Bliss (18 page)

“Sarah?” asked Demi, standing up. The other riders took off their helmets, too. Eve, Jo, and a bunch of their other friends.

Sarah laid her bike down on the grass, and came over to give Demi a tight hug. “We heard what happened. I still feel like it's my fault. If we hadn't made that joke about James, you wouldn't have gone off with Warren, and the cop wouldn't have pulled you over.”

“It's not your fault! It's mine. I shouldn't have been driving.” That night, or any other night. In a way, she was glad she lost her license so she'd never do it again. Mary's honesty had gotten under her skin.
You should be thrilled
. After meditating on it for a couple of days, she agreed wholeheartedly. To Sarah, she asked, “What's all this? Hey, guys!” She waved at the other riders.

“We're heading down to First @ Second. It's the last day, and we thought you'd want to check it out.”

Her heart grew two sizes. Her friends rounded up a bunch of bikes so they could ride to the festival with her, a show of solidarity she never expected. “We'll be the world's wimpiest biker gang.”

Catherine said, “Go ahead, Demi. Wally and I can polish off the chicken.”

Demi ran upstairs to get her helmet and bike. Then they were off, riding in rows of two on the streets, ringing their bells and intimidating no one all the way to the beach.

*   *   *

The food festival was crowded and hot with rows upon rows of brightly, post-ironically painted food trucks and carts catering to every conceivable taste, from French truffle grilled cheese to bowls of Vietnamese pho. You had to stand on line for an hour to get a soggy breakfast burrito or a few measly pot stickers. But as an event, First @ Second was a massive success, well attended and well organized. When Demi ran into Maya, she told her so. She also apologized for being a punk, and wished Maya all the success in the world. Maya was grateful and relieved to clear the air with Demi, but she didn't offer her her old job back. Just as well. They hugged it out by the Asian pizza truck, but then Maya had to go put out a fire. Literally. The Oinkwich barbecue was going up in flames.

Demi and her posse spent a couple of hours at the festival, eating, not drinking, and making fun of the foodies and their gusty, precious, and snotty descriptions of every dish's ingredient and preparation. Demi loved food. Cooking was her passion. But foodies? Meh.

Sarah said, “James is walking toward you.”

“Fool me once, bitch.”

“Seriously. He's five paces away.”

“Yup, and he's got Barack Obama and Jennifer Lawrence with him.”

“He's one step away. He's here. It's happening.”

“Bullshi…”

A tap on her shoulder, and the voice she knew all too well in her ear. “Have you tried the churros?”

Demi turned around. There he was, the man who'd been the epicenter of her universe for three years. The man who stomped on her heart and had no right to look as groin-achingly sexy on such a hot sweaty day in the J.Crew navy shorts and striped shirt she bought for him a while back. Demi reached up to touch her hair, which was a tangled mess from riding. She wasn't wearing a lick of makeup. Her shorts and T-shirt were baggy and food-stained. In her daydreams about this moment, she wasn't such a slob.

“Hello” was all she could muster.

“Hello, yourself.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. An electric current raced from her neck straight to her crotch. “I was hoping I'd see you here.”

She looked around, trying to find someone. “Where's your bimbo?”

“I'm alone,” he said. “I've been alone since you left.”

That might be true. On her Instagram, she'd been trying to give the impression that she was living it up. His feeds included likes and links, but nothing personal. Not even a photo of a nice plate of food or a cute dog. If he were hitting some hot girl, James would want his followers to know.

He said, “You must have been busy lately. You haven't posted any pictures. I was worried something happened. Or someone.”

Did she tell him she'd been off the grid on the advice of her attorney? It wasn't any of James's business. She caught Sarah's eye. Her friend mimed dragging her away. Demi shook her head. She'd sobered up in more ways than one over the last couple of weeks, and Demi was no longer vulnerable to James's dubious charms. But it would still be nice to get some closure.

“I have questions,” she said bluntly. “And I deserve answers.”

“I need to talk to you, too.” James bowed his head slightly, as if he were ashamed of himself for the way he behaved. If he were so contrite, why hadn't he sought her out before?

“Okay, let's talk.”

“It's kind of hectic here.”

“So where?” she asked.

“Our place?”

