Alice in La La Land: Kellywood, #5

By Kelly Oram

How far would you go to achieve your dreams?

 

Alice Liddell wants nothing more than to be a rock star, but her overly strict mother is determined to see her at an Ivy League school and as far from the entertainment industry as possible. When Ms. Liddell discovers Alice is in a secret band and thinking of turning down Yale to pursue a career in music, mother and daughter have a fight that changes Alice's life. Alice learns that not only is her absentee father a household name in entertainment, but he has no idea she even exists.

 

Desperate for at least one parent who can understand and support her, Alice and her bandmates cook up a scheme to go to Los Angeles so Alice can meet her famous father. Once in California, nothing goes according to plan. Alice quickly finds herself caught up in the wild and crazy world of Hollywood with the mischievous, swoon-worthy TV star Dylan Reese as her personal guide.

 

Tumble down the rabbit hole with Alice in this coming-of-age rom-com from the international bestselling author of Cinder & Ella.

 

Alice in La La Land is book 5 in the Kellywood universe. It is a stand alone. You don't have to read the other books in the universe first, but it's better if you do.

 

Other books in the Kellywood universe:

V is for Virgin (V is for Virgin #1)

A is for Abstinence (V is for Virgin #2)

Cinder & Ella (Cinder & Ella #1)

Happily Ever After (Cinder & Ella #2)

Beauty and the Bachelor (Coming June 2024)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bluefields
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223558385

Book preview

Chapter One

My first original song rocks, and no one will ever hear it besides the three of us in this room. Adrenaline pulses through me as I wail out the final notes on my electric guitar. I belt the last lyrics, pushing my lungs to the limit, as the drums crash their finishing beat behind me. And then there’s nothing but silence. It settles heavily over the room, which had just been shaking from the force of the music. The only sound is the three of us panting for breath in front of our microphones.

Holy Hannah! my best friend and bass guitarist, Lexie, shouts. We nailed that!

Matt, our amazingly talented drummer, stands up and stretches. Hell yes, we did.

As he lifts his arms above his head, the hem of his white tank rises up to show a thin stretch of tight abs. The hint of skin is not lost on Lexie. I smirk at her, and while Matt’s not looking, I motion to the corner of my mouth like I’m telling her to wipe her drool. She glares at me and flips me off. I laugh.

I love these two people more than anything in the world. It’s amazing that I’ve only known them for a semester. In our small Texas town everyone knows who everyone is, so I’d seen them around, but we were in way different social circles.

Lexie and Matt are both total goth/punk rocker types. Lexie has short, spikey silver-white hair; black lips; and an eyebrow ring. She never leaves the house without her black leather jacket. Matt favors wife beaters and leather pants. Combined with his bulging, tattooed arms; electric-blue hair; and septum piercing, he’s both hot and intimidating. The two of them couldn’t look more different from me. I’m the preppy All-American girl-next-door with long, blonde hair curled in perfect ringlets; standard ear piercings; and minimal makeup.

On the inside, though, we’re kindred spirits. At the beginning of the year, they found me in the park playing my acoustic guitar and singing. I’d been letting off steam after an argument with my mom. They asked me if I only played acoustic. I admitted I also played electric, and the rest was history.

The first time we got together, they’d been shocked that someone as vanilla as me could rock as hard as I did. They haven’t let me go since. When they realized my innocent smarty-pants Goody Two-shoes persona was not my choice, they took it upon themselves to save me from my oppressive mother—even if we have to do it in secret.

Matt grabs a Coke from the mini fridge and slumps down onto a ratty old sofa. His parents let us practice in the detached garage behind their house. Out here, we’re far enough away that we don’t disturb them. It’s a bit dingy and drafty, but it works. I’m pretty sure having our own original song officially makes us a band.

That’s not the first time Matt has tried to turn us from three friends jamming for fun into a legitimate band. It’s not that we don’t all want that. But when the lead singer can’t tell anyone she’s in the group, it sort of ruins the whole performing thing. Is a band that can’t perform really a band? That’s been the debate since we started playing together.

Lexie grabs her own soda and chucks me a root beer. She kicks Matt’s legs off the coffee table so she can squeeze past him and drops down beside him. We need a name.

