1. Alana

ONE

Alana

Fame is a lot of pressure …

~ Nick Carter

“ I t’s not ideal,” my mother aptly assesses from her end of the phone call.

With her next breath, she tells her massage therapist, “A little to the left, Jobert. And deeper into the tissue. Ahhhhh. Ungh. Yessss.” She draws out Jobert’s name so it sounds like zshow-bear, only the bear part takes her a count of three. Always a flair for the dramatic—that’s my mother—even off screen.

I stare out the window of my home, out through the copse of trees that keeps me happily secluded from the property to the east of me, past the rooftops of the house and cottage on my neighbor’s estate, to the vast expanse of ocean in the distance. I should feel separated from my Hollywood life here—protected from any demands and intrusions. But one minute on the phone with my mother catapults me across the twenty-five miles separating my island home from the mainland. I may as well be sitting in a chair across a desk from a producer in a Burbank high rise right now .

My mother returns her attention to me, “Alana, sweetheart, you have a legacy to uphold here, not to mention the importance of your influence for generations of female actresses who will come after you. You simply cannot take this role. It’s beneath you. It’s a typecast. It’s soooo Alana Graves twenty-seventeen. You’ve evolved since your Are You Kidding? days. You’ve made such headway, redefining yourself, claiming the relevance worthy of your namesake. This role would be a setback. An attractive nanny, flirting with the single dad she’s hired to work for? Talk about cliché. I … I highly advise … ahhhhh. Yes, Jobert, that’s the spot … You are the best.”

A groan takes the place of whatever my mother was about to say, followed by a long sigh. She seems to momentarily forget she’s on a call with me, leaving me to briefly reminisce about my time as a television nanny on the hit show Are You Kidding? I do miss the camaraderie of being in a TV series. That cast became like a second family to me—one I never see anymore.

“Anyway, what was I saying?” My mother’s voice somehow manages to convey both relaxed and uptight tones. “Oh, yes. I remember now. It’s a no on the role, Alana darling. Just talk to Mitchell and explain your reasoning. I’ll handle the fallout with Starshine Productions.” Then she adds, “I don’t know why you won’t consider the script I had sent over last week.”

“The one Daddy is producing?”

“Irrelevant. It’s a good role. Aligned … mmmm. Yes … Aligned with your goals.”

My goals. I don’t think I could find my goals with a bloodhound and a private investigator working round-the-clock. It’s not that I disagree with my mother. I probably shouldn’t take this nanny part. I should pursue something more relevant, with more depth. I should make my mark, live up to my family’s heritage in the film industry, pick up my proverbial machete and clear the way for generations of female actresses who will come after me.

Should, should, should.

My life is a castle built on the foundation of “shoulds.” Each expectation settles like an ancient stone on that established bedrock, threatening to dim the appeal of my multi-million dollar views.

“Okay, well. Good talk,” Mother declares. “Text me when you’ve broken the news of your decision to Mitchell. I’ll plan lunch with Suzette at Starshine this week. She loves Petit Trois. I’ll let her down gently over a ni?oise salad and a filet.”

Mother laughs lightly. Then she sends air kisses and hangs up before I can even get the word Goodbye out.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?” I say to nobody.

Then I collapse back into my leather sofa and grab my iPad, pulling up the Play on Words app on my phone. Escapism? Yes. At least I’m not lost in a bottle like so many A-list stars. I prefer to lose myself in a battle of the minds on an online Scrabble platform. Here, no one knows me. I’m simply SaturdayIslandGirl.

The reason for the Saturday in my handle is ridiculous—something from years ago, a time when I didn’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders—when I was Gwendolyn, not Alana Graves, world-famous movie and television celebrity, heir to the Graves Production empire. Back then, I was a girl like any other girl. At least, every Saturday I was.

I log on and wait for a challenge to appear on my game dashboard. I could start my own match, but I’m secretly hoping Wordivore is on here. He—or she—has become a fun competitor for me. I could play against the computer, or a random opponent, but half the fun of Play on Words is the social connection. Pathetic as it may sound, this is one of my favorite ways to hang out with other people—anonymously challenging one another to word games.

