Under the Lights

Christ. The only reason I’m here at all is because it’s the first time my parents have been together in the same room since my little epiphany that I want out of Hollywood — Marsha’s been off at some spa for two days, which I’m sure made for scintillating reality TV, and my dad’s been practically sleeping at the office, which is nothing new. Even now, he’s on a conference call in the Torres’ study, and I’m running out of patience with waiting.

“Clarabel, honey, can you scooch two steps to the left?”

Running out of patience with the camera guys dictating every move, too.

Apparently Clarabel’s A-OK with it, because she “scooches” two steps, then resumes blathering while I scan the room for either my mother or a passing tray of drinks — they probably have about the same alcohol content by now.

“Josh, could you focus a little more on Clarabel? You’re coming off distracted.”

“That’s so weird, because I’m not — oh, look, a bird. Gotta run.” I step around both Clarabel and the camera guy and start looking for my mother in earnest, pausing only to grab a baby lamb chop from a waiter walking by. Finally, I spot the red sequin dress she’s about a decade too late for in every way.

My father’s not with her, but I don’t care anymore — I’ve had enough. “Mother,” I say with a smile, taking her elbow and nodding at Richard and Cara Anselm, both of whom are rumored to be banging their pool boy.

“Hi, sweetheart! Richard, Cara — you remember Joshua.”

We exchange inane pleasantries for the camera, and I wonder how they’re possibly going to make this interesting for viewers. And then I realize it’s not my problem, and I don’t care. “Can I talk to you?” I ask her.

Her eyes flicker over to the cameras, and it’s clear they have every intention of following us. “Is everything all right?”

Yes, because now, suddenly, all of America will buy you as a doting mother, Marsha. “Fine. Just need to talk to you. Not to you,” I add pointedly to the camera guy.

He shrugs, but he doesn’t move the camera off us, and there isn’t really anywhere in this place they won’t follow. Fuck it. I pull her into the emptiest corner I can find, letting them film us the whole time. They’ll edit out most of this, anyway. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“We talked about this, Joshua—”

“Not really. I mean, I never wanted to do this stupid show, and you know that, but I don’t wanna do any of this. I don’t wanna be on TV. Or in movies, for that matter. It’s time for me to go…do something.”

“Like what?” she asks, her concerned-mother tone reminding me the cameras are still very much rolling. I feel like I’m in Shannah’s awful preachy family dramedy. At least she’s not here for any of this; I haven’t seen her since the interview with Gavin in which I declared myself single, resulting in tabloids everywhere proclaiming she got dumped on national television.

“Like get out of Hollywood for a while. I don’t know what. I just know I’m over this place.”

“You’re ‘over’ it?” She crosses her arms. “You are such a spoiled—” She stops and turns to the camera. “Can I please talk to my son in private?”

“Nah, let ’em stay,” I say gleefully. “We are supposed to be opening our hearts to America, aren’t we? You were saying?”

Her jaw clenches and it’s kind of great, but she doesn’t speak again, and finally, the camera guy gives up and declares he’s taking five. She waits until he’s gone and then turns on me. “Do you realize how incredibly ungrateful you are? I would’ve killed for everything you have. When I was your age—”

“You were clawing your way over here. Trust me — I know. But this was your choice, not mine.”

“Are you honestly pretending you haven’t enjoyed the fruits of your father’s and my labor?” I could swear the woman is about to spit fire. “I know all about your extravagant parties at the beach house, Joshua. We’ve let you do whatever you’ve wanted for years now, and we’ve bankrolled it all without a word. Don’t you feel any obligation at all?”

“I might have if you hadn’t blackmailed me,” I remind her, but a little part of me actually feels…guilty, which is decidedly not a Josh Chester emotion. She has a point. Sort of. But that doesn’t mean I should have to put my life on display. “But you have to understand where I’m coming from. Don’t you ever want a break from this? Don’t you ever want to get out of here?”

“I come from ‘out of here,’ Joshua. I promise you, it’s not better out there. You think you know, but you have no idea.”

“Of course I have no idea!” I explode. “This is all I’ve ever done! I never got to think about whether it was what I want. But I know I don’t wanna do this shit.”