The Fame Game

She had to hand it to Trevor. He was filming The Fame Game and getting advance press for his “mysterious new project” at the same time. Already the buzz was building; she could feel it. No doubt some blogger had just uploaded a shot of her to his website (Madison Parker steps out for kids!) and mentioned the PopTV cameras capturing her every move. By tomorrow, the word would be all over town that Madison and the PopTV cameras were spotted again. Spin-off!

It was so much different from the last time around. Madison was nobody when she started filming L.A. Candy. Correction: She was somebody, all right, just not a somebody that the world knew about yet. If people noticed back then that the cameras were filming, the question on their minds was more of the Who the hell is that? variety. Now everyone was wondering what the new show was about, what it was called, and who else was on it. (Madison was still in the dark about that part.) Back when L.A. Candy had exploded and she (and Gaby and Scarlett and that annoying little Goody Two-shoes, Jane) had gotten famous, Trevor had struggled to make them seem like the regular girls they were still supposed to be. How many times had he had to reshoot because a paparazzo wandered into frame? He hated to count. But this time around, the paparazzi and the tabloids and the blogs (and the monthlies!) would play a crucial part in the show.

Madison offered a little coronation wave to a knot of starstruck fans.

“Luke!” she heard a girl cry, and Madison turned to see Luke Kelly, looking gorgeous but underdressed in a faded button-down and jeans, striding up the red carpet with that girl from that stupid show about a family who lives in a Winnebago.

“Doctor Rose,” someone else yelled, and Luke flashed a megawatt smile. He played Sebastian Rose, a young resident on Boston General, and while he wasn’t a lead, rumor had it he was on the short list to play the main character in The End of Love, a dystopian Romeo and Juliet story based on a bestselling young-adult novel.

Madison watched him and the girl, whatever her name was. They were holding hands, but Madison could see how loosely their fingers interlocked. And this told Madison, who was something of an expert in body language, that these two were either a) only pretending to be a couple, or b) five minutes away from breaking up. Which meant that Luke was, or would be, available. She gave him another once-over. He could use a shave, too, she thought, in addition to a new outfit. But he had those green eyes and that strong, broad chest, not to mention that Australian accent. Yes, she thought, she should ask Sasha to hook up a date with “Dr. Rose.” Maybe they could head to the next level together.

But it was time to turn her attention back to posing. She cocked a hip and flashed a little bit more thigh through the slit in her dress. She stayed like this for a good ten seconds, then turned for another pose. Then she saw Gaby Garcia, smiling and heading up the red carpet.

“Gaby, blow us a kiss!” one of the photographers shouted.

Gaby obliged, though Madison had told her a hundred times that no one looked good in that pose. Just then she spotted Madison.

“Mad!” Gaby rushed up to her breathlessly, as if they hadn’t seen each other for months, when in fact they had eaten breakfast together.

“Hey, Gaby.” Madison put her arm around Gaby’s shoulders (Madison and pal Gaby hit the red carpet!) and was surprised by its boniness. She took a step back and surveyed her roommate. What was she wearing? For one thing, she had donned an Elie Saab dress that she clearly hadn’t taken the time to tailor. And for another, she’d picked the one dress in the collection that looked like it came from the Goodwill sale rack. It was supposed to be an homage to 1970s Halston or something, but the rust color made Gaby look positively yellow, and the plunging back highlighted each protruding vertebrae. Madison had to force herself to smile. “Good to see you, sweetie,” she said. Gaby’s best feature was her cute little body—if she kept dieting, what would she have going for her at all?

Madison forced herself to put her arm back on Gaby’s shoulders. “Smile,” she said.

They posed for the cameras, keeping their faces mannequin-still. If they needed to talk, they’d do it only through the corners of their mouths so as not to disrupt their perfect, doll-like smiles.

“You look amazing,” Gaby said through her teeth.

“Thanks, hon,” Madison said. Of course she looked amazing. It was her job to look amazing, and she worked hard at it. She began her red-carpet regimen days beforehand—more cardio, a mini-cleanse, an oxygen facial, an airbrush tan, minimized water intake (dehydration could subtract several pounds)—and today, between hair, makeup, and wardrobe, she’d already devoted eight hours to this event.

