3. Alana

THREE

Alana

It's not so important who starts the game,

but who finishes it.

~ John Wooden

F -O-U-D.

I set the tiles down on the virtual game board on my screen, pretty proud of myself for remembering that’s an actual word in Britain. I nearly cross my fingers in hopes that Wordivore doesn’t call me on the fact that foud isn’t actually a universally used word in all of English. I lean back on my couch, tucking my legs under me on the cushion, waiting for Wordivore’s response.

I earned eight points for that word, and I’m ahead by six already, so that makes my lead fourteen.

Wordivore wastes no time adding ROYANT to the end of the tiles I just laid, creating FOUDROYANT and earning my eight plus nine. Seventeen!

Bam! The message comes through almost as quickly as the tiles show up on our shared game board.

Are you using a computer assistant to discover words? I ask.

Are you accusing me of cheating? Where would the fun be in that?

I have to agree. Half the fun, or maybe ninety percent of it, comes from knowing you won by your wits.

Well done, then . I concede. Are you sure foudroyant is an actual word?

I am.

Why do I long for more than those two words from my opponent?

What does it mean then? I ask instead of Googling the definition.

Sudden and overwhelming in effect; stunning; dazzling. It comes from the French word for lightning. As in, my opponent’s word choice was foudroyant.

I chuckle at the double entendre.

Ah. Foudre. Oui. I don’t know why I answer with the actual French word for lightning.

My response reveals something personal. Not that I am French, I’m not. I just exposed the fact that I speak the language. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

Tu parles fran?ais? Wordivore asks while our game board sits idle.

Of course my statement would prompt the question as to whether I speak French.

No. I answer with a falsehood.

I really don’t want to lie to Wordivore, even though we’ll never meet outside this game. The reality is, I’m better off not being open about anything personal. Any hint at who I am would ruin the anonymity I have here—this rare place I can come to be unknown and known at the same time.

Ah. Well, good guess as to what the French word for lightning is, then. And also at what my question meant. My opponent adds a winking emoji. And, also a surprisingly accurate use of the word oui. Though, I guess most Americans would know that word. But many wouldn’t know the spelling. Spelling French words threatened to be the death of me in high school. Luckily, I had a cute tutor.

This is a conversation. Not merely comments on the game. A part of me thrills at the opportunity to learn more about Wordivore. For one thing, I’m sensing he’s a man, not that it matters. But maybe she’s a woman? For some reason that detail feels tantamount to all others. The winking emoji in the middle of the last comment feels like one Brigitte would give me when she says something particularly over the edge. Friend to friend, goofing off. But if he’s a man …

I wonder. What does he—or she—do all day? Do they work, are they married? Do they have pets? Children? What color is their hair, their eyes, their skin? Where do they live? What are their hobbies, passions, dreams, fears, concerns? All those questions are the very ones I’d rather not answer about myself, so it’s obvious I can’t ask them either.

Instead of continuing the conversation, I play off the N in FOUDROYANT. I lay down A-NEX and make the word ANNEX for twelve points, thanks to my X.

Great comeback, Wordivore types. Gotta love that X .

Thanks , I type, while watching my opponent add, -ATION to my ANNEX to gain five points plus my twelve, ending with an eight point lead over me in the process.

I can’t help but smile. There’s something satisfying in finding a worthy opponent.

It’s your lucky day , I goad.

Must be , Wordivore answers, and then adds, So now you believe in luck?

Touché. I smile. Wordivore remembers our brief conversation about strategy and mystery—one I’ve been pondering ever since.

More French, Wordivore types.

Maybe I know un peu , I admit.

Admitting I know a little isn’t like saying I know French. Besides, over three hundred million people speak French around the world. Finding me through that one clue would be needle-in- a-haystack level detective skills. I’ll simply be careful not to admit I also speak Spanish, German, Italian and enough of three Asian languages to get around in Japan, China and Vietnam, places I’ve been for extended movie shoots on location.

Well, big things often have small beginnings . Wordivore types.

I recognize the line immediately.

Lawrence of Arabia? I ask.

Maybe the quote is a coincidence. Wordivore may not know the origin.

A classic film.

I stare at those three words.

I know very well that Lawrence of Arabia is a classic film, starring Peter O’Toole as T. E. Lawrence. The plot is based on one man’s role in a war and the book The Seven Pillars of Wisdom . Will I admit my extensive knowledge about the film here? No. Not if I can help it. What modern person would know that much about movies, especially ones shot over sixty years ago? Maybe Wordivore is a senior citizen. Someone who could be my grandmother or grandfather.

Instead of disclosing my knowledge, I type, A classic. Yes. So I’ve heard. Again with the lies.

