it something he’s keeping in, she wonders, running her hands over the links, or is there something he doesn’t want to get out? She drops the chains as if they were live snakes, the coiled weight of the metal under her hands is greasy and damp. The endless reflections surround them as Dorian moves to the silver bar, mixing drinks with the sure-handedness of a seasoned professional. Cool metallic light. Sierra notices that Dorian cannot resist giving his face a quick glance in the martini shaker as he fills it with jagged pieces of ice and clear liquor, shaking violently. They lounge on Dorian’s leather couch, the runaway seated with her legs crossed on one end, the Hispanic boy on the other. The boy tells Sierra

245 jennifer banash hollywoodland that his name is Zero and, for some reason, she actually believes him. Sierra sits on the floor, her long legs stretched out on the carpet. The Asian boy, who doesn’t seem to speak at all and never removes his sunglasses, sits beside her and stares into space. When Sierra asks the runaway what her name is, the girl rolls her dark eyes with impatience. “What difference does it make?” she intones coolly. “I mean, do you really care? Does anyone?” No one answers her. Dorian moves across the room, his hands filled with martini glasses. At some point, a large, rectangular-shaped mirror appears on the floor. When she looks up, Dorian is smirking at her, one eyebrow raised. “Well?” He pulls a film canister from his pocket and pops the top off, the black disc flying across the room. He pours white powder onto the mirror, tosses her a credit card, his name raised up in black letters. “You go downtown, don’t you, princess?” She nods curtly, running her thumb over the letters imprinted on the hard plastic before bending over the mirror, the edge of the card creating long, straight lines of white powder. Zero gets up and walks over to Dorian’s elaborate stereo system that takes up the better part of one wall, silver knobs glittering. He presses a few buttons and techno music blares from the waist-high speakers. I take total control this jam is dope, it’s straight from the intro . . . As she leans over the mirror, a rolled dollar bill shoved up one nostril, her pulse quickens along with the music. The rush, she is thinking, it’s been so long since I’ve felt the rush . . . It is instant and intense, her head lolling back on her neck. One hand reaches up to wipe her nose, the rolled bill dropping from her hand, fingers loosening dreamily. Her bones are rubber—loose and pliant. Even the air feels different, welcoming her skin in soft waves—cotton candy, spun-sugar clouds mixed with pink light. Everything bobs and floats beneath her closed lids, her body shot into space. All at once she feels an overwhelming wave of gratitude toward Dorian, the fear and unease slipping away like so much water. She smiles and opens her eyes—pupils huge and dark—and with

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surprise she notices that Dorian is also looking at her with something not unlike affection. His features soften momentarily before freezing solid once again, a diamond under a pane of glass. The runaway turns to look at him, her expression quizzical. Jealous. She realizes just how angry she has been, as this is the first time the entire evening that she has felt even remotely calm. In fact, she feels almost coherent. She remembers that she still has the scrap of paper the President pressed into her hand backstage at their first meeting, and she gets up slowly, legs wobbling, and makes her way over to her purse that is sitting quietly on the bar. She handles it gingerly, carefully, as if it is a sleeping child who might wake under the touch of her hands. She pulls the scrap from the dusty bottom, the ink slightly smudged, paper creased. The sight of the President’s messy scrawl ignites the spark of her anger. How dare he, she thinks, brow creased and lips moving, speaking the words aloud. How dare he treat me this way? Doesn’t he know who I am? She holds her purse to her chest and staggers toward the couch, sitting down heavily. “The phone,” she murmurs, “I need to use the phone . . .” Dorian disengages himself from the pile of groping fingers and walks over, grabbing her hands, pulling her to her feet. He leads her across the room and into the bedroom. He closes the door, shutting out the runaway’s loud, indignant protests, and switches on a standing lamp in the corner. He arranges his lean body on the bed with a kind of growl as he stretches, his limbs lengthening to an alarming degree before he turns over on his side, one hand propped beneath his head. He pats the rich satin beside him with a steady beat of his fingers, eyebrow raised. “I’m not going to fuck you, Dorian.” Her speech is slurred, wig tilted, long pieces of platinum hair falling down to her shoulders. Dorian laughs, throwing his head back until the blond curls hit the black satin, pooling there on the reflective surface. Dorian floats in a sea of darkness, the bed one large mirror, a sheet of black ice. Perilous. “I don’t want to fuck you,” he retorts impatiently. “Just sit down

246 247 jennifer banash hollywoodland over here.” He pats the bed again, more slowly this time. She sits down next to him. She can smell his cologne, the scent mixing with the heat of his body: firewood, burning leaves, moss and smoke. The crackle of a lighted match hitting timber, broken twigs, licks of orange and red. The glowing center of a flame. Pure white. Dorian pulls a cell phone from his pocket. The silver square shines in the palm of his hand. A bullet. Silver bullets to kill the wolves . . . She can’t possibly call the President on a cell phone. Can she? She shakes her head. “No,” she says, waving the phone away. “I need a real phone.” Dorian rolls his eyes and turns over, searching behind the bed, his head hidden. After a few moments, he reappears with a black cordless phone in his hand and he pushes it toward her. She hears a sound, a small slithering sound coming from the direction of the closet. A dragging. Something wet. She turns her head to look. The closet doors are locked, chains linked, the room quiet. Maybe it’s the drugs, the lack of sleep, her imagination? When she turns back to face him, Dorian is smiling at his own image reflected in the black satin, arranging a blond curl falling over one shoulder. She grabs the phone and punches in the number slowly, checking the scrap of paper several times as she dials. The line rings on the other end, once, twice, then a sexless voice answers. “Please state your name and the purpose of this call.” Dorian is staring up at the ceiling, both hands behind his head, pretending to be bored. “Can you leave?” she hisses, one hand over the receiver. “I need some privacy.” Dorian’s full red lips widen into a smirk. “Privacy?” he snorts, his tone mocking, “you gave that up when you got into show business. And, besides, you’re in my apartment, you know.” She rolls her eyes and turns away before addressing the voice occupying the line, waiting for her to speak. She can hear the sound of breathing, slow and steady in her ear. “I want to speak to the President. He gave me this number.”

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She pulls off the wig and her hair tumbles loose to her shoulders, the locks sweaty and tangled, pins falling like a hail on black satin. “Please state your purpose.” The voice is pleasant enough, one wouldn’t say it was rude— not exactly—just cold and slightly indifferent. The main problem is that she can’t tell if the sexless, metallic voice is even real. This unnerves her most of all. Could it be a machine? Some kind of automated device? What kind of President would have something like that answering his calls? She tries to run her hand through her hair, but it is so matted she can barely move her fingers through it. “I want to speak to the President!” She is frustrated now, her voice rising in equal parts anger and annoyance. “Please state your name.” “This is Sierra. The President gave me this number personally.” There is a slight pause before the voice speaks again. She thinks that she can hear a slight rustling on the other end of the line. Papers? A book, pages turning. Whatever the sound is, it is so muted that she catches only a glimpse before it fades away completely. “I’m sorry. The President is not available at this time.” “What do you mean not available?” The words burst from her lips, an uncontrollable flow of lava rolling messily downhill, destroying everything in its path. I have reached limits I did not know I had, she thinks before speaking again. “Listen,” she tries again, her voice lower this time, feigning calm. “The President gave me this number so that I could speak to him directly. Now, please put me through, because if you don’t, he will be very angry, I assure you.” She sounds much more confident than she really is, her tone authoritative and clipped. The Wicked Queen, she thinks, blinking her eyes rapidly, tired again, the smack kicking back in, a delayed reaction. She always shows up at the strangest times . . . “I’m sorry. The President wishes no further communication at this time. Thank you for calling the White House.” “Wait a minute!” she screams, jumping to her feet and pacing the room, eyes wild. “You tell him that it’s me—he’ll take the call.”

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There is another slithering sound emanating from behind the locked doors of the closet, a damp dragging, and she moves away from it and over to the other side of the room. Dorian is sitting up in bed, following her with his eyes, his cheeks pink with excitement. On the other end of the phone there is only silence, the almost imperceptible hum of an open line. “He can’t just rape me and get away with it! You tell that bastard that I’ll schedule a press conference and let the whole world in on his dirty little secrets! I’m not just going to go away, you know! I’ll go to the press and—” The line disconnects suddenly, the dial tone ringing in her ear, her voice rising into dead air. She drops the phone to the floor and stalks out of the room past the trio sleeping in the living room, their bodies stretched over the supple leather of the couch, the glow of naked skin, light against dark. Dorian sits where she has left him, his expression pensive. He retrieves the phone from the floor and bends over it, dialing rapidly. The chains on the closet door rattle, the sound almost welcoming, a soft voice imploring her as she leaves the room, its tone seductive, a low whisper. Let me out.

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Telephone Record: 1246 Mulholland Drive

this list is confidential and can only be viewed by authorized personnel with K-8 Level clearance

Sharlene Lee Miller a.k.a Sierra: Recent Activity • 6/3 2:18 am Washington, D.C. • 6/3 2:30 am Washington, D.C. • 6/3 2:41 am Washington, D.C. • 6/4 3.30 pm Hollywood, CA • 6/4 3:45 pm Hollywood, CA • 6/5 1:30 am Washington, D.C. • 6/5 1:42 am Washington, D.C.

Julian Michael Garnes a.k.a Dorian Gray: Recent Activity

• 6/3 1:45 am Washington, D.C. • 6/3 1:55 am Hollywood, CA • 6/3 2:07 am New York, NY

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Eighteen

Two days later, after numerous phone calls to the President’s private line, messages left with secretaries and other automated devices, she schedules a press conference at the Beverly Hilton. “Are you sure you want to talk?” Roz, her press agent asks. Sierra can hear Roz sipping something as she waits for an answer, then the sound of chewing. There is a distinctly audible gulp as she swallows something large and meaty. “Between you and me,” Sierra whispers confidentially into the receiver, “I’m going to blow the lid off this whole thing.” When she hangs up the phone, she feels more in control than she has in a long time. She spends the night before the conference at home, studying her lines for next week’s Sunset Place shoot, which has finally been rescheduled. Darren was beyond pissed, but she finally got him calmed down. “I’ll be better,” she tells him, her voice quiet and girlish. Apologetic. “Cross my heart.” She cleans the house, sweeps up the broken glass still littering the kitchen floor. She’s decided to get her act together: stop the pills, try not to drink so much. Champagne doesn’t count, she tells herself, opening a bottle and settling back against the pillows of her bed, a glass in her hand, script opened across her lap. It’s mostly bubbles anyway. The first few days she is sober seem to drag on and on. Her skin itches incessantly, her long nails raking the flesh of her arms and legs, and there is a strange burning under her skin. Before she switches out the light, she sets her alarm for ten am. She exhales, leaning back under the cool, white sheets. Although she’s polished off most of a bottle of champagne, she can’t sleep and her eyes wander over the room, the contours of the walls and door throwing shadows on the floor, turning ordinary objects sinister, unfamiliar. She squints into the night and listens to the sound of rustling leaves outside her bedroom window. There is a thin, dark figure standing just behind the door, waiting. Her heart beats a little faster as she sits up and then walks

252 253 hollywoodland over to the door, one hand stretched out, eyes screwed shut. Her fingers brush soft material. It’s just a robe, you dope, she scolds herself, shaking her head and exhaling in relief. Go to bed. She pats her robe almost apologetically and returns to the soft mound of pillows, her bare feet padding noiselessly on the carpet. She draws the covers up under her chin, tries to think of angels, billowing clouds, herds of sheep, but her eyes refuse to close and she sighs heavily, turning on her side. Somewhere around 3:20 she falls asleep, her dreams convoluted and strange. Pulsing, amorphous shapes. A boardroom table. Black suits and gold cufflinks. Dark hair covering a tanned forearm. The glint of a gold watch. A spiraling tunnel, her shoes falling from her feet in the spinning darkness. The feeling of vertigo. Freefall. Her body moving faster through the air. Sharp rocks at the bottom of a ravine. The howling of wolves. The glare of teeth in the night. She wakes suddenly, her nightgown bathed in sweat, her hair damp, bangs plastered to her forehead. She pushes them back and sits up, panting and cold. There is a muffled sound of footsteps in the hall. Her pulse races faster, heart skipping beats in a terror that rises up out of her throat, threatening to choke her. Am I still dreaming? The sound grows louder as the footsteps approach her closed bedroom door. The room is completely dark and she blinks rapidly, moving back against the pillows, whimpering, pulling the blankets high above her head, her breath loud and ragged under the cotton sheet. Be quiet, she tells herself sternly. Just be quiet. She tries in vain to slow her breathing, but her heart is hammering in the cage of her chest, knocking against the sharp spokes of her ribs. The door creaks open. She hears a rustling, more footsteps moving closer to the bed. She squeezes her eyes shut, tears leaking out the sides. The covers are violently ripped from her body. She pulls her nightgown over her knees, scrambling back in the bed, trying to see. There is the shock of white light in her face, and she raises a hand to her eyes, momentarily blinded. A flashlight,she thinks, eyes burning, they’ve got a flashlight . . . “Go home, go home my lady bride,

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This is a house where murderers hide.” Strong hands on either side of her body grab onto her arms, lifting her up, her bare feet dragging across the carpet in sudden friction, her toes on fire. She loses her balance completely, ass hitting the floor. They drag her through the doorway, the door jamb smacking her squarely on the forehead as she passes through. Her head stings, and she shakes it from side to side and begins to scream. “This is a den of murderers.” A palm claps over her mouth and then a man’s voice—low—is in her ear. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The beam of the flashlight sweeps over her body and a gag is shoved roughly into her mouth, the fabric tied in a tight knot at the back of her head, pulling her hair. She is dragged down the stairs, the hardwood bruising the tender skin of her knees. At the front door, she is picked up roughly and thrown over the shoulders of one of the men like a sack of laundry. As she is carried out the door she can see that there are definitely two of them. She recognizes the dark suits, the sunglasses, the shiny shoes gleaming in the moonlight. A black Lincoln Towncar waits at the curb, motor running. She is tossed in the backseat, plush upholstery under her cheek. Her legs flap around her loosely, her nightgown ripping at the side seam as she is thrown down. Before she can scramble upright, she hears the automatic locks snap shut and the car doors open and close. The men get into the front seat. The headlights are turned on, her driveway illuminated. “My dear girl, what a place you have strayed to!” The car pulls away from the curb and she begins to scream again, this time through the gag. Her voice rises higher and higher in the black silence of the car, until the man in the passenger seat turns around to face her, his eyes covered by dark lenses. She reaches out frantically, ripping the sunglasses away, only to see empty sockets— torn, ragged holes—a mass of dead tissue. Her screams become frantic; her eyes wide open in fright. She is moaning beneath the sodden gag,

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heavy with the salt of her own tears. “Are you taking me to him? Does my bridegroom live here?” The man reaches over the backseat, plucking the glasses from her hands, then after placing them back on his expressionless face, he curls his fist, punching her cleanly across the jaw. She sinks back into the black interior, her eyes rolling back in her head, and then closing with a flash of red sparks in the night. The canyon flies by in the dark, twisting sharply to the right. Trees hang over the sides of the road, arms extended, beckoning. “It was only a dream . . .” Her body falls across the seats, limp as a rubber doll, her nightgown a flash of white. The rocky cliffs, the scent of jasmine flowers in the air, sweet and cloying. Purple blooms behind her eyelids and her breathing slows. There is a green traffic light and miles of asphalt in the rearview mirror as the car speeds ahead, a trail of white exhaust hanging in its wake.

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Her hands are tied together, the sting of metal on her wrists. Red lines dig into her flesh. She moves her legs back and forth against the sheet, trying to break free. Should we restrain her? We can’t have her falling out of bed again . . . The scent of alcohol, sharp and medicinal. Then the scent of weeds. A kind of rotting. Something wet dragging across her forehead, down the planes of her face, following the contours of one tanned leg, then the other. A rush of wind. The cooing of birds. I hope I remembered to leave food in the dovecote . . . A flapping of wings. Her fingers twitch spasmodically, scratching the sheet, the cotton cool and starched. The faint sound of some kind of music in the air. She tilts her head toward the camera lens, parting her lips and smiling. OK, I’m ready now . . . Did I miss my mark again? There is a light in her eyes growing brighter and she moves from the bed and begins to walk, moving down a dark corridor that smells of dampened leaves and rain, the stone walls beaded with moisture, slick under her hands. She moves slowly, one foot in front of the other, her steps weak and unsteady. The dressing gown is open at the back, her flesh uncovered. I know it’s a small part, but can’t I get a better costume? The light ahead grows brighter still, luminescent, and she begins to run, her bare feet slapping against the hard, wet ground.

256 Nineteen

Her eyes open. The light is blurry as she wakes slowly, her head cloudy, jaw aching. When her vision clears, she is sitting on an aluminum folding chair, her wrists handcuffed together tightly. Long strips of fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Under their glare her skin looks almost green. Tainted. The room is empty and white. Her feet are bare on the cement floor, and she rubs one against the other, trying to warm them. Her eyes squint against the brightness and glare, the pupils dilating. The gag covers her mouth, completely sodden now, the soaked material in sharp contrast to the dryness of her mouth and throat. She’d trade her left arm for a glass of water. She pictures a pitcher of ice water, the tartness of lemon slices floating behind frosted glass. She tries to lick her lips, but can’t get her tongue around the gag. Where am I? Am I dreaming? The door swings open and the men enter, sunglasses covering their eyes once again, wearing their sharply creased dark suits, arms crossed at their chests. They stare with blank eyes, her small, white figure reflected in their opaque lenses. There is a silence in the room broken only by the ticking clock on the wall, its hands moving methodically across the white face. She can hear the rasp of her own wet breathing in her throat. One of the men walks purposely over to the chair and rips the gag from her mouth. She takes deep gasps of fresh air, chest heaving. Her nightgown is torn and damp from sweat, and she wonders just how much of it is transparent. Somehow, the way the men are staring at her in silent contemplation, it seems like the least of her worries. When she speaks, her throat is hoarse, her voice rough with disuse. “What do you want with me anyway? I didn’t do anything! I was sleeping!” Her eyes dart frantically from one man to the other as they stand there silently. If it weren’t for the movement of their chests’ rising and falling, she would swear they were automated, robotic, inhuman. It isn’t a dream at all! Oh, why, then, can’t I wake up!

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They both walk toward her until they are standing directly in front of her chair. Slowly, and in unison, they raise one hand, pulling the sunglasses from their eyes. As the shades come down, Sierra realizes that she is holding her breath. She closes her eyes, picturing the torn sockets, the flesh blackened, ruined. When she opens them again, their faces are unmasked, their eyes shining in the brightness of the room, the flesh tan and healthy, the whites clear and unspoiled as milk. Two pairs of brown eyes stare back at her and she shakes her head in disbelief, her pulse racing in her veins. “How did you do that? You had no eyes, I saw it!” Her words are rushed, fueled by fear and adrenaline. She can feel the sweat breaking out along the back of her neck, her hair growing damp. One of the men turns around, his back toward her, and walks to open the door, sliding his lean body through the doorway. The sound of the silver lock turning in the quiet of the room is impossibly loud. The remaining man stares at her, a slow smile moving over his features, teeth bared. “Say something!” she screams, leaning forward in her chair. He slides his sunglasses back onto the sharp planes of his face, his eyes once again hidden behind dark lenses. When he finally speaks to her, his voice carries no inflection. Emotionless and detached. “You’ve been a busy girl—haven’t you, Sierra?” He pauses, running one hand through his impeccable dark hair, shiny as plastic molded to his head. “You’ve been making phone calls. Quite a lot of them, actually. We don’t think it’s really advisable.” “What are you talking about?” She is screaming now, all vestiges of control lost somewhere in the backseat of that black car, her composure flung out past the window into the bottomless, canyon night. “I don’t know what you mean!” But she does know. They’ve been tapping her phone. She thought that things like this only happened in the movies. Somehow, she’s seen this before: the President’s girlfriend, the scandal, the surveillance. The click on the end of the line, a kind of buzzing. The tapes, meticulously transcribed. A pale earpiece, her voice filling the

258 259 hollywoodland tape, labeled and filed away, stamped in red ink. Confidential. “The phone calls will stop.” He pauses for a moment, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small black pistol which he fingers lovingly, turning the metal over in his hands, smiling faintly. “All of them. Do you understand?” She nods her head mechanically, her gaze glued to the gun in his hands, its hypnotic power. It’s like a cobra. She can’t take her eyes off it. She shudders as the gun is cocked, that hard, metallic sound, and he looks at her in the face once again, his gaze impassive. She looks up at the emptiness in his eyes, the absolute lack of feeling. “I do.” Her voice is trancelike; her eyes motionless, fixed on his eyes, the gun, always the gun in the back of her mind, looming darkly. He leans toward her and bends down, crouching on the floor at her level. He brings the gun up so that it rests next to his own head, then he lowers it, pointing at her chest, and she tries to control her breathing. She feels as if she might just faint dead away—her head is as light as helium. This is no dream! This is really happening! The barrel of the gun is pushed into the soft material of her nightgown. She can feel the cold weight of it against her warm skin, and she shudders on contact. The gun moves in a slow trail against the fabric, rubbing against the skin of her collarbones then down and over one breast, her nipple hardening instantly. He smiles again, and quickly moves the gun up so that it rests against her temple, his face close to her own. She can see the faint droplets of sweat on the smooth, poreless skin of his forehead, the slight stubble on his chin. His breath is warm on her cheeks, and she can smell the slight sting of whiskey. He rests the gun against her temple for what seems like an eternity. The gun is cocked and ready, the steel cold and unyielding. She closes her eyes. The sweat rolls down her back, her nightgown stuck to the chair, her hands useless and cuffed, growing numb under the tightness of the metal restraints. She pictures the sudden blast, her blood smearing the pristine white wall, sharp pieces of skull covering

259 jennifer banash the floor, blood pooling around her ankles. She realizes, at this moment, the cold steel digging into her, just how desperately she wants to live. There is a rush of air as the gun is removed suddenly, a snap as the safety is thrown back on with a sharp, metallic click. She opens one eye to see him placing the gun back into his pocket and straightening his suit. She exhales loudly and begins to sob with relief—her head thrown forward, shoulders shaking, tears covering her knees, cold and exposed in the relentless glare. He advances toward her again, this time quickly, and she pulls back instinctively as his fist suddenly reappears, moving toward her with an ominous, whizzing sound. His hand cuts the air sharply in its approach. There is the meaty sound of flesh connecting with flesh as his fist makes contact with the side of her head. An incredible burst of pain blossoms at her temple, and behind her closed lids there is an expolsion. Red and electric blue petals open as she slides once more into the safety of welcoming darkness.