Another small crowd of dedicated fans had gathered behind the barricade at the end of the red carpet.

“We love you, Madison!” a girl with pink hair screamed.

Madison’s smile grew wider. She hoped the photographers were capturing the total adoration her fans had for her—and her own reciprocating affection, of course. (Madison kisses fan’s new baby!) With Gaby in tow, she glided over to the pink-haired girl. The PopTV camera followed. Time for a quick autograph and photo op! But just as Madison raised the pen, she saw the photographers swing their cameras back toward the far end of the carpet. She froze. There wasn’t a bigger celebrity on the carpet. What were they—

“Is that—?” Gaby whispered, her eyes wide.

Madison maintained her smile as she tried to see who was causing this unwelcome disruption.

The pink-haired girl let out a piercing shriek. “Oh my God, it’s Carmen Curtis!” she cried, mere inches from Madison’s ear. The poster of Madison that she’d been clutching fell to the ground and was immediately replaced by a poster of Carmen’s Nylon magazine cover. How did that switcheroo happen so fast?

“Wow,” Gaby sighed, looking positively starstruck. “She’s so pretty.”

Madison clenched her fists in anger, though her face maintained its photo-ready placidity. Carmen Curtis: What had she ever done for the world? Her mother was the biggest singer since Madonna, and her father was the Quincy Jones of rap. Which meant that Carmen had that vaguely ethnic look that had no doubt helped her mother out, since her vocal range certainly hadn’t, and she had been spoon-fed money and fame from the moment she was born. She hadn’t had to work for a thing her whole life.

“I love her dress,” Gaby whispered.

Madison ignored her as she inspected Carmen. She’d obviously spent hours on her red-carpet look, too. She wore a cream bandage dress that hit just above her knee, and she was wearing a pair of YSL pumps that Madison would give a kidney for, but they were sold out everywhere. She smiled and waved like everyone she met was a potential friend. And that, Madison knew from experience, was a load of crap. They’d been introduced once at a party for the opening of sbe’s latest restaurant, and, okay, Madison hadn’t exactly oozed friendliness herself, but Carmen had simply shaken her hand, smiled briefly, and then vanished into the crowd.

“She’s a little big-boned, don’t you think?” Madison asked coolly. Then she turned away and began to walk toward the entrance to the event. Carmen had stolen her moment. It was a total injustice. The girl had accomplished practically nothing in her eighteen years of life besides bit parts on Law & Order and some indie-movie role her daddy bought her.

Madison took one final glance over her shoulder before entering the building. She’d give Carmen one thing: The girl had excellent cleavage. But then again, this was Hollywood, and anyone with a credit card could get that.

“My feet hurt,” Gaby said plaintively, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “I don’t know why ballet flats aren’t considered red-carpet worthy.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “Because you want height, Gab,” she said. “Every inch subtracts five pounds.”

“Really?” Gaby said. “How?”

But Madison didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. She was scanning the crowd, waiting for an event publicist to show them to their seats. She saw a couple of young stars from the latest HBO series and the members of The Royal We, Philip Curtis’s newest musical discovery, but so far it wasn’t exactly an A-list event. More like a B, Madison thought, or even a B minus. That was disappointing.

When, after another few moments, no publicist materialized, Madison grabbed Gaby’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll just find our own seats.” She was annoyed; this was hardly the star treatment she’d grown accustomed to.

They threaded their way through the crowd, moving toward the front row of folding chairs. At least they had front-row seats to the show, Madison thought. Maybe they’d be next to Anna Wintour.

But as they arrived at their designated spots, Madison was surprised—no, make that shocked—to see that they were taken.

By Carmen Curtis and some blonde with a botched nose job.

“Gaby,” she hissed, “go get the event coordinator!”

Gaby looked down at her ticket and then back toward their seats with a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought we were in the front row. Hey, isn’t that Carm—?”

“Gaby!” Madison whispered fiercely, while trying to maintain a smile. “Just go get the event coordinator!’

Gaby, like the good little doormat she was, did as she was told, and moments later the frazzled event coordinator appeared, a headset nestled in her updo and a clipboard clutched in her hand.

“Is there a problem?” Her tone was sharp.