Matt stretches his arm over the back of the couch and shakes his head. What we need is a gig.

I open my soda and sigh glumly. Like we could pull that off in this gossipy little town without my mom finding out.

End-of-the-year talent show, Matt says. You don’t need parental permission to sign up. Plus, it’s a school function, so she can’t say no, and it’s a week before graduation. What’s she going to do? Ground you? You’ll be eighteen by then.

I fall into a chair that’s as old as the sofa, with springs poking my back and holes in the armrests. "You don’t understand how determined my mother is. If she finds out we signed up, she’ll know about the band. She’ll realize I’ve been lying to her all year, and she’ll make my life miserable. She will ground me until I leave for college."

So we won’t add your name when we sign up. She won’t find out until it’s too late.

Hey, that’s not a bad idea, Lexie says.

She makes puppy-dog eyes at me, and I almost give in. But I can’t do it. My mother wouldn’t just ground me, she’d disown me. I wish I could, but you don’t understand how crazy my mother is.

Lexie sighs, and Matt shakes his head, assessing me with a calculated stare. We have all semester. We’ll talk you into it.

Secretly, I hope he does. I’ll never be brave enough to defy my mom on my own.

Now can we talk names? Lexie whines. Gig or not, we’re still a band. We need a name.

It has to be something cool, I say.

Something ironic, Matt adds.

The two of them start throwing out names. I wish I could be as excited as they are, but a familiar stab of guilt pricks my chest. I don’t love lying to my mom, but I don’t have another option. My music is important to me. It’s who I am. My mother has never understood that and likely never will. Once she learns what I’ve been up to and how long I’ve been lying to her, she’s going to be so disappointed in me.

Matt pulls me from my thoughts. Al, stop frowning. You’re not doing anything wrong.

Except lying to her.

Lexie groans. You’re in a band. It’s not like you’re stealing or doing drugs or getting pregnant.

She’s right. And that’s how I justify sneaking around behind my mom’s back when I know she wouldn’t approve. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it, though. My whole body deflates. I wish she would lighten up since all my college applications are in. Now she’s going crazy about scholarship applications and deadlines.

Let me guess. Harvard, Yale, Princeton? Matt says dryly.

I nod. And Stanford, Columbia, and Duke.

Lexie scoffs. Do you actually want to go to any of those schools?

Are you kidding? I’d rather light my hair on fire.

Apply to USC with us, Lexie says. As a backup.

Just in case you find your balls before next fall, Matt jokes. Lexie whacks him on the back of the head for me.

Matt and I both applied there, Lexie says. They have one of the best music programs in the nation.

Plus, it’s in Los Angeles, Matt says. He slurps his soda and lets out a loud burp. Lexie and I both roll our eyes. A gentleman Matt is not. If you come with us, we could keep the band together and go to auditions and stuff when we’re not in class.

If only it were that simple.

It is, Lexie says. You’re almost eighteen. It’s your life. You should be able to do what you want with it.

"I should. But going against my mother like that would break her heart. She’d disown me, and she’s the only family I’ve got. I’m not sure I can let her down like that."

Does she know how talented you are?

She doesn’t care. LA is evil. Music is a waste of time. I’ll never make it. Blah, blah, blah…

No offense, but your mom sucks the fun out of everything.

I sigh. She means well.

Matt, having ignored my mama drama, says, We should book a recording studio in Houston to record a demo.

Lexie snaps her fingers, liking the idea. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. We could use that to apply for scholarships.

Or we could book an agent or a manager, Matt says. Skip college altogether.

I shake my head. I get how that’s tempting, but you shouldn’t skip college. You can play, sure, but there’s so much more to music and the business of the industry. Plus, if I went to USC with them and majored in music, my mother might forgive me someday. If I didn’t go at all, she would never speak to me again.

Fine. You can go to college for all of us, and Lex and I will book the auditions and stuff.

And how are we affording our rent in this non-college scenario? Lexie asks. Without college, there’s no scholarships or student loans.

Matt makes a face and waves off Lexie’s concern. We’ll do it the same way every other aspiring musician in LA does it. We’ll wait tables, serve coffee, or become porn stars.