It’s not that I’m completely friendless. I’ve got a few local people I trust here on the island. And there’s my assistant, Brigitte, who lives in Hermosa Beach. If I’m on the set, she’s on the set. When I’m here on the island, she and I chat or text daily.

But, when it comes to our personal lives, Brigitte knows everything about me, and I only know her friends by name, as if they are characters in a story. It’s not like we can hang out together. Brigitte would take a bullet for me. And she’s a straight shooter, often telling me what I don’t want to hear and keeping me in line and on time but with a dose of humor and a resilience that’s essential if you’re going to survive in this business.

Brigitte’s not an aspiring star. In her words, “You wouldn’t catch me dead living your life.” I pointed out she couldn’t live my life if she were dead and she laughed that airy, carefree laugh of hers and said, “See. It couldn’t happen.” I admire her spunk. She’s got mad organizational skills but isn’t at all neurotic about it like the assistant before her was. That woman needed the vacation she’d never take, and probably a daily dose of Jobert.

Then, just because I was thinking of her, I shoot off a text to Brigitte.

Alana : Hey. Just want you to know I got the script.

Brigitte : You’re texting me at dinner time, which means your mom called.

Alana : She did, but that’s not why I’m texting.

Brigitte : Sure it is. You need to be balanced out. Like the pool guy at my apartment.

Alana : What are you talking about?

I smile to myself. Half the time Brigitte only makes sense to herself. She’s an excellent translator, though. So, eventually she’ll clue me in as to what her eccentric and quirky thoughts mean.

Brigitte : The pool guy. He tests the water, as pool guys do. If there’s too much acid, he has to add alkaline or alka seltzer or alcohol. Something like that ...

There’s a pause. Brigitte knows what the pool guy adds to the water. She’s just having fun with me, trying to make me smile since I just dealt with my mother .

Brigitte : I’m your alkaline. Your mom, beg my pardon, but you know I’m right, she’s acid.

No one—not one soul on this planet or in this solar system—even allows themselves to even think the thought that my mother is “acid.” And yet, here goes Brigitte. She’d probably say it straight to Mother’s face. She calls my mother by her first name, as if they grew up together, even though my mother is nearly old enough to be Brigitte’s grandmother.

I can hear it now. Brigitte would affect a cheery, over-the-top voice. “Angelique, you are acid.” Then she’d swat her hand in my mom’s direction as if they were sharing some private joke.

And Mother would laugh and tell Brigitte she’s adorable or sweet and such a gift to our family. It’s my assistant’s superpower. She can say the most offensive or overly direct thing to anyone, and they laugh and smile like she just buttered their toast. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I work in Hollywood, so I’ve seen just about everything there is to be seen.

Alana : I won’t bug you. Just wanted to check in.

Brigitte : Awww. You missed me. Well, I miss you too. Cheek kisses and all that other Hollywood mumbo jumbo. Now go eat that rabbit food of yours. Or is it actually a rabbit you’re eating? If it is, don’t. Eat the veggies. All the veggies. Throw a few in for me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ve got a hot date.

Alana : You can’t leave me with your last words being, hot date, and think I’m going to stop texting you.

Brigitte : Okay. Okay. It’s a blind date. My friend, Sarah, set me up with her boyfriend’s friend. He’s supposed to be cute and employed, so winner winner chicken dinner, he rings both bells. .

I chuckle. This guy doesn’t know what he’s in for .

Alana : Okay. I’ve got plans anyway. Have a great date .

Brigitte : If by plans you mean those word games … you do you, boo .

Alana : I do mean the word games. They calm me.

Brigitte : Well, you deserve all the calm. Gotta run. I was putting on a fake eyelash while I was texting you and it fell onto my cheek and the glue stuck it there. I look like I’m being attacked by a very wooly species of exotic caterpillar or I’ve got a hairy mole like no other … and that’s not the look I’m going for here.

