The day after her lackluster date with Matthew, she slept in, finally venturing out for a soy latte and a few newspapers and magazines. Back home, she tried to read but her eyes kept wandering over to her desk, where she’d placed the mysterious envelope. She went running, but the message kept playing in her head. On Sunday, she picked up groceries, made carrot soup, and started a new manuscript. But the message would not be vanquished.
She tried to rationalize it away. Surely it was the work of a crazed fan. Scarlett died in Los Angeles. Why would there be a police report in Manhattan? Scarlett was a beautiful actress who became a star after her death, and the world was probably full of Scarlett-obsessed lunatics.
“Make this right.” What could that mean? She took her own life. A studio assistant found her dead on the floor of her trailer her final day on Catapult. Scarlett’s prints were on the gun. The coroner said she had fired the shot herself, based on the bullet’s trajectory and how she fell.
What is there to make right?
Angie tossed it over and over in her head. It was exhausting. She went to bed early that night but couldn’t sleep, despite the fatigue. She grabbed her phone. “Scotty?”
“Ange, it’s nearly midnight. What’s going on? You okay?”
“Scotty, this weird thing happened. Somebody sent me a message about Scar.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone dropped off an envelope at my apartment building and inside is a sheet of paper with a message about Scarlett. And there was a number.” She paused. She didn’t want to sound delusional or obsessive, like someone who’d watched one too many episodes of Law & Order.
“About Scarlett? What did it say?”
“That she deserved better. What could that mean?”
“It means she deserved better. And she did. Can we talk tomorrow?”
Now, she really was obsessing. “Yeah, sure. I’m sorry. It’s nothing, I’m sure. It just, you know, shook me up a little. And I keep thinking about it.”
“It’s all right. It’s been an awful time, God knows. The anniversary is coming up . . . I’ll call you tomorrow. ’Night.”
“’Night.”
Come Monday morning, the message still echoed in Angie’s mind, but she convinced herself that pursuing it would be ridiculous. Where would she even start? It was all she could do to remember to take her meds, get to work, stay ahead of the depression, and manage her panic attacks.
She was putting the finishing touches on a pitch memo to Rita when she realized she was ravenous, so she walked the two blocks to her favorite pizzeria to grab her usual slice and then sat on a bench at the playground across the street. It was chilly but the brisk air felt good. Her hunger was a sign that her stress and depression weren’t interfering too much with her body’s functions. Whenever she began spiraling, the first thing to go was her sleep. The second was her appetite.
“Stop it. I said STOP IT.”
Angie recognized the little girl with the pink-and-blue jacket and her nemesis, the same bullying boy from before.
“I’ll bet you can’t. I’ll bet you’re scared.”
“I am not scared!” the little girl yelled.
There seemed to be some disagreement over her willingness to go down the fireman’s pole. Again, the girl’s mother came over and tried to mollify her daughter. “Oh, now, sweetie, it’s okay. He doesn’t mean anything.”
Again, the boy’s mother apologized to the girl’s mother. “I’m sorry this keeps happening,” she said. “Billy, we’re leaving. Now!”
Of course the girl was upset. An asshole was tormenting her. Why was her mother telling her to not be upset? She should have been telling the asshole kid to knock it off, or the same scene was going to keep playing for the rest of their lives. What the hell is wrong with people?
Angie finished her slice and stood to go back to work. But she didn’t move. She just stood there. And suddenly, she realized she was angry. Really angry. She reached into her bag and grabbed the envelope she had impulsively shoved in there on her way out the door that morning. It would either lead nowhere or, at the worst, to some pathetic fanboy playing Scarlett’s movies on a loop in his parents’ basement. But if she didn’t check it out, she was never going to have a moment’s peace. She pulled out her phone. With Scott by her side, she could walk into a police station and ask about the report.
“Scotty, are you busy?”
“Um, sort of. What’s up?”
“Can you meet me right now?”
“I really can’t. I’ve got to prep for a meeting later. Why do you need something right this minute?”
“I just— Forget it. Really.” She disconnected, annoyed with herself. What are you doing? You’re a woman in your thirties and you can’t go into a police station without your kid brother?
She steeled herself and left the park, striding down the street toward the building that housed NYPD’s 1st Precinct, covering Manhattan’s southernmost tip. At the entrance, her resolve flagged and she hesitated, thinking of the cryptic message, “She deserved better.” Better than what? Suicide? Everyone deserves better than that.
And Angie deserved answers.
She climbed the steps and went inside to find a bustling station. A beefy cop sat behind a desk that appeared to be an information station. Angie pushed past her anxiety and said as confidently as she could, “Excuse me.”
The officer looked relieved to have a reprieve from the sheaves of paper he was thumbing through. “Yes, miss.”
“This is the First Precinct?”