Lexie and I burst into laughter, and Lexie whacks him with a throw pillow. Trust us, no one wants you to become a porn star.

Matt huffs. Please. The ladies love me.

I laugh again. Whatever you say.

They do!

Matt chugs the last of his soda and slaps his knee. All right. Break time’s over. He checks the time on his phone. We only have fifteen more minutes before Alice turns into a pumpkin. I want to go through the new song a few more times.

Neither Lexie nor I argue. I may be the frontman because I’m the best singer, but Matt is our leader. This band was his brainchild, and he’s the best at keeping us on task.

Lexie and I finish our drinks and make our way back to our instruments. Let’s go over the bridge, I say, pulling my guitar strap over my head. My guitar settles in place in front of me, and that rush of feeling comes back. I want to tweak the harmony there. Something about it still feels off. What do you guys think?

Lexie straps on her bass, and Matt settles in behind his drums. He twirls his sticks in his hands. You’re the genius songwriter. If you think it’s off, it’s off.

My lips quirk into a small smile. We played covers for months before I got brave enough to share my songs with them. They freaked out over the originals and demanded to learn them. This is the first one we’ve played together, and it sounds better than I imagined. Not that we have any plans to showcase it. Maybe they’re right about the school talent show.

You guys ready?

Lexie and I both nod to our drummer, and he holds his sticks above his head. Let’s do this. One! Two! One, two, three, four!

The three of us fall into a rhythm. We’re like a well-oiled machine. We all love music, and it shows. I don’t know exactly what it means to Lexie or Matt, but for me it’s an escape. My mom has always been difficult. She means well, and I have no doubt she loves me, but she demands a lot. Perfection, really.

Maybe it’s because she’s a single mom and I’m her only child, but she micromanages my life. She expects me to follow the path she’s laid out for me, whether it’s what I want or not. In fact, she’s never asked me what I want. I don’t think it matters to her. I’ve always felt stifled, but when I listen to music, or write songs, or play my guitar, I let go of it all. I can forget my mother’s dreams and imagine the life I wish I could have.

I push away thoughts of my mom and simply play. Playing has always cleared my head.

The lights in the garage flicker on and off, pulling me out of my trance. That’s how Matt’s mom gets our attention, because it’s too loud for us to hear her when she comes in. We all stop playing and turn toward the door. My stomach drops all the way to the ground. Matt’s mom is not alone. Mrs. Stevens gives me a bright smile, completely unaware of the fury radiating off the woman next to her. Alice, you have a visitor.

The blood drains from my face as I meet my mother’s fuming eyes. If my guitar weren’t strapped to me, I’d have dropped it the moment I saw her. Mom! I gasp. What are you doing here?

"You haven’t answered your phone for an hour. I was worried. I didn’t realize you were at band practice and probably couldn’t hear it ring."

I search my pockets and wince when I realize I left my phone in my backpack across the room. Usually, I keep it on me for this exact reason.

Her face turns red, bordering on purple. I’ve never seen her so angry. I’m in so much trouble. You told me you were with a study group. Her voice is low, but it’s shaking with rage.

I can’t think of a single thing to say. There’s not a defense in the world that will talk her down.

"It is a study group, Matt says. We study and practice music. We want to go to USC and major in music. If we can record our songs for a demo, we might even have a chance at scholarships."

I cringe, and Lexie groans.

Bless Matt’s heart. He’s trying to help. But he just made things a lot worse. Mom’s eyes flick to him and then to Lexie as if she’s seeing them for the first time. And she is. I’ve never brought them over to my house before. I wanted to keep this secret life away from my mom at all costs. It’s too special to me. Too important. Mom takes in my friends’ leather clothes, piercings, tattoos, and unnatural hair and purses her lips. She’s not trying to hide her disdain. Not even with Matt’s mom standing right next to her.

"My daughter is not going to USC to major in music. She’s better than that." The amount of disgust and haughtiness in her voice would be impressive if I weren’t so angry and humiliated.

Lexie moves to stand beside me. She’s talented, Ms. Liddell, she says quietly. She has a gift.

