Chapter 2

MADISON DAHL: Saved by the Dell? The troubled teen may finally be tamed by the love of a good man. Madison has reportedly been spotted in Aruba with wholesome up-and-coming actor Dell Hamlyn, a former Peace Corp volunteer. We’re guessing his prolonged exposure to starving refugees in Africa has made Madison appear positively healthy in comparison.

—US Weekly For the next week, Madison and I just kicked back, watching lame TV and hanging out, “doctor’s orders.” Really, all Madison’s shrink had said was for Madison to start keeping a food diary and get more sleep, but we convinced my dad to write me a note for school so we could play hooky.

In between reruns of “Big Brother” and “Degrassi,” we talked. We had a lot of catching up to do. Mostly, Madison bitched about Nikki. Nikki had stolen Madison’s clothes, left cigarette burns in her car seats, hit on any guy Madison even mentioned liking, and basically kinda sucked as a friend. I did my best to listen, even though I practically had to shove my fist in my mouth to stop myself from screaming, “Told you so!”

“You know, I was so stupid,” Madison said one day after we’d watched almost a whole season of “Veronica Mars” non-stop and were lying in bed with our eyes glazed over. “Nikki screwed up so many times, but I always let it go. And you kept one secret from me, and I wrote you off.”

“It’s okay,” I lied. “It was a big secret.”

Madison propped herself up on one elbow. “No, it’s not okay. I screwed up, and I’m sorry. If I ever act like such a bitch again, you’re legally allowed to smack me.”

That sounded really good to me. Not the smacking so much, but the apology. “Deal,” I said. “Can I also smack you if you stop eating again?”

Madison sighed and flopped onto her back. “Food, food, food, food! Aaack, why do we have to keep talking about food?”

“We don’t. I just want you to get better.”

“I know, I know,” Madison said, quietly. “I want to. Really, I do.”

I hated to be a nag, but let me tell you, living with a recovering anorexic puts a whole new spin on so many things. You don’t want to be around when she tries on a pair of jeans that makes her feel fat. You have to worry if she’s in the bathroom too long, because she might be throwing up. And actual meals? Forget it.

“What do you want?” I asked Madison that night, opening and shutting all of our kitchen cabinets searching for something that wasn’t too fattening, tasted good, and wasn’t a total pain in the ass to make. Before Madison moved in, my dad and I had been in noodle soup hell, and let me tell you, that’s a pretty bleak place. I found a box of macaroni and cheese I’d bought and forgotten for a school food drive in the back of the pantry. “This work?”

Madison crinkled her nose. “Maybe we can order in?” she asked.

“There’s a pizza place down the street,” I offered.

“Do they have salad?” I looked at Madison. She was running one hand over her stomach, pressing down on it as if she was trying to make it even flatter than it already was. I could just see her choking down a pile of dressing-free iceberg lettuce and calling it dinner.

“No,” I lied. “But there’s a really good Chinese place around the corner.”

“No egg rolls, though,” Madison sighed. “Do you know how many calories are in an egg roll?”

I glared at Madison. “No, and I wish you didn’t, either.”

When the food came (orange peel chicken, mu shu vegetables, and shrimp with lobster sauce), it was so good I could have eaten it all myself, but Madison just scooted a few shrimp around on her plate.

“Please eat, Madison,” I said.

Madison popped a shrimp in her mouth and chewed quickly. “Better?”

Without saying a word, my father reached across the table, grabbed Madison’s plate, and started filling it up with food. “This how much Erin eats,” he said, putting the plate back in front of Madison. “She not fat. She healthy. You eat same, you be okay. Not too much, not too little.”

Madison’s eyes widened when she looked at the plate. It didn’t look like a lot of food to me, but to Madison I’m sure it looked like an all-you-can-eat buffet. “Uh, Mr. Park—”

“Eo seo meok eo ra,” my dad said, pointing at her plate. “Good food.”

Madison sighed and started eating slowly. Just then, the phone rang, and Dad got up from the table to answer it. “Keep eating,” he said to Madison.

“I can’t eat this much,” Madison whispered to me. “I’ll barf.”

“It’s like the man said,” I whispered back. “At least try. You’ve got to start eating, Madison, or my dad will personally drive you back to the hospital. You know he will.”

Madison nodded. She took a deep breath, then shoveled a chunk of orange peel chicken into her mouth, almost choking on it. I thought she was kidding around, but then I saw a tear slide down the side of her cheek. It was like taking one stupid bite hurt her. God, I really hoped every dinner wasn’t going to be like this.

My dad walked back in, holding the phone out to Madison. “Call for you, but come back and eat after,” he said. Madison grabbed the receiver and darted out of the room, thrilled for any opportunity to escape.