I’m a horrible liar. Not that I’d want to be a good one. You might think being an accomplished actress would mean I excel at deception. But acting isn’t deceiving, it’s portraying. I can embody a believable character in a riveting scene all day long. Lying, not so much.

You’ve barely heard of the movie you just named out of the blue after I quoted only one line? Incredible.

I laugh. I can almost feel the smile on Wordivore’s face. I don’t know if it’s a man’s face or a woman’s, young or old, but whomever it is, they’re smiling at my ridiculous attempt to conceal my identity.

I know the film. I admit, since it’s obvious.

Wordivore types the shocked face of a cat emoji.

Maybe my opponent is a woman. Do men use that emoji? I don’t know. The only texting I do with men has to do with filming and business meetings and not one of them uses emojis at all. Not even the thumbs up, which seems business appropriate.

I draw my tiles, ready to end this tempting interchange between me and my favorite opponent. Then I spot the word I can play from the tiles in my hand, and I smile. I lay down FEED-ARD around the Y in FOUDROYANT to make FEEDYARD.

Sixteen points! I type, gloating unabashedly.

Why do I sense you doing a victory dance right now?

I’m doing no such thing .

I’m not even finished typing when Wordivore sets an S at the end of my word, gaining all my points plus one, and earning a nine point lead over me.

The game continues for another thirty minutes in a similar trend. Every time I think I’ve gotten ahead, Wordivore bests me. Our banter continues too, though it’s more about the game than anything dangerously personal.

It’s past what should have been my scheduled dinner hour by the time we end. I run out of tiles and the game goes to Wordivore.

Well played , I say.

You too. Really .

You’re a gracious winner , I taunt.

I’d say you were a gracious loser, but I get the feeling you’re dying a little inside.

I’ll survive. If you lived through learning to spell in French, I’ll live through this defeat. I’ll live to fight another day.

That’s a relief.

I smile. Goodnight, Wordivore .

Bonne nuit, SaturdayIslandGirl.

I don’t know why I didn’t realize until just this moment that my gamer tag gives away my gender. Well, I know what I’m asking Wordivore the next time we play. It’s only fair that we both know one another’s gender. A playing field should be level, even though most are not.

I’m heating up my baked chicken breast with quinoa and wilted spinach when there’s a knock at the door. I’m not supposed to eat this late, but I lost track of time playing our game. The knock sounds again. My brain sorts through the options of who it could be. My front gate has a code, so whoever it is got as far as my porch without buzzing me. That means it’s a friend, employee or family member—narrowing it down to a handful of possibilities.

Oh! Wait. Sunday evening. It’s my Trader Joe’s groceries. And, no. We don’t have Trader Joe’s on the island. I have a private delivery scheduled once a week from the mainland. The same guy, Joel, who pilots my water taxi when I need to go in to Hollywood does a weekly delivery. He’s signed an NDA and he does random errands for me—for a sizeable fee. It’s worth it. If I have to sequester myself like a hermit simply to enjoy a modicum of peace, at least I can use my wealth to pay people to shuttle whatever my heart desires to my secret hideaway.

I check the feed from the front security camera on my cell while I walk to the front door. I learned the habit of double-checking the hard way. More than once in my Hollywood condo, I thought someone I knew was at the front entrance, only to find a bevy of paparazzi silently awaiting my appearance. It’s amazing how utterly still they can be—like lions awaiting the movement of a gazelle. At the click of the lock, the silence turned to a frenzied chaos and my pursuers pounced with a ferocious hunger for one image, one word, one facial expression to feed their endless craving.

My face breaks into a wide grin when I see it’s actually not Joel with my Trader Joe’s delivery. I open the door for one of my closest friends on the island—actually, she’s one of my closest friends on earth.

Phyllis.

I don’t even get a greeting out before Phyllis is pushing past me, a plate covered in Saran in hand. I know what’s under the plastic wrap and I trail behind, my mouth nearly watering .

“Lemon bars?”

“Of course, dear. I have to make sure you don’t wither away on wilted greens and air or whatever they have you eating these days.”

“You know how it goes.” I follow Phyllis into my chef’s kitchen and watch her move through the room as if this were her own house. “Did you drive yourself up here?”

“You don’t see my chauffeur anywhere around here, do you?”

I laugh. Phyllis should not be driving. Even a golf cart. The woman is like the female version of Mister Magoo. But I know better than to argue with her. No one tells her what to do.

Phyllis did a stint in Hollywood years ago. Married a director. But she got out of the business in her thirties. She grew up on Marbella and came back here permanently after her acting career and marriage came to an end. She doesn’t talk about what happened. I get the feeling she’s worked through most of it and doesn’t want to dig up skeletons.

Phyllis sets the plate on my imported marble countertop and grabs down two dessert plates, chattering away the whole time.