“Yes, miss.”
“I have a question. About . . .” She didn’t really know what she had a question about. She finally pulled the sheet of paper out of her bag and slid it across the desk to him.
The officer checked it out then assessed her more closely. “This is an arrest report number.”
“Oh.” She forged ahead, needing to know. For Scarlett. They both deserved it. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“Well, some reports are public, but some aren’t. Like if they’re part of an investigation. Unless you’re an interested party. Are you?”
“Yes,” Angie said firmly, quickly pulling out her wallet and showing the cop her driver’s license. “It’s about my family.”
“Okay. Let’s see what’s up.” He typed on his computer keyboard. “Huh. Nothing here. It says, ‘No entry available.’”
“Could someone have gotten the number wrong? Or maybe filed the report under another number?”
“Beats me. Sorry, miss, I don’t know what to tell you. But if you get another number, come back and I’ll see what we can find for you.”
“I see. Well, thanks for checking.”
Angie was frustrated as she left the building, but her mood had lifted by the time she got back to work. It was some guy’s idea of a sick joke. Scarlett probably had lots of fans. But Angie felt proud she’d found the gumption to check, instead of remaining in a state of confusion. She’d walked into that precinct by herself and talked to a cop.
An hour later, Angie was getting absorbed in a new manuscript about an alcoholic priest who uncovers a money-laundering scheme run by his former lover, now the bishop, when her phone rang. She picked up on the second ring tone. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Angela Norris?”
“Speaking.”
“Miss Norris, this is Michael Ridley. I’m calling from LA. I’m an assistant to Daisy Buckman, one of the producers for the Oscars.”
Angie froze. A wave of dread swept over her. They wanted to talk about Scarlett but she couldn’t. Not after the message with the police number. Going to the police took more out of her than she had realized. “This really isn’t a good time,” she started.
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up. This won’t take long.”
Keep breathing, it’s just a telephone call, it’s not life or death.
“Miss Norris, we’d love to have you and other members of your family at the Academy Awards this Sunday. Scarlett Norris was such a bright light in our world, you know, and, by the way, let me express my deepest sympathy to you and your family.”
“Thank you. So much.” Angie had never returned the first phone call she’d gotten weeks ago about the Oscars, and her mother probably hadn’t either. No wonder this guy had called.
“Look, Miss Norris, your poor sister took her life. I don’t have to tell you how awful that is. I mean, you and your family are living it every day. And the thing is, the last thing anyone wants is for the world to think no one cared enough to show up to honor Scarlett, especially given all the buzz around Catapult. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Angie was able to eke out.
“Such a wonderful star, and such a loss for all of us, but of course for your family most of all. Can we count on you to attend? It’ll be VIP the whole way. You won’t have to worry about anything. We’ll handle transportation, wardrobe, hotel, private car from the airport. And, of course, if she wins, well, how special would that be to have her family there to collect this incredible acknowledgment from her peers after—”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll come.” The words were out before she could stop them.
“What?”
“I said . . . I’ll come.”
“Well, that’s just, uh, great, just great. Just you? Coming?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m so pleased you will be joining us.” Michael Ridley seemed genuinely surprised his pitch had worked. “It will mean so much to the film community. Uh, okay. The awards are March fourth, this Sunday, so you’ll be hearing from my assistant with the details—flight, hotel, etcetera. We’ve got just six days and lots to do, so we’ll get things rolling right away. Wonderful chatting with you, Miss Norris. Again, let me express my deepest sympathy to you and your family. We look forward to seeing you out here. Ciao.”
He disconnected and Angie stared into space, only jolted back to reality when Rita rapped on her door. “Hey, you got a minute? I don’t know what the hell to tell this guy, Jimmy Peterson, about this biowarfare-at-the-Ivy-League-college epic he’s got. It’s not that it can’t work, but—”
“Rita, I’m gonna need some time off. Starting tomorrow. I’m going to the Oscars. For Scarlett.”
“You’re what? The Oscars?” Rita took a moment to process what Angie had said, but then it landed. “Of course! If you gotta go, you go!”
And it suddenly felt real.
***
That evening at home, as Angie washed her face, the enormity of her decision hit her again. I agreed to go to the Oscars. What the hell was I thinking?
She threw on her sweats and wondered if she should call Scott or her mother first. She started pulling potential clothes out of her closet. What’s the temperature in LA in early March? Jesus, do I have any clothes that won’t peg me as hopeless?
She sat on the bed studying her two best dresses. Her face felt sweaty. She had nothing to wear. She didn’t know what to wear. She didn’t read fashion magazines or watch awards shows. She would humiliate herself on a global scale. Oh, my God. What have I done?
