“How are you just so decent all the time?” I say, taking the map from him. “You’re really saying you’d be fine with me tanking your career just for a shot at completing my Mom Quest?”
He shrugs. “It’s important to you.”
I meet his eyes and take a moment to revel in how good he is. It sounds dorky and cheesy, and Belle would have a field day if she heard me say that out loud. But it’s true. He always does the most right thing, and it’s never calculated—it’s like an instinct. Whether it’s helping Rory with the salad and making her feel like a star, or calmly eviscerating Craig Shimizu, or telling me he still has hope even when I’ve lost it completely.
“And this audition is important to you,” I say. “So go in there and crush it, okay? The part is gonna be yours—I can feel it.”
And then, because I’m really going with the whole feelings thing, I impulsively stretch myself over the gearshift and kiss him. His hands tangle in my hair and he pulls me closer, and I feel myself falling into him again—
Until an earsplitting HOOOONK rings out through the parking garage and we jump apart, gasping for breath.
“Oops,” he manages to get out. “I bumped the horn.” He gives me a sly grin. “Look at you, already causing disruptions.”
“Me?” I spit out, indignant. “You’re the one who bumped the horn!”
“Because you distracted me,” he says, leaning in again. He glances down at my shirt. “Hey, is that the nure-onna?”
“Oh . . . yes,” I say, smoothing the front of my beloved T-shirt. “I wore it for luck.”
“She looks cool,” he says. “Like she’s about to fight the good fight.”
“I think she’s actually about to eat people and have her revenge on all of humanity,” I retort. He just grins at me. “But maybe she could do both,” I amend.
He touches his forehead to mine. “Let’s go accomplish our respective missions. I believe in us—and the nure-onna.”
“Me too,” I murmur. “Just don’t forget to drop your shoulder when you’re going into the throw, or you’ll completely mess it up.”
“What a pep talk,” he laughs.
My heartbeat speeds up again and my palms start to sweat as we exit the car. Henry points me in the right direction and heads off the opposite way. I see him adjusting, trying to center himself, squaring his shoulders and muttering his lines under his breath. I watch him until he’s a dot bobbing in the distance. The butterflies cascading through my stomach are for him, I realize—because I know he wants this so badly. And I know he’s scared to want it so badly.
When he’s finally out of sight, I turn and survey the lot in front of me. Just to my left is a small fountain, welcoming me to the stately, arched entryway with pinnacle pictures emblazoned on it. Beyond that are rows and rows of soundstages—tall beige boxes that block out the sky. And to my right is an outdoor screen of some sort, a gigantic square of bright blue that seems to be serving as a backdrop for exterior shots.
I’ve never actually been on a Hollywood lot. Rory is always complaining because TV and movies that depict LA are obsessed with showing approximately three elements of the sprawling city: the Hollywood sign, the gilded front of one of the many studio lots, and Rodeo Drive. “Why don’t they show the real LA?” she’ll say. “Like, the place where we actually live.”
It is like watching a far-off glittering fantasy kingdom built on top of the city I love. These images people associate with LA have nothing to do with my actual daily existence. I remember some kids in my and Belle’s class who moved here from the East Coast asking us if we knew any movie stars, like that was a normal part of life in LA.
Although . . . now I do know a movie star. My mother is a movie star. And my . . . whatever Henry is . . .
And here I am on an actual Hollywood lot, ready to find my happy ending.
I take a deep breath and step forward, passing under the entryway. I try to meander down the row of soundstages casually but with purpose, like I totally belong here and totally know what I’m doing. I am so focused on my extremely casual meandering, I almost bump into a man barreling my way, wearing a giant lobster costume.
“Oops, sorry!” I cry, scurrying out of his path. He waves an oversized claw at me and keeps on barreling.
As I continue my trek, I feel more and more like Dorothy getting her first taste of Oz, or a confused Alice right after she was plunked into Wonderland. I see various costumed people marching by, wearing all sorts of things. A woman dressed as a pancake, pacing back and forth and studying her lines. A trio of teen vampires who keep cracking each other up by trying to recite tongue twisters around their fake teeth. A very tall man dressed as some kind of scaly green alien, phone pressed to the foamy ear of his costume as he shouts about how he “just can’t do this anymore!”
On my left, I see a path to what looks like a fake city street—facades of buildings that aren’t actually buildings, a subway that doesn’t go anywhere. Even the path beneath my feet appears to be made up of some kind of fake cobblestones, lovingly crafted to look real. Only their suspiciously shiny surfaces give them away.
I suppose I should be repulsed by all this, by this superficial kingdom dedicated to selling some version of reality that has very little to do with real life. Grace Kimura’s happy endings.
And yet, as the gentle summer breeze and the laughter of the tongue-twisting vampires wash over me, I can’t help but feel charmed. So many people’s dreams are bubbling underneath the surface of these fake cobblestones. I imagine my mother, setting foot on this lot for the first
