Chapter One
FRIDAY, MAY 15
“Ms. Jones, how does it feel to have such a breakout role so early on in your career?”
This is asked by a press reporter who stands in a sea of other reporters, photographers, and fans. They stare at us eagerly, stare at me. I’m sitting onstage at the Los Angeles Palooza Film Festival on a panel with the legendary Paul Christopher to talk about his new movie, Deep Within. We start filming in a few weeks.
“It’s surreal,” I say with a small laugh. I swallow and remind myself to smile brighter. I cross my legs and will my heartbeat to slow down. I just want everyone to like me.
“I can’t believe this is my life right now,” I say. “When I got the call that Paul wanted me to audition for this movie, I almost fell out.”
Everyone laughs at this, and I unclench a little. Be cool, I think to myself. Be charming. Be the best that you can be! God, I sound like an after-school special.
“Evie is one of the most talented students I’ve witnessed come out of Mildred McKibben,” Paul Christopher says in his elegant British accent. He turns to me and smiles, adjusting the brim of his gray newsboy cap. His white hair is pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. “She really understands character in a way I haven’t seen from someone so young. We’ve already done great work together on Mind Games, and I’m looking forward to working with her on Deep Within.”
I smile and try my best to pretend that I’m not completely freaking out at his praise. Paul Christopher is in his midsixties, not that much younger than my grandmother, and he’s been making twisty, critically acclaimed thrillers for decades. I’ve sat at home on my living room floor, watching his movies on a loop, my bowl of popcorn sitting untouched because I was so engrossed in the story.
Now maybe someone will stop eating popcorn in order to watch me.
People in the room are recording us on their phones, and I’m once again thankful to my agent, Kerri, who hooked me up with a stylist last week. In my opinion, I’ve always had good fashion sense. I mean, that’s what happens when your grandmother is Evelyn Conaway. (Yeah, that Evelyn Conaway. Basically the biggest movie star ever.) But the bright-orange Carolina Herrera minidress and white Christian Louboutin pumps I have on today is maybe the best outfit I’ve ever worn.
I imagine the number of times I’ll be tagged in videos and posts on Instagram and sit up a little straighter. I’ll have a lot of DMs to respond to tonight.
I turn to Kerri now, who is standing off to the side. She gives me a subtle thumbs-up, and I nod. As thrilling as this is, having her here makes me feel less alone, less like I’m in a fishbowl.
“Ms. Jones, you have quite the family legacy,” another reporter says. “Do you feel any pressure now that you are following in the footsteps of your grandmother, specifically?”
“Of course,” I say, answering honestly. “But I’ve wanted this my whole life, so I feel ready. I’ve been waiting for a really long time.”
A really long time meaning basically since birth. I grew up watching my grandmother’s movies. My parents wanted me to have a “normal” childhood, so the plan was that I couldn’t go on auditions until after I graduated high school. But then Paul Christopher came to our spring showcase last year and was so impressed with my performance, he offered me a role in Mind Games on the spot. Technically I didn’t break Mom and Dad’s rule because I didn’t have to audition. And then they couldn’t really say no when I was invited to audition for Deep Within after the senior showcase a few months ago.
“It was just announced that Evelyn Conaway will receive the lifetime achievement award at the FCCs this year,” a third reporter says. “Do you have any thoughts about the stir she caused at the FCCs eight years ago, when James Jenkins received the same honor?”
I blink and glance at Kerri, who glares at the reporter. She looks at me and tightly shakes her head. That’s our sign for no comment. But I do have a comment about this.
“My grandmother is one of the most talented actresses of all time,” I say. “She couldn’t be more deserving of this award. If it were up to me, she’d have received it in 2012, every year before that, and every year after.”
There’s a collective “aww” from the crowd. I’m glad they find my honesty so endearing. I shoot another glance at Kerri. She gives another thumbs-up, and I relax again.
Thankfully, the rest of the questions are directed at Paul Christopher. Then the panel ends, and I’m ushered offstage toward Kerri.
“You are a rock star,” she says, grinning at me like she might burst from excitement. Kerri looks more like a fashion model than an agent, tall and slim with flawless dark-brown skin and long, sleek extensions in her hair. She’s only twenty-two and fresh out of college. Paul Christopher cast me in his movie before I had an agent, so I had to act fast. Kerri was referred to me by my school advisor. And I’m glad I went with her, because she’s a shark. In one month alone, she’s secured a stylist, hairstylist, makeup artist, and two endorsement deals.
She talks a mile a minute as we walk, her heels clicking with each step. “I would have never believed that was your first panel. You were so well spoken, and you didn’t get off topic. And you—”
I turn to her when she abruptly stops, and that’s when I realize Paul Christopher has appeared on my other side.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks, Evie,” he says. “Take care.” He tips his cap in goodbye and walks away, surrounded by his team.