She tried to focus on her breathing before a full-blown panic attack took over. It’s fine, she told herself. It’ll be fine. Michael Ridley had said they would handle everything. The airport, the hotel, the clothing, what she looked like, what she wore. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal.
But it was a big deal. It was a huge deal. The Oscars. The most important night of the year for Hollywood, Scarlett had said. The girl who liked nothing more than to watch TV with her cat on a Friday night was going to have to be on the same red carpet as the biggest stars, directors, and producers in Hollywood. Scar, what have I done?
She grabbed her phone and called Scott. He hardly got a “Hello” out before she burst in, “Oh, my freakin’ God. I told them I’d go.”
“You told who—? Wait, what? Where are you going?”
Angie could hear his children in the background. The sounds of normal life. It grounded her. Her breathing evened out a bit. She decided she’d simply go to work the next day and forget all the Hollywood nonsense. And that’s what it was. Nonsense. She wasn’t a movie star. She wasn’t anybody. She’d call that Michael Ridley and leave a polite message informing him she couldn’t attend the Oscars after all.
“Angie? Are you there?” Scott sounded distracted. “Where are you going? I just have a minute. I have to put the kids to bed.”
“Oh, Scotty, I’m such a . . . oh, God. The Oscars. I told them I’d go.”
“What? Oh, my God, Ange, that’s . . . Wait . . . That’s great! Why aren’t you happy?”
“Because I can barely function as it is. I’m supposed to go to the most famous awards show on the planet, surrounded by celebrities who are going to tell me how sorry they are about Scarlett? Everyone will be looking at me. All night long. I can’t do that. I’ll . . . I’ll freeze. I’ll fall apart.” She gave a small sob.
“Whoa, hang on there, just breathe,” Scott instructed soothingly. “Take a few steps back. Why did you agree in the first place?”
It helped to have him ask questions. It gave her something bite-size she could focus on instead of her impending demise. “I don’t know. I was at work, and I got a call from this guy, someone’s assistant . . . He was going on and on, saying that it seemed wrong that none of Scarlett’s family will be there . . . and I think I just . . . wanted him to stop talking?”
There was a beat. Then Scott laughed, Angie felt herself exhale, and she couldn’t help but laugh herself.
“Well, I guess you got him to stop talking.”
“I did, indeed. But I’m going to back out.”
“What? No. It’s good you’re going to represent the family. I’ll help you prepare and, if in a couple of days you still don’t feel ready, then you can back out.”
“I guess.”
“No guessing. This will be good for you.”
“I guess. I mean, I suppose.”
“That’s the same thing as guessing!” They both laughed again. “I really gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow. This is so exciting! The kids are going to freak! Once I explain what the Oscars are. Aunt Angie on TV!”
He chuckled and disconnected. Angie put the phone down and looked over to the cat, who was licking her paws. “Brontë, what do we do now?”
She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. Her phone buzzed a moment later and her mother’s name popped up.
“Honey, we need to go shopping,” Ellen said as soon as Angie picked up.
“Why?”
“Why? For you! For the Oscars! I want to help you pick out your dress. Only I can’t tell your father.”
“Wait, Mom, how do you know—?”
“I just got a voice mail from a reporter at Newsday saying she heard you were going to represent our family . . . because Scarlett . . . Well, I haven’t called them back, but, honey, when did you decide to go? Look, I can’t talk long, your father will be back any minute, but I think it’s great. I’m proud of you. And of Scarlett, of course . . .” Her mother paused and cleared her throat. She was obviously trying hard to be cheerful. “Do you have any idea what you want? It’s hard to go wrong with Ralph Lauren.”
“Mom, can I call you back? I need to figure a few things out first.”
Angie hung up and sat for a moment in silence. Breathe, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. She silently repeated the mantra until she had steadied herself. Then she opened her eyes and realized she was almost smiling.
Hollywood.
She was going to Hollywood.
***
The next morning, Angie let herself sleep in a bit and awoke to more phone messages than she usually got in a week:
“Miss Norris, this is Sheree. Mr. Ridley has assigned me to assist you with your preparations for the awards. If you send me your email, I will coordinate your flight on Thursday and arrange transportation to your hotel—the Beverly Wilshire. We use Executive Limousines and they’ll be available to you the entire time you’re in Los Angeles. What kind of snacks would you like in the car and in your hotel room? Is Perrier okay or do you prefer another brand of water? We can stock liquor, too, if you’d like. Just let me know your preferences . . .”
“Hi, Miss Norris, my name is Jennifer Jensen. I’m a personal stylist. DreamWeaver has hired me to help create your look for the Oscars. Call me back as soon as you can. I want to talk about what kind of dress you’re interested in, a classic cut or ball-gown style, or maybe something sleek in a metallic? I can text you some examples. I’m in touch with at least half a dozen designers who want you to wear them. And we’ll do jewelry and makeup, too. Also, what’s your typical palette? Neutrals, pastels, or primaries?”