“
Your
place.” His apartment was closer. Besides, she didn't want him to know where she lived.

“Let's go.”

Sarah stopped her. “Are you sure?”

“It's not like I'm going to sleep with him,” said Demi.

Her friend didn't look convinced.

 

demi's jerk chicken

SERVES 8

ingredients

1 tbsp ground allspice

1 tbsp dried thyme

1 tbsp sage

zest of 1 lemon

1 tbsp cumin

1 tbsp salt

½ tbsp red chilli flakes

2 tbsp agave

1 tbsp cayenne pepper

½ tsp ground cinnamon

2 tsps ground nutmeg

8 garlic cloves, peeled

2 bunches scallions, chopped

two 1-inch cubes fresh ginger

1 bunch fresh cilantro, leaves only

1 cup fresh lime juice

¼ cup tamari sauce

¼ cup sesame oil

3 packages organic free-range chicken thighs (or breasts)

instructions

1. In a good blender, add all of the ingredients (minus the chicken) and blend until smooth.

2. Place the chicken in a plastic container with an air-proof lid, then cover with the marinade. Toss around the chicken and make sure all of it is coated evenly.

3. Cover the container with a lid and leave in the fridge for 24 to 48 hours—yes that's 1 to 2 days.

4. Once the chicken has successfully marinated, pop the chicken on the grill 6 to 8 minutes each side or bake at 375 degrees for 35 minutes.

Enjoy with some steamed rice and veggies and get carried away to Jamaica, mon!

 

11

i'm not here to make friends

“Are you Sophia?” asked the flight attendant.

“Yes.”

“I have a meal for you.”

“I didn't buy one.” She'd glanced at the plane food menu, and decided against it. She'd rather eat peanuts and pretzels for free than pay twenty dollars for the “meat plate.” Although it did look appetizing.

The flight attendant checked her tablet. “It's already been paid for by M. King Studios.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.”
They bought me lunch?
She didn't want to let on that she was surprised.
Play it cool! Sit like a star.

The flight attendant handed her a cardboard box. She opened it and found a ham and cheese sandwich.

Sophia was on her way to Los Angeles for the second time in a month. Her
Hipsters
audition tape, shot by Harriet and emailed to the production team with five minutes to spare, did not, apparently, suck. An hour after she sent it in, Agnes called. In a hysterical, hyperventilating lather, she told Sophia that she'd been invited to “test” for the part of Valerie, which was the next level of hoop jumping. A callback! In all her years of auditioning, Sophia had never been tested for
anything
, which was itself a test of her endurance and commitment.

As she happily snacked, Sophia had a déjà vu. A few rows back, the flight attendant said, “It's been paid for by M. King Studios.” Sophia leaned over the seat to look down the center aisle in coach. The flight attendant handed a box to someone. A slender brown arm with multiple bangles reached to take it.

Sophia faced forward again. She wrapped her sandwich for the time being, unbuckled her seat belt, and walked down the aisle to the bathroom. She had to size up the owner of that arm. The girl was her age, also multiethnic, gorgeous, with a similar girly personal style. Just like Sophia, she seemed amazed by the good fortune to get a free lunch.

This girl was her competition, and possibly the only other ethnically ambiguous young, pretty female actor in all of Toronto. Did the producers have a thing for Canadians? Or maybe there were dozens of girls all over North America eating ham sandwiches right now, and winging to LA to test for the same part.

Locking the bathroom door, Sophia focused on her eyes in the mirror. Men had told her often enough that her eyes were a dark bottomless mystery. She stared at them, and into herself, to find calm and strength. “You got this,” she said.

The statement felt real and true. It would have been more appropriate if the rush of confidence came, say, after climbing a mountain and not in a cramped airplane bathroom. The setting was irrelevant. She met herself in her reflection. The girl staring back at her showed steely resolve. She might not get the part, but it wouldn't be because she psyched herself out of it with fear. Sophia went back to her seat, grinning with her purpose.
Relax. Walk like a star. Know the part is already yours
. They could bring in ten girls, a hundred. It didn't matter. She had this.