She was gone for a long time, and I started to wonder if she’d snuck out a window to avoid her mu shu.

“Maybe you go find Madison, tell her we heat up her plate,” my dad said, so I knew he was worried, too. But just then Madison walked in. She looked even worse than she had when she forced down her orange peel chicken.

“That was Caitlin,” she said slowly. “She had lunch with the producers of ‘Family Style.’ And they want me back, like, yesterday.”

My dad smiled. “Good, yes?”

Madison shrugged. “I guess. But ratings are way down, and they said they want to make some creative changes.”

“What kind of changes exactly?” I asked. In the television industry, whenever studio mucky mucks start fiddling with a show whatever they come up with always sucks and sucks hard. You know, like when sitcoms stick a little kid into the cast or have “very special” episodes or film on location in Hawaii. Apparently in Los Angeles “creative” is a code word for “this show is about to be canceled and we’ll try anything because we’re desperate.”

Madison knew that just as well as I did. “They said it won’t affect me, that I’ll be happier with the scripts, even. That the changes are taking place at a higher level.”

“I bet they’re canning Sammy,” I said. Sammy was the show runner on “Family Style.” He was sometimes a pain in the ass, but for the most part I thought he was pretty smart. He created the show, and some of the episodes he’d written had been really creative and funny. So, of course it made sense for the producers to fire the guy once the ratings dipped. Not.

“Maybe it works out. Change can be good,” my dad offered.

I opened my mouth to explain to my dad how things really worked in Hollywood when the microwave ground to a halt with a ding. “You eat now, Madison. No arguments!” my dad said, getting up to retrieve her food.

“I know, I know,” Madison said, staring at the plate as if it were covered with worms. “It’s good for me, right?” I could barely bring myself to nod as Madison slowly, slowly ate her food, one awful bite at a time.

***

When Monday rolled around, I got up early to make sure Madison and I weren’t late for her first day back at work. Clive, sweetheart that he was, even canceled the studio driver so he could personally chauffeur us. I really hoped that Clive and Madison could start being friends again. Sure, it kind of sucked that he had led her on for so long, but except for letting Madison drive herself crazy wondering why he didn’t like her, he was a really great guy.

At five in the morning, I heard a loud, frantic knocking at the front door. Even through the peephole, Clive looked nervous.

I opened the door and he practically knocked me over trying to get inside. Maybe he wasn’t such a great guy. “They’re here,” he said quickly, slamming the door shut with his foot. “Paparazzi. Tons of them.”

“How did they find her?” I squeaked. The whole week it had been blissfully quiet, especially after Patty had leaked a story to Us Weekly that Madison had run off to Aruba with some squeaky-clean actor she represented. Sure, it was a total sham, but it was a smart move. It bought Madison a break, it gave Mr. Supercute some free publicity—plus, it improved Madison’s image. Instead of everyone wondering if she was snorting coke off a coffee table and starving herself to death, they could jam up the internet gossiping about whether or not she’d fallen madly in love. I’d say the latter was infinitely better than the former, wouldn’t you?

“Does it matter?” Clive shrugged. “Where is she?”

Madison stumbled into the hallway in a She Wants Revenge t-shirt and ratty boxer shorts, blinking at us. “Goddamn early,” she muttered. “Coffee. Now.”

“Paparazzi,” Clive said.

“Aw, hell!” Madison said, abruptly wide awake.

“Is it really that big a deal?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not like you haven’t dealt with the shutterslugs before.”

Clive walked over to our living room window and motioned for us to follow him. “Not like this, I’m guessing.”

One by one we peeped through a crack between the blinds and the window. Clive wasn’t kidding around.

For a while there had been a few photographers bugging Madison when she picked up an iced blended at Coffee Bean or got the mail. But this time, there were about thirty creepy looking guys milling around on the street outside our house, big cameras with telephoto lenses swinging around their necks. Beyond them, there were vans and cars I’d never seen before lining the streets, even parked in front of the fire hydrant outside our house. “I hope he gets a ticket for that,” I muttered.

“Why are they swarming me?” Madison wailed. “I’m not ready for pictures! I don’t even have my hair done! I haven’t had a fake bake in ages!” She waved her pasty pale arms in front of her to make the point.

Clive reached into his back pocket. “This was online when I woke up this morning,” he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. A headline screamed: PARTY GIRL OVERDOSES! LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE! “The first photo of you alive is probably worth six figures,” Clive said. “They’re motivated.”

“It’s a lie! I wasn’t even doing drugs!” Madison screamed. She was so mad she kicked the wall with her bare foot. “Ow!” she yelled, grabbing her toe and whimpering.