“Miss Norris, this is Saffron Markowicz. I run a website and blog about life in LA called See a Star, Be a Star. I understand you’re Scarlett Norris’s sister and you’re coming to the Oscars? And you’re a literary critic? I’d love to interview you for the site. Please call as soon as you can. Also, could you send us a couple of selfies? One headshot and one full-body?”
“Hi, Miss Norris, I’m Sierra Jiménez. I’ll be doing your hair for the Oscars. My email is sierrahairLA at gmail. Can you send me a photo of what your hair looks like right now? Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. That’s what we’re here for. Also, are you open to a cut or color or highlights?”
As she sat on her bed gaping at her phone, Angie’s stomach clenched. Then she sprang up and ran into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet lid, and heaved up the contents of her stomach. Then she heaved some more, even though there was nothing left to throw up. She pulled the hand towel off its ring and wiped her mouth as she sat there, her skin clammy, her mind reeling.
What am I doing?
The trip certainly wouldn’t be like her last, two years back, when she’d gone out to visit Scarlett. They’d jogged along the beach in Santa Monica, strolled Rodeo Drive, lounged around the pool at Scarlett’s house out in Topanga, and ate so many great meals that Angie lost count. One day, she’d observed a gaggle of teenage girls looking and leaning into one another with urgent whispers a short distance from the Malibu café where she and Scarlett were having coffee.
“Does this happen all the time?” she’d asked.
Scarlett had shrugged. “Sometimes I get bombarded. The series really made a huge difference. A hundred million people watching it. You have no idea. But I’ve kind of figured out where to go and when, to minimize attention. It’s just part of the job. I don’t mind as long as people aren’t too pushy.”
By then, one of the girls had shyly approached. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Norris, but do you think I could get a selfie? We all just love you. We’ve seen Even Steven like a million times.”
“Of course!” Scarlett had expansively motioned for the rest of the girls to come over and expertly took a couple of shots with the girl’s phone, including a silly one where they all made faces.
“That was nice,” Angie said when the girls had left.
Scarlett had grinned. “They’re kids. Plus, it’s good to post a picture now and then with fans. Good for the Insta.”
They’d spent a day on the set of Scarlett’s latest movie. It was the only day Scarlett was working during Angie’s visit and she thought Angie would get a kick out of seeing a real movie shoot.
On the set, Scarlett seemed genuinely well-liked, judging by how everyone from the assistant director to the makeup people to the tech crew greeted her. She hadn’t lost her kind, easygoing nature. But Angie was still anxious. It’s okay. It’s just the two of us. Follow Scarlett’s lead, like in high school.
Of course, it wasn’t high school—they were adults now and this was Hollywood. But Scarlett telling her it was okay was soothing, and Angie had gradually relaxed enough to get absorbed by the process unfolding in front of her. Even during the long stretches between takes, when lights and sound were adjusted, she had enjoyed seeing the myriad people working to bring it all together. Angie had thought that maybe she understood just a little bit of what her sister enjoyed so much about making a movie.
But this time around, she’d be facing Hollywood by herself.
***
Somehow, she’d gotten herself together and out of New York. Ellen had come over to help her pack, having given up the idea of helping her find a dress, knowing she couldn’t compete with the best stylists in LA. Angie’s father knew, of course. Gerry may have hated the idea but there was no hiding Angie’s decision; stories were appearing on TV, newspapers, and the internet. And obviously, the ceremony would be seen by millions worldwide, which Angie tried not to fixate on.
“You’ll be fine,” Scott had said, hugging her goodbye before she departed for JFK. “It’s just a few days. I know the Oscars are huge, but you’ll be great, and remember, you’re going for Scar. Call me anytime. We’re all rooting for you.”
“Dad’s not,” Angie had replied.
“Dad’s Dad. He’s not your problem.”
I hope you’re right, Scotty. Her brother’s words echoed in her head as she emerged from LAX into the passenger pick-up area that Thursday, pulling her suitcase behind her. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.
It didn’t take long to spot the man in an immaculate uniform holding a small sign with her name. Here we go. She approached him and gave a small smile.
“Miss Norris?”
Angie nodded.
“Right this way, miss.”
As she was whisked to her hotel, Angie fretted, unsure what to expect in the run-up to Sunday’s ceremony, outside of dress fittings and getting her hair styled. She thought she’d mostly hang out at the hotel, jotting down notes to help her answer questions she anticipated she’d be asked on the red carpet.
The Beverly Wilshire was luxurious and her room wasn’t even a room, it was a suite. She had stunning views looking west where she thought she could see the Pacific glittering in the distance. Her bed was a king with sumptuous pillows and sheets. There was a sunken Jacuzzi bathtub in the bathroom. She felt both queenly and out of place.
