“I feel like we’re in a movie,” I tell Ava as our car passes the iconic Hollywood sign sprawled across a distant hill. “It seems like so long ago that I lived here, it’s hard to remember that was my life and not just something I dreamed.”
Rolling down the window, I let in the warm, but somehow still crisp, air. So different from Georgia in every way. It feels right.
“Welcome back, California Girl,” she says, her plump lips stretching over a wide, toothy grin.
Following Ava’s instructions, our driver turns up the radio volume. Maroon Five’s high happy melody fits the vibe of the day perfectly. Now that I’m here, I’m even more hopeful about the trip. Being away from Pappa’s ever watchful presence has me feeling giddy and free, like a kid let loose at Six Flags for the day with a pocketful of money and no parental supervision.
Ava has turned out to be a great travel companion. Only two years older than me, she’s far more experienced and navigated the huge Hartsfield International Airport with ease. Same story at LAX. She knows her way around the city as well, having worked and lived here since she was seventeen. The flight passed quickly as she filled me in on her modeling career and life in L.A.
I turn away from the sun-drenched scenery to glance at her. “I can’t believe you have your own house.”
“Well, I have roommates—I’d be too lonely living in that huge place alone.”
The driver takes a left and we begin our ascent into the Hollywood Hills, finally coming to a stop in the drive of an expansive multi-level home that follows the contour of the jagged cliff it’s built upon.
“Wow—this is amazing.” I open the car door and head for the trunk to get my bag, but the driver has already beat me there.
“I’ll take care of these,” he says, nodding toward Ava, who’s already at the home’s modern wood and glass front door and waiting for me with a big anticipatory smile.
“Wait till you see the view.”
She leads me inside where I wander through the open floor plan with my mouth gaping. Our houses in Atlanta and D.C. are actually bigger, but this place is way cooler. It’s decorated in a sort of retro-seventies style with modern touches. All the furnishings are white, and it seems the entire place is illuminated with light from the floor-to-ceiling window wall, the California sunshine dancing around the room like a Beach Boys song.
I cross over to the window, taking in the view of the valley stretched out below us. “Okay, now I really feel like I’m in a movie.” My childhood home in L.A. was large but homey, with a swing set in the back yard, and a treehouse, and colorful letter magnets on the refrigerator door. This place is unreal.
“We can visit a set while we’re here—if you’re interested. My roommate Serena is filming this week. She totally wouldn’t mind if you want to go watch,” Ava says.
“Really? I’d love to. You think we’ll have time? My dad made it sound like I’ll be booked every minute with the whole agent and photographer thing.”
Ava gives me a knowing eyebrow lift. “Your dad isn’t here. You are pretty tightly scheduled, but there’s always time for fun. You just have to know how to work things.” She skips off to the kitchen and throws open the door of a huge sub-zero refrigerator. “Want anything? I’m famished.”
“Sure. Whatever you have is fine.” Unlike what I’ve read about human models and their starvation diets, Elven girls eat often and eat well. We have much faster metabolisms than humans, and we’re tall. Our bodies are naturally thin and athletic—no wonder so many fashion shows and magazines are dominated by our race.
Sometimes I’ve wondered why the designers and photographers don’t get tired of working with the same body type day after day, year after year. Maybe they think it’s a good thing, since they basically see models as little more than human clothes hangers or blank canvases for their art.
Speaking of art, I’m dying to get on a computer here and look up the location of the art school in Santa Monica. Pappa uses a parental “spy” software program to monitor my laptop, tablet, and phone, so I’m reluctant to type in the potentially damning words using any of them.
But he doesn’t have the same sort of access to Ava’s computers, does he? I can’t stop a grin from stretching my cheeks. I could get used to this freedom thing.
Eying her backpack, I glance over at Ava, who’s setting out pita chips and hummus as well as some fruit. “Mind if I use your laptop to look up some L.A. touristy stuff? I know it’s cheesy, but I do want to see some things as long as I’m here.”
“Go for it. It’s not locked. But Alfred will give you a driver to take you anywhere you want to go, probably, so you don’t need to print out directions or anything.”
Alfred. Right. My father’s friend and the super-agent behind the stellar careers of the world’s top actors, musicians, models, and athletes. I read an article about his astonishing rise to prominence thirty years ago, seemingly out of nowhere. What the human writer of that article didn’t know is the story behind the story—that almost all of Alfred Frey’s clients are Elven and that glamour plays a huge part in their celebrity.
I’ll be meeting him first thing Monday morning, to launch my own career, I guess. The whole idea still seems very foreign to me. I can much more easily imagine myself behind the camera than in front of it. I love capturing beauty, expressing it with a paintbrush. I can’t picture myself as the subject of someone else’s art.
And I’m not sure how this whole modeling career thing is supposed to work if Pappa is so determined to marry me off in a political bargain a few months from now—to a reclusive Light Elf.
Ava plops onto the white leather couch beside me, where I’ve opened her laptop and clicked onto a search engine. She’s holding a bowl of the biggest strawberries I’ve ever seen in my life. As if she’s read my mind, she says, “So I heard you’re getting married. That’s cool.”
I glance over at her to see if she’s being sarcastic, but there’s no indication of it on her face. She seems sincere.
“Yeah, I guess so. Who told you?”
“My mom. She says it’s all important and whatnot ‘for the people.’”
Her dead-on imitation of her mother’s hoity-toity regal tone cracks me up. “Right. That’s what my dad says. What about you?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m old.” She grimaces. At nineteen, she should’ve been married for a year now already. “But my mom wants me to wait a little longer until I get my career more established and get a good fan pod going. I guess the humans aren’t as interested if you’re already ‘off the market’ or whatever.”
I hesitate before speaking again. I don’t know Ava well. We’ve seen each other many times over the years, but we’ve never spent much time talking. I don’t know how much I can trust her, how much she buys into her mom’s ideas and the mission of the Council. But she seems to be an awful lot like me—very much integrated into the human world, and someone who enjoys her freedom.
“I’ve been wondering about that—for myself. You know, like, how I’m supposed to marry this guy and have a modeling career? He lives in Altum. Rural Mississippi isn’t exactly a fashion mecca. Is he going to move out here so I can work after we’re married, or what? And he’s a Light Elf, which is weird.”
She shrugs and pops a berry into her mouth, speaking between chews. “Who knows what the parentals are thinking? I try to steer clear of all their schemes for world domination and just live my life. Maybe he will, though. Maybe he’s going to cross over to the Dark side and have some kind of performing career and a fan pod as well.” She grins at her joke. “Is he a musician or anything? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” I say on a heavy sigh. “Pappa won’t tell me anything and says it’s not for me to know about right now—that he’s an ‘excellent match’ and I shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Wow. You are a good girl, aren’t you? Mama’s always saying, ‘Why can’t you be more like Vancia Hart? She always does what she’s told.’” Ava laughs. “You’re making me look bad, girl.”
Heat fills my cheeks, though her jibe is good-natured. It’s just that I’m embarrassed by how true it is. I do always do as I’m told. And her teasing reminds me of Carter’s comment in the art room yesterday after school, about how it’s my life and that maybe I should start making some of my own decisions.
Ava rises from the couch. “Well, I’m going to lay out by the pool. Come on out when you’re done. You can bring your food with you if you want to. There’s saol water and stuff in the fridge, too.”
“Great, thanks.” I turn my attention back to my computer search with renewed interest. Finding the website for the art school, I do write down the address, in spite of what Ava said. I won’t be asking for a ride from any driver assigned by Alfred Frey—might as well call Pappa and tell him what I’m up to.
No, I’ll find my own way to the school. And maybe in some other areas of life as well.