I couldn’t believe it. Who found out? Who ratted? No one knew about what happened at the club other than Madison, Clive, that nice bouncer, me and… Nikki.

But there was no time for blame. “I can’t be late for work,” Madison whined. “Then they’ll think I’m a junkie AND lazy!”

“Can we smuggle her into your car?” I asked Clive, scanning the room for a carpet to roll her in.

“And what, stick me in the trunk?” Madison shrieked.

“Just get dressed and we’ll move fast,” Clive said, eyeballing Madison’s grungy clothes.

She looked down at her boxers and blushed. “You know, for a minute I was embarrassed, but then I remembered you’re gay.”

“I’m sort of flattered, I guess,” Clive said, a grin flickering across his face. “But hurry, okay?”

Madison scuttled out of the room, and Clive grabbed my arm. “At the very least we can bundle her up,” he said. “Have you got sunglasses, a hat, that sort of stuff?”

I ran into my dad’s room (thank God he went to work super early) and flung open the closet door. I hadn’t looked in there since I had to pick out a dress for Mom’s funeral, and it would have made me sad if I’d even had time to think about it. But there, right where I knew they would be, was my mom’s big gardening hat, sunglasses and the old silk scarf she wore around her neck to keep from getting sunburned. I hesitated. I wondered if my mom was watching from heaven, if it was wrong to touch her things.

“ERIN!” Clive yelled from the other room. “Hurry up!” I prayed Mom would forgive me, then grabbed all of her stuff and ran. In less than a minute Clive and I had bundled Madison up so that she looked more like a cluttered coat rack than a person. “Ready?” Clive asked her, his voice grave.

“I guess so,” Madison said, blinking from behind my mom’s gigantic sunglasses.

“On the count of three,” Clive said. “One…two…THREE!”

I’ve never moved so fast in my life. I tried to block out the horrible sounds around me. It was like walking into a war zone, what with the thudding footsteps, the cameras clicking away like automatic gunfire, the people screaming “MADISON! MADISON! OVER HERE!” at the top of their lungs. Clive and I ran with Madison wedged in between us to block the photographers from getting a good picture, then Madison and I dove into the back seat while Clive got behind the wheel. I barely had time to buckle my seat belt before we were screeching out of the driveway, the smell of burnt rubber stinging my nostrils.

“Hold on!” Clive said. The speed limit in my neighborhood was 35 mph, but we must have been doing 80 in Clive’s Tesla. I watched the houses blur outside my window and hoped no one was out walking their dog. All we needed was to run down old Mrs. Jenkins and her yappy little poodle. Then the tabloids would call Madison a drug-addled puppy killer.

I snuck a look through the back windshield. I couldn’t believe what I saw. As fast as Clive was driving, there was a caravan of vans and cars right on his bumper, some of them swerving onto the sidewalk with photographers dangling out the windows, all of them trying to get a clear shot. Madison crouched on the floor of the backseat, a jacket over her head. “Did we lose them?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah, right,” I said, clinging to the door handle and feeling my stomach flip as Clive sped through another turn, tires screeching. We’d somehow ended up in the Hollywood Hills, a neighborhood where the streets are so crooked and steep I’ve felt like throwing up even when I wasn’t in a car going almost three times the speed limit. “I think there’s more of them now.”

“Not for long,” Clive yelled from the front seat, punching a phone number into the Tesla screen. “I’ll lose them.”

I tried to smile encouragingly, but I wasn’t convinced. I had a Tesla, too, and it’s a really great car but not exactly something you see at NASCAR. And who the hell was Clive calling, anyway? Unless it was freakin’ Spider-Man I wanted him to put both paws back on the steering wheel and fast.

But just then, we started slowing down, even though we were miles away from where we wanted to go. Had we run out of charge? “What’s happening? Are we there?” Madison asked.

“Not quite,” Clive muttered.

I knock some sense into Clive’s head, but just then I saw a van start to pull alongside us.

I could see the jowly old guy in the passenger seat shoot us an evil grin as he raised his camera. I wanted to scream at the bastard, flip him off, anything, but that would just end up in the tabloids, too.

“Duck down low, Madison,” I yelled. “They’re coming.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Clive shouted. And just like that, another car appeared around the bend, making the van swerve fast to avoid getting hit head-on.

I was so busy gloating I wasn’t prepared when Clive slammed on the breaks and made a sharp right. We were surrounded by mansions, and dead ahead of us was a humongous wall with a fancy iron gate slowly creaking open. We had to be at the private home of someone really rich. “Where are we?” I screamed at Clive.