The next morning, her phone buzzed at 8:00 a.m. She was still on New York time and had been awake for a couple of hours, bone-tired with an aching head. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Or stressed. Or dehydrated and stressed.
She reached for the phone. “Hello?” Then came a knock on her door. “Hang on, please, just a moment.”
She opened the door a couple of inches, the security bolt still in place. “Room service, Miss Norris. We have breakfast for you. May I wheel the cart in?”
“Um, sure, yes.” Angie unbolted and opened the door.
“I’m sorry?” The voice came over the phone.
“Oh, no, I was just talking to . . . Can you just hang on again? For a moment?”
The young catering attendant launched into the menu: “Eggs with crème fraiche and chives, brioche French toast, coffee, fruit.” He wheeled the cart in and then turned toward the door.
Wait!” she called. She looked around for her purse. “I just have to find my wallet.”
“Oh, no, Miss Norris, that’s not necessary. Everything is taken care of. Just ring the desk and we’ll be happy to bring up anything you need. Enjoy breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she blurted as the door shut. The gleaming tray was graced by a small vase holding a bunch of white rose buds.
“Hello? Miss Norris, are you still there?”
Oh, God, the call. “Oh, yes, hello, I’m so sorry, room service just came and . . .”
“So, anyway, my name is Candace Blackstone. I’m handling Oscar publicity for DreamWeaver. I’ll be meeting with you to prep for the Oscars and then I’ll accompany you to the awards.”
“Oh.”
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I was going to call last night, but I wanted to give you a little time to get settled.”
“Oh, yes . . . No, I’m fine. I’m just a little, um, well, I guess . . . after the flight and all. What did you say your name was?”
“Candace. Candace Blackstone.” The publicist’s voice was crisp and assertive. “Travel is exhausting. Luckily, you have a day spa booked for this morning. You can have a hydra facial, body brushing, exfoliation, steam treatment, mani-pedi, waxing, even an eyelash extension. Oh, and a full body massage. It’s great for detoxifying the lymphatic system. The limo will come at ten, is that good?”
“Um, sure, yes, I’ll be ready.” Detoxifying the lymphatic system?
By 2:00 p.m., Angie had been thoroughly scoured, steamed, and lacquered and was having lunch with Candace at a trendy restaurant in West Hollywood. The publicist was going through information Angie would need to know for the Oscars. The clean black-and-white lines and open windows gave the place an air of elegance, while her Bibb salad and caviar tart were artfully plated and sleek. Angie didn’t feel sleek, elegant, or remotely comfortable.
“We’ll do some interviews on the red carpet on our way into the theater and more after the ceremony,” Candace instructed. “Every major entertainment news outlet has been given background info on your family and bios on you and Scarlett. Now, here’s where we’ll be during the event.” She slid a Dolby Theatre seating chart across the table. “Because Scarlett is nominated for Best Actress, we’ll be sitting with nominees from Catapult and other movies, which means a lot of A-listers. You know who’s nominated?”
“Um, no, not really . . .” Angie was getting another headache, and the sight of the rich food was suddenly nauseating. She grabbed her ice water and drank.
“Right. David Frobisher Jones, the director of Catapult—you know him, of course—and Charles will be with us in the DreamWeaver row but across the aisle. Ferdinand Greco, who’s up for Best Director for Madrid Song, the Spanish Civil War epic, his star, Mirabel de Nova, who is up for Best Actress—well, everyone associated with that movie will be two rows directly in front of us.” Candace pointed on the chart. “Then, to our right is the cast and crew of Music Box. The one about the stalker and the blues singer set in Chicago . . . ?”
Angie shook her head.
“Both leads, Daria Prince and Jeffrey Haddad, as well as the cinematographer and composer are nominated.”
Angie nodded but was barely holding on. She was about to ask if they could get the check, but Candace plowed ahead.
“Now, behind us will be the team from Histronomie. Tommy Wen Lee directed it and wrote the screenplay . . .”
Angie raised her right hand to her forehead and massaged the ridge over her eyebrows while she breathed deeply. “I’m just here to accept if Scarlett wins. Is all this really necessary?”
Candace stopped talking and folded her hands in front of her. “You know what? I’ll just email you the list of all the nominees and where they’ll be sitting as it relates to us, okay? Take a look at it, familiarize yourself with it.”
Angie nodded.
“The point is that you should expect to see a lot of famous people. Very famous people. Up close. Some may even say hello. You can’t just stand there and stammer. You’re there for DreamWeaver. They want you to be comfortable, to enjoy the awards, but you need to be on point, and I’m here to help with that.”