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Twenty

She wakes the next morning to the insistent ringing of the alarm, bells chiming, and the sunlight streaming in through her open windows draped in white gauze. Her eyes slowly open and the room shifts into focus. The clock beside the bed reads seven am. She is lying in her bed, sheets rumpled, one arm hanging over the side. She sits up carefully, gingerly feeling the side of her head where she was struck the night before. Aside from a slight soreness, there doesn’t appear to be a cut, and although the flesh is slightly tender to the touch, it certainly doesn’t feel as if she has been beaten. Her hand moves under her jaw, but all she feels is the soft pad of skin under her fingers. The absence of pain. “My dear, it was only a dream . . .” She scrambles to her feet and runs to the bathroom mirror, flipping on the lights and pulling her hair back from her temple. Aside from the fact that her hair is matted from sleep, there is nothing but a faint red mark on her skin. The whiteness of her body catches her eye in the mirror and she looks down at her nightgown, so torn and soiled the night before. The gown is pristine, the seams intact, the cutworks of lace adorning the bodice undamaged. I will tell you a dream I had . . . She holds the fabric bunched in her fists, staring in disbelief. It can’t be. How could they manage it? Was it all a dream? But she didn’t take any pills last night, and only one bottle of champagne. She slams the bathroom door closed, kicking out with a bare foot and throwing the lock with one hand. She is clearly going crazy. She sinks to her knees on the bathroom floor, curls up against the sink and begins to cry, her voice reverberating off of the tiles as she rocks back and forth. It’s OK it’s OK it’s OK it’s OK it’s OK . . . Except she knows that it isn’t. Either she’s losing her mind or . . . the alternative is too horrifying to even contemplate. After a while she gets up and walks carefully down the stairs. The house is exactly how she left it the night before—nothing out of

261 place. She opens the front door and steps out into the driveway, the sun violent on her head and shoulders. She squints into the glare and walks barefoot down the drive. The pavement is clean and unmarked. She puts up a hand to shade her eyes from the intrusion of daylight. She looks around, sweeping one side of the property to the other, but everything seems normal, as it should be. There are birds singing in the trees beside the front door, and flowers bloom along the walkway in clusters of violet and white. “This is a house where murderers hide . . .” Just as she’s turning to go back inside, she spots something dark at the end of the drive—a small, black shape. She squints her eyes harder as she approaches, her hands trembling. Her neighbor across the street waves at her from atop his large, green lawnmower. The buzz and whir of the machine is heavy in the air. She raises one hand to wave back, fingers fluttering, then looks down at the pavement. I was walking alone through a forest and finally came to a house with not a living soul in it, but on a wall there was a bird in a cage that called out, “Go home, go home, my lady bride, This is a house where murderers hide.” The cement is marred by a medium-sized black stain. Oil. Something leaking. It wasn’t there yesterday. Her car is brand new and doesn’t have an oil leak. One hand flies up to her lips to cover her mouth as a scream rises in her throat. “My dear, it was only a dream . . .” When she moves her hands up to her face, she catches sight of faint, red marks circling the skin of her wrists. She backs away slowly toward the safety of the house. As she inches closer, she notices that several of her flowerbeds near the door have been trampled, the flowers crushed, their multicolored petals littering the grass. She turns and runs back into the house, the pavement burning the bottoms of her feet. She slams the door behind her, turning the three locks, her heart skipping beats. She runs to the kitchen, picks up the phone, and dials with terrifying speed.

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“Hello, Roz? It’s Sierra. Yes, I know we’re supposed to be there at nine. I want you to call it off. That’s right. Cancel it.” Her voice is frantic and she is aware that she isn’t explaining anything, that she isn’t making sense. She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, peering out the kitchen blinds into the backyard, her eyes darting from one corner of the yard to the other. Before it’s too late. If she doesn’t cancel the press conference, they’ll be back tonight, she’s sure of it. And what will be waiting for her in that white room won’t be nearly so pleasant this time. “Sierra. Be sensible.” Roz speaks to her patiently, a mother chastising a slightly disobedient child. “We scheduled this weeks ago—I can’t cancel at the last minute. It won’t look good.” Sierra hears the sound of Roz lighting a cigarette, the smoke she exhales hitting the receiver. “I don’t give a shit how it looks!” She screams into the silent kitchen, and the birds nested in the trees outside the windows fly off into the blue sky, wings flapping in the wind. “Just do it! I don’t pay you to argue with me, goddammit!” She hangs up the phone, only to have it ring again immediately, the shrill tone filling the room, causing her to jump in fright. She grabs the receiver in annoyance and barks into it. “Roz, dammit, I said cancel it!” There is a sound on the other end of the line, a kind of shifting, and she hears the wet rasp of a throat being cleared, then the low octave of decidedly masculine speech. “Hello, Sierra.” She can’t place the voice but it definitely isn’t Roz. “My dear, it was only a dream.” “Who is this? How did you get this number?” Her heart is beating wildly now, and she speaks severely to herself in the bright kitchen. Just calm down. It’s morning, sunlight, everything is as it should be. Nothing can hurt you in the daylight. The wolves only come out at night . . . “The robbers came home dragging a girl with them. My dear, it was only a dream. Then they pulled off her pretty dress, chopped her fair body in pieces on the table, and sprinkled them with salt . . .” “Did you sleep well, Sierra?” The voice on the other end of

263 jennifer banash the phone is sly and insinuating. She can almost hear him smirking. “If that press conference proceeds as scheduled, you will enter a nightmare that you won’t wake up from. Do you understand?” She nods wordlessly into the phone, soundless. “Good,” he says, his tone clipped. “I thought you might see it our way.” The line clicks then goes dead. She drops the phone and scrambles over to the blinds, snapping them shut violently. They’re watching me, she thinks, desperately, they’re still watching me . . . “My dear, it was only a dream . . .”

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Twenty-One

She is fired fromSunset Place the next day. When she shows up at the set—on time for a change—she is still shaky from the night before. She slept badly, jumping at the slightest noise outside her window. Finally, she gave up—legs folded beneath her, curled in a chair until dawn breaks. She dozes with a blanket thrown across her knees, watching the sun rising higher through the smog, listening to the doves rustling in their little white house. The soft cooing comforts her, and she manages to fall asleep for a few moments, head dipping lower and lower on her chest, before waking suddenly, violently, and running to the warm stream of the shower. There is a strange, hushed quality to the set today. She notices that the crew avoids her eyes as she walks by, waving and smiling in a flash of tanned skin and white teeth. In fact, they seem entirely uneasy in her presence. She feels like she’s stumbled into the wrong house, a parallel universe where no one knows her name. It’s like some old episode of The Twilight Zone. You’re just being paranoid, she tells herself, taking a deep breath. And after the last few days, who could blame you? When she arrives at the door of her dressing room, her name is missing from the door, the star scraped clean from the aging wood. When she questions the crew and the other members of the cast, they won’t meet her eyes. “Talk to Darren,” they mumble, looking away. But Darren is nowhere to be found. In frustration, she walks back to her car and drives all the way home again. In the car, she sits for a moment, forehead resting on the steering wheel. Her blood moves rapidly through her veins in a blaze of adrenaline, and there is a sick, bitter taste in her mouth when she swallows. The light on her answering machine is blinking furiously—red light, bad news. She opens a bottle of champagne and locates her emergency stash of pills hidden behind the cookie jar in the kitchen. What’s the point of quitting now? She swallows three blue pills with a gulp of champagne, and grabs a handful of cookies for good measure

265 before pushing play. First message at 11:10 am: “Sierra, this is Darren Star. Listen, after much careful consideration we’ve decided to replace you. It’s just not working out. We will, of course, pay out your remaining contract in full. I’ll be in touch with your agent.” Click. Beeeeeeeeep. Next message at 12:13 pm: “Hi, Sierra, it’s Roz. I guess you’ve heard the bad news already. Anyway, sorry to add to what must already be a shitty day, but I just got a call from Paramount. They’ve decided to shelve Blondes for a while. No release date is expected in the near future. That’s a direct quote. It’s the damndest thing—I don’t know what’s going on over there, and they were secretive as hell, almost scar—All right! I’ll be there in a second! Listen, I’ve got to go. Call me back when you get in and we’ll talk strategy.” Click. Beeeeeeeep. End of messages. Just as the machine switches off, the phone rings, scaring her out of her skin. She jumps as she presses the button, adrenaline shooting through her chest. Calm yourself down, she scolds herself, pushing her hair back from her face so that it hangs down her back. “Sierra? It’s Roz. Listen, I have more bad news.” There is a long pause, and Sierra can hear her exhaling into the receiver. “You got my message, right?” “Yeah,” Sierra answers lighting a cigarette. “I got it. And it sucks.” “Sierra,” Roz’s voice is grave now, and Sierra doesn’t like the sound of it. Her stomach contracts tightly, then flips over. She grasps the phone tighter between her fingers. “I don’t think this is working out.” Sierra runs a hand through her hair and exhales loudly. “What?” She can’t believe it. Something inside of her has frozen solid. Is this what shock feels like? she wonders. “I don’t think I can continue to represent you.” There is a silence, and in it Sierra can hear the sound of Roz’s breathing mixed with some kind of fear, a hesitation, a slight trembling. She tries to remain calm. She can be reasonable if she really tries. “And why not?” she asks, hard slivers of ice running in her veins.

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“Sierra, you’ve just been fired from Sunset, there’s the lawsuit that Vixen filed against you last week for your uncompleted contract— you still owe them three more films, you know, and now, Blondes has been shelved. Things don’t look too promising right now. Maybe, in the future if things turn around then we can—” “Who put you up to this?” Her voice is a snarl. She is gripping the phone so hard she’s surprised that it hasn’t shattered between her fingers, which are now dead white and hooked as talons. There is a long pause. “Sierra.” Roz’s tone is eminently reasonable, as well as being ever so slightly condescending. “Nobody put me up to anything! You’re being paranoid! I simply think it’s time that we—” “PARANOID? I’m being paranoid? That’s funny, that’s just hilarious. Fuck you, Roz. Just fuck you, OK?” She is breathing hard now, heart pounding against the thin material of the designer hoodie she is wearing. The fact that I paid over two hundred dollars for what is basically a sweat suit is completely ridiculous, she thinks, momentarily distracted. “When I’m on top again you’ll come crawling back—your type always does. Just don’t expect me to take your calls then.” She is practically growling. If she opened her mouth wider, she is sure she would spit fire. “Sierra, you have to be practical. You’ve been paid out for the remainder of your contract on Sunset, but that won’t last forever. You’ve just bought that house. I’m giving you some professional advice here: You need to find another job—quickly.” “And that’s going to be oh-so-easy without an agent, won’t it Roz?” She is livid now, scratching her legs in long, angry strokes with her nails. The red lines that appear under her fingers calm her momentarily as she waits for Roz to speak. “Sierra, I’m sure that someone else will jump to sign you. In fact—” Sierra cuts her off in mid sentence, a noise in her throat like fingers around her neck, squeezing tightly. Strangled.

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“Roz?” she says sweetly, her voice almost demure, “GO FUCK YOURSELF!” She hangs up the phone then slams it down on the kitchen table. The house is silent but for the ticking of the clock, the cooing of the birds outside the kitchen window. She pulls the top off of the pill bottle and shakes a handful into her palm. Why don’t I just take them all? she thinks, staring at the light blue pills in her palm. Nest-like. Warming. They remind her of robin’s eggs. It’s not like anyone would really care. After all, what does she really have anyway? A ruined career, stacks of bills, a huge, partially furnished house she can’t pay for. Possible paranoid delusions, or, God forbid, (she shudders as she thinks it) mental illness. Nobody to love. No work. No career. A huge, partially furnished house. Nobody to love. Bills. Her thoughts repeat themselves in an endless feedback loop and she sinks heavily into a chair. She looks at the pills again and tilts her head back, pushing the handful into her mouth and swallowing hard. Almost immediately she begins to choke. She springs up, runs to the kitchen sink and fills a tall glass with water. The pills sink down into her stomach, landing inside her with a dull thud. She is calmer immediately. There, she thinks, patting her flat stomach. That’s much better. She opens a bottle of champagne expertly and carries the cold, green bottle up to her bedroom. She crawls into bed, taking long, slow sips of the icy liquid, the bubbles tickling her nose, causing her to sneeze rapidly. As the drugs kick in she begins to giggle, turning over on her side, the bottle slipping from her hands, the sound muffled by the thick carpeting. Guess I’ve just become another Hollywood cliché . . . She slips into unconsciousness, fists uncurling slowly. The white room, the silver gleam of handcuffs chafing her wrists. A dark shape looming over her, hands outstretched. She cannot move, the light is blinding, and she tries to close her eyes but they are forced open. The ringing phone, shrill as the cries of wounded birds, insistent. She rolls over, knocking pillows to the floor. No, she thinks, half asleep, I don’t want to dream that. Change

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location. New scene. And . . . Action! The castle, the walls of smooth, white stone. Her gossamer dress floating in the breeze, the soft material caressing the skin of her calves. The fabric is iridescent violet shot through with shimmers of white. Glittering. There is a slight pressure on her head, and she reaches up, patting her mass of silken hair. The crown is a dull gold, the rim bordered with square-cut rubies that seem to wink at her in the light falling through the trees. But diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . . The spinning wheel, the heaps of yellow straw and gold thread. The sharp prick of the needle against the pad of her index finger, the tender skin, drops of red blood on the stone floor. Dripping. She stares at the blood uncomprehendingly and begins to sink to her knees, the hard ground coming up rapidly to meet her, her cheek kissing cold granite.

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Twenty-Two

She wakes to a bright light in her face. “Sierra? Sierra, can you hear me?” The voice is insistent, jarring, and all she wants to do is go back to sleep. When she tries to move, a wave of nausea overtakes her and she has to fall back down onto the pillows, groaning. She has never been so annoyed. All she wants is to sink back down into oblivion, to feel the green, dew-soaked grass under her bare feet, the weight of the golden crown on her head. The light becomes brighter still, shining directly into her eyes. She throws a hand up in front of her face with a low growl. “Sierra, you need to wake up now.” She reaches her hands up, knocking away the light, angry now. Her hands come in contact with hard flesh—a body—and she bats it away as the light recedes. She opens her eyes slowly. The skin of her eyelids is glued together, and she has to blink a few times in rapid succession before she can open them completely. There are two doctors standing over her, a man and a woman. They are both wearing identical white coats and wire-rimmed glasses that glint in the light. The woman has a freshly scrubbed face and looks about twelve. She wonders if they are related. The glare from their coats hurts her eyes, and she squints, then closes her eyes again, sinking back into sleep. The woman reaches out, shaking her arm roughly. “Sierra, you need to stay awake for a few moments while we ask you some questions.” She opens one bloodshot, blue eye, her gaze murderous. “Just let me sleep,” she moans, rolling over and pulling the pillow over her head, muffling the sounds in the room as she falls back into dreamless black oblivion. The medicinal smell of the hospital mixes with the sharp, sour scent of vomit in her hair, her own unwashed body. She pushes her face deeper into the pillow, comforted by the faint smell of bleach and industrial detergents.

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“Dr. Weiss, please call extension 317, Dr. Weiss, 317 . . .” When she wakes again the room is dark, the moon glowing roundly outside the window, the blinds slightly cracked. Her stomach is growling, and she can’t remember when she last ate. She is ravenous. She wants a steak, bloody, with piles of French fries on the side. Salt and grease. A glass of red wine. She can smell cigarette smoke in the room and the cool, fresh scent of flowers. She reaches out in terror, fumbling for the light switch at the side of the bed. Her fingers scramble in the darkness before she hears the low rumble of Donald’s voice. “Here, I’ll do it.” The bedside light switches on, bathing the room in a warm glow. Donald sits at her bedside in an uncomfortable looking chair. He is wearing a pressed, blue dress shirt and tan pants with creases so sharp they could give someone paper cuts. Sierra wonders if he stopped to iron his pants before coming over to the hospital, and the thought makes her giggle softly. There is a vase of calla lilies on the bedside table, their perfume almost too rich and exotic for the tiny room. Waxy blossoms. They make her think of wet, green cemeteries and death. Good flowers for a dead girl, she thinks, then giggles again. Donald looks at her quizzically, one eyebrow raised. Any moment now he’s going to ring for the nurse. She stretches, raising her arms above her head, groaning. She feels stiff, unused. Her throat is sore and her voice comes out as a rasp when she speaks. She puts one hand to her throat in surprise, rubbing it with her fingers. “They had to pump your stomach,” Donald says quietly. “They said that your throat will be sore for a few days.” “Oh,” she says, leaning back against the pillows and smoothing the sheet with her hand. She can hear footsteps in the hall, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. “How long have I been here?” She wrinkles her brow. “Two days—give or take a few hours.” She sits up in bed, genuinely shocked. “Two days?” Donald laughs, smoothing down his hair with one hand, which is predictably

271 jennifer banash hollywoodland perfect. “How did I get here, anyway?” Donald stops laughing and his face turns blank, impassive. “I found you,” he says, and on the last word his voice breaks sharply. She is shocked to see a fat teardrop moving slowly down his cheek before landing on the worn linoleum with a soft plop. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand then looks away, clearing his throat. “Well,” he says, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette, “naturally I was worried when I didn’t hear from you after your little date with you-know-who.” “Don’t talk about that.” Her tone is cold enough to freeze water solid in the humidity of August. She is doing this for his safety more than anything, but he can’t know that. “All right!” he is annoyed now, rolling his eyes and taking a long drag from his cigarette before speaking again. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted.” She smiles. “I hadn’t heard from you, so I decided to come over and check up on you. You wouldn’t answer the door and I stood there like an utter fool for over fifteen minutes, ringing the doorbell with that lawnmower-riding neighbor of yours giving me the evil eye from across the street. You see, your car was in the driveway, so I knew you were home.” He stops for a moment to light another cigarette, exhaling dramatically before continuing. “So I walk over to confront this Neanderthal, and he tells me that he’s just seen you out there, no more than twenty minutes ago. That’s when I started to get a bit concerned.” He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. It is completely full, and she wonders how long he has been here, watching over her as she slept. “So the Neanderthal gets some large, manly tool from his garage and we proceed to break into your house. By the way, the front door is an absolute mess . . .” She smiles again, her facial muscles slightly sore from disuse, and they begin to giggle in unison. “Anyway, we find you upstairs in the bedroom passed out on the floor, covered in blue vomit, which, by the way, is not a good look

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for you—” He stops for a moment and looks directly into her eyes. “You were barely breathing.” His gaze holds her own for minutes without breaking, and she has to look away in shame. He gets up and walks over to the window, opening the blinds and peering out at the night sky, arms crossed over his chest. “So, I called 911 and that’s how you ended up in this luxury penthouse on La Cineaga.” There is a silence, and in it she realizes that she is glad to hear the sound of shoes in the hall and smell the cigarette smoke wafting across the room. She is thankful. She gets up and walks over to him, puts her small arms around his waist and holds on. “Thank you,” she whispers softly, her voice trembling. “Thank you for saving my life.” Donald hugs her back, albeit stiffly, and turns around to face her, playful now. “Anytime, Miss, anytime . . .” His eyes are sparkling with forced merriment and she reaches up and brushes away the last of the tears from his face. She notices for the first time just how exhausted he is. Although she is smiling, her expression is grave, her eyes focused and hard. There is something she needs to say, something she has heard before. The script flashes through her brain, but she doesn’t need it—she knows her lines by heart. She cannot stop herself from speaking. “Promise me something?” she asks, reaching down and grabbing both of his hands tightly in her own. He nods, his eyes filled with intensity, the gravity of the moment passing between them. “If anything should ever happen to me,” she takes a deep breath, looking over his shoulder for a moment to compose herself, “I want you to make me up.” She looks back into his eyes, a watery blue, softly pleading. “I don’t want anyone else touching my face.” Another pause. “You know. After I’m gone.” He laughs, but she can tell from the pained expression crossing his face, that his heart isn’t in it. He snaps his fingers sharply across his body. “Done!” he says, throwing his hand in the air. “Just bring the body back while it’s still warm and I’ll do it!” He walks back over to

272 273 jennifer banash the chair and picks up his jacket. She follows him, grabbing his hands once again and this time her grip is tight, almost frantic. He is frightened by her intensity and tries to back away, but she is holding on too tightly. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Her bare feet are freezing, and she curls her toes ever so slightly. “Donald,” she says, her face so close to his own that she can see the fine webbing of wrinkles around his eyes, “promise me.” There is a long pause where they stare at one another. She can almost feel the emotions passing through Donald’s mind: confusion, regret, concern and, most of all, love. She squeezes his fingers tighter, imploring him to speak. “OK,” he whispers, dropping his eyes to the floor, “I will.” One final squeeze and a pained smile, and she drops his hands. He walks toward the door, rubbing his fingers as he moves. “I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder. Suddenly, he stops, and without turning around asks, “Have you heard about Dorian?” Her heart begins to race. She feels dizzy and sits back down on the bed, hands on her knees. “What about Dorian?” her voice is small, timid and shaking with fear. She is almost afraid to look at him, and when he turns around to face her, his body is framed by shafts of white light from the hall. The light glancing across the top of his head makes him look like an angel, but his face is as blank as a mask, exhausted by the events of the last two days and emptied of all emotion. “He’s dead. They pulled him out of a dumpster on La Brea this morning.”