He ignored me. We were slowing down, and behind us I could see the photographers pouring out of their vans and running toward our car. I knew that once they swarmed our car, we’d be trapped, unable to move an inch until they taken every last picture they wanted of poor Madison, who was still curled in a ball on the floor of the car. She was totally flipping out, muttering to herself and fingering the red Kabbalah string around her left wrist.

In front of us, the gate crept open so slowly I wanted to get out and move it myself. “Come on, come ON,” Clive muttered, inching the car forward.

I heard another car door slam behind us. I turned my head and saw the saggy-faced guy fly out of the van, moving a lot faster than you’d ever think an old man like him could move. I looked back at the gate. Another inch, and maybe we could squeak through. And when I say squeak, I really mean rip the side mirrors off the car and flatten the doors like a tin can.

I didn’t need to look back to know Old Saggy Face was gaining on us. “MADISON,” he brayed. “MADISON, WE JUST WANT YOUR PICTURE!”

“Screw him,” Madison hissed, pulling my mom’s hat down over her pasty white face.

Just then, I heard it. The flat, smacking noise of a hand hitting the rear bumper of our car. Saggy Face was on us, and he wasn’t alone. I was afraid to turn around now. I could hear a chorus of voices screaming, their words blending together until it was just one, unholy bellow, like something you’d hear from a pack of wild animals on the hunt.

I was about to unbuckle my seatbelt and throw myself over Madison, anything to screw up these bastards’ photo op. I was so mad I couldn’t stand it. But at that exact moment, Clive hit the gas so hard my head smacked against the front passenger seat. The gate was open, and we were through.

I looked through the back window and watched as the iron bars closed behind us. Saggy Face was actually stomping his feet like a little kid in the middle of a tantrum. Now it was my turn for the evil grin.

“YES!” Clive screamed from the front seat, pumping a fist in the air. “Am I your golden god or am I not?”

Madison cautiously climbed onto the seat, stretching her legs in front of her. “Sure, whatever. Where are we?”

After taking two twisting turns through a forest of trees, we were in front of the biggest house I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’ve seen mansions before, don’t get me wrong, but this place was big like a museum or that house in “Gone with the Wind” or something. There were enormous white columns on either side of the front door, and even the door was big—two stories tall and wider than Clive’s car. I bet we could have driven inside if we’d wanted to.

Just then, that massive front door opened and a guy who only looked a little older than Clive walked out. He wasn’t anywhere near as fancy as the house. He wore a white t-shirt (plain but very clean), jeans and loafers. Little rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Clive rolled down his window. “Ernesto, you’re a lifesaver,” he said.

Madison looked at me and mouthed the words “Who’s Ernesto?” I shrugged. All I knew was Ernesto had a really big house. Maybe he was running an orphanage or something. I couldn’t imagine just one family living here.

“Ernesto, you know Madison and Erin,” Clive said, gesturing for us to roll down our windows so we could shake hands.

“Nice to meet you,” Madison said in her sweetest movie star voice. “I thought the paparazzi were going to plow right into us.”

“I know, I saw them on the closed circuit,” Ernesto said, nodding toward a security camera perched on the roof. “Shameful. But you’re okay now. Clive will take you out the back entrance.”

With that, we quickly said our goodbyes and Clive hit the gas. It turned out the long, twisty driveway had a back entrance, and before we knew it we were zipping along a back street toward the 101 Freeway, not a paparazzo in sight.

When we pulled up to the studio lot with ten minutes to spare, all of us heaved a giant sigh of relief. “That would have been totally fun if not for the small, possibly life-threatening heart attack I had outside those gates,” Madison said. “You’re a really good driver, Clive.”

Clive grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Who is Ernesto?” I asked. “Nice house, by the way.”

“It’s his dad’s. The guy practically invented the home security system. He owns a big chain, but now he only works on high end set-ups for celebrities, like panic rooms and armed guards and all that.”

“And how do you know Ernesto?” Madison asked suggestively.

“He’s a friend, Madison. And not the kind with benefits. At least, benefits other than using his driveway,” Clive replied, rolling his eyes.

Once we got to the lot, the three of us walked into the Dahl House and found the nearest soft surface to flop on, exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, it was a minute before we realized we weren’t alone.

***

“Hi.” It was Nikki, sitting on a kitchen stool in the shadows, one emaciated leg crossed over the other.

Madison flicked on the overhead light. Except for being a skeleton with hair, Nikki didn’t look so bad. She smiled nervously at us, her thick lip gloss gleaming.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sharp. I knew Madison had to kiss and make-up with Nikki, but no one had said that I had to. I noticed Clive was glaring a hole through Nikki, too. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten the kiss-ass memo, either. Good.