Candace smiled but the real message being conveyed wasn’t so simple or nice. The urge to get back to the hotel and lie down was becoming overwhelming.
“Could we possibly head back?” Angie asked.
Candace motioned to their waiter. “We can go over more of this tomorrow. I’ll come to your hotel after your wardrobe fitting with Jennifer.” She looked hard at Angie, then softened her voice. “Look, I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just saying, if you’re not used to being in a room full of big stars dressed in couture with the press asking you questions, some of them personal, prepare yourself. This is the Oscars.”
“Right, of course.” Jesus, get me out here.
After Candace dropped her at her hotel, Angie was relieved to finally be on her own. She decided to tackle one of the manuscripts she’d brought with her and was quite content to just sit at a table by the pool and read for a couple of hours. She had dinner in her room, and hoped she would fall asleep easily and sleep soundly. A good night’s sleep always helped and she was praying the jet-lag didn’t mess her up too much.
As she got ready for bed, she set the alarm on her phone. She wanted to get up in time to meditate, hit the gym, and have breakfast—her general stress-relief tactics—so she’d be calm, ready for Jennifer Jensen and her dresses.
Angie woke with a start, her heart pounding, and leapt out of bed so fast she nearly fell. She rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Panting, she looked in the mirror. I can’t do this, Scar, not alone. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to help me get through it.
Maybe she could channel Scarlett, what she might say or do, to help her focus on the task at hand. Being mindful of what was right in front of her, be it the warmth of the sun, the snug fit of new leather gloves, or the aroma of oregano on a pizza, was a technique she’d learned long ago to stay calm and avert panic. Focusing on the present kept her from panicking about the future.
Later that morning, as she considered a slate-blue taffeta gown, one of the many Jennifer Jensen had rolled into her hotel room, she wondered what Scarlett would think. She’d already tried on a dramatic two-tone purple satin-and-tulle creation. But it was flashy, and Angie couldn’t imagine she could pull it off, besides, she worried about the practicality of moving around in the voluminous skirt.
She passed.
The taffeta, by contrast, was cut becomingly close to the body with a diagonally crossed neckline and ruched front.
“I don’t know.” Jennifer stood back with an expression that reminded Angie of an art critic considering a somewhat disappointing sculpture. “It’s a gorgeous color, and you’ve got a darling figure, but is it really you?”
Angie turned to look at herself from all angles. Is it me? Well, let’s see, I’m a thirty-something depressive who spends her days reading and her nights watching TV with her cat, and who is looking to her dead sister to help her get through the biggest awards ceremony on Earth without collapsing.
“No, I guess not. My mother mentioned Ralph Lauren,” she finally replied as Jennifer unzipped her. “Do you have something like that I could try?”
“Ralph? Sure, but . . . Actually, wait one minute.” Jennifer headed to the rack.
Five minutes later, Angie was wearing an ethereal cream-colored chiffon dress that flattered her delicate frame. Its gathered skirt boasted a series of pleats that were interesting but not overdone. It was breathtaking.
“Zac Posen,” Jennifer told her. “It’s perfect for you. A lot of people wear him at the Oscars. His dresses are beautifully tailored and elegant but easy to wear. I’ve got the perfect shoes . . . .” She circled Angie. “I’ll talk to Sierra about doing old-school Hollywood waves and lighter blond highlights, if you’re okay with that?”
Angie nodded.
“Then pale skin, dark mascara, red lips. And jewelry in similar tones, maybe opals. What do you think?”
The Angie in the mirror wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but she didn’t look ridiculous. She closed her eyes and pictured herself in the gown talking to Mirabel de Nova, the beautiful Spanish actress Candace had mentioned. I didn’t even see her movie, but I guess I could congratulate her on her nomination. What did Candace say? Don’t stammer. When she opened her eyes, Jennifer was smiling with approval.
“It suits you,” she said.
Angie realized the dress would be her costume. In it, she would play the role of a woman capable of skillfully navigating a minefield of stress, celebrities, interviews, and photos. And if she wasn’t skillful, at least she’d look the part. And maybe avoid total disaster.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wear it.”
“Great. Now, it’s a little long . . . but I think that will be the only necessary alteration. It fits you perfectly otherwise.”
And with that, the seamstress, who had accompanied Jennifer, started pinning the hem with speed and accuracy, raising it up an inch to meet the top of Angie’s foot.
As soon as the fitting was done, Candace called from the restaurant downstairs. Angie reluctantly went down for lunch, and they did more prep for the red carpet. Candace threw sample questions at her and when Angie stumbled or just blanked, she attempted to coach her through the answers. She quizzed her on some of the other nominees. She had photos of the Catapult cast and others from DreamWeaver Angie would likely meet. The director, David Frobisher Jones, was older than Angie had expected with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a round face. The cinematographer, on the other hand, hardly looked to be out of high school. There was a tall, handsome, fashionably-clad man with a trimmed beard, and his straight jet-black hair pulled up in a bun. Candace said he was head of production at the studio.