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ADULT FILM STAR FOUND DEAD

by KELLY KENNEDY Associated Press Writer

HOLLYWOOD, CA—Police discovered the body of porn star Dorian Gray (a.k.a Julian Michael Garnes) early this morning on La Brea Avenue. The police were called after a jogger reported “an arm” hanging out of a nearby dumpster. The body appeared to be dismembered. Gray had been dead for at least twelve hours, according to coroner Robert J. O’Hara. According to a source at the lapd, police searched Gray’s Hollywood apartment where they discovered organic remains of an unknown origin in a locked room. Whether the remains are human or animal is still unknown.

Gray was best known for his roles in such controversial pornographic films as Great Sexpectations, Sinderella, The Erotic life of Tolouse Lautrec, and Hard Times. In a statement issued this morning, fellow actor Ron Jeremy said “It is a huge loss for the adult entertainment industry.”

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Twenty-Three

After Donald’s departure she has trouble falling asleep. She watches the moon through the window, the shadows moving on the walls until her eyes grow heavy and fatigued. A nurse enters around midnight, sliding the silver tip of a needle in her arm. She sighs with relief at the sharp stab as the plunger is pushed down, releasing the sedative into her veins. She closes her eyes and pictures her cells responding to the chemical assault, their red, corpuscle bodies jumping up and down, screaming, “Oh, GOODY!” Even so, she can’t sleep. Each time she closes her eyes Dorian’s face appears out of the blackness, that smug smile, curls framing his tanned face. She is sorry that he is dead, but, most of all, she is afraid for her own life—and for the lives of those around her. Dorian knew lots of seedy people. For once, her inner voice is completely reasonable. It could’ve been anyone. Yeah, she answers back, pulling the sheet higher over her body, but it wasn’t. She turns over and stares at the digital clock on the bedside table. The moon disappears behind a cloud and the room is plunged into darkness. It would be easy to get into a hospital at night, easy to bend over the bed while she is fast asleep, the needle pushing gently into the rough skin of her armpit, or some other undetectable location. The back of her knee, perhaps. The sudden sting. In spite of the tranquilizer, her heart races and she has to concentrate on her breathing to slow it. Calm down. Just calm down. You’re being paranoid. She wants a pill so badly that she is grinding her teeth. She imagines the feeling of sweet release it would bring, her fears sliding away like vanilla ice cream down the rough, abraded tissue of her throat. Somewhere around three am, her eyes finally close for the night, her breathing coming in little puffs, soft and regular. She is jolted out of sleep by the bed sagging, off-kilter. There is a pressure on the side nearest the door, uneven weight, the heat of a body seated next to her. Her eyes snap open and she stares into the dark room, squinting. There is a figure on the bed, sitting in the small

276 277 hollywoodland space near her bent knees. It is too tall and hulking of a shape to be female. She reaches out for the light, her body shaking with fear. “Don’t turn it on, princess.” She recognizes the voice instantly, and her mouth opens in shock. She falls back against the pillows in a daze. It can’t be. It just can’t . . . She leans forward, peering at the dark shape more closely, fascinated. When she speaks, her voice is raspy and guttural, from the tubes, the invasion of snakes and wires on her vocal cords. “Dorian? Is that you?” There is a low laugh, the sound sinister in the dark and moonless room. Then a sudden flash, and Dorian’s face is illuminated, beautiful as ever, his features outlined in piercing white light. Perhaps he is even more beautiful; his skin glows with an otherworldly sheen, his eyes luminous as meteor fragments. Only his face is lit, and she is reminded at once of the Cheshire cat. His head floats in a sea of blackness, suspended from the bulk of his body. He smiles at her knowingly, his teeth white and even as tombstones. “Uh-huh . . .” She is hypnotized by his gaze, the light flickering around him. She leans closer. “What are you doing here?” A pout appears on Dorian’s lips. He sulks—rather ineffectively, she thinks, staring. “Now you’re hurting my feelings, princess.” Dorian’s speech is a slow drawl. “Haven’t you missed me?” A needling. Speech like thumbtacks stuck into skin. She rolls her eyes, smiling. She cannot resist the impulse to be a little cruel. “Hardly, Dorian. It’s only been a day. Nobody misses you yet.” He looks miffed, that smug look creeping back into his eyes, around the corners of his lips. “Actually, it’s been two. You must be losing track of time in here.” He fluffs his hair with long fingers, the curls bouncing around his face. His hands are invisible so all she can see are strands of hair moving like snakes and Dorian’s contented smile as he primps.

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“You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror, princess, would you?” She shakes her head slowly no, mesmerized by Dorian’s head glowing out of the darkness. “Figures.” He stares at her disgustedly, shaking his head in disapproval, clucking his tongue. “Tsk, tsk.” The sound is irritatingly sharp in the quietness of the hospital room. “What good is a starlet without her mirror? Have I taught you nothing?” “Dorian.” Her tone is serious now and slightly frightened. “What happened to you?” He finishes primping, the hair glossy and tamed. He looks at her with something not unlike horror. “Oh, so now I suppose you want to get real with me. Very well, then . . .” But as he speaks, he is distracted by the reflection of his head in the dark window. His voice trails off as he turns his head to the side to inspect the clean lines of his profile. “Dorian, PAY ATTENTION!” Her voice is louder than she intended, reverberating off the stark, white walls. She tries to calm herself before she speaks again. His gaze snaps back into focus and he stares back at her, blinking slowly, cat-like. “I don’t know,” he says, and this time his voice wavers, the fright and confusion clearly evident. “I was at home, making some calls, looking into my mirror. You know, I’ve always liked the way that mirror looks against black satin, the splash of sliver against the dark cloth . . .” His gaze drifts off with his words, and she rolls her eyes, her impatience crackling like dry twigs in the sudden silence. “Anyway,” he focuses once again, his eyes flashing blue in the dark, the whites almost silver, “there was a noise outside the bedroom door, and hands around my neck. Then it was dark.” “But who was it, Dorian? Who came for you?” Her voice is urgent now, and she can see that Dorian is beginning, ever so slowly, to fade. His head is almost transparent, and she can begin to make out the outline of the garish print on the wall behind his head through his skull, blue and silver peeking through the blond waves of his hair. “I told you, I don’t know.” He is getting more irritable by the second, his tone strained, his voice growing softer as he disappears. “But they’ll be coming for you too, don’t worry . . .” His voice fades like

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a pair of bad speakers, wires crossed and filled with static. “I have to go now, princess. I have a facial at four . . .” “Dorian, wait!” She leaps from the bed and jumps to her feet. The voice grows fainter, blending seamlessly into the night. “Ciao, baby. Don’t hate me ‘cause you ain’t me . . .” The door opens, fluorescent light streaming harshly into the room. Sierra is standing next to the bed shaking with adrenaline, her hospital gown stained with sweat. She points toward the window, mouth rapidly opening, then closing. “He was here,” she murmurs, looking back at the nurse who stares at her quizzically, coolly sizing up the situation. “Nurse, he was right here talking to me.” She walks over to the white coat, pulling on the sleeve harshly, the cloth soft from frequent washings. “You believe me, right?” “Sure I do, Sierra. Let’s get you back into bed.” Her voice is as soothing as warm milk or a mother’s cool hand on the brow. Sierra follows her back to the bed and climbs beneath the sheet—docile now—lulled by the lilting, lullaby rhythm of the nurse’s calm voice, the light in the room alleviating the consuming waves of darkness. There is the prick of a needle in her arm, then the fast slide into oblivion, the room spinning away from her. “There, that’s better . . .” The last thing she sees before closing her eyes is the smiling face of the nurse at her bedside, the whites of her eyes shimmering like a beacon in the dark.

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She is released early the next morning. Donald arrives at nine in preparation for the reporters and photographers who will undoubtedly be camped outside the hospital, pushing forward en- masse in the large, red lobby, cameras raised. She is still spooked from last night’s vision and she jumps in her chair each time any loud noise disturbs the silence of the room. “Settle down, hon.” Donald’s voice is low, a warning, so she tries to sit still as he works his magic with a foundation brush, a pot of pale pink blush, and elaborate eyeliner. When he is finished, her eyes are luminous, her cheeks sparkle, radiating the pink glow of health. She checks her face in the mirror, smiling contentedly. She looks a little paler than usual, but otherwise, nothing has changed. She wonders why her fear doesn’t show, her sense of utter dislocation. She shakes her head, trying to clear it as she exits the room. She feels strange and spacey, as if her head is floating somewhere up near the ceiling. It’s the drugs, she thinks, nodding her head. It’s just the drugs . . . As they exit the elevator, Sierra pulls her large, black sunglasses over her eyes, bracing herself for the flashes of light, the manic clicking of the shutter, but the hospital lobby is strangely quiet. The absence of the push and crush of bodies and loud, staccato questions, a microphone shoved into her face, is deafening. When they step outside into the bright sunlight, the pavement in front of the building is practically empty: a few ambulances parked at the curb, old women in wheelchairs waiting for their rides, nurses dressed in white. A man smoking a cigarette, a brown watch cap pulled down over his face. No reporters. No cameras. Sierra looks around the parking lot, mouth open, amazed. She removes her sunglasses. She doesn’t trust her own eyes. She blinks, and then raises her hands to her face, rubbing with her fists, smearing Donald’s perfect eyeliner over her knuckles. Donald has also stopped dead on the pavement, swiveling his head from one side of the lot to the other, a hand shading his eyes. “Weird,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “What do you make of it?”

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“I don’t know,” she answers, her voice a whisper. “But I don’t like it.” They decide to go to lunch somewhere very public. Restore some kind of normalcy to the day. When they pull up in front of The Ivy, Sierra can see through the windows that the restaurant is packed. There is something comforting about The Ivy. Julian, the maitre d’, takes special care of her—fussing and fawning—taking her jacket and speaking to her in low, soft tones. Julian can always be counted on for a complimentary bottle of champagne, or a chilled vodka martini. A special crab dish that the chef has prepared just for her. She appreciates the way he whisks her past the other guests and to her table, pulling the chair out for her, his movements both graceful and efficient. But this time, they stand in the lobby for fifteen minutes while all around them, people are shown to their seats. Julian smiles with rows of brilliant teeth, steering guests toward their chairs. They are so perfectly white they are almost blue in color. She wonders absentmindedly, as he finally comes toward them, just who his dentist is. His hair is neat, gelled back from his face, not a strand out of place. It’s difficult to tell how old he is, but she guesses he’s around forty from the deep lines on his forehead. He should really think about Botox, she thinks, smiling wide as he advances. “Good afternoon,” he says, face impassive. “How can I help you?” Sierra steps forward, flashing her smile and throwing her hair back while simultaneously lowering her sunglasses. It’s an impressive move—one which usually disarms anyone within thirty feet. “Table for two, Julian. We’re starving!” Her voice conveys an easy familiarity, but Julian’s face remains expressionless. Is it her imagination, or does he look slightly uncomfortable? She watches his Adam’s apple move in the tanned flesh of his throat as he swallows loudly. Donald shifts from one foot to the other, hungry and impatient. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a table for you at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to wait at the bar?” His voice is cold and unapologetic, and he seems to have a problem looking her in the eye—his gaze is focused directly at the air

281 jennifer banash hollywoodland above her head. The restaurant is packed, but it’s still the first time she’s been asked to wait in a very long while, and she is more than a little annoyed. After all, he knows who she is. Stars like Sierra don’t wait in line. But she’s hungry and still reeling from her nighttime visitor as well as the weirdness of the morning, so she relents. “Fine,” she says, exasperated and very thirsty. “Whatever. We’ll be at the bar.” She turns and flounces off toward the long, oak bar, sitting down heavily. Heads turn to watch her as she walks, her ass swinging from side to side. She can hear the sound of whispering, muted voices rising from the other tables as she moves through the crowd, the fleshy sounds of women crossing and uncrossing their tanned, bare legs. Ringing cell phones. Stilettos digging into the carpet. The smell of the food wafting from the kitchen is maddening. She is so hungry that she could eat her own arm. The blond bartender is busily mixing martinis at the other end of the bar, and as hard as she tries, she cannot make eye contact. She doesn’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean much, considering that the turnover in Hollywood restaurants is almost as high as in the movie business. Hot today, dead tomorrow. He is wearing a white cotton shirt that contrasts nicely with his tanned skin. He looks impossibly clean, and she decides right then that she hates him. She hates the way he shakes his hair from his eyes with a confident swagger. It reminds her of Dorian. She shivers. It must be thirty below, the air conditioning on full blast. She wants a cigarette badly. Damn The Ivy’s no smoking policy. Damn it all to hell. When he finishes with the silver shaker, Donald raises his hand to wave at the bartender, who looks right through him, sits down behind the bar and opens a thick book. He turns the pages slowly, absentmindedly drinking a glass of water, a cut wedge of lime floating electric green in the clear liquid. “Hey,” Sierra’s voice is loud, even over the clinks of knives and forks, the ambient chatter filling the room. “Are you blind, or what?” The bartender looks up and stares at her coolly, then looks back down

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at his book, licks the tip of his index finger and turns another page. “Hey!” she is yelling now, “I’m talking to you! We need some drinks over here pronto!” She feels dangerously close to losing control. She pushes the hair from her eyes and swivels her head to look at the other patrons, her eyes flashing an unspoken challenge, but they quickly look away, dropping their eyes to the untouched food decorating the white, china plates. “What is wrong with everyone today?” She turns to Donald, her face clenched with annoyance. He shrugs, mystified, sighing loudly and looking around the room for some kind of assistance. There is a sharp tap on her shoulder, and she turns around to see Julian’s unsmiling face, his forehead even more wrinkled than before. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can help you today.” His tone is chilly and perfectly even, his gaze hard, closed off, as if he’s never seen her before. It’s bizarre. She’s come to The Ivy for lunch at least once a month for the last six months. She is starting to feel disoriented again, out of place, the room tilting around her. The last time she was here she was immediately swept through the room to the best table—large, round and dead center. Everyone watched surreptitiously as she sipped her drink, iced vodka stinging her lips, their necks craning as they turned, eyes following the yellow hair streaming down the back of her chair. Agents, producers, starlets. Their whispers were envious, the silence hushed and star struck. She was an electric light, radiating impossible heat. The most beautiful bloom in the garden, her petals streaked with silver and gold. Now, she is soiled, her limbs putrid, petals rotting. Julian stares at her face, tightening his lips in disgust. “What do you mean you can’t help me?” Her voice is a notch louder, brittle and unyielding. She stands up and moves a step toward him, her fists clenched at her sides, lips trembling in rage. Julian takes a step back, looking nervously over his shoulder. As if on cue, two burly men appear at his side, arms crossed over their chests. “Is there a problem here?” The one on the left speaks,

282 283 jennifer banash motioning toward her with his hands. His voice is a deep baritone rumbling in his throat. Muscles bulge through his blue dress shirt and she wonders briefly just how he finds shirts big enough to cover his bulk. He must get them custom made . . . “No, no, no problem.” Donald speaks quickly, embarrassed, his face flushing red. “We were just leaving.” Julian has started to sweat. Tiny, colorless beads appear on his wrinkled forehead. He gestures toward her and she catches the glimpse of a gold tank watch on his wrist, the diamond face glittering. She wonders just who he is sleeping with this month. She steps forward again, mouth open in outrage, hands on her hips. “I am not leaving until I get some answers. Just who do you think you are throwing me out of this dump?” She pushes her index finger sharply into Julian’s chest, pushes out hard, and he stumbles slightly, falling gracelessly backwards. Donald’s voice behind her is tight with anger and irritation. “Sierra, don’t!” The security guards move forward, grabbing her arms and twisting them sharply behind her back as they propel her toward the front door. The glass portal sparkles in the sunlight as they shove her out into the parking lot, the light bright in her face. Donald trails behind, stepping on the backs of her shoes in his haste to get away from the silence of forks and spoons held motionless, eyes glued to their rushed exit, gleeful, grateful for midday drama to break up the monotony. As they exit, cell phones begin to ring, a jangle of tuneless, disjointed music. “Oh my God, did you see that? . . .”