Paul Christopher just tipped his hat to me. He told me to take care. What is life, even?
Said life gets even more exciting as we make our way outside and are hit with a wall of sound.
“Evie! Evie! Evie!”
Fans and paparazzi always wait outside the festival to see their favorite stars, and I can’t believe that some of them are waiting out here for me. Mostly it’s because Paul Christopher has a cult following. Ever since my role in Mind Games last year, I’ve gained hundreds of thousands of followers on social media and people recognize me at the most basic places, like Target and McDonald’s. Two girls even recognized me once while I was waiting in line at the DMV.
“Hi, everyone!” I wave enthusiastically, and a security guard appears to escort Kerri and me, whisking us away into a black Expedition. My best friend, Simone, is waiting inside. She was in the audience at the panel, and now she stares at the crowd with wide eyes as we drive off.
“That was nuts!” she shouts, grabbing my hands. Her thick box braids are pulled back and wrapped in a tight bun at the top of her head, and her bun wobbles as she scoots toward me. “Oh my God, Evie.”
“I know.” I give her hands a squeeze and match her wide grin.
She continues to stare at the crowd in wonder until we can’t see it anymore. We’ve been best friends since our freshman year at McKibben, and we used to sit at lunch, dreaming about the day we’d experience what’s happening right now. I’m so glad she’s here to witness all of this with me.
Our hands are still clutched together when Kerri, who has been busy clicking away on her phone answering emails, suddenly shouts, “YES!”
“What?” I say, spinning to face her.
She turns her phone so that I can see the email she just received. “Guess who has just been asked to be the face of Beautiful You’s newest campaign?”
Beautiful You is the number one Black hair-care company in the country. I’ve only been using their products for, I don’t know, my whole life?
I blink at Kerri. “Me?”
“Yes, you!”
The three of us squeal so loudly the driver swerves in shock.
“But, I mean, of course they want you,” Kerri says. “Your hair is already amazing.” She nods at my curly hair, which frames my face and head like a cloud, then adds, “Oh, and someone from James Jenkins’s team reached out again for another meeting. I said you weren’t available.”
“Good.” I frown. “I don’t know why they’re trying to get in contact, but he is persona non grata in the Jones/Conaway household.”
Kerri nods. “I know. I basically told them as much.”
“Thanks, Kerri. For everything.” I hug her, and she stiffens for a second because she thinks physical contact is unprofessional. But she eventually relaxes; I’m starting to wear her down.
I lean back in my seat, grinning. I can’t believe this is all happening. I know it sounds cheesy, but dreams really do come true.
* * *
After Kerri and I go over plans for the next few weeks, I’m finally off the hook. Simone and I are dropped off at my house in Malibu, where I live with my parents.
It’s empty once we walk inside, of course. My parents, Andrew and Marie Jones, indie darlings of the documentary genre, are hardly ever here. Right now they’re working on a new doc about the horrors of elephant poaching in Botswana. They’ll be back in August for Gigi’s FCC ceremony. Their long absence is nothing new, really. And they trust that I won’t do anything out of control while they’re gone.
“I’m heading out to the deck,” Simone says, grabbing a can of soda from the fridge and opening the patio door.
Simone basically lives here. The guest bedroom is filled with all of her things. She has free rein of the house, just like me.
I nod and say, “I’m gonna call Gigi. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” she says over her shoulder.
* * *
I take off my heels as I walk upstairs to my room and close the door behind me. I sit on my bed and dial Gigi’s number, glancing at the framed photograph of the two of us on my nightstand. It was taken the day I was born. Gigi is holding me, and I’m wearing one of those little pink hospital hats, and she’s dressed glamorously in a white wrap dress. Her hair wasn’t so gray then, but it was still curled the same way she wears it now.
Gigi lives in New York City. I used to see her every day when I was younger, back before she divorced James Jenkins and moved out of Beverly Hills. Now she never comes out to LA. She never leaves New York, actually. For almost a decade, I’ve had to settle for phone calls to keep in touch, only seeing her in person when I visit. Most recently, that was last Christmas.
The phone rings one more time before someone finally picks up.
“Hello?” A boy’s voice.
I frown and pull my phone away from my ear. Did I call the wrong number? No … this is Gigi’s number. The same number I dialed just two days ago.
“Um, who is this?” I say slowly.
“Milo…,” he answers. His voice is deep and melodic. “Who is this?”
“Milo?” I repeat, bewildered. “This is Evie. I’m calling for Evelyn Conaway? I’m her granddaughter.”
“Oh, Evie! What’s up?” His voice immediately brightens. “How’s it going?”
How’s it going? Who is this guy? Has some mad fan broken into Gigi’s house and taken her hostage?
“Um … where is my grandmother?” I ask, growing frantic.
Copyright © 2020 by Kristina Forest