Then there was Charles Weaver. The man himself. Even Angie recognized him. He was as famous as the successful actors who appeared in his movies. Candace gave her a little background on DreamWeaver. Charles had come from the East Coast and turned his studio, DreamWeaver, into a dream factory. He skillfully navigated the shark-infested waters of Hollywood with aplomb, sniffing out the highest-quality scripts and pairing them with the right director, the perfect actors, composers, editors, producers. He charmed those in and out of the industry when it came to awards season, appearing at screenings and events and parties often with the latest actress on his arm, touting his projects to all who would listen. He had secured countless Oscars, BAFTAs, Spirit Awards, DGA, WGA, and SAG Awards, and big wins at the box office too.
Angie didn’t find him handsome by any definition. He was a large man, both in height and girth. His hair was full but unruly and he made no attempts to tame it. His mouth was wide and soft, his nose bulbous, his eyes a little too small for the size of his head. In his late fifties, he appeared a decade older, perhaps due to his paunch.
But Angie looked at the photo of him with gratitude, knowing he was the reason Scarlett had broken through and been on the cusp of real stardom. He had seen something in her, some special spark, so no matter what was going on in her personal life, her professional life had been on fire. And Charles Weaver was the reason.
That night, Angie sat on her bed in the plush terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel. She had ordered a room-service dinner and started a movie but couldn’t concentrate. The Oscars are tomorrow. Scarlett should be here. Not me.
Her throat tightened. Her grief was a shape-shifter—sometimes a dull ache, other times a stabbing pain that left her breathless and disoriented.
Lying on her side on the bed in the hotel room, Angie considered the quality of the light emanating from the bathroom, how bright it was, how narrow, which parts of the room it illuminated, which stayed dark. She let it draw her in, where she filled the tub, lobbing a fizzy bath bomb into the steaming water. Slowly, as the scent of eucalyptus filled the moist air, she submerged herself completely under the water. When she felt as though her lungs might burst, she came up with a gasp. Then she lay back, resting her head against the porcelain, and closed her eyes. What if Scarlett wins?
“All you need to do,” Candace had told her that afternoon, “is look good, smile, say thanks, and you’ll be off the stage before you even have a chance to get nervous. I’ll be right there to meet you backstage for pictures, and then we’ll go back to our seats for the rest of the show. Simple and easy.”
None of this sounds simple or easy, Angie had thought.
When the water turned cold, Angie got out of the tub, wrapped herself in the robe once more, and grabbed her phone.
“What’s up, Hollywood? Everything okay?” Scott sounded upbeat even though it was late on the East Coast.
“Can you talk?”
“What’s happening?”
“I’m nervous. About tomorrow. The questions I’ll be asked. Candace—the publicist—said to say, ‘we’re still mourning but we’re proud of her and that Catapult was a,’ um, ‘a testament to her talent.’”
“That sounds good,” Scott said. “Nothing to remember because that’s all true. Just remember to tell them Dad does the books for a Mexican drug cartel, and Mom, let’s see, she’s a set designer for a porn production company, in charge of plumping not only the pillows—”
“Stop! You’re useless!” Angie couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of their mother in her perfect blouse and pearls as a fluffer of pillows and possibly more for a porn film. Then she grew quiet again. “But really, Scotty, what should I say about Scar? That isn’t generic?”
“What do you want to say?” Scott got quiet, too. “She was beautiful and bright and easygoing. We all knew she could do whatever she wanted. And she chose acting and Hollywood. For better or worse.”
“That’s actually perfect. Very genuine. But what about me and my life? What if they ask about me? I don’t do anything interesting. I barely do anything at all.”
“What do you mean? Look, to you, you read manuscripts in Rita’s dusty old office and deal with neurotic writers. But to an outsider, you’re an editor for a book agent in New York City who helps put future New York Times bestsellers on the market. That’s impressive. Say that. Practice saying that.”
“Okay. Um, I’m a . . . highly . . . um, influential book editor . . .”
“Jesus, Ange . . .”
Angie took a deep breath and started again, this time loudly and clearly. “I edit manuscripts for a New York literary agency. We have a very talented stable of writers, fiction and nonfiction. And we do everything from editing to pitching to publishers.”
“Great! You see, that sounds classy and powerful. Just repeat that a few times so it becomes automatic.”
“And Mom and Dad? What about them?”
“Keep it simple. They’re watching from our family home on Long Island. They’re grateful for the honors bestowed on Scarlett. I mean, what else can you say?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Don’t make it too complicated. But I’m definitely writing everything down and memorizing it.” She paused. “Hey, and what if Scar wins? I’m so worried about going up on that stage. What if I panic?”