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Twenty-Five

She is as good as dead. No one will return her calls. She leaves countless messages with agents, directors, producers, but her name is met with an icy silence. A cool pause, unseasonably cold, when the secretaries finally stammer, “He’ll get back to you,” in sotto voice. No one ever does. She can’t get a table at a restaurant. When she tries to reserve a table at The Polo Lounge, she is put on hold for an hour. Finally, she hangs up in frustration, the dial tone buzzing rudely in her ear. When she redials, her fingers punching the buttons of her cell determinedly (“Hi, I don’t think you heard me—this is Sierra calling”), the host begins to laugh and laugh, his high-pitched shrieks rising as she pushes the end button and sinks to her knees. She is turned away from both The Viper Room and Prey. “Sorry. We’re full up tonight,” the bouncer smirks, holding up his clipboard with one, black leather clad hand. The humiliation that clings to her is overwhelming, soaking her clothes with the unmistakable stench of failure. Cheese left out in the sun. Rotting slices of melon. Who am I now? she thinks, heels clicking on pavement. Just some washed-up Hollywood has-been. As she walks back to her car, she drops her keys in a puddle. Her freshly manicured hands search the damp as hot tears sting her eyes. When she approaches the Taco Bell drive thru a few days later, she is amazed when they actually hand her the food through the tiny, sliding window. She shoves the tacos in her mouth, shiny with grease, barely tasting them. She is putting on weight. Her jeans are straining at the seams, a roll of fat peeking over the waistband, and her finances are rapidly dwindling. “Well, hon, I’d say you were blackballed.” Donald’s voice is resigned. Matter of fact. Most of all, it is tired. Things have not been working out for him much better lately. It’s guilt by association. Suddenly, he can’t find work. In a town crawling with productions, one of the most celebrated make-up artists is jobless—and soon, homeless if

284 285 jennifer banash hollywoodland things don’t change quickly. “I love you, sweetie,” he mumbles one late night on the phone, sighing heavily. “But I think we better split up for a while. Otherwise I’ll be out on the street.” She can tell from the slightly slurred speech— the languid quality of his voice—that he’s been drinking. Donald, who never drinks to excess, is completely and utterly smashed. “I understand,” she answers, her voice hollow as she grabs her glass of vodka, draining it in one icy swallow. Although she sounds calm, she feels like she is dying inside, and her stomach drops as the words leave his mouth. He’s leaving me. Just like all the rest of them. In the end, everyone’s always the same. When she hangs the phone up she looks around. The space around her bed is piled knee-deep with empty bottles: vodka and champagne, empty prescription vials and takeout containers, greasy and damp, some still filled with food that she’d ordered but forgotten to eat. Flies swarm around the bottles and plates. Her bed smells like a cesspool from the times she wasn’t quite able to make it to the bathroom, her white sheets stained yellow. The very thought of cleaning it up is exhausting. She opens her mouth to call out Maria’s name—it must be Wednesday—before she remembers that she fired the maid a week ago. The phone rings shrilly, and her hand snakes out from beneath the sheet to answer it. “Sierra? This is Ed Barnes.” Her accountant. Something tells her this isn’t exactly a personal call. Accountants never call with good news. In fact, experience has taught her that they rarely call at all. Unless something is wrong. Terribly wrong. “Sorry to have to call with bad news, but financially, things aren’t looking too good here.” There is a pause as he clears his throat. She hears the sound of papers shuffling against one another, the crisp movement of pages turning, sudden whiplash, and she closes her eyes. “You’re three months behind on the mortgage and the bank has notified me that they will begin foreclosure within the next month if the payments are not made in full, plus the penalties.” He is speaking quickly, nervously, and Sierra imagines him sweating into his perfect

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English suit, his tie an elaborate affair of blues and greens. Probably Armani. Somehow, the image makes her laugh, and she slaps one hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. “Sierra?” He is concerned now, questioning. “Are you still with me?” “Yeah,” she says, sitting up, pulling the sheet tighter around her naked body. How long has she been in bed? Her eyes squint, trying to read the numbers on the digital clock. They are blinking a manic 12:00 over and over again, a staccato beat. She turns away, gripping the phone more firmly to her ear. “I’m here.” “Well, unless you get some money coming in soon, you’re going to lose it all.” His manner is brisk now, efficient. He’s cutting to the chase. “You don’t have enough even for basic expenses this month. And the bills coming in are outrageous—what the hell have you been buying? I’ve got bills here from Fred Segal, Dior, Chanel . . .” She closes her eyes and thinks. It all seems so far away now. The hushed carpet under her feet, the muted tones of gray and beige. Salesgirls with elegant French twists, hair the color of caramel, the heavy, silken weight of fabric. Boxes wrapped with ivory ribbon. A whisper of cloth. The pill bottle opening and closing. I may not have anything left, but I can still have this . . . and this . . . Her thoughts murky, waterlogged as a swamp. She breaks in, angry now, “I went shopping! I have to have some new things for auditions. Ed, in case you’ve forgotten, I make a lot of money!” There is a silence. “Not lately Sierra. Not lately you haven’t.” His voice is serious now, grave and without malice. “Fuck you,” she snarls into the receiver, “just fuck you!” She is wild-eyed, sweating into her bedclothes. Oh fuck, she thinks, rocking back and forth. I’m going to lose it all . . . “There’s no need to take that tone with me, Sierra.” Ed’s voice is cold now, frozen with truth. “I’m telling you this for your own good. You’re broke. You don’t even have enough money this month to pay my fee.” He exhales loudly, and his voice softens. “You need to do something about it before it’s too late.” There is a small click as the

286 287 jennifer banash hollywoodland connection is severed, and Sierra throws the phone to the side and begins rocking back and forth, her chest tight and hot. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck . . . The phone rings again and she grabs it with one hand, yelling into the receiver. “What?” A low laugh spreads over the line, seductive as dripping honey, deep and secret. Her stomach turns, and she feels nauseated, dizzy and bloated with secrets. The hair on her arms stands on end as she listens, imagining him somewhere out in the void, one finger twirled around a perfect blond curl as he stares into blackness. “Dorian?” Her voice drops an octave, “is that you?” She realizes that she is shaking again. She reaches over and grabs the vodka bottle, the glass cool and reassuring under her palms, now slick and damp with sweat. The laugh turns into a chuckle, and then the voice changes, becoming startlingly familiar. “Dorian’s long gone—haven’t you heard? You never change, do you, babe?” Steve sounds vaguely amused, as if she’s just told a joke that wasn’t really funny, but he’s decided to laugh anyway. “I just bet that you’re holed up there in the hills, crying into your pillow, probably lying on a few empty bottles. That sound about right?” She shakes her head, nodding, chastised and silent. “Sierra?” “I’m nodding.” She reaches over and lights a cigarette, noticing that the brand she’s bought sometime in the last few days has a white skull and crossbones embossed on its shiny black cover, the word Death spelled out in cryptic, white lettering. She exhales and gets down to business, her voice clipped. “What do you want, Steve?” “I don’t want anything.” There is a silence on the line. She can hear the whoosh of traffic on the streets, the hot wind moving through the speaker. He is in his car, arm hanging out the window, smoking a cigarette, light reflecting off his tanned face. A sunburn—violent, red glare across his nose. Shreds of peeling skin. She closes her eyes. “I just heard you might be in a bit of trouble, and I wanted to

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see if you needed anything.” “Yeah,” she says, snorting, her voice sarcastic. “I need a fucking job. I need money to pay my mortgage so that I don’t lose my house. And on top of everything, I’m getting fat. Can you help with that, Steve?” Another silence. The sounds of traffic grow more pronounced. She can hear blaring horns, then a male voice screaming, fuck you, buddy! “Sierra.” His voice is quieter now, the jocular quality erased. “You know I can’t hire you. I wish to God that I could but—” “Forget it.” Her tone slices cleanly through the discomfort of the conversation like a hatchet. “But I do know someone who might be able to help you.” His speech begins to pick up speed, and in the rush of words she recognizes the Steve she knows so well, always working an angle. “Her name is Alexa. She’s expecting you. I’ll give you the address. Got a pen?” Sierra rolls her eyes and stubs out the cigarette, reaches over to the bedside table and grabs a lipstick, scribbling the numbers on the wall above the bed—a bold graffiti, a killing. “What’s this all about, Steve? I need real options. I don’t have time for your games today.” There is the sound of static, Steve’s voice fading in and out. “Jus—me—whe—“ “Steve?” She shouts into the phone, standing up now, calling into the receiver as if she is shouting across Laurel Canyon. There are coyotes in the canyon at night. Scraps of fur on the roadside. The bones of small animals ground and shattered into a pale dust. She feels nauseated again, and she bends forward at the waist, hugging the phone. Her naked body feels obscene, too visible, so she grabs the sheet, wrapping it around her warm skin. Steve’s voice returns, clear and strong, for one final moment of clarity before static overtakes the line, hissing and sputtering. “Just go and see her, Sierra. And soon.”

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Later that evening, she pulls up to the house, high above the glitter of Hollywood—half hidden behind rows of tall, green shrubs. She drives through an elaborate black gate. Twists of iron decorate the portal, the metal curving and mangled, a sinuous shape—like a spinal deformity. It is dark and the lights twinkle below, spread out before her in a vast, glittering carpet of glass and concrete. The drive ends in a cul-de-sac, and through the open window she can smell the scent of jasmine flowers—their sultry, honeyed perfume. She kills the engine and switches off the headlights. The night is warm and humid, and the palm trees sway lightly in the breeze, moving the scent of flowers and salt-sea through the car’s darkened interior. The house itself is a hulking, two-story affair with graceful columns stretching across the façade. Lights burn in every room but one—on the second floor one room remains dark. There is the faint gleam of candlelight reflected in the darkened windows, the restless movement of shadows flickering on white walls. As she steps from the car and into the night, she is struck by the quiet. No traffic. She can hear insects in the bushes, the faint flapping of wings, the scuttle of leaves blowing across the path, the scampering of small paws on wet grass. No moon follows her as she makes her way toward the house. There is an elaborate fountain in the center of the cul-de-sac: jagged rock and jets of bubbling, blue-lit water. As she walks to the steps, the front door is opened by a man dressed entirely in black, a wireless headset clipped to his ear. His head is shaved and a diamond shimmers enticingly in one ear. Whatever this operation is, it is big enough to employ bouncers. The stone is huge, probably close to three carats, and she wonders if he bought it at Tiffany. He walks toward her, holding out a hand for her to shake. A large diamond ring covers the knuckles, and she can just make out the finely curved script: B-A-R . . . “Hello.” His voice pulses through her body like music. “I’m Barnabus. We’ve been expecting you.” He smiles, parting full lips, his

290 hollywoodland teeth, large and even, glow wildly out from the darkness of his face. His skin is burnished, his forearms and shaved skull gleam rich and textured as oiled mahogany. “Please follow me.” The foyer is vast, decorated in stark tones of white and black. The floor beneath her feet is tiled in a black-and-white checkered design. A curving staircase of cherry wood takes up most of the room, its elaborately carved handrails leading up to a stained glass window hanging at the top of the stairs. The brilliantly colored glass depicts a naked woman atop a white horse, a crown perched on a mass of golden hair. Sierra’s eyes widen in surprise. The girl in the window could be her sister. The entire room looks staged, like it has been designed and lit for a film that was suddenly cancelled, the financing ripped away. Sierra has the uncomfortable feeling that nothing in this house has been changed in a very, very long time. This is a dream place . . . A movie set . . . “That was Alexa. A long time ago.” Barnabus’s voice in her ear startles her, and she jumps at the feel of his breath on her skin. He is leaning closer and in the full light overhead, she notices that his eyes are an other-worldly shade of blue that contrasts sharply with his skin tone. Almost turquoise. Beyond that rich color, his gaze is as flat and empty as a pile of rocks—finely ground, gray dust. Is he real? Is this really happening? Her brain feels fuzzy, clogged with static. She reaches down and surreptitiously grabs the skin of her wrist between the thumb and forefinger, pinching hard, digging her nails in. Her eyes water under this assault, and her heart begins to beat rapidly. She takes a small step back, her fingertips dotted with flecks of blood. She forces herself to remain calm, to speak. “Who’s Alexa?” He turns abruptly, his shoes shining against the tiles, and begins to walk again, one hand to his ear, listening intently to whatever is being broadcasted into the secret space of his skull. He stops suddenly, looks down at her fingers and begins to smile. “My employer,” he calls over one shoulder, “the owner of this house.”

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She is led up the long staircase, carpeted in a dark red velvet, and into a long, dim corridor hung with brass sconces. Light bounces off the crystal drops that hang like snowflakes from the brass arms. The walls are pained a deep red to match the carpet. She feels as if she is moving through a long, dark tunnel. She reaches out, caressing the crystal drops. They chime together, a harmony of bells, the shrill sound of glass hitting glass. She remembers a film she once saw on late night TV, a French version of Beauty and the Beast. Even though it had subtitles, she stayed up until three watching it, enchanted by the costumes, the sets, the story itself. In the film, the Beast’s castle was lit by sconces made from human hands—long, outstretched fingers illuminated with light. She realizes that she’s beginning to sweat, her forehead suddenly damp. The house is very warm, and she’s glad that she wore a simple white sundress and heels. At the end of the corridor, Barnabus raps with his knuckles on a heavy wooden door. It creaks open with the touch of his hand. “Come in.” The voice is gritty and warm, toast spread with honey and gravel. Scratchy. Barnabus steps back so that she can enter the room first. When she turns to thank him, the door swings shut with a smile and a whiff of citrus. The room is as dimly lit as the hallway, and as her eyes adjust to the light, she realizes that she is standing in one of the most sumptuous bedrooms she has ever seen. Swaths of velvet drapery frame wide windows. Tarnished silver candelabras squat atop the mahogany dresser. The bedside table is adorned with flickering, red tapers, wax oozing slowly down the sides. The hardwood floor is strewn with oriental rugs, colors quietly faded. Large oil paintings of female nudes hang from the white walls, hair twisting in the wind, their fresh, pink skin glowing in the lamplight. A canopy covers the four posts of the ornate, wooden bed. If she were to reach out and stroke it, the wood would feel slick and twisted under her hands. The satin coverlet is strewn with pillows of all sizes and shapes. Velvet and lace ribbons in shades of pink,

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burnished reds, and silks the color of coffee grounds adorn the sumptuous pillows. The canopy itself is a froth of red fabric, shining softly in the candlelight. A woman lies in the bed, her ample body covered by a silken peignoir, a slice of the night sky so black it glows with a faint, blue sheen. Sierra can tell that, whoever she is, this woman must’ve been gorgeous when she was young. Now, rolls of flesh bulge through the delicate satin and lace edging of the gown, causing a rippled effect. Her blond hair is pinned to the top of her head—carefully arranged curls framing a round, bloated face caked with powder and paint. Although the light is dim, as Sierra steps closer she can see that the woman is wearing false eyelashes and elaborate black liner. Her lips glow like hot coals, her small feet stuffed into a pair of black marabou mules. They resemble tightly packed sausages, the flesh bulging obscenely around the ankles. But, in spite of these excesses— maybe because of them—the effect is not entirely unpleasant. Sierra would like to put her head in this woman’s lap, bury her face in her ample folds of welcoming flesh and sleep forever. She is so very tired all of a sudden. “Welcome, my dear. I’ve been expecting you.” There is something buried in her accent. It could almost pass for American if it weren’t for the slight undertones of Eastern Europe muddying her speech. A succession of clipped vowels. The Red Queen. A chariot driven by black horses, diamond bridles reflecting the light of the snow. Mounds of fox fur draping the red velvet interior. White and silver-gray. Wolf eyes. The frozen hills. Rivers of vodka. The moon hanging in the black night. Starless . . . The woman pats the bed lightly with one small, plump hand, the fingers glittering with rings. As Sierra steps closer, sinking into the scent of rose petals, the waxy grease of cosmetics, she feels drowsy, drugged. She sits down beneath the canopy. The bed is impossibly soft. She can feel the heat of this woman’s body radiating out onto the bed. She smiles, revealing tiny, pearl-white teeth. She picks up a long, black cigarette holder, fitting a gold-tipped cigarette into the end. She lights

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the tip with a gold lighter plucked from the bedside table—its oiled, wooden surface heavily piled with magazines, an address book tufted in white satin, and a box of Godiva chocolates—half empty. “I’m Alexa.” Sierra holds out her hand and the woman grabs it, delicately moving her wrist up and down, her fingers cool and slightly damp to the touch. “I’m Sierra.” “I know perfectly well who you are, my dear. As I said before, I’ve been expecting you.” Alexa smiles without showing her teeth, her lips a glossy pink. “Where do you come from?” said the Red Queen. “And where are you going? Look up, speak nicely, and don’t twiddle you fingers all the time.” “Did Steve tell you I was coming?” Sierra releases her hand, gathering her hair and nervously pulling it behind her ears. She stares at Alexa who simply lies there, quietly smoking, a dense white fog enveloping her features. When she speaks, her voice is affectless. “Everyone ends up here—sooner or later.” There is a silence. Sierra can hear the clock on the bedside table, the scent of rich tobacco filling her nostrils. She wants a cigarette badly. Alexa switches on a light hanging inside the canopy and reaches for a white Powerbook buried under the pillows. The light from the screen bathes her face in a blue glow. The machine hums slightly and the room is quiet but for the sound of Alexa’s long, red nails tapping the keys. “Now,” she says, her voice crisp, looking over the screen, “when would you like to begin?” “What exactly,” Sierra asks tentatively, trying not to offend or enrage, “would I be doing?” Alexa closes the computer with a tight snap and stares, her expression incredulous. “Didn’t Steve tell you?”

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Sierra shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me anything.” Alexa rolls her eyes violently and lets out a huge sigh of exasperation. “You can be the White Queen’s pawn if you like . . .” “That’s just so typical of him.” She dangles her short legs off the side of the bed then lowers them gingerly to the floor. After much moaning and groaning, she rises to her feet, wobbling unsteadily, her large bulk teetering atop sliver-thin heels. She raises her arms above her head, diamonds flashing in the light. “Follow me,” she snaps, walking slowly to the door of the bedroom, “I’ll give you the goddamn grand tour.” Alice never could quite make out, in thinking it over afterwards, how it was that they began: all she remembers is, that they were running hand in hand, and the Queen went so fast that it was all she could do to keep up with her. Sierra stands awkwardly in the center of the room, arms folded at her waist, eyes sweeping the room uncertainly. Alexa turns and looks back from the doorway. Her satin-draped bulk fills it entirely, cutting off the light from the hallway. “Well, come on already! What are you waiting for? A written invitation?” She shakes her head, mumbling to herself as Sierra scampers along behind, straining to catch up as the bedroom door swings shut.

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She is wandering the shifting contours of the mirrored house. The corridors twist, maze-like, colors shifting from rose to deep red. Hello? Her voice echoes through the empty rooms, the ceiling hung with crystal chandeliers, brass arms winking in the light. Hello? The sound of the ticking clock follows her as she runs down the staircase, her long gown trailing out behind her, lifting at the ankles. Is it midnight already? It must be time to leave the castle . . . Lightning in the windows, a blaze of heat. A shudder of thunder rocks the building, and the ground shakes. Take two: She enters the viewing room, bare feet cold on the tile floor. A dark figure ringed in smoke, heel tapping the carpet, lush and crimson underfoot . . . Are you the dark prince? The clock chimes in quick succession, bells filling the room. Candle wax and camellia scent. Hothouse roses. Tanned legs and black lingerie. A flickering projector. The wall bathed in light. Lace ribbons, the satin tied at her throat. A binding. The velvet chaise lounge. Naked toes, the nails cherry red. A row of rubies. The figure gets up, moving slowly toward her, floating on a carpet of smoke, its body enveloped in opaque, white haze. Where is my glass chariot? And the six white horses? The room begins to spin violently, a whirl of color and light. It’s fast . . . It’s all moving too fast! Her face hits the carpet, a pool of blood, the stench of rose petals, then blackness. The pungent smell of earthy decay. Rotting vines. Fade out.