Madison bristled but kept her voice low. She didn’t need the PopTV cameras, not to mention every person in the room, noting that Carmen had the nerve to steal her seat. “Yes, there is,” she said. “Those girls”—she nodded toward Carmen and her one-person entourage—“are in our seats.” Madison tilted her ticket toward the woman.

The event coordinator didn’t even look at it. “I’ve got two seats in the fifth row. We’ll move you there.”

Madison had to keep her mouth from falling open. The fifth row? “Excuse me?”

“I can place you in the fifth—”

“You mean the back row,” Madison said icily. “I don’t think you understand. I need you to ask those girls to move. Those are our seats. They were assigned to us. PopTV guaranteed us front row, and that is the only reason we are here.”

“I’m sorry, your name again?” the woman asked as she flipped through the pages on her clipboard.

Really? This glorified secretary didn’t know who she was? “Madison Parker,” she said through her teeth. A fire lit inside her.

The woman circled a name on her list and looked up. “Okay, Miss Parker, sorry for any confusion, but this isn’t a PopTV event, and those seats belong to Miss Curtis and her friend. The show is starting in three minutes. Do you want the seats in row five or not?”

Madison didn’t answer. Did she want the seats in row five? What she wanted was to take off her Louboutin and stab this woman in the eye with it. Everyone knew that where you were seated at a fashion show was in direct correlation to your celebrity status. Front row: star. Back row: nobody.

“We’ll take them.” Gaby grabbed the two new tickets from the coordinator’s hand and tried to pull Madison toward the back row. “Madison, come on. Let’s just go to our seats.”

Madison’s eyes sent daggers toward Carmen and her homely little friend. “They aren’t our seats,” she said, jerking her arm away.

The lights began to dim, but Madison stayed frozen. She watched as Luke Kelly made his way over to the place she should have been. A giant grin broke over Carmen’s face as she leapt up to hug him.

And that was when Madison saw the telltale bulge at the back of Carmen’s dress. A mike. She turned quickly toward the far end of the row. Sure enough, there was the new Dana (who’d gotten promoted, apparently) and a PopTV camera, focused not on Madison but on Carmen.

Madison took a deep breath as the information sank in. So it wasn’t going to be some sad nobody doomed for obscurity; Carmen Curtis was going to be the aspiring actress on The Fame Game. Trevor had landed himself a piece of Hollywood royalty—and she already had a film under her belt. Bully for him.

He was probably pretty happy with himself right about now, Madison thought. Well, she’d have to do what she could to change that.

Kate tossed a pile of sweaters into a cardboard box and then collapsed onto the leopard-spotted beanbag chair she’d had since junior high. She’d been packing for five hours now and her enthusiasm for the job was seriously fading.

“More coffee?” Natalie asked from the doorway.

Kate smiled up at her roommate. “Do I look like I need it?”

“You look like you need to be peeled out of that chair with a spatula,” Natalie said, coming into the room and sitting down on Kate’s bare bed.

“Yeah, well. There’s one in the kitchen, should it come to that.” She laid her head back on the faded chair and closed her eyes.

“Be more excited,” Natalie scolded her. “You’re moving to some fancy place in West Hollywood! You’re going to be on TV! It’s like my hippie grandma used to say: ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’”

“I am excited,” Kate said. “I’m just resting.”

But the truth was, she had begun to feel more apprehensive than anything else. She was leaving her only friend in L.A. and the shabby but totally comfortable apartment that they shared (with thanks to Craigslist for both) and heading off into unknown territory—to be followed around by TV cameras 24/7. Had she really signed up for this? Was she ready for it in the slightest?

She felt in her pocket for the BlackBerry that Dana had given her. “Keep it on you at all times,” Dana had said sternly. “Keep it charged, and keep it on.” She’d made it sound like the world would end if Kate weren’t at her beck and call. “Maybe you should just get me a radio collar,” Kate had joked. “You know, like a polar bear or something?” But Dana hadn’t found that funny.

“What I don’t get is why you have to move,” Natalie said. “I mean, if it’s reality TV, shouldn’t they film you where you actually live? As opposed to setting you up in this new place and pretending it’s where you’d live?”

“Yeah, and pretending like I could afford it.” Kate smiled. “But think about it: Do you want someone filming you while you burn your toast in the morning?”