I laugh out loud and it echoes through the living room.

Alana : Go have fun. Be safe.

Brigitte : Okaaaayy, Mom. You be safe too. Don’t pop a blood vessel trying to wrack your brain for those fourteen letter words. I’ll text you tomorrow. You can fill me in on the script decision and I’ll update you on your schedule. It will be fun times.

Alana : (Peace sign fingers emoji)

Brigitte : (Kissy face emoji)

I set my phone down on the coffee table, still smiling.

It’s time to see if Wordivore is online. I started playing matches against Wordivore about six months or so ago. One day, he—or she—posted in the game chat, You’re going down this round . I chuckled and responded, Not likely . And the banter continued as if we were old friends or siblings. Who knew how much joy trash talking with a total stranger would bring me. Since then, we’ve baited one another, and kept the game far more interesting than playing some random competitor.

It’s odd that I know nothing about Wordivore—not their gender, what they look like, where they live, what they do when they aren’t challenging me to an online game. The anonymity of it all is so freeing. They don’t know me either. I’m just another player, an equal, a word-geek who escapes into online gaming when real life feels too weighty to face.

A minute passes with no challenge and I’m about to place a first move for Wordivore to find later and then enter the public arena to look for an opening to another match when my dashboard pings with a notification.

Wordivore has challenged you to a match. Do you accept the challenge?

I hit the “accept” button and a square playing board appears on my screen with my letters lined up at the bottom.

Today is my lucky day . Wordivore types before we even get started laying one word onto the board.

I don’t believe in luck . I answer with a revelation more personal than I’ve ever shared here.

It’s true. I don’t believe in luck. I was raised to believe we control our own destinies. It’s up to me to choose well, work harder than my male counterparts, befriend other women in the industry, but not to the point of trusting them. I’m to climb the ladder, focus on the end game, and eliminate distractions.

Luck has nothing to do with it.

Mother used to say, “You’ll hear people talk about lucky breaks. There are no such things in this industry, regardless of the common myths everyone spouts whenever someone shoots up into the spotlight seemingly out of nowhere. There is only diligence and cunning. Being at the right place at the right time with the right people isn’t luck. It’s strategy.”

Oh, what do you believe in, then? Wordivore asks.

Strategy . I answer, only partially cringing when my mother’s voice is the one I hear in my mind when I type my response.

I do believe in strategy. It’s the key to success. Hard work alone won’t get a person where they need to go. Not without strategy. You can apply yourself for years to something. But without strategy, you could apply yourself to the wrong thing, or the right thing in the wrong way.

Ahhh. Well, strategy helps. But luck is a part of everything. Luck or mystery. There’s the part of life we control. And there’s the rest which falls outside the scope of our personal influence .

Wow. Wordivore has never been this chatty. I almost wonder if someone hacked the account, but something inside me knows it’s the same player.

Deep words for someone who hasn’t laid a tile on the board yet , I taunt. You must have a lot of Zs and Qs in that hand .

Wordivore’s response comes almost immediately: All the better to spell tranquilizers or quartziest or benzoquinones .

My barking laughter echoes off my tall beamed ceilings. How long has it been since I’ve laughed like this? Sure, I laugh at Brigitte’s silliness, but not a laugh where I let loose and forget everything but this moment.

Maybe it is your lucky day , I concede. But I’m not going down without a fight .

I’d expect nothing less .

I lay down METEORS on the board. The number 10 pops up next to my name in the points tally. It’s nothing grand, but it’s a solid start, and I have a good draw to replace my tiles. I can build off any of those letters to possibly land a win today.

I wait for whatever Wordivore will place on the board. A text notification appears over the top of my screen. Mitchell, my agent. I swipe the banner out of view and refocus on my game. Mitchell can wait. My life outside this secluded house at the top of a hill on Marbella Island can wait. For now, I’m going to indulge myself in a little online banter with an opponent while I pretend to be just any other girl on a gaming app.