“The door was unlocked and I wanted to return your sweater,” Nikki said, holding up a fluffy green lump of cashmere. “The movers forgot it.” She paused for a moment. “Madison, can I talk to you alone?”

“Nikki, anything you want to say you can say in front of Clive and Erin,” Madison said smoothly. “We’re all friends here.”

Nikki shot a glance at me and then Clive, then turned her attention back to Madison. “I just want to say how sorry I am about what happened at the club,” Nikki murmured. “I was totally high. I barely remember that night.”

“Don’t worry,” Clive said coolly. “The rest of us remember it really well, if you have any questions.”

“Look, I know I screwed up,” Nikki said, her big blue eyes wet with unshed tears. “I’ve been a lousy friend.”

“It’s okay, Nikki,” Madison said.

“I SUCK!” Nikki shrieked. “I’m so ashamed of myself. It was the drugs, I swear.”

Nikki started sniffling, and it was all I could do not to laugh. If I hadn’t known Nikki, I’d actually be moved by her little speech. But I did know Nikki, and I also knew she was an okay actress. And I wasn’t buying this for a minute.

But then I looked at Madison, and her eyes were welling up with tears, too. “It’s okay,” she said, pulling Nikki into a hug. “I’m serious, it’s okay.”

“You’re never going to forgive me!” Nikki wailed. “And you shouldn’t.”

Madison choked back a sob. “I’m not mad anymore. Seriously.”

Okay, I knew this was all Oscar-worthy acting, but it still made me want to throw up. I’m sure Nikki’s people had told her to plead for Madison’s forgiveness, too. Everyone talks about how fake Hollywood is, but this was all a little much for me. I mean, it’s one thing to have to act in front of the cameras, but having to fake your own life just to keep your job? “I’m out of here,” I whispered to Clive.

“Me, too,” he said. I don’t think Nikki and Madison even heard us leave, the door slamming shut with a bang.

***

I needed to check in at the extra pen with all the other underpaid geeks if I wanted to work that afternoon, but I so didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to be on the lot. “What’s wrong? Clive asked as I walked with him toward the make-up trailer.

“That was just gross,” I said. “That kind of crap makes me hate the industry.”

“What, that you have to pretend to care about people you’d like to see run over by a truck?”

“And that if you don’t do that, you get fired. That your whole life is at the mercy of a bunch of suits who don’t even know you.”

“Well, there’s no business like show business,” Clive joked.

“Yeah, and maybe that’s a good thing,” I shot back.

Clive stared at me with an exaggerated scowl. “Has someone been thinking? Don’t we know that’s dangerous?”

I smiled, but I wasn’t in the mood to joke around. “It’s like, I love movies. I really do. I love how they’re made, how the crew works together like a well-oiled machine, all of it. It’s this fake, kiss-ass stuff that’s so disgusting.”

“All part of the package.”

“If you’re an actor. But I’m not.”

Clive shrugged. “Even better. You get all the perks of a celebrity without having to be one.”

I nodded, staring at my feet as we shuffled along. I was wearing my favorite Converse sneakers, these fuchsia graffiti high tops. Madison had given them to me, leftovers from a party goody bag. “It’s not that I’m not grateful…”

“But you need some breathing room,” Clive said, nodding.

“And I’m a little tired of feeling like my whole life revolves around Madison, too.” Most girls my age had spent lots of time thinking about their futures. Me? I’d spent a lot of time thinking about Madison’s future instead.

We were almost at the make-up trailer. The door was open, and I could see the containers of shimmery lip gloss and creamy foundation on the counter. It was the expensive stuff they used to make the stars pretty. They never used it on extras, though. “It’s like, this morning I couldn’t just leave the house, I had to go on a high-speed car chase to get to work,” I explained. “Madison’s life is just so big and overwhelming, there’s no room for me to figure out what I want to do.”

“Any ideas?”

“I definitely don’t want to be part of the acting side of things. I just want to make movies. Like, produce or direct.”

Clive raised an eyebrow. “Honey, producers have to shovel a lot of bull, too. But if you’re interested in doing that, I might be able to help you.”

“How?”

“I know about a gig. Something independent of Madison, where you’d get to work on the part of moviemaking that interests you. And you could quit being an extra.”

I thought about that for a while. I was getting pretty sick of being an extra, waiting around all day just to get stuck in the background like a potted plant. It occurred to me that Madison was just a bigger, more expensive prop who couldn’t move a muscle without the approval of a million different suits. I wanted to be in control of my own life. I didn’t want to take orders from anyone, including Madison, not anymore. And I knew producers were the ones who called the shots.

“Try me,” I said with a smile. “I’m game.”