Starlet's Web - #1 {Exclusive Read}

Starlet's Web - March - HOME

~    HOME

I was home. I made myself a smoothie after I returned from my training session that morning with Elise and was outside ever since. We did the Santa Monica stairs down to the canyon and back up ten times with intervals, planks, sit-ups and push-ups in between. Those stairs required complete concentration because they were steep and insanely crowded.

I soaked up the sun while I ate lunch outside, breathed in the ocean breeze, and absorbed the colors from the trees and flowers.  When I worked on a project, I avoided the sun at all cost so I didn’t redden or darken my pigment. Franz used a yellow shellac under the foundation to hide my natural redness as it was. More redness would mean more shellac and many more unnerving itchy feelings that I’d have to control. Today I was free to be out in the sun. I watched a flock of bright green wild parrots fly from tree to tree below my terrace and a group of black crows relentlessly chase a hawk. 

Most children of celebrities went to private schools but there were several of us that either went to the public Roosevelt or Franklin Elementary since both schools were fed by the homes north of Montana Avenue as well as those south of Montana, the socio-economic divide between the rich and well-off in Santa Monica.  I lived in the posh part of Santa Monica, north of Montana Avenue, where people lived in detached single family homes with front and back yards. Only a few homes like mine, located north of Montana Avenue and north of San Vicente Boulevard had the luxury of a canyon view and ocean view. The area south of Montana Avenue was packed with retail spaces that lined each street and apartments or condos for twenty some blocks by fifteen blocks. It was very congested.

Parking was difficult south of Montana Avenue. All parking was permit parking, metered parking, or valet. Parking was free at the grocery and drug stores with most lots monitored by attendants. Validation was required at the monitored lots. On days Dad didn’t bike with me to school and back, he often found parking tickets on his windshield if he parked on Montana Avenue. He used to get unglued when he was a few minutes over the meter time limit when he picked me up from school. He liked asking the teachers about my day and letting me play with friends in the playground after school. He thought it was healthy. He’d think he was getting back to the car in time. But then there’d be a parking ticket on his car and he’d cuss all the way home, saying that it was completely unacceptable that there was not enough free parking to allow a parent to get out of his car to meet his child at the end of her school day.

Dad wanted to raise me in Montana, but settled with the hand he had been dealt. Although it would have been socially easier for me to go to a private school, he was adamant that I go to public school. If he couldn’t drive me or pick me up, he hired a driver. I was not allowed to walk or ride my bike to school alone. I went on to one of the public middle schools in Santa Monica, too. By then, my driver, Sashi, always took me and picked me up. I drove my junior year. 

I actually have a “General Equivalency Diploma” from the state of California so that I could work longer hours on the set. Getting a GED was the way around the Child Labor Laws so I didn’t have to go to school and was not limited to working a maximum eight hours on the set. During the filming of Constantine’s Muse this past fall and spring, we found that it worked out great because we often had to go over-time with Byron’s sloppy work.

Even with the GED, Dad begged the school to let me finish my senior year: go to class when I was in town, do the work, and take the tests for the classes. He insisted that it would help me feel normal and actually learn something. I liked school, having friends, and seeing Manuel so alright, whatever.

“Hey, Attila. Thanks for lunch.” I smiled coming in from the back patio. I got a glass of water and took my refill of Excedrin. I took two extra-strength pills when I woke up in the morning, two at lunch and two before bed to manage my joint and head pain. I had endured bad migraines for at least a year, maybe longer. My doctor gave me a bottle of Vicoden that I could take if they became unbearable, but I had only taken one pill since January—that time the headache was so bad that I couldn’t see and couldn’t think. Otherwise, I hadn’t found them to be unbearable. Given my crazy schedule, eating too little and exercising too much, headaches were inevitable but manageable.

Attila smiled back at me and continued working. The kitchen was pretty clean. He was almost done preparing my food for the week. 

Attila was Hungarian living with a Japanese-American second wife and two children from his African-American ex-wife. He was tall and muscular, and always wore a black cotton tee with camouflaged fatigue pants. He loved his kids and wife. I loved his go-with-the-flow, non-judgmental, treasure-each-day perspective on life. He was totally cool.

Attila was there all morning cooking my meals for the week, as he did every Saturday that I was in town. He cooked them and then stored them in the freezer and fridge with instructions on the containers for reheating and the type of meal and day I should eat it. It made life really easy to not have to think about my diet, nutritional requirements, or portion size. The prepared meals and the exercise kept me appropriately fit and too thin—the perfect size for Hollywood.

“This week I have to make some more ‘raw’ meals for you. Elise said you should ease up on the cardio—you guys are strength training instead, I guess. If you hate the meals I’ll change things next Saturday?” Attila almost asked apologetically when he told me. He knew I got so bored with salads and the “raw” food extreme that Elise was crazy about. The way he did “raw” was pretty clever but I could only handle it in small doses. I liked my meats and fish. His salmon with fennel in a butter cream sauce was my favorite dish. I wondered which day this week I would get to eat it.

“Honestly, I think you’re too thin and don’t agree with you eating ‘raw’ so I threw in a salmon meal or two to look forward to, but don’t tell Elise. I need this job.”

“Thank you for sneaking food for me. I felt like I was starving on the set. I hate eating ‘raw’ food!” I smiled and laughed. “Attila, you’re an amazing cook, and I’m always grateful for your hard work. Thanks for the warning. ‘Raw’ it is.”

“Have a great time at prom,” he laughed. “Be sure to order a decadent dessert after dinner.”

“Thanks.” I said and then glanced at the clock. I was confused—time flew by fast. I needed to shower right away. I didn’t hire anyone to do my hair or makeup. I wanted to do it myself. It was prom, not a big production. I was not on display.