296 Twenty-Seven

How would you like to live in the Looking-glass House? Alexa walks briskly, leading her down the stairs and into a vast, open room stuffed with plush couches, lit from above by a brass chandelier. A kind of haze hangs over the room, and the figures seem to float in the expansive space, limbs weightless, the crush of bodies almost transparent. Mirrors in ornate, gold frames reflect her bewildered expression. She is seduced by the soft music piped in from invisible speakers, a slow R&B track, bass pumping. Her feet are soundless atop the plush rugs. There is a large mahogany bar at the far end of the room, half hidden by a series of chrome barstools. The room is strangely seductive, and she feels a magnetic pull, dragging her in further. All at once, she is filled with the desire to kick off her heels and sink down into the velvet sofa, its luxurious cushions cradling the curve of her spine. The first thing Sierra notices is a group of girls sitting atop the barstools, long legs dangling. They are each wearing an elaborate evening dress, jewels flashing at their ears and throat. The room smells of the peculiar, potent mix of heavy perfumes, the scent of incense and shadows, and the green sharpness of new money. Another set of girls lounge on velvet sofas, talking into cell phones and passing around nail files and bottles of red polish. At the back of the room two men and a woman are seated around a low coffee table, immersed in a game of cards. “Come,” Alexa barks with a snap of her lacquered nails, “and meet the rest of the gang.” They are drinking champagne from tall, crystal flutes, their manicured hands wrapped around the delicate stems. She is led down the line, each girl extending one slender hand for her to shake. This is the glass house, the Looking-glass House . . . “Hello,” the first in line intones politely, a faint Midwestern twang ingrained in her speech, a certain nasal flatness, “I’m Dorothy Stratten.” She is a tall, willowy blonde, her hair styled in a late-

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seventies flip, carefully layered. It resembles a mass of lemon meringue pie, all swirls and dips of buttery blondness. Tart and sweet. Her figure is voluptuous, her breasts rising from the sweetheart neckline of the black cocktail dress she wears, its silky folds falling demurely around her pale knees. A diamond pendant swings between her breasts, the gold chain shining against her white skin. Her grip is weak and slightly damp, and Sierra removes her hand quickly. “Careful. You are teetering on the edge of things . . .” The next girl is wearing a 1960s style mini-dress in violent shades of jade green and fuchsia. Her long, subtly highlighted hair is waist length, parted in the center and ironed completely straight. Her eyes are wide and green, outlined in heavy black liner. White, patent- leather go-go boots encase her tanned legs. An icy lipstick is smoothed over her thin lips. She appraises Sierra coolly, looking her over from head to toe before offering her hand to shake. “Hi,” she says, with a trace of amusement, “I’m Sharon Tate.” The next girl is capable of stopping traffic. Clad in a floor length, gold lamé gown that shimmers with her every curve, her smile is wide and friendly as she peeks out from under waves of platinum blonde hair. Her cleavage is enormous, straining against the fabric of her dress. Gold sandals add a subtle gleam under the hem of her gown, her feet tanned, nails polished the color of moonstone. “Hey there,” she smiles, glossy lips parting, “I’m Jayne Mansfield. Welcome to the house.” She gives Sierra’s hand an extra squeeze, holding her blue eyes with her own. Can you live in a Looking-glass House? Alexa leads her across the room and over to the sofas. More girls sit on velvet cushions, filing their nails, drinking pink liquid from martini glasses or eating olives. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Sierra.” Alexa points to each girl rapidly, her speech like machine gun fire. “That’s Marilyn.” A platinum blonde raises her hand in greeting, fluttering her fingers. She wears the famous white dress from The Seven Year Itch. Her short nails are glossily polished a true, blue-red. Her resemblance to the real thing is slightly disconcerting, and Sierra

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begins to feel dizzy, especially when Marilyn shoots her a quick wink, eyes sparkling. “Hi!” she purrs in a dead-on imitation of that familiar, breathy voice, “I’m ever so pleased to meet you!” “That’s Ava over there.” Ava is a buxom, sultry brunette who is bent at the waist, engaged in the act of polishing her toenails. “Hi,” she says cheerily, passing the bottle back to Marilyn after swiping the last toe with a smear of cherry-red polish. “And this is Winona.” Alexa points to a girl seated alone on the couch, one arm draped over the back. Her face is finely chiseled, fox- face bones. A cap of tousled, chocolate-brown hair sits atop her tiny skull. Huge, liquid-brown eyes are set in a face the color of cream. She is extremely thin, almost gaunt, her limbs shrouded in a sack-like black dress sprinkled with jet beads that catch the light. Sierra grabs Alexa’s wrist, pulling it roughly to get her attention. “Wait a minute,” she hisses, “Winona Ryder’s not dead!” Alexa turns to her, the ghost of a smile flickering across her bloated features. Sierra notices that her skin is perfect, supple and without a single line. “Well. Her career is.” There are titters of laughter from the girls on the couch. Alexa points one fleshy finger across the room to a grouping of Chippendale chairs upholstered in a worn, rose-colored satin whose fading colors only serve to make them more elegant. There are two men and a woman sitting around a marble-topped table. Sierra can’t help but notice the metallic gold, elaborately scrolled legs. They are engaged in some kind of card game. One of the men wears a tomato-red windbreaker. “I’d like to have a few more men,” Alexa says, still pointing, “but it’s difficult. I’m still looking for a Keanu . . .” Alexa nods at the man in the red, “Over there in the red jacket is James Dean.” James looks up, one side of his lips turned up in a wry grin. There is a sensitive look about him—something broken in the hunch of his shoulders, the sadness lurking in his blue eyes the color of perfectly faded jeans. He wears a crisp white t-shirt under the cotton jacket.

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Dark jeans cuffed at the ankles. The man next to James moves his gaze from the cards in his hand, and scowls in their general direction, one hand lowering the dark glasses hiding his eyes. A long, white scar runs across his tanned cheek, its jagged asymmetry heightening his perfectly chiseled face. “That’s Montgomery Clift.” Montgomery nods his head coolly, that returns to the game. “And last, but not least, is our very own Elizabeth Short, ‘the Black Dahlia.’ Just call her Liz. Everyone does.” Liz is a petite girl, slightly built with obviously fake breasts. They hang heavy and pendulous in her black-and-white striped silk top. Her skin looks as though she has never stepped foot outside—it is an almost unnerving bluish white. A vein pulses softly at her neck. Her hair is a controlled froth of ebony curls with a large, creamy blossom tucked behind one ear. Her pink lips are glossy and parted slightly. As Sierra follows the costume further down, she notices expertly painted toenails peeping out from satin open-toed heels. Fishnet stockings cross her slender, white legs, extending endlessly from her black pencil skirt. Her waist is cinched tightly by a wide, red patent-leather belt. “Who was the Black Dahlia?” Sierra wonders aloud. Liz stares up at her, her dark eyes bottomless. She does not smile. When she speaks, her voice is in sharp contrast to her mysterious image—it is a high squeak, a cartoon rambling. She rolls her eyes at Sierra in exasperation. “She was only, like, the most famous unsolved murder in Hollywood history!” Her black eyes narrow. “How long have you lived here, anyway?” Before Sierra can answer, Liz interrupts. “Hey,” she says appreciatively, looking Sierra over, “you are a dead ringer for that chick.” Liz furrows her smooth brow, clearly trying to think. “You know, that ex-porn star, what the hell’s her name . . . I know!” she snaps her fingers, black eyes flashing, “Sierra!” Sierra laughs and leans closer, placing one hand on Liz’s cold, pale arm. “Actually, Liz, I am Sierr—” Alexa pulls her arm before she can finish the sentence,

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dragging her from the room with the backwards wave of her hand. “OK, that’s enough with the introductions!” Alexa shoots a look at Liz that would wither plants before turning back to Sierra, a smile pasted across her face, voice dripping saccharin. “Hon, why don’t you come back to my office so we can talk business? OK?” She entwines a large arm around Sierra’s shoulder. It feels like she’s being hugged by a pile of pillows. The sensation is not unlike being smothered, and Sierra fights for air as Alexa pulls her closer, a heavy perfume filling her nostrils, the rich stink of gardenias, sweat, and sickly-sweet rot that seems to emanate from Alexa’s very pores. She is led into a small office paneled in dark wood, a rich mahogany. A cobalt rug lies underfoot, streaked with white. A wooden desk occupies most of the small space. It is obviously an antique with hulking legs and dozens of narrow drawers decorated with shiny brass pulls. Alexa sits down behind it with a heavy sigh as she settles in, then points across the desk for Sierra to sit. The chair has spindly wooden legs and looks completely unstable—not to mention uncomfortable. Sierra sits down gingerly, exhaling as her ass hits the cushion with a loud creak. She closes her eyes, waiting for the chair to disintegrate under her into a pile of dry kindling. She feels disoriented, as if she’s slipped into an alternate universe populated with ghosts, phantoms, their bodies as insubstantial as air. The cracked mirror, the Looking-glass House . . . “Can I ask you a question?” Her voice is small and tentative. In truth, she is a bit intimidated by Alexa, who leans back in her chair, nodding for Sierra to continue. Sierra takes a deep breath before beginning. “I don’t quite understand what I’m doing here.” Alexa looks at her quizzically, her forehead scrunched so hard that it resembles an accordion. The silence in the room is as large as an orchestra. “I mean,” Sierra speaks faster, the words crashing together, “I don’t look like any dead celebrities, and you already have a Marilyn . . .” Her voice trails off. Alexa cocks her head to the side.

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“Go on.” Her voice is calm and low. “Curtsy while you think of what to say. It saves time.” Sierra is squirming in her seat. “I mean, I think I know what’s going on here, but I don’t think you understand. I have a real career. I make movies. I’m not going to have sex with producers and studio heads so they can relive some fantasy of the good old days. No matter how much you’re paying.” Sierra drops her eyes to her lap. Her white dress is impossibly wrinkled. When she looks up, Alexa is calmly lighting a cigarette. Sierra leans slightly forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Don’t take it personally. This just isn’t what I’m about.” Alexa leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray before settling back in her chair, arms crossed and resting on her massive chest. “Listen honey,” she says, and Sierra catches the hint of a southern drawl in her speech. “What I have to say isn’t pretty, but I’m gonna give it to you straight. Your career is over.” The words hang there in the air for a moment, ringing out. Sierra can almost see them suspended in the air above Alexa’s mouth, written in flowing white script. YOUR CAREER IS OVER. The words are like a punch to the face, and Sierra reels back in her seat as if she’s been slapped. “Thank you for your time.” Her voice is stiff and wooden, and she pulls her handbag over her shoulder as she rises, her legs heavy and numb. “SIT DOWN!” Sierra is so stunned to be yelled at that she actually sits back down immediately, mouth open. Alexa’s eyes momentarily soften under the black liner, the light blue shadow swept across her lids. “Now, I want you to listen to me. You’ve been blackballed. Do you know what that means in a place like this?” Sierra shakes her head languidly from side to side. Everything is turning fuzzy around the edges, the room tilting. “It means,” Alexa pauses for dramatic effect, “that you will never work in this town again. No one will hire you.” Tears

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fill Sierra’s eyes and she leans forward in her chair, burying her face in her hands. “I’m doing you a favor by offering you this job.” “Its time for you to answer now,” The Queen said, looking at her watch; “open your mouth a little wider when you speak, and always say ‘your Majesty.’” After a few moments, Sierra raises her head and wipes her nose with the back of her hand, her eyes glassy. “What do I have to do?” She asks, her voice like steel. “Who do you want me to play?” The expression moving across Alexa’s features is one of incredulity. Her mouth gapes open for a moment before she shuts it with a dry, clicking sound. “Why, yourself, my dear. I want you to play yourself!” Sierra stares uncomprehendingly. “You mean,” her voice is weak, tuneless, “you want me to be . . . me? I mean . . . her? . . . Sierra?” “Precisely.” Alexa leans forward over the desk, her eyes bright with excitement. “No one will know you are playing yourself. It will be our little secret.” Alexa opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, perching them on her nose. She opens a large, leather-bound black book, flipping the pages quickly. “I do a sixty/ forty split, and you keep any tips you make on top of that. It’s fifteen hundred for a straight lay, anything kinky costs more.” Sierra can hear the sound of the girls walking by outside the closed office door, the high-pitched giggles, the snap of stiletto heels on hardwood floors. “So then I told him if he didn’t get that thing out of my ass I was gonna bite it off . . .” The clamor of shoes and clanking jewelry trail off as the girls move further down the long hallway. Sierra tries to think, but her brain is muddled and dirty. All she wants is to sink into bed and sleep, one pillow hugged to her waist. She stares at her nails, picking at the ragged cuticles. “When do you want to start?” Alexa asks, peering at her over her glasses, eyes narrowing.

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I’ve lost. She closes her eyes, willing Alexa’s smug, expectant face to vanish from the room. I’ve lost it all. Where is the prince, the red carpet, the flashing lights and all-seeing eye? (You’re a star, you’re a bigbrightshiningstar . . . .) “How about tonight?” Sierra’s voice is clipped and cool when she finally answers, raking her long hair back from her face with her fingernails. She tries to ignore the rolling in her stomach, the unease sweeping through her body. Whether she vanished into the air or whether she ran quickly into the wood there was no way of guessing, but she was gone. And Alice began to remember that she was a Pawn, and that it would soon be time for her to move. A slow smile begins to creep over Alexa’s red lips, the mouth parting to reveal teeth like daggers.

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Twenty-Eight

A borrowed dress is all it takes. Then the bird in the tree threw down a beautiful, silk dress embroidered with gold and silver, and a new pair of glittering golden slippers . . . After shaking hands with Alexa, she is led up a narrow flight of stairs to the girl’s dressing room. The room is powder blue with navy carpeting. Light bulbs encircle the long, rectangular mirrors on the walls. A movie star dressing room for dead starlets. The light is dim and dreamy, adding to the unreal quality of the house. Music blares from the speakers, a candy-coated confection. The drums pulse through her body as she stands there, unsure of where to go. Isn’t she lucky, this Hollywood girl? . . . Alexa releases the pressure on her arm, and before she can turn to ask her what to do next, she is gone, the door swinging behind her. Girls in various states of undress are pulling up zippers, rubbing scented creams on long legs, their manicured fingers pressing cigarettes to carmine lips. A group in the corner is concentrating on a small mirror placed on the countertop, their bodies bent over lines of white powder, one finger pressed to a delicate, pink nostril. Sierra watches the ridges of one girl’s spine as she moves over the mirror, the bones beneath the skin as affecting as art. Sierra takes a deep breath, then purposefully walks past the girls waiting patiently for their turn. She’s so lucky, she’s a star but she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking . . . She sits down in one of the white make-up chairs placed at the bank of long mirrors and stares at her face. She looks tired, dark circles under the eyes. The silver gleams in the soft light, a river of reflection, unwinding endlessly. She unpacks the few items of make- up in her purse: mascara, lip gloss, concealer. She begins to work, expertly erasing the dark smudges beneath her lower lids, brushing her

305 lashes long and full, the tips sticky with black gunk. There is a girl with an abundance of raven tresses sitting next to her, pinning the mass of her hair up, bobby pins in her mouth, arms stretched above her head. Sierra recognizes her from downstairs. Ava. She bobs her head along with the music and when she removes the sharp, silver pins from between her teeth, her red lips move soundlessly, mouthing every word. If there’s nothing missing in my life then why do these tears come at night? When she notices Sierra staring, she flashes a quick smile, her face flushing pink. Her gaze follows Sierra from her head down to her white sandals. “You’re not wearing that tonight, are you?” Sierra looks down at her sundress, smoothing it protectively with the palm of her hand. It is pretty wrinkled. “It’s all I have with me.” Her voice is toneless, and she turns back to the mirror, moving the lip gloss wand slickly across her mouth. Her features look distorted, unfamiliar. The brunette finishes arranging her mass of heavy hair and turns her body to face Sierra. “You’re playing Sierra, right?” Sierra nods with a slight dip of the chin. Nonchalant. It takes all her effort not to jump from the chair and rip her driver’s license from her purse while screaming I AM SIERRA!!!! at the top of her lungs. She forces herself to remain calm as she applies more mascara with a shaking hand. She needs a drink the size of the Hollywood Bowl. “Well, no offense, hon, but Sierra wouldn’t be caught dead in that rag.” Her tone is dismissive, disdainful. Sierra looks down at the dress, the thin, white material flowing around her legs. She remembers how excited she was when she found it in a boutique on Melrose, the delicate eyelet stitching under her hands. The dress is one of her favorites—in fact, she never feels more herself than when she has it on. She grinds her teeth, then begins to bite her tongue, the taste of iron filling her mouth.

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Ava leans over, oblivious, and begins rummaging in a Louis Vuitton duffel at her feet. She pulls out a floor length gown covered in silver sequins. “There!” Her voice is triumphant as she holds the dress up in front of Sierra’s body. “Now this is much more her.” When she entered the ballroom, looking so beautiful in her rich dress and slippers, her stepmother and sisters did not know her; indeed, they took her for a foreign princess. She tosses the dress into Sierra’s lap with a flourish of her wrist and stands up, giving the mirror one last glance. “You can borrow it if you want.” She points at a large closet taking up the expanse of one wall. “There are some extra heels in there.” She turns back before leaving the room, one hand on the doorknob. “You’re a size six, right?” Sierra nods wordlessly, the river of sequins still dangling from her fingers. A smug, self-satisfied look moves over her face, and she smiles knowingly. “I thought so.” After Ava leaves, Sierra pulls her own dress off, carefully throwing it over a chair and steps into the dress. It hugs her body as if it were made for her. She leans into the mirror, fluffing her hair out, then walks over to the closet. There are pairs of heels three inches deep lined up in glittering rows. As Cinderella hurried away her left slipper stuck to the steps, and she was obliged to leave it behind. The prince himself picked it up; it was very small and elegant, and covered with gold. She chooses a simple pair of high-heeled silver sandals, bending down, balancing on the ball of one foot as she slides the shoe on. It sparkles brilliantly, the fabric dipped in pools of silver light. She looks down at the contrast between her white skin and the sandal. It fits perfectly. None other shall be my bride but the lady to whom that slipper belongs, and whose foot it shall fit. “Wow!” The girls engrossed with their mound of cocaine look up,

307 jennifer banash hollywoodland eyebrows moving skyward. A girl with long blonde hair wearing what appears to be a nurse’s uniform asks her to turn around, and she does slowly, pivoting on the carpet. “You really do look just like her.” The blonde nods appreciatively, and her expression is awestruck. The idea that it could be Cinderella never entered their heads; they supposed she was safe at home picking linseed from the ashes. It is the same look Sierra has seen countless times on the red carpet mirrored in the faces of the photographers, the crowds roped off to the side awaiting her arrival, breathless for the moment when her silver stilettos will touch the ground, the screams deafening. “Alexa’s gonna freak when she sees you!” Sierra smiles back weakly, and she feels the overwhelming need to sit down. The ground is shifting. The blonde gestures her with a rolled-up dollar bill. “Want some?” Sierra’s mouth goes dry a she stares at the pile of white powder, the reassuring gleam of the mirror, beckoning, drawing her ever closer. She moves toward the mirror as if in a dream. “How nice it would be if only we could get through into the Looking-glass House! I’m sure it’s got, oh! Such beautiful things in it!” She cannot feel her feet on the floor. Her arms are weightless as she reaches one hand out for the bill, fingers curled expectantly. As soon as the powder enters her nasal passages, her face flushes a deep pink and her body begins to relax, tingle, come to life. Her nose itches and she scratches it one handed. “Why it’s turning into sort of a mist now, I declare! It’ll be easy enough to get through”—And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist. Suddenly, her skin feels slightly more supple under her hands— curiously sensitive—and she rubs her arms before bending over the mirror to repeat the process in the other nostril. The flash behind her closed eyes is blinding as she inhales, sniffing hard. A sudden jolt in her brain, sparkling crystal light blurring her vision. Her blood hardens to shards of ice. New snow.

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She passes the bill with a smile and moves back over to the mirror. She leans closer, looking into her eyes, sparkling with energy. The glass is cool against her forehead. She wants to climb inside, the ripples of silver fluid as water on her skin. It’s just like any other part, she tells herself. Her interior monologue is eminently rational. Calming. Sierra is a part. One you’ve played before. On the red carpet, for the cameras, reporters—even in bed. All you have to do is play it again tonight. Flawlessly. She nods serenely while patting a stray piece of hair down with her palm. She turns back to the group of laughing girls and smiles wickedly, purring in that unmistakable, signature voice. In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-glass room. “Ladies.” The conversation stops as they stare at her, open mouthed, hands on her hips, chin tilted high, eyes narrowed. “I’d love some more candy.” She walks over, snatching the dollar bill from the blonde’s tight little fingers. She throws her hair back sharply, the strands switching the brunette behind her across the face like the well-groomed tail of a horse. Palomino, the white-blonde mane, strands of buttery yellow. The brunette makes a small cry of outrage as Sierra smiles into the mirror, bringing the dollar bill up to her nose, her voice jagged with sarcasm. “That is, if you think you can spare it . . .”

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Twenty-Nine

She was out of the room in a moment and ran down the stairs— or, at least it wasn’t exactly running, but a new invention for getting down stairs quickly and easily. She just kept the tips of her fingers on the handrail, and floated down gently without ever touching the stairs with her feet. At the bottom of the stairs she is greeted by the sound of ear- splitting screams that pierce through her very skull. She stops dead in her tracks, closing her eyes and listening hard. She wonders if she is hearing things again. The screams reverberate off the ceiling, the wood floors, the very house itself.Is this really happening? Her heart pounds against her ribs and she creeps carefully toward the sound. “If I don’t make haste I shall have to go back through the Looking-glass before I’ve seen what the rest of the house is like!” A door is closed at the end of the corridor, and through it she can hear cries, whimpers, followed by more blood-curdling screams. Low rasping noises. Gurgling. Then the sound of masculine laughter. A drill? Some kind of high-pitched whining noise. A grating. Not again. Please, God, not again . . . She reaches out one hand until it touches the brass doorknob, then pulls back as if she’s been burned. She cannot bring herself to turn the knob. The sounds emanating from the room are simply too horrible. She doesn’t want to know what’s on the other side of the door. She already knows what it’s like to be tied up, held against her will, restrained with handcuffs, bound by strips of white cloth. She gags, remembering the faint soapy taste, the material soaked in her own saliva. She closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the heavy wooden door. She realizes that she is moaning softly. She raises her hands to her ears to block out the noise, shivering, her underarms suddenly damp with perspiration. “What are you doing?” She whips around, eyes wide, instantly apologetic. Sharon Tate stands there dressed in her sixties regalia, hands on her narrow hips.