Mom sneers. I don’t care if she’s the best there ever was. My daughter is not going to become a musician. The entertainment industry is worthless. Los Angeles is a cesspool of evil where you have to sell your soul to succeed. You children might want to waste your lives like that, but Alice will have no part of it. Alice! she snaps, fire burning in her eyes. Let’s go. Say good-bye to your friends. You won’t be coming back here.

Tears of frustration well in my eyes. I’m so angry. Her hatred of the thing I love most in life is infuriating. And to treat my friends like that? I want to scream. I want to rip my hair out. I want to defend them and myself, but I won’t do it in front of them. I don’t want them to hear the insults my mother will sling their way.

I hand over my guitar to Lexie. Keep this with you, I murmur. I don’t trust her not to sell it or break it or something.

As she takes the guitar, her eyes convey her sorrow. It’s not pity, but she’s sad on my behalf, and it’s touching. You should stand up for yourself.

I shake my head. It won’t make any difference.

Matt comes over to us and wraps me in a hug. We’ll figure something out, he whispers with so much conviction a lump forms in my throat.

Lexie gets in on the hugging action, and the two of them squeeze me so tightly I gasp for air. I’m sorry, you guys.

We love you, Al. Stay strong. This isn’t over.

When they pull back, I grab my book bag. I head toward my mom, but I ignore her and surprise Matt’s mom with a hug. I’m sorry, Mrs. Stevens. Thank you for letting us hold our practices here. Your support has always meant the world to me.

It’s the truth, but it’s also a dig at my mom, and I hope it stings. I’m so bitter that I just want to hurt her right now the same way she’s hurting me.

We say nothing to each other on the ride home. The silence in the car is thick and oppressive. When we pull into our parking spot, she turns off the car but doesn’t move to get out. Instead, she scowls at our home. We live in a small apartment complex on the cheaper side of town. It’s old and needs a paint job, but it’s in good shape otherwise, and it’s all we can afford.

I know she hates it, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a roof over our head. One that she provides all on her own. It’s just us. It’s always been the two of us. She works hard to give me the best life she can, and I know she wishes she could give me more. I get that that’s where her need to push me comes from. She’s obsessed with me going to the best college because she wants me to get a good job and live a better life than she did.

I try to be understanding, because her intentions are good and she works harder than anyone I know. But what she doesn’t understand is that there’s more to life than how much money you make. What good is a nice house and a fancy car or whatever being a lawyer gets you, if you hate your job and suppress the person you are on the inside? I’d rather struggle to make ends meet with my best friends in Los Angeles playing my music every chance I get than have some boring, stable job that sucks all the creativity out of me.

I head inside, prepared to spend the rest of the night in my room, but Mom doesn’t let me escape. You lied to me, she says as she closes the front door.

I stop in the hallway and slowly turn to face her. If she wants a fight, fine. I’ll give her one. Can you blame me?

She jerks back, shocked. I beg your pardon?

I’m not usually a mouthy child. We argue often, but I always give in. Not this time. I’m sick of playing her game, and she’s taking away the one thing in my life that makes it all bearable. I meet her indignant stare with defiance. I knew you’d react like this if I asked, so I didn’t tell you. And you know what? I’m not sorry.

Her jaw falls open, and her face flushes red again. How dare you talk to me like that!

Like what? Telling you the truth? I love my band, Mom. Writing songs and making music is the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done in my life. I’m not sorry for doing it.

She throws her purse and car keys on the kitchen counter and glares at me. You’re not sorry for lying to your mother and going behind my back to do something you know I disapprove of?

I explode. I can’t take it anymore. I’m not doing anything wrong! I’ve been practicing with my band since the first week of school, and it hasn’t affected my grades at all. I have a 4.5 GPA. I’m in line to be valedictorian. Even with band practice, I still participated in all the stupid extracurriculars you made me join.

She scoffs. "I didn’t make you join anything."

You literally called my guidance counselor to get a list of clubs at school and told me which ones to pick.

You wanted to—

"Right. I wanted to join Junior Leaders of America, the debate team, and the academic decathlon team because they’re so fun."