Natalie wrinkled up her little nose, looking horrified. “No!”

“Well, that’s part of why I can’t live here.”

Natalie nodded, her dyed-black bangs falling into her eyes. “Right. Plus what else would they film me doing, studying for my textiles exams?” Natalie was in her second year at the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising, aka FIDM. Every piece of furniture in the place was upholstered with some amazing fabric she’d designed herself.

“Dude. Ratings fail.” Kate laughed.

“So are they going to film you at the Coffee Bean?”

“No, I only have to work one job now since this is pretty much my new second job, and they ‘suggested’ I quit that one,” Kate told her. “They want me working, but apparently they don’t want to highlight my amazing coffee talents.”

Natalie looked skeptical. “Coffee talents?”

“Yeah, you know, handing it to someone without spilling it; being able to foam a latte while making small talk with the regulars.”

“Color me impressed,” Natalie said. “Talking—while foaming! I don’t know why you want to be a famous musician when clearly your true calling is as a super-barista.” She giggled. Kate threw a T-shirt at her, which Natalie then tossed into the moving box. “Look: packed! See how helpful I am?”

“I couldn’t do it without you,” Kate said drily.

“But seriously—what’s it going to be like? Aren’t you going to be nervous? I mean, you have to wear a microphone all the time, right? And everywhere you look there’s going to be a camera. . . .”

“Hush,” Kate said, rousing herself from her beanbag to survey the room. The walls were bare now, and the closet was empty except for a tangle of wire hangers on the floor. The warm breeze fluttered the gauzy curtains she’d bought with her first Coffee Bean paycheck. They had tiny blue guitars and music notes on them.

“Mark said they were going to film you at open mics and stuff,” Natalie went on. Mark Sayers was an old friend of Natalie’s; Kate had gone on a semi-date with him once and found him charming but a little too goofy for her taste. “I guess that means you’re finally going to have to get up on stage.”

“I guess so,” Kate said. There was no doubt about it: She was going to have to get a lot braver, quickly. “Are you sitting on the packing tape?”

Natalie felt around on the bed and then held up the dispenser. “Voilà,” she said. “Have you met your costars?”

Kate shook her head. “Not yet. They’ve got an apartment in the same building, though, so I guess I’ll meet them soon enough.”

“That Madison Parker seems like a real Welcome Wagon type,” Natalie scoffed. “Bet she’ll greet you with a plate of brownies or maybe a Jell-O mold.” Then her tone changed to curiosity. “Do you think you guys will end up being friends?”

“Weren’t you going to make me some more coffee?” Kate asked, nudging her roommate with her foot. She didn’t want to answer any more questions.

The truth of the matter was, the person she really wanted to talk to was Ethan. Even though they’d broken up over a year ago, they still kept in touch. Unlike Kate, who considered her Samsung to be an extension of her body (after all, practically everyone she knew and loved was thousands of miles away), Ethan wasn’t really a phone person. But he was good with email. He liked to forward her really bad YouTube videos, like the one of the eight-year-old boy trying to channel Barry White, or the one with the high school girls absolutely murdering a Kings of Leon cover. “See?” he’d write after hearing about her latest episode of stage fright. “At least you’re not like these idiots.”

Days ago, she’d sent him a note about Dana approaching her, but strangely, she hadn’t heard from him. She told herself that he was probably taking extra shifts at the hardware store before the school year started. She glanced over at her phone and thought about calling him. It was three hours later in Ohio—almost dinnertime. She wondered if she could catch him on the way to his favorite diner, the greasy spoon across the street from the OSU campus. Kate jumped as the phone began to buzz and vibrate on her nightstand.

Speak of the devil: It was Ethan Connor himself. Maybe this, too, was a sign, she thought. A good one.

“Hey, you,” she said, suddenly feeling better. “What’s up?”

“Not much, Little Miss Hollywood,” Ethan said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh, please,” Kate said, flushing.

“Seriously—what’s this thing you might do? A reality TV show? That’s crazy, Kate!”

“Not might do,” she corrected. “Am doing. It’s called The Fame Game.”

“Weeeellll, holy shit, child,” he said, faking a Midwestern country drawl. “Little Kate Hayes done growed up to be a big television star.”