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Her eyes are suspicious, squinting. Even though Sharon is a few inches shorter than Sierra, she has an imposing presence, an air of command. She exudes the intoxicating menace of the schoolyard bully: leader and tormentor. Suddenly, Sierra is fifteen again, her pink party dress hanging in tatters as she sobs against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, the last bell ringing shamefully in her ears. “Nothing,” she stammers, blushing, and looking anywhere but Sharon’s hard, blue eyes. “I mean, I heard noises,” she adds quickly. “That’s all.” Sharon’s face visibly relaxes, and she takes Sierra’s arm firmly in her grasp, leading her away from the door. “That’s just Liz in there with one of her regulars. He likes to reenact the Dahlia’s death scene— faking it, of course. We get a lot of guys like that.” Sharon leads her down the hall as Liz’s high-pitched screams recede into oblivion. Her head feels light and insubstantial. Hollowed. She floated on through the hall, and would’ve gone straight out the door in the same way, if she hadn’t caught hold of the door-post. Sharon stops suddenly, throwing her waist-length hair behind her shoulder and leans in closer. “If I had a dollar for every time I had to stuff a pillow under my dress and cover myself in fake blood . . .” Her speech breaks off jaggedly when she sees Sierra’s horrified expression, her mouth hanging open in shock. Without missing a beat, Sharon removes a compact from her slim, leather clutch and begins to stare rapturously into the tiny mirror. “But, you do,” Sierra manages to squeak out. “What?” Sharon’s head swivels around, sharp with annoyance. “You do get a dollar—for every time . . .” Sierra’s voice trails off helplessly. Sharon stares at her and snaps the compact shut, forehead creased. “What are you talking about?” “Nothing.” Sierra turns beet red. She is stammering. “I just mean that you do get paid for every time you—” “Look, Sierra. What exactly are you getting at?” Sharon’s

311 jennifer banash eyes are narrow and hard, and Sierra stares back, silently shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Sharon pushes up the sleeve of her dress to glance at a gold Cartier tank watch adorning her thin wrist and resumes walking, pushing the compact back into her bag and shaking her head as Sierra trails wordlessly behind. “Listen,” she says, sighing loudly and stopping in front of a wooden door with the words W.C. embossed on it in gold, “I have got to pee.” Her booted foot is now tapping the hardwood floor impatiently. She dismisses Sierra with a wave of her hand. “I’ll see you in the viewing room. It’s just straight ahead at the end of this hall.” Sharon closes the door behind her and Sierra hears the lock click shut and the light switch flicks on with a dull humming noise. She exhales loudly, leaning one hand on the smooth, painted wall. There is a mirror hanging on the adjacent wall and she floats toward it, resting her hands on the smooth glass, the mirror cold and hard under her palms. Calm down, she tells herself, her voice stern. Just calm the fuck down now. It’s only a part. You can play it. She closes her eyes and continues to breathe, blocking out the noise in the house, the muscle slamming from side to side in her chest, the churning pit of her stomach. The Glass House, the Looking-glass House . . . She imagines a crown atop her golden hair, silver spikes shining with precious stones. Her house, the dovecote and fairy wood. A slick sea of silver. When she opens her eyes, the fear is gone. Vanquished. She moves purposefully toward the lights and music, the rustling of voices and streams of high-pitched, sudden laughter.

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Thirty

When she joins the others in the bar, she is in character—a small, secret smile turning up the corners of her lips. She carries her body like a Ferrari: candy-apple paint and buffed leather interior, wheels spinning in the dirt, a smoke screen of white exhaust framing her flawlessly made-up face. The dress hangs from her curves like an incitement to lewd behavior. She glows like a spotlight. Next to her the other girls are rendered superfluous—the remnants of corpses. Bodies picked clean, and piles of smooth, gray bones. Rolls and rolls of recycled film. She arranges herself on a barstool, shooting the other girls a smile bloated with confidence. Clusters of men stand awkwardly in the room. Carbon copies of khaki pants and slicked-back hair. Ice cubes rattling against crystal, amber liquid pooled in a glass. Just looking at it is making her thirsty. She could drink the Pacific dry. She moves to the bar, smiling as she walks, slowly swinging her hips languidly from side to side, her buttocks as tempting and perfectly round as twin scoops of vanilla ice cream. A short man clad in a dark suit—stomach pushing against the buttons of his jacket—is deep in conversation with Jayne as she passes by, walking languorously. He waves his hands expansively as he speaks, and his voice is high and slightly squeaky. He stares at Jayne, his eyes large and wide, glazed with worship. As Sierra moves toward them, he begins pawing at Jayne’s arm almost desperately, bringing her hand up to his razor-thin mouth, and touching the skin with a loud, wet smack of his lips. “Oh, Miss Mansfield, I’ve been a fan for so long, you can’t imagine. You’re even more beautiful in the flesh . . .” He is practically gushing, the words flowing from him in a torrent of pent-up admiration. Jayne demurs, purring like a self- satisfied cat. She loops an arm around his waist, and together they slowly move out of the room and down the hall. The man’s voice fading as their bodies disappear from sight.

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“I really do think that was your best picture. Oh, I even have a thirty-five millimeter print of it . . .” Alexa sweeps into the room wearing a violet caftan shot through with silver thread, her lips moist and silver colored as well. Sierra is again reminded of death, rotting flesh and violet lips. A putrid stench. Her lavender eye shadow perfectly accentuates her lifeless pallor. “Attention, everyone!” The room quiets down instantly as everyone straightens up, smiling expectantly, adopting their most seductive poses. “We have a guest.” Alexa’s tone means business, and Sierra cranes her neck, straining to see just who has arrived. A man stands behind Alexa, his face sheepish. He is short and slightly pudgy, a halo of wildly curly brown hair surrounding his head. It is the kind of hair that resists all attempts at style. Rebellious. His face looks vaguely familiar and she racks her brain to remember just who he is. He stares at the floor, seemingly more interested in the rug than the nubile, young bodies perched on every available stick of furniture. All at once it comes to her. The comedian. The son of a famous comic who now ran the biggest comedy club in Hollywood, the comedian briefly had a stint on MTV playing a perpetually stoned college dropout who used the same drawling one liner in every episode. A celebrity for a brief two years, he had since fallen into obscurity. The movie roles dried up after one disastrous, supposedly comic film that was set in the Army. He looks younger than his age—he could pass for late twenties in the right lighting, and is dressed casually in a black blazer and torn, faded jeans. She spies a pair of well-worn black Converse All- Stars on his feet. Sierra bets that when he removes his shoes, his socks don’t match. They probably have holes in the toes. He removes his sunglasses and looks up, turning nervously to Alexa. “So I just pick who I want?” She nods, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Right. Just like last time.” Her tone is soothing, designed to put him at ease. She winks comically, and his face breaks into an easy,

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broad grin. She gestures toward the bar. “Why don’t you relax and have a drink? Get to know some of our guests.” They walk to the bar slowly, Alexa’s arm curled around his waist. She speaks quietly in his ear. “Now, if I remember correctly, you are partial to blondes.” The comedian nods quickly, blushing a deep red, his expression sheepish. “We have a lovely Marilyn this time around—” Marilyn straightens up from where she has been slouching against the bar, and parts her lips to reveal a Hollywood smile, a glossy red mouth. “And, of course, Dorothy is right over there. I believe you two are old friends?” Alexa leans closer, conspiratorial, jabbing him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. He raises one hand and waves weakly at the buxom blonde, fingers fluttering. Dorothy is seated on the couch, her long legs curled underneath her like a colt. She smiles coquettishly from beneath a waterfall of sun-streaked hair, her face a practiced study of world- weary innocence. “And over here,” Alexa advances, stretching her hand out to Sierra and smoothing down her hair, stroking it with the flat of her palm, “is our newest acquisition. Our very own Sierra.” Alexa’s expression radiates pride as she surveys Sierra’s outfit, the way that the light bounces off her porcelain skin. Alexa’s fingers graze her cheek, and Sierra can smell the liquor on her breath; the toxic haze of whatever chemical preservative is keeping Alexa standing on two feet instead of lying face up in a coffin covered by rocks and dirt. Black-winged bugs and formaldehyde. Sierra’s stomach turns over suddenly. The comedian stares at her and Sierra’s ears go deaf. The music, the dim lights and garish costumes all melt away. Fade to black. They are underwater, the music garbled and strange in her ears, waves breaking over her head in a crash of white foam. She is afraid that if she tries to speak, her tongue will simply hang in her mouth like a dead fish. He is looking at her strangely, his face stilled into silence. This is what happens in the Looking-glass House . . . The comedian reaches out his hand, holding it away from his body for her to shake. When they touch, a shower of bright blue sparks

314 315 jennifer banash hollywoodland appear between their spread fingers, accompanied by the sharp snap of electricity. A crackling in the air. The comedian draws back, laughing nervously. “Whoa!” he jokes, his face breaking into a broad, easy grin, “I’ve heard of some couples having chemistry, but this is ridiculous . . .” Sierra blushes and pulls away, her cheeks flushing with color. Stop it! she scolds herself sternly. You’re supposed to be Sierra—not you! Be her, not you, be her, not you, be her . . . She whispers the mantra under her breath repeatedly, pushing her hair back with both hands, trying to smile. Her face feels hot and frozen. Alexa insinuates herself between them and places an arm around both their waists. She begins to walk them from the hot, overcrowded room, chatting furiously, her speech lively. “Now, then. Why don’t you two retire to room four—it’s the last room at the end of the corridor. Unless you’d prefer a fantasy room?” She turns her head to gaze questioningly at the comedian, who immediately begins to vigorously shake his head no. Sierra knows from the snatches of conversation she overheard in the dressing room, that fantasy rooms are just that—elaborately decorated spaces in which to act out a client’s most private sexual fantasies. The house is equipped with a gynecologist’s office, complete with an examination table, metal stirrups, and speculum. Sierra cannot imagine the invasion of that instrument shoved deep inside her body, muscles straining against the cold metal invading her warm flesh. A secret door in the basement hides a dungeon furnished with stone walls, chains, black leather bindings to restrain tender wrists and ankles. There is even a classroom with a blackboard hanging along one wall and stacks of brightly colored schoolbooks on wooden shelves. Finally, there is a stage set fully equipped with backdrop, director’s chair, and megaphone. Appropriately enough, it is the most requested room in the house. Halfway down the long hallway, Alexa releases them with a smile, stepping back gracefully, and pointing with her index finger. “Room four is down at the end of the hall.” The hallway stretching out in front of them seems endless and

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Sierra cannot resist turning her head to catch a quick glance at her reflection in the mirrors adorning the deep red, papered walls. Am I still here? When her face appears in the glass, her heart goes dead. She doesn’t recognize herself. There is a beautiful blonde with tousled hair and red lips. This is how it goes in the Looking-glass House, and so it goes this way . . . Room four is at the end of the hall, just as Alexa promised. When Sierra turns the gold doorknob, it moves easily under her fingers, the door opening instantly. The room is dominated by a large, white four-poster bed. White rugs underfoot made from some kind of synthetic fur. She moves to the bed and sits down, twisting her torso seductively, crossing her legs and leaning back, her hair pooled against the white coverlet. The comedian closes the door, then stands nervously in the center of the room, unsure of what to do next. He runs his hands through his hair and begins to pace the hardwood floor, shoes silent, his words coming fast like streams of automatic writing—an actor memorizing unfamiliar pages. “I was really glad when I saw you in there tonight. I’ve always been such a fan of Sierra’s—I have all of her films on DVD. It’s really a shame what’s happened to her. Anyway, I thought that we could talk for a bit first before we start. Do you—” “Why don’t you sit down?” She smiles, her words hanging in the air. He is giving her a headache. She presses one hand to her forehead briefly before letting it drop to her side. All she wants is a bath, a pill, and bed. Maybe two pills. She wishes that the comedian was old and ugly. Fat, even. She needs someone completely unattractive for her first client. Unpalatable. Someone who would turn her stomach, induce waves of sickness. Anything is preferable to this sudden intimacy. Although she is fully dressed, each time he looks into her eyes, she feels impossibly naked. The comedian advances over to the bed, patting the mattress gingerly before sitting down at the other end. He is still holding his

316 317 jennifer banash hollywoodland sunglasses in one hand, and he slides them into the back pocket of his jeans, where she is sure they will be crushed to bits before the night is over. Be sexy, she thinks, get into character. You’re a sex symbol, now be sexy. She turns her body toward him, licking her lips and leaning closer, resting her weight on a bent elbow. She tries not to blink as their eyes lock and hold. (You are Sierra. America’s Porn Queen . . .) “Who . . . who are you?” His eyes are filled with confusion, wonder, and a little fear—naked uncertainty and longing reflected in his swamp-green gaze. “I’m Sierra.” Her voice is a whisper and, against her will, she feels her eyes welling with tears. Stop it! her brain hisses. Just what do you think you’re doing? You’ll ruin the scene! But it is no use. Something inside her is crumbling, giving way in this strange, emotional connection, and she cannot help herself. Her chest hurts and she is so very tired. The fatigue hangs over her face like smog, and she tries in vain to see through it, to make it back to the other side of the mirror. She cannot look at his face without crying, so she stares down at the coverlet instead, blinking back the tears rapidly, her vision blurred. “No, no.” He is impatient now, moving closer and sliding one warm hand under her chin before tilting her face up to meet his own. He is shocked by the sadness in her eyes, the utter emptiness. “Who are you really?” She looks into his eyes and she wants to tell him the truth about how she’s ended up here, of all places. But the looking glass is too deep. She swims in a sea of silver, paddling her arms through water as thick and viscous as mercury. She opens her mouth, her eyes wide. Her voice cracks as she begins to speak. “I don’t know anymore. I can’t remember.” Her head dips, and he slowly, gingerly puts his arms around her as if she might break. She leans into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. His jacket smells of something warm and spicy—soap or cologne—and underneath it is his own particular scent of freshly cut

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grass and citrus muddled by musk. He rests his chin on the top of her head. She can hear his heart beating fast as a rabbit’s, and as he pulls her back onto the bed, the straps of her dress slip from her smooth, bare shoulders.

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The Comedian Speaks

I didn’t believe her at first. I had been to Alexa’s before. I knew the deal. She was supposed to look like Sierra—that’s what she was getting paid for. Sure she was gorgeous. All of Alexa’s girls are gorgeous, or they wouldn’t be there. So I didn’t blink twice when she told me that she really was Sierra. Actually, I thought it was part of the act. Then she started grabbing my hand and pulling on it. Really, she said, believe me. I am Sierra. Sure, I thought. Uh-huh. And I’m Bob Hope. But after we made love she laid there in my arms all still and quiet and she told me everything. And this time, I believed her. When it really sunk in I lost all feeling in my body. Christ, I thought to myself, she didn’t have to be there. She saw the look on my face, and she sat up abruptly, pulling the sheet around her body, putting a barrier between us. I mean, I know what it is like to lose everything—your career, fans, friends—even your family. I haven’t spoken to my mom in over three years. But it’s different when you see it reflected in someone else’s eyes. That pain. Somehow, it hurts more staring back at you. It’s even worse when you’re a comedian—trust me. People expect you to be funny, to entertain them—even though you might feel like you’re dying inside. They come up to you at bars, in the grocery store—Look! It’s that guy from MTV! Do that thing, man, say that line just one time! And the questions. What happened to you, man? Didn’t you used to be somebody? You want to tell people, Hey, I am somebody, you know? Still. Even without all that crap. But you don’t. You stand in the corner of a party with a drink in your hand, hoping to God that no one recognizes you. Eventually you get invited out less and less. Then the invitations stop coming altogether. Anyway, I felt sure that her career wasn’t totaled, that we could do something to save it. Looking back now, I guess I wanted to save her. Maybe I was trying to save myself by helping her. I don’t know anymore. Get dressed, I told her, I’m getting you out of here. She struggled into her clothes like she was used to people telling her what to do, and I had a hard time moving my eyes from her body. She was so beautiful. Like sculpture. And this is Hollywood—there are beautiful girls everywhere, believe me. I’ve had my share. She had something special. So vulnerable and sad inside. It just didn’t mesh with that perfect face

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and body. When I looked at her I thought of something that the artist Robert Rauschenberg had once said about Edie Sedgwick—that she was like art. And by that he meant that she was an object that had been strongly and effectively created. Bet you didn’t know that I went to art school. Well, it was one semester and I was high all the time, but still. There’s a lot people don’t know about me. Mostly because no one takes the time to ask anymore. She took me to her house that night. Killer property up on Mulholland, huge house, but completely empty. I mean, she didn’t own anything. Sure there were closets stuffed with expensive clothes and shoes. But she had no furniture. A kitchen table and chairs. A mattress on the floor of her bedroom. A cordless phone. The bathroom shelves were full of anti-aging treatments. She was only twenty-one years old. Listen, I said to her, what about Playboy? You haven’t done Playboy yet, right? She shook her head no and immediately looked annoyed. I don’t want to take my clothes off again, she said, rolling her eyes. No one will ever take me seriously if I do. That’s bullshit, I told her. Look at Pam Anderson. She did Playboy, then she got Baywatch. I don’t know, she said. She looked suspicious, walked over to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and pulled out a prescription bottle. Before she closed the mirrored door, I caught a glimpse inside. Rows and rows of plastic pill bottles. Most of them looked full. Sierra, I said, exasperated, you’re dead in this town. You can do whatever you want. When I said that, she stopped, motionless, and the strangest look crossed her face. She told me some crazy story about the President. Hushed voice and wild eyes. Her skin was burning like she had a fever. They’re still watching me, she said, nervously peeling the label from a bottle of vodka she’d bought on the drive home. I think I have it all figured out. It’s the FBI. They’re trying to destroy me. And Darren Star’s in on it. I can tell. She was on the floor, legs crossed under her, rocking back and forth. Suddenly, she stood up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains and peering out into the night. She was muttering something under her breath.

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Something about glass houses and a white rabbit. I didn’t ask any more questions. I wanted to help her. I still had a few contacts left. I was good for that much at least. I walked over and put my arms around her and she went limp, just melted into me, sighing. Maybe the pills had started to kick in or maybe there was a real connection between us. All I knew is that we were two lost kids, two casualties of Hollywood hanging onto each other in the night, and I didn’t want to let her go. Let me help you, I whispered. Please. Her head moved, gently nodding, and we sank to the floor, holding onto one another as if our lives depended on it. The next morning I woke up and she was gone. Vapor. I walked all around that empty house, calling her name, but no dice. Finally I opened the front door and walked outside to the driveway where her Corvette was parked, and there she was, curled up in the backseat, fast asleep, a blanket wrapped around her. I knocked gently on the window, just barely brushing the glass with my knuckles, and she jumped a mile then sat up, her hair a mess. When she opened the door I asked what she was doing in the car. I mean, it was really bizarre. There was a perfectly good bed inside and here she was, sleeping in the backseat of a parked car in her own driveway. I thought maybe it was me, you know? That she wasn’t comfortable actually sleeping next to me or something. She just looks up, rubs her eyes and says, I like my car. Nothing bad can happen to me in here. I didn’t know what to say to that. I just shook it off and helped her out of the backseat. Told her to take a shower and get ready. I took her to Denny’s and watched as she devoured a plate of blueberry pancakes with puddles of syrup. She inhaled those cakes, then asked for a side of bacon. She seemed fine—even stuck her bright purple tongue out at me from across the table a few times, giggling like a lunatic. I think I fell in love with her right then—in spite of all the craziness. Sometimes I think it was my fault. If I hadn’t given her something to look forward to, it might never have happened. I should’ve answered my phone that night. I had one too many vodka/cranberries and I passed out on my bed like an idiot, leaving her to cry in the dark. Sometimes I wake up at night and I think I hear her voice downstairs on the answering machine. I run down the stairs, my heart pumping out of my chest, but when my feet hit the bottom the room is always empty . . .

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I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. That’s enough for today.

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Thirty-One

When she drops him at his place in North Hollywood, she is filled with a ballooning sense of hope. It swells in her brain, drowning out her paranoia along with her despair. If she smiles any wider, laughter will probably escape out her ears. She turns the music down as he leans across the front seat and kisses her deeply, opening her lips gently with his tongue. His kisses make her shiver, her body burning with fever and desire. When he pulls back, he is grinning widely, his hair springing out from his head in every direction. “I’ll call you tonight,” he says, one hand on the door. “Maybe we can get a pizza or something.” She nods vigorously, then pulls her sunglasses down from the top of her head, the gray lenses shading her eyes. “OK,” she says, “I’ll see you later. I may have a surprise for you.” “What’s that?” he asks, opening the door and stepping out onto the curb. He closes the door softly and then leans in through the open window. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” she answers teasingly, turning up the music before stepping on the gas. When she pulls away from the curb she watches his image dissolve in the rearview mirror. He is standing in the street watching her drive away, a goofy smile plastered over his face, one hand raised as her car disappears around the corner. It all seems so obvious that she wonders why she hasn’t thought of it before. She’s dead. Finished. She can be anyone she wants now. Rebirth. It’s not a new concept in Southern California. In fact, it’s practically the state religion. Hairdressers, make-up artists, and plastic surgeons are the new priests, hovering over the congregation in their spotless white coats. The scent of sterile gauze bandages and antiseptic are the new incense. The congregation worships at premieres, nightclubs, and restaurants. The new churches, faithful to the doctrine of beauty. She will begin where everything begins in Hollywood— with her appearance.