The plane landed at LAX. Sophia, along with the rest of the passengers, headed toward baggage claim, past Burger King and Starbucks, and then to the airport exits. A row of drivers in black suits, white shirts, and ties stood by the doors holding up signs or tablets with names on them, including hers. Sophia approached her driver, giddy. The car and driver, like the sandwich, had been unexpected. She handed her overnight bag to her driver, and noticed out of the corner of her eye the girl with the ‘fro doing the same exact thing to her driver. Sophia quickly read the name on his sign—Leslie Abbott.

Sophia and her driver headed out to the parking lot. Leslie and hers followed only a few steps behind. They got in their respective cars, and drove, caravan style, from the airport to the hotel, The Sheraton in Studio City. With comic precision, Sophia and Leslie exited the cars at the same moment, and walked toward the concierge desk on a parallel course.

Should she say something? It was kind of obvious what was happening here. Sophia glanced at Leslie, who very pointedly did not look at Sophia.
Okay then
. Message received. By tacit agreement, the rivals would not acknowledge each other or speak at all. Maybe Leslie was superstitious about talking to the competition, or she was soaking up the tension to put into her test? Sophia was fine with the silent treatment.
I'm not here to make friends
, she thought. It was so cold-blooded, so reality TV, that she burst out laughing. Her tension evaporated. It didn't matter what Leslie thought or how she used the emotion of this experience. Sophia's only job was to breathe it all in, and love it all out.

After she checked in, she went up to her room (Leslie waited for a different elevator; superstitious, or obnoxious?). It was nice, clean, nothing to write home about. A basket of fruit waited for her there, and a note from Stella Rosen, casting agent, welcoming her to LA and inviting her to order room service for dinner and breakfast. A call sheet was attached, with all the important info for her test tomorrow. At nine
A.M.
, the driver was scheduled to pick her up. At noon, a driver would drive her directly to LAX to catch her return flight to Toronto.

Since Sophia had only one night in LA and only twelve hours until her screen test, she decided to put on a sexy dress, take a cab into West Hollywood, find the biggest, baddest club, do shots, dance, hook up with a male model, and get a tattoo of the Hollywood sign on her neck.

Fuck, no.

But that would make a great story for her future memoir, of how she got wasted the night before the test that changed her life. Instead, Sophia ordered a pizza from room service (it seemed the safest choice), and then took a bubble bath. After a quick call to her mom (“I can't believe how calm I am,” she said), Sophia settled down to a Wayne Dyer guided meditation CD she had on her computer until she fell asleep.

Rise and shine to the siren sound of her alarm. She made it extra loud so she wouldn't oversleep. Some nerves arrived with breakfast. Sophia crushed them and psyched herself up by repeating things that Demi always told her. “You're a star!” she said, and took selfies of herself all over the room. “You got this!” she yelled while videotaping herself jumping on the bed. As always, she wanted to document everything, and to remember what it felt like to go from “before” to “after.” Today was the great divide. Life was full of hairpin turns. But usually, you didn't see them coming. Even if the outcome wasn't what she hoped it would be, she knew she'd never feel quite the same again. It was such an enormous relief to finally get acknowledgment. She was just so grateful to be here, to have this chance.

When the time came, she took the elevator down to the lobby. The doors shushed open and she stepped out. Leslie emerged from her elevator a second later, like they'd timed it. Wearing the same green shirt from her self-tape, Sophia smiled, not letting her competition kill her positive vibe. They walked awkwardly side by side to the curb, where their drivers and separate cars were waiting. Caravan style, they rode to the studio only a few miles away.

A couple of production assistants were waiting for them, One went right up to Leslie, and took her to a room on the left. The other, a girl around Sophia's age, guided her to the door to her right.

“I thought Stella Rosen would be here,” said Sophia.

“Right this way.” The PA handed her the sides, the same pages she'd already memorized for the audition tape, which was a relief, and ushered her into a room with a U-shaped table. Seated at the table were a dozen people. They quickly introduced themselves as the writers, producers, and casting directors on
Hipsters
. One woman who seemed to be in charge—Julie? Julia?—asked Sophia to stand in the front of the room and do the lines. As she got in place, she had a five-second flashback to that frightening audition at Casting Central when she blanked her lines. But that wasn't an issue today. She was in the Zone today. Sophia could have read the phone book and nailed it. After reading the lines twice, the head woman said, “Thank you.”