Those were the best options to prepare you for the future. They were necessary for your college applications.

"Applications to colleges you picked. I don’t want to go to an Ivy League school. I want to go to a music school. I want to—"

She slams her hand down on the counter, as worked up as I am. Music is a waste of time! It’s full of drugs, and sex, and horrible, selfish, greedy people who will use you and then send you packing. It’s pointless. You’ll never succeed. Do you have any idea how many people try to make it as a musician? How many of them ever make it big? Most of them fail. I don’t want that life for you.

"It’s my life!"

I’m not going to let you ruin it!

"You are ruining it!"

We’re shouting enough that the whole apartment complex can probably hear us. I don’t care. I can’t stop. I don’t want the life you’re forcing me into. I’m not meant for some stuffy school and a boring corporate job. Whether you like it or not, I am a musician. I’m creative. I’m passionate. I’m talented. I’m meant for something more. I know it. I can feel it.

What you are is a dreamer. Always with your head up in the clouds. And you’re stubborn! You’re too much like your damn father.

I freeze. In all of my almost eighteen years, she’s never compared me to my father. She’s never given me any kind of clue about him other than that he’s the scum of the universe. All she’s ever said is that she ended up being some jerk’s one-night stand and that I’m better off not knowing him. She even left his name off my birth certificate. If there’s one thing we fight about more than my music, it’s my father. I want to know who he is, and she refuses to tell me.

Oh, yeah? And who would that be?

She glares at me, but says nothing.

I have a right to know who he is.

She stays silent.

He’s a musician, isn’t he? That’s why you won’t tell me. That’s why you can’t stand that I want to be one.

She grinds her teeth and clenches her hands into white-knuckled fists. He’s not a musician.

But he’s something. You said I’m like him. He’s an artist of some kind. An actor? A painter? A writer?

Nothing.

Why won’t you tell me who he is?

Because he’s a sleaze, and I don’t want you exposed to his lifestyle. He wouldn’t want you anyway, and you deserve better than that.

"He wouldn’t want me? As I repeat her words, something clicks. Something I’ve never considered until this moment. You never even told him about me, did you? He doesn’t know I exist."

She looks away from me and glares at the floor.

Pain strikes my chest. This secret hurts. She’s told me my whole life that my father wasn’t in the picture because he didn’t want us. She let me believe he rejected me. That he didn’t love me enough to want anything to do with me. When the truth was, he never had the chance. She kept me from him. Tears fill my eyes, and my voice breaks when I say, How could you?

Her face pales, and the anger bleeds from her, leaving her looking tired. You don’t understand.

I understand plenty. You’re selfish.

Selfish? she shrieks. You have no idea how much I’ve sacrificed for you! I’ve done nothing but sacrifice for the last eighteen years.

I grimace. Maybe I went too far. I’m sorry. I know you’re not selfish, but you’re so blinded by your hatred of the man that you robbed me of the chance to know my father. And you take that anger out on me by not letting me be who I am. You’re so worried about me growing up to be like him that you keep pushing me in the opposite direction no matter how unhappy it makes me. It all makes so much sense now.

Alice.

No, I snap, holding up a hand to cut her off. Save me your lectures. I don’t care. You let me grow up without a dad. I’ve spent my whole life thinking that my father abandoned me. That he wanted nothing to do with me, and I wasn’t worthy of his love.

Her eyes flash to mine, filled with guilt and fear. Alice, that’s not true. You’re more than worthy. He’s the one who doesn’t deserve you.

He still deserved the choice! I take a breath and lower my voice. If you were so sure he wouldn’t want me, then why not tell him? Why not make him pay child support? No. I shake my head, disgusted by the truth I’m just now piecing together. "What you were afraid of was the chance that he would want me. That you’d have to share me, and I might grow up with his influence. And now you hate that I’m turning out like him anyway."

I’ve never seen my mother so pale. She swallows hard. I did what was best for you.

And she thinks I’m stubborn? Forgive me if I disagree.

I’m so disgusted with her that I can’t bear to look at her for another second. I turn to make my way to my room, and this time she doesn’t stop me. You’re grounded! she calls out behind me.

Shocker! I yell back before slamming my door shut.