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It’s time for an extreme makeover. She holds a strand of her hair between her thumb and forefinger. Her hair color is her trademark: a spun-silver shade of blonde that takes hours to achieve, hair painted with foul-smelling bleach, the thin sections sandwiched between sheets of aluminum foil. She loathes the hours spent sitting immobile, water dripping down her neck, the ever-persistent heat of the drier blasting through her skull. She looks into the rearview mirror, smiling as she imagines all that blondeness tarnished. Darkened. The hours of sitting under driers instantly evaporate, and she steps on the gas, picking up speed. She follows the white lines on the road, turning onto the freeway. When she pulls off onto the exit ramp thirty minutes later, she is deep in the Valley. Hot pavement and strip malls. In-N-Out Burger. She likes the Valley. She could be anyone here—just another young girl out for a day of shopping. But first, she needs fuel. She drives through the entrance of In-N-Out Burger and screams into the speaker box, her happy voice loud in the confines of her car. She orders a Coke and fries, and drives out of the lot, the drink held firmly between her thighs. She relishes the sun on her face, the scent of grease permeating her car. She is like any other girl in California, cruising the streets in her car, stuffing her face with junk food. Maybe she’ll even go to the beach later. Anything is possible and she feels stretched full with it. Buoyant. She is popping hot, salty potatoes into her mouth as she pulls into a parking lot and stops below the sign for Valley Beauty Supply. When she exits the store fifteen minutes later, she is carrying a plastic bag filled with boxes of hair dye in various shades of brown. She wasn’t sure which to choose, so she bought them all. She can decide later, with Donald’s help, in front of the mirror. She throws them in the backseat, then starts the ignition while placing a call on her cell. She drives, fingertips touching the wheel, top down, the breeze ruffling her blonde ponytail. When Donald answers the phone, he sounds tired, almost weary in contrast to the sound of her happy voice chirping into the receiver.

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“Donald, it’s me, Sierra.” There is a pause and she wonders if she did the right thing in calling. “Sierra, honey!” His voice is warm and he sounds glad to hear from her. The ice has melted. “How the hell are you? I was going to call you today, in fact. I’ve been hearing some things . . .” His voice trails off tactfully and he waits for her to pick up the thread of conversation—to tell him everything. She takes a sip of her drink before speaking. “I’m fine. Great, in fact. But, listen, I really need a favor . . .” Two hours later she is sitting on a folding chair in front of her bathroom mirror as Donald applies a strange, viscous mixture to her waiting head. She watches in the mirror as the brightness of her hair is covered with dark brown paste that quickly turns a deep espresso as it reacts with the air. “Are you sure it isn’t going to be too dark?” She leans closer to the mirror, peering at the shiny mass of dye covering her head. Donald puts the brush down heavily in the bowl, and looks at her in the mirror, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Honey, please. I’m a professional.” He picks up the brush again and pats more dye onto the ends of her hair. He then twists the mass of it up on top of her head, fastening it with a clip to keep the wet strands from falling down and dyeing her face and arms. He places the bowl in the sink and fills it with water. “What brought all this on, anyway?” She looks in the mirror, careful not to become hypnotized by her own changing reflection. She pulls back the skin around her eyes, pulling it tighter, then releasing it and sitting back. There are tiny wrinkles around her eyes—the product of not enough sunscreen. She curses herself inwardly. Maybe it’s time for Botox—a few small pricks of the needle. “I thought it was time for a change. And Hollywood has enough dead blondes.” She turns to face him, her eyes serious. “I’m finished in this town. Haven’t you heard?” Her tone is biting, slightly bitter, and she realizes with some degree of surprise, just how angry

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she still is. He turns away, busying himself with the bowl and brush in the sink. “I know,” he says, his tone serious—almost a whisper. “I heard.” She turns her face to the side, inspecting her perfect profile and wiping away a small, dark speck of dye from her cheek. “I’m going to change all that,” she whispers, her voice confident. “I’m going to change my life.” Donald laughs, wiping the bowl dry with toilet paper. “What are you going to do? Dye your hair and move to Nebraska? Become a housewife? A schoolteacher?” He snorts, rolling his eyes skyward. “Please.” “Not even close.” She turns to face him, and her eyes are so deathly serious that he stops cleaning completely. He puts the bowl down on the countertop. “I’m going to get it all back, Donald.” There is a note of steel in her voice. “All of it.” Their eyes lock and hold until Donald blinks and has to look away, his face flushing. He is not any better with intimacy now than he was before, that much is clear. Intimacy is, well, so very messy. It’s so much easier to deal with the exterior—so eminently malleable— something he has control over. The timer rings abruptly, shattering the moment with its shrill scream, and Sierra jumps in her chair, her laugh echoing off the white tiles. After a quick rinse in the sink, a towel wrapped securely around her shoulders, she tilts her head back to squeeze the excess water from her long locks. She sits up, opens her eyes, and looks into the waiting mirror. Her eyes—more turquoise than the rolling ocean— are framed by hair the color of coffee grounds. Her lips are rosy and flushed. Even her eyelashes look longer. “Snow White,” she breathes, raising her hand to her head and brushing the glossy hair with her fingers. “Lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony . . .” Donald pulls her hair dryer from under the sink and begins blowing hot air across her head. Because of the dye her hair hangs,

326 327 jennifer banash hollywoodland water soaked, down her back, for what seems like ages before it begins to dry. She is lulled almost to sleep by the whirring of the motor, the heat, the gentle pressure of Donald’s fingers on her scalp, and the snip snip of scissors—metal blades flashing dangerously in the light. She feels safe here, with Donald. She’d like to feel safe all the time—even alone in her house. Suddenly, she has an idea. An idea so brilliant and obvious that she wonders why she’s never thought of it before. She needs something for protection. An amulet. A talisman. The words come out of her mouth automatically, almost as if they are a script she has memorized. She doesn’t know quite why she must speak them, but they spill from her lips with a will of their own, the words taking her where they want to go. “Donald?” She begins cautiously, testing the waters. “Remember when you told me about how you were robbed last year?” “Yessss,” he is preoccupied, his hands on her scalp. “Well, I was thinking. I’m not feeling too safe lately, and I was wondering if you’d let me borrow your gun. Just for a while. Until things settle down.” Donald puts down the scissors and stares at her hard. “I don’t know, Sierra. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” “Why not?” she asks, keeping her voice light and even. There is a lilting quality to her speech that he has a hard time resisting. “Because I already had to take you to the hospital once. I’m not going through that with you again. I’m not going to help you kill yourself.” His expression is hard, determined, but she sees the hurt underneath it as well, the worry. She laughs, and her laughter is the sound of bells ringing. “Donald, don’t be silly. It would be for protection, you dope. Just till things get back to normal. Until I turn it all around. I just want to feel safe.” She can tell that she is wearing him down, that he’s going to give in. “Besides,” she says nonchalantly, “if you don’t agree I’ll just

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keep bothering you and bothering you and botheri—” “All right, all right, already!” he laughs, throwing up his hands “You can borrow it for a little while—not forever. Now close your eyes and stop talking so I can do my job.” When she opens her eyes, a stranger stares back at her. She leans closer to the glass, barely breathing. It has been a long time since the prospect of becoming someone else has done anything but frighten her. In a split second she is transported back to that first movie set, the hot lights shining in her eyes as she waits in the corner, scribbling in a spiral-bound notebook. She remembers Donald’s hands as they deftly applied paint and putty, the transformation as her skin came alive, the light and shadows subtly altering the shape of her face, the immediate relief of inhabiting another body so completely. Her hair just brushes her shoulders, long bangs swept to the side, falling diagonally across her smooth, white forehead. Her hair resembles the carefully groomed feathers of a black bird. Even her face seems more chiseled—Donald’s expert scissor work throwing her bones into high relief. She touches her cheek with the tips of her fingers, and exhales with relief, the knowledge that she is safe again at last. “Who’s that girl in the mirror there?” she murmurs, leaning one palm flat against the granite countertop. “Really,” Donald quips with a wry smile. “Who can that attractive girl be?” Two hours later she is dressed and back in the car, parked outside Donald’s apartment. She holds the gun in her lap, the cold steel against her legs. Donald’s face is grave as he hands it over, snug in its soft, leather pouch. “Now, be careful.” His eyes are so full of uncertainty, of regret that she has to turn away. She affects a comical face, rearranging her features. She rolls her eyes, a lop-sided grin curving her lips upward— practiced comic relief meant to break the seriousness of the moment. “Of course, silly! You’re such a worrywart!” In truth, she doesn’t know why she needs the gun—only it calls to her with an urgency she can barely comprehend. Just holding it in

328 329 jennifer banash her hands fills her with a sense of purpose, like checking off items on a grocery list. She hides the gun in the cave of her garage, in the dank- smelling darkness, dust rising in clouds, the cement cool and hard under her shoes. “There,” she says, pulling a pile of plastic bags of old clothes that she keeps meaning to give away to Goodwill down on top of it. “There, now.” She stops at a 7-11 to buy a pack of cigarettes and the boy working behind the counter barely looks up from his magazine as she throws a five-dollar bill down on the counter. She smiles, tapping the pack against the palm of her hand as bells chime at her back. They’ll never find me under all this, she thinks, slipping easily into the car and pulling out of the lot with a screech of rubber on asphalt.

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Donald Speaks

I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t talk about it. I’m so sorry . . .*

* The tape abruptly ends with the sounds of sobbing, ambient noise, and static.

331 Thirty-Two

The drive to North Hollywood is easy with light traffic. She thinks of the comedian’s lopsided grin and smiles, her stomach fluttering in anticipation. It is a warm night, the air liquid against her skin. She digs in her handbag with one hand, searching for her pills. She pops two in her mouth, swallowing hard, wincing at the bitter aftertaste. She would like to stop taking them altogether, but she’s afraid of what life would be like without chemical enhancement dulling the edges, blurring the bad moments into meaningless, noiseless chatter. She’s not even sure if she could stop taking them—even if she wanted to. She’s just no good at delayed gratification. Or moderation. What she wants, she wants right now. In a hurry. This minute. There’s no denying it, just holding the plastic bottle in her hand makes her feel more relaxed. More herself. The pills are the last link to her identity. Without them, there’s no telling who she would become. The thought both frightens and thrills her, and she feels her heart flutter impatiently against her ribs. She is startled by a pair of exceptionally bright lights in the rearview mirror, the glare temporarily blinding her. Asshole, she thinks, driving with their fucking brights on. She changes lanes with a sudden swerve left, but the car follows, pulling in closer behind. She puts one hand up, shading her eyes from the light and speeds up, her heel pressing firmly against the accelerator. The car behind accelerates in turn, gunning the motor. She begins to panic, breathing quickly and muttering to herself. Not again. Please, God, not again. Why won’t they leave me alone? The sky is pitch black and the neon reflects garishly onto the slickness of the windows. No matter how many times she changes lanes, she can’t lose him. She checks the rearview mirror frantically, her head jerking up, eyes straining, but it is impossible to see just who is in the driver’s seat through the veil of white light. Her eyes ache with the strain and she begins to sweat, her t-shirt sticking to her back.

332 She turns down Sunset, somewhat relieved by the overabundance of cars and people, the noise of competing car stereos. The car stays snugly behind, tailing her every move. She checks the mirror again while turning sharply left and for an instant, the figure behind the wheel is thrown into shadow. She sees a thin, hulking shape dressed in black, the face obscured in the depths of the shadow, a red glow hovering at the steering wheel. He’s smoking, she realizes. The man leans forward in his seat as he follows her around the corner, tires squealing, and his face falls suddenly into view. Angular and predatory, he is all sharp edges framed by short hair of an indeterminate shade. His eyes are covered by dark glasses, and her own uncovered eyes widen in disbelief. “Holy shit,” she mutters, changing lanes again and pulling over to the side of the road. The street is quiet and residential. Rows of Spanish-style houses in white stucco. Palm leaves swaying in the light breeze. The faint sound of children crying. His car flies by, and then stops abruptly at the end of the block. It is dark blue, or maybe black, with tinted windows. It sits there motionless, crouching over the pavement, motor running, a white plume of smoke exhaling from the tailpipe. Although she cannot see his face, she knows that he is watching her in the rearview mirror. She feels the weight of his gaze, the insistent probing. She can almost see his hands firmly, calmly on the wheel at ten and two o’clock. The brake light flashes and in a moment of sheer adrenaline and panic, she throws open the door and begins to run, her stiletto heels cracking on the pavement. “That was a narrow escape!” said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence. The car begins to back up rapidly, wheels spinning, and Sierra runs up the first driveway she sees, jumps the three steps to the porch and begins banging on the door frantically with her fists. She is sobbing, her face flooded with tears. “Please,” said Alice, “how am I to get in?” “Help me! Please open the door! There’s someone out here following me!”

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She can hear tentative shuffling footsteps, the sound of something being dropped onto the floor, a large crash of glassware followed by strenuous curses. “There’s no sort of use in knocking,” said the Footman, “and that is for two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you are: secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you. The door opens, bathing the porch in yellow light, and there is a sudden noise in the street. The engine revs, once, twice, and the car takes off down the street, taillights flashing as it disappears around the corner and out of view. She is shivering violently, her shirt soaked with cold sweat. A man stands in the doorway peering at her, his face incredulous as he surveys her sweaty clothes, her disheveled hair. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, a blue button-down shirt and chinos, his light hair combed neatly back from a round face. He looks like an accountant. Sierra pictures him bent over computer printouts and spreadsheets, a pencil tapping nervously on the desk. He peers at her closely, leaning slightly forward to look at her face more carefully. “Aren’t you,” he starts, tentatively, “aren’t you . . . Sierra?” From behind him, Sierra hears a feminine voice call out questioningly. “Honey? Who is it?” I’m not dead after all, she thinks, her brain overloaded, spinning in shock. She nods quickly, pleading with her eyes. “Yes,” she croaks, her voice strained, “I am.” He continues to stare and she feels foolish, exposed, crossing her arms at her chest, her limbs shivering uncontrollably. “It’s all right, Denise,” he calls over his shoulder, opening the door a crack wider. In the second it takes to open the door, she has forgotten her purpose. The small squeaking sound reminds her, and she reaches across the narrow space, grabbing his arm and pulling the soft cotton of his shirt into her fist. “How am I to get in?” asked Alice again, in a louder tone. “Are you to get in at all?” said the Footman. “That’s the first

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question, you know.” “Help me,” Sierra whimpers. “There’s a man following me.” She releases his arm and turns, pointing at the street, but it is empty and quiet—the humid, slightly tropical breeze rustling the manicured lawn, the leaves of the tall palms looming above. She places her hands to her head, cradling it. “Please,” he says quickly, regaining his composure, “come in.”

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The car rocks from side to side, her body curled on lush upholstery, the scent of leather filling her nostrils. She reaches out a hand, steadying herself against the window. Thick fog hangs in the air outside the clear glass. Salt breeze caresses her cheeks, a fine mist. We must be near the ocean, she thinks, lying back down. Her head is bloated and fuzzy. TV static, white noise, the channel changed again and again. A rapid blur of images filtered through shifting moonlight. The sensation of turning, her body rolling over and reaching out, one hand flopping out from under the crisp, white sheets. Reek of disinfectant. A cotton swab grazing her skin. She sits up and leans forward into the front seat, wipes her eyes. The driver’s seat is curiously empty. The steering wheel sways from side to side in the dark. The road ahead illuminated by the twin glow of headlights, yellow lines on black asphalt. She whispers in the dark, her voice tense with anticipation. Are we there yet?

336 Thirty-Three

Forty-five minutes later, the comedian arrives to rescue her. Sierra is sitting at the kitchen table, an untouched glass of water in front of her. John is an accountant whose firm handles Disney, among other decidedly less famous clients. His wife, Denise, is a junior development executive at Miramax. She is in her mid- twenties and dressed in red Juicy Couture sweats, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her face is well scrubbed and rosy, her body trim and toned as any Hollywood starlet. Only a large slightly hooked nose spoils her otherwise flawless beauty. It gives her a mean look, almost witch-like, although she has been anything but since Sierra unexpectedly stumbled in. Sierra watches her at the stove, boiling water for tea, and wonders why she doesn’t have the bulbous appendage fixed. It would be so easy. They make polite chatter as Denise busies herself in the kitchen. John cannot stop staring at her distraught, tear-soaked face, her body curled effortlessly around one of their high-backed wooden chairs. His eyes are small and feral behind his glasses and his right eye twitches at her occasionally. She pretends not to notice, but the staccato movement makes her even more nervous than she already is. All she wants is to get out of there and go home, but she doesn’t want to leave alone. She is afraid. What if they’re waiting for her outside? Just around the corner? In the long rows of hedges lining the end of the drive? By the time the doorbell rings, Sierra is ready to jump out of her skin. She realizes that she has become incapable of making small talk. She can’t focus on the weather, the state of Hollywood films, questions about her career or her boyfriends. When the doorbell chimes loudly, she sighs with relief, gathering her purse and walking toward the front door. The comedian folds her into his arms instantly, a worried look creasing his features, his hair even more disheveled than usual. “Baby,” he whispers taking a strand of her newly-dark hair

337 jennifer banash between his fingers, “what happened?” He looks at her face, her hair as if in a trance. She pulls her arms from around his neck and steps back. “Hey,” the comedian says casually, as if all his girlfriends eventually wind up in stranger’s homes, “thanks for looking after her, man. That was really cool of you.” “It was no problem,” John sputters, his face turning red with pleasure. “Hey,” his voice warms up, tinged with a note of excitement, “didn’t you used to be that guy on—” The comedian cuts him off with a weary look and a wave of his hand. “Yeah,” he says curtly, “that was me.” He glances down at his watch, pretends to be horrified by the time, which is just past nine o’clock. “Well,” he says, pulling Sierra by the hand, “we’ve gotta get going now. But thank you again.” The comedian catches sight of Denise standing in the kitchen doorway, a kettle in one hand, steaming. “Both of you.” He dips his chin in goodbye, smiling, and Sierra is pulled limply out the front door which gently shuts behind them. On the front steps the night is dark and quiet. The wind ruffles her hair, blurring her eyes. The street is empty with no passing cars, screaming kids, flying birds. Just an expanse of dark asphalt. He walks down to the driveway where his car is parked at an angle, pulling her along behind him. She looks up at the moon hanging crescent-shaped over their heads. The clear, translucent glow of it is more precious than moonstone, rarer than a string of perfect pearls. It occurs to her that the moon’s luminescence is the same color and texture as the glow of the Hollywood sign, sitting up in the hills, patiently waiting for her next move. “Hey,” she breathes, pulling hard on his hand. “Let’s climb up to the Hollywood sign tonight. We can get a bottle of wine,” she continues on, her eyes winking like sapphires in the dark. “It’s the perfect night for it!” The comedian stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing. He releases her hand abruptly.