She laughed. “Maybe. I mean, who knows if it’ll work out. I haven’t filmed anything yet. Maybe they’ll decide I’m too boring and they’ll fire me and hire some other singer.”

“Hey, don’t start putting yourself down,” Ethan said. “Remember? Confidence is the name of the game.”

Kate laughed again. Between Ethan and her sister, the sports metaphors just kept on coming. She tucked the phone against her shoulder as she gazed out her window, which overlooked the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Walgreens. (At least she wouldn’t miss the view from here.) She gave Ethan the lowdown on the show, everything from her costars to her own hopes to record an album on PopTV’s dime. Then she sighed. “I mean, it’s so great. But it’s all pretty overwhelming, you know? One second you’re grinding coffee beans, and next you’re signing a contract to be on national television.”

“Oh, you’re going to be fine,” Ethan assured her. “You’re just going to have to work to stand out.”

“What do you mean?” Kate asked, watching a homeless guy trying to steal a shopping cart from the parking lot.

“Well, your costars sound like pretty glitzy ladies,” Ethan said. “They’re used to the spotlight. They’re not going to want to share it.”

“Well, I’m sure—”

“Maybe you should start playing up your rock ’n’ roll side,” Ethan went on. “Get some tattoos. Consider a facial piercing or two. Maybe you could dye your hair black, with, like, a pink stripe or something.”

Kate rubbed her temples. “Um—I think they sort of liked—”

“And be prepared to wear super-tight pants. And slutty shoes—”

“Ethan!” Kate exclaimed. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”

Then came Ethan’s deep, familiar laugh. It reminded her of high school: of football games and study hall and cafeteria food and everything else, good and bad, she’d left behind.

“Oh, Kat,” he said, using his old pet name for her. “I’m just trying to help. I mean, out of all the singer-songwriters in Los Angeles, they picked you. You don’t want to disappoint them.”

“Uh, no, no, you’re right,” she stammered, tamping down the familiar feeling that Ethan’s help sometimes seemed like an insult. “Of course.”

Natalie tapped her on the shoulder and held out a mug of steaming coffee. She took it gratefully. “Well, I should go. I have to finish packing.”

“Don’t forget about me when you’re super-rich and famous,” Ethan joked.

“I won’t,” she assured him.

And she wouldn’t. But as she hung up the phone, she couldn’t help but admit that talking to Ethan had not been the reassuring experience she’d hoped it would be. In fact, it had been the opposite.

“Everything okay?” Natalie asked. “Did I put enough milk in it?”

Kate smiled at her soon-to-be-former roommate. “It’s perfect,” she said, taking a grateful sip. “Maybe you should take over my old job at Coffee Bean.”

“Oh, I’m way too surly for customer service,” Natalie said, flopping back down on the bed. “I only wait on people I like.” She stuck her bare feet up on the yellow wall. “What’s your new life going to be like? I wonder,” she said thoughtfully. “Will I be able to tell by watching you on TV? Or is that going to be just some trick—some PopTV version of reality?”

Kate shrugged. “I honestly have no idea,” she said. “All I know is that I’m due at Park Towers in two hours and I am totally screwed. Look at this mess.”

Natalie popped up, and her eyes took in the piles of clothes and bedding still scattered around the room. “I’ll help,” she said. “For real this time.”

“Thanks,” Kate said, wishing she had more of Natalie’s practicality and levelheadedness, not to mention her uncanny ability to fit fifty songbooks into a box that looked as if it should hold about five.

Fueled by caffeine and Natalie’s assistance, Kate finished packing without having a nervous breakdown. With half an hour to spare, she loaded Lucinda, her guitar (named after one of her idols, Lucinda Williams), into the back of her trusty Saab and slammed the door. She gave one last glance at the yellowing stucco walls of her apartment building and one last wave to Natalie, who was leaning out the window blowing kisses. And then she got into the car and slowly drove away, watching the Selva Vista Apartments, which she’d called home for a year, fade in her rearview mirror.

“So this is the place, huh?” Drew asked, pausing outside Grant’s Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. He looked skeptically at the flapping awning and the weird mid-century rock work on the building’s front. “Doesn’t seem that impressive.”