Chapter Two

DYLAN

My girlfriend is making out with my arch nemesis. I know they play a couple on the show, so kissing is in the job description, but it’s never easy to watch. Especially because I know the jerk likes it. Though, whether he actually likes her or he just enjoys pissing me off, I couldn’t tell you.

Supernatural High is a TV series about the first supernatural-human high school in a world where the supernatural have recently outed themselves to humans. I play the demon with a heart of gold. The villain you can’t help but fall for. It’s a great role. My character has more range than anyone else on the show. But he’s not the lead. Unfortunately, Hunter Elliot has that honor and, therefore, gets the girl. My girl.

Cut! Cut! the director shouts, frustration lacing his tone. Do it again with more passion this time. I want intensity.

While Monique takes a second to reapply her lipstick, Hunter’s eyes meet mine. I want to punch the smug smirk off his face. It only grows bigger when I glare at him. I’m an actor. I should be able to mask my feelings and put on an act, but I can’t hide how much I hate this, hate him.

Ready? the director asks.

Monique shoos away the makeup artist, fixes her outfit, takes a breath, and nods. Hunter’s eyes don’t leave mine as he grabs her by the waist and reels her in. My hands clench into fists.

"And, action."

They come together, and this time it’s more than a kiss. It’s fire and passion. It’s heavy breathing and roaming hands. There’s serious tongue action on Hunter’s part. Asshole.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the director yells cut again. That was perfect, guys. Let’s wrap for the day.

Thank heavens. I let out a breath and try to wipe the glare off my face before Monique turns to me.

Hunter takes a second too long to untangle himself from my girlfriend and has the nerve to give her a flirty wink before letting her go. If it weren’t for Monique’s reaction, I’d punch him. She pushes him away and says, Ugh, Hunter, slobber much? You’d think by now you’d know how to kiss without drowning your partner.

Hunter’s smile disappears, and it’s my turn to smirk.

Someone get me some sparkling water. I need to cleanse my mouth. Monique looks around, but all the PAs are busy. Hello! she shrieks with a stomp of her foot. Now! Do you all want to lose your jobs?

Three different people drop what they’re doing and run off, presumably to find her some seltzer water. I sigh. Her tantrums aren’t sexy, but what can you expect when everyone around her treats her like royalty? She wasn’t always like this; it’s only been the last year or so. Actually, it’s been since she and I got together and the media went nuts over our relationship. It pushed our fame to a new high, and the hype has gone to her head. I can usually calm her down, though.

I slide my arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against my chest and resting my head on top of hers. It’s easy to do because she’s tiny and I’m 6’2. I’m a whole foot taller than her. Babe, stop terrorizing the production assistants."

I can hear the eye roll in her reply. I’m not terrorizing anyone. They’re production assistants. It’s their job to assist us. If they would do what I ask the first time, there wouldn’t be a problem.

There’s no point arguing with her or trying to convince her that she could at least say please and thank you.

A nervous PA hurries up to us with an ice-cold can of Monique’s favorite coconut-lime sparkling water. It’s supposed to help calm and clarify your mind and body. Here you go, Miss Olsen.

Finally. Monique narrows her eyes and takes the can, then makes a shooing motion. The PA hurries off, looking relieved to be getting away.

I let her go and pull out my phone. There’s something about Monique right now that I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s screaming to be photographed. She smiles when I hold up the camera and snap her picture. She’s used to my semi-obsessive habit of taking pictures. I get a nice close-up. She looks beautiful. She inspects the photo and smiles to herself. Send it to me.

I text her the photo and hold her sparkling water while she posts the pic on her social media. You take the best pictures, she says. How do you always make me look so beautiful?

I smile. Having a perfect subject makes it easy.

She beams at the compliment and kisses me, her bad mood gone. Now that she’s not cranky, I figure it’s a good time to bring up our plans tonight. Or, more specifically, how I want to change them. She’s going to be a hard sell. I clear my throat and just go for it. So, I know we were planning to go dancing tonight, but there’s this art gallery holding an event that I really want to go to.

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. An art gallery?