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“What are you talking about?” His voice is edged with annoyance, disbelief. He grabs her by the shoulders, pushing his face closer to her own, his eyes momentarily softening. He is trying to be calm, rational, and the realization of this makes her want to laugh loudly and inappropriately. She suppresses a giggle by looking down and checking her manicure, fingers splayed. “Hey,” he tilts her face up to meet his eyes, “I got you a test shoot first thing tomorrow morning. With Playboy.” He separates the sentence, emphasizing the words. Playboy. Tomorrow. “What you need,” he says, looking her up and down, “is some sleep.” Suddenly, he remembers what he’s doing there and his forehead is at once a mass of confusion and wrinkles. “So, what the hell happened here, anyway?” “There was a man following me. In a car. I pulled over to get away, but he waited for me with the engine running. He could still be around here, he could be anywhere, anywhere at all. In my house, under my bed, hiding behind the front seat of my car.” She begins to giggle, a soft, kittenish sound that quickly escalates into mania—a wild, unfocused gleam in her eye. The comedian cannot keep the horrified expression from his face; it creeps over his features, settling in his eyes. Sierra reaches inside her bag, fumbling with her prescription bottle. The cap is stuck and she cannot release it. The comedian knocks the bottle from her hand with one chopping motion of the wrist. He moves with the cunning and grace of Bruce Lee, and the pills spill in a brightly colored river over the manicured lawn, the long driveway. “Stop taking those!” he shouts, his composure completely lost. A curtain moves behind the front window. They’re watching me, Sierra thinks in a panic. They’re watching me again. She reaches out in sudden anger, places both hands on the comedian’s chest and pushes backward with all her might. “You bastard!” she screams. The sound coming out of her mouth is shrill and fractured. That doesn’t sound like me at all, she thinks, sinking to her knees in the grass, her fingers blindly searching the

338 339 jennifer banash hollywoodland damp blades for the brightly colored spheres. The comedian kneels in the grass, shaking her shoulders roughly. “Dammit, Sierra,” he yells, his face enraged, features contorted in anger, “you’re acting crazy!” Her eyes narrow and she reaches up and slaps his face with a sharp crack. She hits him so hard that her hand actually stings. The sound echoes in the silent neighborhood and a dog begins to bark loudly. The comedian stares at her in disbelief, and all at once she is overwhelmingly sorry as she watches his eyes turn impossibly wet and glassy, then fill with tears. The fury drains from her body like air from a slashed tire, and she reaches out her hands, her face falling. “Baby,” she says, “I’m so sorr—” “Forget it,” he screams, batting her hands away from his face. She falls back on the grass. “I’m out of here.” He gets to his feet and stalks off toward his car, deactivating the alarm. The shrill beeping sound echoes in the night and she realizes that this is her last chance. Warning. She stumbles to her feet and lurches toward the car. The pills, she realizes, the pills are really kicking in. “Wait!” she screams, throwing herself against the driver’s side door. “Don’t leave me here! They could come back—don’t you understand? They could be anywhere!” The comedian simply stares at her, his face full of regret and something not unlike pity. “Sierra,” he says wearily, starting the ignition and closing the driver’s side door, “no one is after you. It’s all in your head.” He stares straight ahead, tapping his temple with an index finger, refusing to look at her. “But, you don’t understand,” she screams, crying now, “they really are after—” “Cut it!” he barks, throwing one hand up, silencing her. “Call me when you’re ready to be reasonable.” The car begins rolling backwards and into the street, headlights illuminating the wasted perfection of her body, mouth open, cheeks wet, dark hair shining in the spotlight. These lights on

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set are too bright, she thinks, wiping her cheeks with the front of her shirt, exposing her flat, pale stomach. That backlight will make me look practically bald. She watches the car disappear in a cloud of exhaust as she shrinks down smaller and smaller into the narrow confines of the rearview mirror.

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Thirty-Four

She drives around for a while, trying to calm down, tears streaking her face. She lights one cigarette after another, tapping the long columns of ash out the open window. She likes the feeling of smoke in her lungs, the heaviness of it, and she inhales deeply, holding the smoke in for as long as possible before releasing it into the air. She checks the rearview mirror compulsively, her own face a mystery, a shock. Only the eyes are familiar, wet and red. What she needs is a drink. Badly. She turns the car around, heading toward the neon glow of The Whiskey. She stops at a red light and her head falls onto her chest like a broken flower, eyes fluttering shut. A maze of images behind her closed lids. The castle, its sea-soaked walls, long, golden hair flying like a flag from the stone window. The knight riding toward her on a white horse, removing his helmet in the sun’s glare, his curly hair springing from the metal hood, his half smile. His eyes. The blaring of horns directly behind her forces her back into consciousness and she jerks up. Her heart pounding, she grabs the wheel with both hands, shaking her head from side to side. When she parks the car, her hands are trembling violently. She sits for a moment, motionless, and finishes her cigarette before grinding it out under one treacherously pointed heel. Inside the bar she begins to relax. The noise is deafening and some band she doesn’t know thrashes around on stage with a dead (she hopes) chicken and a chainsaw. White feathers float through the air. The club is packed and she is elbow-to-elbow at the bar. She must wedge her body in brutally to get a seat. The sweat is rolling down the back of her neck, dampening her t-shirt. The bartender doesn’t recognize her, and for that she is grateful. He brings her a Jack and Coke right away, because even if she isn’t a celebrity, she’s still one hell of a good-looking girl. She guzzles the drink greedily, then signals for another, lighting a cigarette.

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The match flares in the dim light, then suddenly dies, and she silently curses it. There is an illumination in front of her face, a yellow glow, the seductive warmth of fire, and she leans in, lighting the tip of her cigarette in the sudden glare. When she tilts her head up, exhaling toward the ceiling, a young kid stands motionless in the haze of smoke. He grins sheepishly, exposing rows of straight teeth, and she wonders if he is even old enough to be there. Fake I.D. she thinks, taking another swallow of her drink and smiling as the sweet liquid moves down her throat. “Hey,” he says, his grin growing wider. He adjusts his backwards baseball cap with one hand, nervously pulling at his ponytail hanging out the back. An earring dangles from the tender, new skin of his earlobe—a metal knife, swinging sharply, neatly slicing the air. “I know you!” “Really?” she says dryly, turning her back on him and hunching over her drink. “That’s fascinating.” He impatiently pushes the guy sitting next to her over with one jabbing elbow, and slides in beside her. “No, really,” he says, placing one hand lightly on her shoulder so that she turns her face to meet him, his eyes wide and earnest, “I’ve seen all your movies.” She peers at him: open, honest face, dark eyes, small build. He is wearing a black t-shirt that reads: Death is the New Life. The letters are written in white, gently scrolling, gothic script. There is a vacancy in his eyes. An absence. The product of too many video games or maybe something in the water of Southern California. Not the sharpest tool in the box but, still. He might do for tonight. The last thing she wants to do is go home alone: the empty house, the white walls bearing down on her, the phone that never rings. Like pills or booze, maybe sex will help assuage the loneliness, provide a momentary distraction from the pain closing in around her heart. She leans in closer, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder, bending her body to whisper in his ear, her breath tickling his skin like the prick of a million tiny needles.

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“Are you in a band?” she purrs, sliding her hand all the way down from his shoulder to his forearm, her nails digging slightly into his skin. He shivers under her touch and she feels a rush of power. “No,” he says, gulping hard and swallowing before answering, “I’m a roadie.” So this is what I’ve sunk to. She grins into her glass. If it wasn’t so supremely funny, it would be tragic. I’m right back where I started. They order one drink after another until the bar in front of her is filled with empty glasses and bottles. She signals to the bartender for the millionth time and just for a moment his eyes begin to look strange to her, an other-worldly glint that hangs for a moment in the red light, then fades when she blinks. Her pulse begins to rise. “Come on,” she says to the kid, “let’s get the hell out of here.” The kid knocks over his barstool and falls backwards. He stares up at her, a stunned expression creeping over his bland features. She bends down, pulling him to his feet as the crowds around them look down and laugh uproariously, heads thrown back, glasses raised in the air. Fuck them, she thinks, grabbing his outstretched hands, fuck them all. “Fuck you!” she snarls over her shoulder. The crowd, stunned for a moment, reacts violently, throwing wadded up paper napkins, straws, and even beer bottles in their direction. The bottles smash against the floor with a series of loud cracks. The bouncers wade their way through the crowd, pulling Sierra and the kid by the elbows and pushing them out the front door of the club. “You don’t understand!” Sierra cries out. “Don’t you know who I am?” “Yeah,” one of the bouncers smirks, “you’re a girl about to be eighty-sixed. That’s who you are.” They are thrown out onto the pavement. Sierra lands on her knees, her jeans tear under the impact, the skin underneath scraped and bloody. The kid is beside her, lying on his back on the cold sidewalk. “Shit,” he says, his face turned toward the neon sky, his eyes half closed. “That was intense.”

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“How come they didn’t know who you are?” the kid wonders aloud in a shaky voice as they head toward her car. “I mean,” he continues, stopping momentarily to light a cigarette, “like you did all those girl-on-girl flicks,” he says, stopping in front of the car as she unlocks the door. She cannot get her key in as it is moving in and out of focus. She closes her eyes, then tries again. “Remember that one you did with the giant strap-on?” His face is alight with pleasure at the memory. “I’ve always wondered,” he asks, sliding into her car and closing the door, “doesn’t it hurt to do so much anal? Or do you just get used to it after a while?” She turns to him, disbelief cracking the corners of her lips into a sick smile, and says slowly, “I’ve never done anal. Not once.” There is a long pause as the kid processes this new information and Sierra switches on her headlights. “Just who in the hell do you think I am?” “Jeanna Fine,” the kid sputters. “I thought you were Jeanna Fine.” The kid looks stunned, like she’s slapped him in the face with a wet towel. She remembers the look on the comedian’s face when she hit him and she closes her eyes, pain racing through her body. I’ll never be able to make it right, she thinks, sighing loudly. Never never. “Well, who are you then?” the kid asks, annoyed now. She begins to drive, momentarily relaxed by the feeling of her feet on the pedals, the gearshift in her hand. “Nobody,” she whispers, staring straight out into the Hollywood night. She switches on the radio, pressing the numbered dials on her CD player. “Yes you are!” The kid is all smiles now, pushing at her with his elbow. “You are too, or I wouldn’t have recognized you.” “You didn’t recognize me,” Sierra points out, suddenly exhausted, her vision blurred. Is it raining? she wonders, curling forward in her seat and wiping the inside of the windshield with the flat of her hand. “I need to lie down,” she murmurs. “C’mon!” the kid laughs, not to be dissuaded, “who the hell are you?”

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She looks over at him, his features blurred in the closed interior of the car. “I’m Sierra.” She enunciates every word, and it takes what little energy she has left. “No way, dude!” The kid exclaims, jumping gleefully in his seat. “I didn’t even recognize you! What did you do to your hair?” “I changed it,” she says, her voice clipped. “Obviously.” She is rapidly losing all patience with this kid. She needs to clear her head, to drive fast. Somehow the gathering momentum of tires on the road and the trees flashing by will sober her up—she’s sure of it. She reaches over and turns the music up to maximum volume, the bass thudding under her feet. “Look,” she says, gritting her teeth, “shut up so I can drive, OK?” It’s a direct threat, and the kid wipes the goofy grin off of his face instantaneously, trying hard to be cool. She turns away from him and stares through the window, her foot pressing down on the accelerator, the music throbbing in her ears. I don’t want to feel this way forever. A dead letter marked return to sender . . . As the car picks up speed, her head is filled with a series of blurred images coming at her through the tall palms, filtering in through the night air. Bobby’s worn, leathered face, the tickle of his blond hair on her back as she slept. The cuffs of Donald’s starched white shirts. Those hot lights on her nude body, the wink of the camera eye. The delicious click of the shutter, her body caught and captured in color, her face filling the frame. She remembers the first time she saw her own contact sheets, looking down at so much flesh, the perfect features of her face contorted in an open-mouthed smile. She clutched the thick photographic paper, moving it closer to her face, staring in disbelief. Who’s that? Hollywood is starless, she thinks, staring up at the dark sky, the neon lights and smog blocking the glittering constellations. She is driving faster now, the wind blowing her hair into her face. She keeps reaching up to pull it out of her eyes, globes watering each time strands of hair stick into the milky jelly. Damn this haircut, she thinks, exasperated.

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“Sierra, slow down.” The kid’s voice sounds shaky and staccato, filled with fear. He is hanging onto the passenger side door with one hand, his fists clenched and white. He takes off the baseball cap, holding it in his lap, clearly terrified. Spinning hubcaps set the tempo for the music of your broken window . . . She ignores him, pressing her foot firmly down on the accelerator, humming along with the music. The road curves sharply to the left and she anticipates the turn a second too late. The tires spin and squeal with the sound of a wounded animal, and the car careens off the road, smashing solidly into a white picket fence. Her vision goes absolutely black as her face is catapulted into the impossibly brittle glass of the windshield with a large cracking sound. Camera’s on and the cameras click, we open up the lens and can’t stop . . . When she opens her eyes, the kid is quiet and still in the seat next to her, but she can hear the rasp of his heavy breathing, then a kind of whimpering. The noise seems very far away—as if it is traveling over a great distance to reach her. Smoke rises in heavy, twisting plumes from the hood of the car. She is transfixed by the foul-smelling mist, and she leans closer to the windshield, one hand on the warm glass—now spider webbed and shattered with long cracks and chips. “Let’s pretend the glass has gone all soft like gauze, so that we can get through. Why it’s turning into sort of a mist now, I declare! It’ll be easy enough to get through—” She realizes with horror that the windshield (what’s left of it) is streaked with thick, red fluid. She looks down at her hands. They are covered in streaks of blood, some drying quickly in the air, blackening her palms, some still a violent crimson. She reaches up, gingerly exploring the planes of her face. Her nose feels huge under her hands, and she lets out a small cry of pain as her fingers brush over the broken cartilage. She fumbles frantically for the rearview mirror. The mirror is cracked into pieces. In the shards, her own face stares back at her in fragments. The nose is impossibly swollen, spread over the delicate planes of her face like a bad dream, blood pouring

346 347 jennifer banash hollywoodland from the tip. Her face is streaked with it, and her nose has a curious twist to the middle, sloping heavily to one side. Collapsed. The pain in her face is sudden and enormous, and she begins to sob, holding her hands protectively around her face. My face, she thinks, hysterically, her breath caught in her throat. My face . . . Fractured. Ruined. “Sierra,” the kid mumbles, “we’ve gotta get out of here. See if this thing still starts.” She turns the key in the ignition and the car sputters to life, coughing once before the engine catches, humming maniacally. She maneuvers the car up the winding hill, turning into her driveway and hitting the garage opener with one hand. The kid is moaning in the seat beside her, clutching his arm which hangs at a strange angle. “My arm,” he mutters incessantly, “Sierra, my arm’s fucked up.” When she looks over, she can see a flash of white poking through the kid’s tan skin. She kills the ignition, pushes the door open and vomits onto the pavement. What rises from the shriveled pouch of her stomach is all liquid, splashing heavily onto the cement and puddling there briefly before running into the lawn. Smoke still spirals from the hood of the car with a lethal hissing sound. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and stumbles toward the light of the garage, covering her face with her hands. “Hey, where are you going?” the kid yells out, “My arm’s hurt bad!” She ignores him and keeps going, running in through the garage and into the darkness of the kitchen. She sits down heavily on the floor and dials the comedian’s number. It rings once, twice, four times. She is crying incoherently into his machine, her hand smearing blood on the white tile, voice desperate, stripped of all ego. Are you there? Pleasepleaseplease pick up the phone . . . I’m so sorry about before—I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. Anyway, I’ve had an accident. I totaled my car and my face . . . my face is totally fucked up. It really

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hurts. It hurts . . . Please, honey, please please will you just come over? I think I need to go to the hospital. I’m really fucked up. I don’t know what to do anymore . . . my face, my face . . . The recording dissolves into heaving sobs, the cries growing higher and more wracked with pain. The comedian will save this tape and obsess over it for years to come. What if he hadn’t passed out that night? What if he hadn’t turned off his cell? What then? Would she be alive, sleeping soundly beside him in the bed? There is a beep and the machine clicks off rudely, shutting her out. She stares at the receiver in her hand incomprehensibly, then presses the number on her phone for his cell. There is no answer. In fact, the call goes straight to voicemail. She places her cell phone down on the kitchen floor. Utterly resigned, she makes her way to the bathroom without turning on the lights, her hands feeling for the safety of the walls in darkness. The light clicks on with a flash, the bulbs around the mirror illuminating her face. What’s left of it. Her eyes are blackened, the skin around them bruised and purple, the eye sockets cavernous, sunk deep into the softness of her face. Her cheeks and forehead are strewn with dozens of tiny cuts, blood running in thin streams from each jagged line. The worst damage is, by far, to her nose. It is twisted to the side, unrecognizable, the bridge almost flattened out. Asymmetrical. She resembles a monster. Even as her hands creep up to cover her mouth, she begins to scream, her cries reverberating off the bathroom walls, out the open window, and into the warm night air. “Now you are beautiful indeed.” She runs back down the stairs in the dark, following the golden light of the garage. She frantically searches in and under boxes, plastic bags and magazines thrown in the corner of the huge, mostly empty space, until she finds what she needs. The gun. Just holding it fills her with a sense of purpose. She begins to breathe deeper, sinking to the dirty cement floor, the ground cool against the backs of her legs. She sits cross-legged, turning the metal weight of it over in her hands. She has been tired for so long. It’s all such a mess. No way to

348 349 jennifer banash fix any of it. Maybe things will be better next time around. The pain in her face is all-consuming, throbbing, white hot in its intensity. She pictures Donald’s face, so hurt and sad when he finds out. He’s going to feel responsible. Her heart contracts with pity and longing, but there is nothing to be done about it. This is the last role. The last take. There is a part to play, and she must play it flawlessly. For the last time. Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table. “Now I’ll manage better this time,” she said to herself, and began by taking the little gold key and unlocking the door that led to the garden. She puts the gun to her head and closes her eyes. Her mother’s face floats there, disembodied, and at the sight of it she almost wavers, her hand shaking. The kid limps into the open garage, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees her quiet, curled posture—the black metal barrel of the gun pressed against her temple. “Sierra, what are you doing?” He is frozen with fear, immobile. She looks up at him reassuringly, smiling gently—her body bathed in golden light—her expression serene as an angel as she slowly closes her eyes and pulls the trigger.

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Coma X

The car stops suddenly, throwing her to the floor of the backseat. My head hurts . . . She brings one hand to the top of her skull, but it is swaddled, impenetrable. She rubs gently and pushes open the door, stepping, inexplicably, into a garden. Acres of green grass, white-and-pink petals floating in the air, tangling themselves in her hair, their silken blossoms a shower of snow in the slight breeze. She turns her face up to the sun, breathing in white flowers and the sharp scent of freshly mown grass. At the far end of the garden there is a stone wall. She walks toward it curiously, hands outstretched. She cannot feel her feet on the wet grass, and when she looks down, she is hovering an inch above the ground, the hem of her red gown hiding her feet, the silky fabric dragging through the dark-green blades. Astroturf, she thinks, floating easily along. That set designer is so fired . . . There is a door set into the rocky stone wall, gleaming and white with a gold lock. Now, where did I put that key? It appears in the palm of her hand— weightless—the gold shining richly in the light. It fits easily in the lock, and the door swings open with no resistance. She walks through—ducking slightly as the door itself is no more than five feet high—and when she looks up, she is standing on a red carpet, furled out along the grass for miles, extending over the hills and far into the distance. She begins to move, to follow the carpet, up and around the green hills. There are sudden flashes of light as her name is called in quick succession. Sierra! Sierra, over here! She turns toward flashing light, her face unfolding in a brilliant smile, hands stretched above her head, reaching toward the white letters in the distance, up through the parched, mountainous landscape. She spells them aloud, her mouth set in concentration, but when she speaks she cannot hear the sound of her own voice. H—O—L—L—Y—W—O—O—D—L—A—N—D. The sign burns brighter than the sun, the camera flash. She floats toward it on the scented air, unable to stop herself from moving. Sierra? Can you hear me? Goddammit, we’re losing her! Adrenaline in . . .

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Her eyes roll back in her head, arms hanging limply from the metal gurney. Blood falls like rain on the linoleum. And less than ten miles away, a girl deplanes at LAX, hair bouncing at her shoulders, blonde as a buttercup. She makes her way toward the exit, looking up into the smog, the unrelenting smoke and glitter of the Los Angeles night, her eyes glassy, blinded by the slick pages of the magazine she clutches in one sweaty hand. A white limousine waits at the curb, and as she stands there in her simple cotton sundress, the window rolls slowly down. A man sits in the backseat smoking a fat cigar. He gestures toward her with one hand, fingers waving in the night air. Palms loom above her head, fronds whispering their sweet California melody in her ears. They sing of lights and heat, and a crimson carpet—impossibly red. The door opens soundlessly, and a sweet, pungent aroma drifts toward her. She breathes in deeply, closing her eyes and walks—as if in a dream—to the long, white car.

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Acknowledgments

David Banash, who always believed. Anthony Enns, for red polyester jumpsuits, thrift-store mania, and other assorted forms of madness. Binnie Kirshenbaum, Scott Bradfield, and Kevin Sampsell for their kind help. Richard Nash at Soft Skull Press, without whom I would not be publishing these words—I still owe you a drink. My brother, Jonathan, who kicks ass and takes names on a daily basis. My parents, who never once told me I was crazy (though I’m sure they were tempted). My grandmother, who always thought I’d succeed—no matter what the odds. Rich Nisa, for wine, cheese, and copious amounts of design brilliance. My grandfather, who passed away last year—I wish you could’ve seen this. Susie Phillips (Hello, Moto), for never once telling me I have too many shoes, and for the endless quest for a tiny moose in a purple dress. Nick Burd, my big-city rat, who impresses me hourly with his talent and determination in all things literary. Jaime Clarke, Nick Antosca, Kate Hunter, Christian TeBordo and the rest of the Impetus family—you make it all worthwhile. And, last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank Willy Blackmore, who never once told me it couldn’t be done. Thank you, love.

About the Author

Jennifer Banash lives in Iowa City, Iowa and is a doctoral candidate in English at the University of Iowa. She is the co-founder of Impetus Press.