“Mila and Kai set a date. And of course Noah’s going to be a groomsman. None of this carrying the rings for that boy. No sir. He told Kai, ‘I’m going to wear a tuxedo and stand up front with the other guys.’ I think Kalaine is trying to talk Kai into having Shaka take the rings down the aisle. A dog in a wedding. That’s something you’d never have seen back in my day.”

I settle onto one of the barstools, content to hear Phyllis talk about anything, her niece’s wedding, the weather, whatever.

She plops a lemon bar on my plate and slides it in my direction. Then she pulls up the stool next to mine.

“You know what’s divine with these? Strawberry tea.” She takes a bite and hums.

I glance toward the microwave. Phyllis, being as perceptive as ever, follows my line of vision.

She stands and walks to the microwave, opens the door, furrows her brow and holds my now-room-temperature dinner out in front of her.

“Is this what you’re supposed to be eating?”

I nod.

“Well …” Phyllis pauses. Her eyes flit between the plate in her hand and the one sitting on the counter in front of me. “Dessert first!”

I laugh. “You’re a horrible influence. You know that?”

“I’m a magnificent influence and you know it. Those studios would have you looking like a skeleton with skin. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you one thousand times. And I’m going to keep telling you. They’ll steal your soul if you let them. You have to draw your lines. At the end of the day, it’s a job.”

She stares at me, her eyes warm with concern and love. “A career. I’ll give you that. It’s more than a job. But it’s merely what pays the bills. You could sell popsicles at the Corner Market or you could portray characters on film. One pays a bit better, sure. But it also demands a whole lot more. And it will take all if you allow it. So, don’t. You’re Alana Graves. Act like it.”

Phyllis’ slightly wrinkled hand comes up to cup my cheek. In a soft voice, full of emotion, with the sweetest smile on her face she adds, “Act like it, Gwendolyn.”

She utters my childhood name like a secret we share. And it is one. Gwendolyn’s a perfectly great name for an actress. I was named with my future in mind. But, just before I had an audition for a life-changing role in my first sitcom at age twelve, my mother learned that another up-and-coming child actress named Gwen was also trying out for that same show. So, we fixed that. My name was legally changed before auditions even started. I got the role. Gwen got a walk-on for one episode. I’ve been Alana ever since, both in my childhood home and in the public eye.

I smile at Phyllis.

“I’ll act like it,” I assure her, knowing full well her idea of what that means and the reality of what I’ll do are worlds apart .

“I never did agree with them changing your name,” she mutters around the next bite of her lemon bar.

“It was for Around the Block,” I defend, even though I know she knows.

“Hmph.” She rolls her eyes.

Around the Block ran for five years. Giving up my name turned out to be a great move. Not that they wouldn’t have hired me without the name change. Who knows. With my family’s legacy in the industry, they might have given me the advantage unspoken nepotism often does. Either way, that show was the springboard we had been working toward. It ran long enough for me to get my feet wet and become an established actress.

I made a name for myself, meaning I was given preferential auditions for other sitcoms when Around the Block finished filming, and we had our choice of what I’d do next. I landed the key role as the live-in nanny on Are You Kidding Me? When that series ended, I already had my first movie lined up. And the rest is history.

My career has been like a whitewater rafting trip. I stepped onto the boat, looking for something to grab on to. Newsflash: rafts don’t have handles. You have to go with the flow from the first shove off shore. I’ve been sloshing, peaking, dipping, and careening forward, propelled by a force much greater than me ever since my pre-teen years. The current has swept me along, and there’s no end in sight.

Phyllis may think this is merely a career, and I appreciate the way her wisdom always feels like a warm bath after a particularly long day. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to be me—a woman born into this destiny like a princess birthed into royalty. Apparently, Phyllis had a choice. I’m happy for her. I won’t argue with her, either. Instead, I’ll enjoy one of my favorite things on earth—time with my friend and the rare treat of her delicious lemon bars.

Joel arrives with my groceries. Phyllis helps me put them away while she reheats my meal in the microwave. Then she shreds the chicken over the quinoa and places the spinach on top. She digs through my refrigerator and finds some salsa.

“You’re allowed to eat this aren’t you?”

“I just had a lemon bar. I’d say all regulated eating is out the window when you’re around.”

“Good. As it should be.” She nods definitively, scoops some salsa into the bowl and stirs it in. “If only you had cheese in this house.”

“You’re incorrigible.” I chuckle.

“You’re in need of a whole lot of incorrigible. I’m here as a service to you.” She smiles over at me.

Incorrigible . I store that word in my memory bank for Play on Words. It’s a good one with B, C and G. Thinking of the game draws my mind back to Wordivore. Next time we play I’ll know if my opponent is a female or male. My money’s on a guy, and I can hardly wait to see if I’m right.