I rub the back of my neck. Few people know about my photography hobby. I’m always taking pictures, but most people think it’s just for social media. Monique knows, though. I’ve shown her my portfolio. Have you heard of Nash Wilson?

Nash Wilson is one of the most famous photographers in the world right now. His work is genius. Everyone wants to do a photo shoot with him, but he’s super selective about his clientele.

Of course I’ve heard of Nash Wilson. Her eyes widen and shine with an eager gleam. Why? Do you know him? Do you think he’d do a photo session with me?

I don’t know him, but he’s unveiling a new project tonight, and I want to check it out.

Some of the light leaves her eyes.

He’ll be there, I say, trying to tempt her into going with me. You’ve heard how he is. Sometimes all he has to do is see you and he’ll agree to take your picture. Maybe we can get an introduction.

She chews on this for a moment and finishes off the last of her bubbly water. Fine. We can go.

I perk up. That was easier than I thought it would be. Really? Great. It’ll be fun. I promise.

She shakes her head at my excitement, but she’s fighting a small smile. You’re such a dork, but you’re a cute one.

I head over to my chair to grab my things when our director calls our attention. Hey, everyone! Gather around for a minute. I’ve got an announcement to make.

Cast and crew hurry over, all shooting each other curious glances, but it seems no one knows what’s going on. Once we’re all present and waiting, the director drops a bomb on us. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, he says somberly. "But I’ve received word from the studio that they're not renewing Supernatural High for a fifth season."

I blink. We’re canceled? That’s…unexpected.

A mixed cry of shock and outrage sweeps through our little film family. We’ve been doing this for four seasons now. We’ve gotten close, comfortable. To think it’s over is hard to process.

Monique’s voice rings out an octave above all the rest. It’s so shrill, it could cut glass. They can’t cancel us without any warning!

The director sighs. This is the warning. We’ve got enough notice that we can at least somewhat wrap up the show. The writers are working out the rest of the season right now. We should get some closure, and that’s a lot more than most shows get.

Monique continues her tirade along with Hunter and a few other cast members, but I don’t join in. Sure, I’m in shock. This news came out of nowhere. But I’m surprisingly okay with it. Relieved, even. I didn’t realize how tired of this show I am. I’ve been doing this show since I was fifteen. It’s been my whole life for almost four years. The thought of it being over lifts a weight off my shoulders I didn’t know was there. My future has opened up, and the possibilities are endless. Sure, I’m going to be out of work in three months when the season wraps, but it’s not like I’m worried about money.

The director answers a few more questions, says some kind parting words, and then lets us go. The crowd breaks out into smaller groups to lament with each other over the loss of their jobs. My attitude is definitely the minority. In fact, I may be the only person on set who’s actually happy about this news. I wander off from Monique and Hunter, not feeling like listening to their griping. I’m getting a drink when my mom finds me.

Katherine Reese, a.k.a. Mom, has been my manager my whole life. It started when she got me into modeling as an infant. Then it turned to acting at age five. I’m not sure how she did it, but she managed to keep my career going through that black hole of time for child actors otherwise known as the awkward tween years. She’s a shark. An overbearing, micromanaging shark. I’m eighteen now, and no longer in need of a handler, but it hasn’t stopped her from being on set.

She places her hands on my shoulders in a grip that’s just shy of being too tight. Honey, don’t freak out. I’ll call Veronica. We’ll have a new project lined up for you before you wrap this season.

Mom. Chill. It’s fine. I’m not upset.

Mom frowns, searching my eyes like she doesn’t understand or doesn’t believe me. I’m calling Veronica.

Veronica Morley. My agent. She’s got a lot in common with my mom and is every bit as effective. I have no doubt that the two of them will find something for me. What shocks me is how unappealing that sounds right now.

While Mom gets on the phone, I wander back over to Monique. I’m not surprised to see the tears in her eyes. She loves this show. It’s her whole life. Her identity. It was her first real gig. It’s what made her famous. I may not be upset, but I understand why she is. I hold my arms out to her. Aw, baby, come here.

She falls into my arms, and a sob escapes her. I squeeze her tight and rub soothing circles on her back. "It’s all right. You’re a great actress. You’ll find another project in no