“You know what to do. Be mindful. Do the ‘focus on what’s right in front of you’ thing. Stand up. Walk to the stage. Climb the steps. Hear the applause. Take out your notes. Read the words. You have something prepared, right?”
“Yeah . . . I’ve got it here.” She reached for the pad where she had made notes.
“Let’s hear it,” Scott urged. “The more you say it, the easier it’ll be. Muscle memory and all that.”
“Candace said to keep it short and sweet.” Angie cleared her throat. “‘Thank you all so much. I wish Scarlett were here instead of me. But I know she’d be very proud of this honor. We all miss her very much. Thank you again.’”
“That’s good. Short and sweet. Everybody knows what happened, so what else is there to say, right?”
“I guess. I figure if I get up there and off as fast as possible, and don’t think too much about all the stars watching from the audience, and the millions of people watching at home . . . Oh, God, Scotty, what if . . .”
“Stop right there, do not go there, Ange. Breathe, focus on the immediate task, and just get through it.”
“Okay,” she said, not feeling okay at all. How am I going to walk up on that stage? “I should let you go.”
“Yeah, I gotta hit the sack. We’ll be watching tomorrow. You’ve got this, Ange.”
I hope so, Scotty.
Angie slept well that night but woke the next morning engulfed by dread, as if it had seeped into her hotel room overnight, filling every crevice and corner. She called Michael Ridley, whose assistant put the call right through. But when he picked up, she suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed.
“Is anything wrong, Miss Norris?” he asked. “How are your accommodations?”
“Oh, no, everything is wonderful, thank you so much. It’s just, I’m wondering if I can really, um, do this. It’s a lot, you know, and I don’t know what’s expected of me—I’m not my sister, after all. I’m not used to being . . . in the spotlight. I don’t want to screw up,” she admitted.
“Listen, don’t worry,” he said. “Honestly, people will be gentle with you, given the circumstances. And no one expects you to act like . . . Just be yourself. Have fun.”
Angie hung up. As terrified as she was, she was more scared of looking back and hating herself for being a coward. Either do this or fly home.
She retrieved a small photo from her suitcase. It had been taken on her trip to LA, and she and Scar were smiling in matching baseball caps. She tucked the photo into the sparkly clutch hanging in the closet with her Zac Posen gown.
I can’t back out, because I’m here for you.
***
At 2 p.m., Angie took a last look at herself before heading downstairs, where Candace would be arriving in a limo to take them to the ceremony. She turned to her left, then her right, looking over her shoulder each time to check how the creamy, gossamer dress hung on her frame. It was offset by ruby lipstick, a gold clutch, a pair of matching heels, and a shimmering Art Deco–inspired barrette that was clipped into one side of her satiny, newly lightened waves. Jennifer, the stylist, had secured the loan from Tiffany of a simple but striking opal and diamond pendant with matching earrings. Even with the modern dress, the look was vintage Hollywood and, Angie had to admit, she looked good, better than she thought she would.
She squinted in the bathroom mirror to see if she could blur her image and picture Scarlett instead. They had the same wide-set gray eyes flecked with gold and, if Angie were taller and more athletic with darker hair, then, yes, she would resemble a slighter version of the dazzling Scarlett Norris.
She still felt a little shaky but there was nothing left to do but double-check the clutch, which, along with a lipstick, credit card, and driver’s license, held the good luck photo, a vial of lavender essential oil, her phone, and the brief acceptance speech. That’s it, then. Her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you picked up.” Her mother’s voice caught her off guard. They’d only had a brief chat since Angie had arrived in LA. Ellen couldn’t talk unless she was away from Gerry, who had refused to speak to Angie when he’d heard she was going to the Oscars.
“I’m just heading out, Mom.”
“I don’t want to hold you up, dear, but do you think you could snap a quick selfie for me? I’d love to see how you look and, well, to be honest, I don’t know if I have the strength to watch the ceremony. Plus, your father—”
“It’s all right.” Angie held her phone up to snap a few different angles that she quickly attached to a message. A few seconds passed, and then she heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ellen gasped. “You look absolutely divine. Just beautiful.” She seemed overwhelmed by emotion. “I just wanted to wish you luck.” She paused. “I’m glad you’re there, Angela. And Scarlett is, too. I know it. I see a lot of her in you, you know, the way you look tonight. Just beautiful.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Angie swallowed hard. Keep it together. The night hasn’t even started yet.
“You’ll call and tell us all about it?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom. I promise.”
Her mother’s words echoed in her head as she rode the elevator down to the lobby and strode out the hotel entrance, where Candace stood in a shimmery mauve slip dress on the curb near a parked limo.
I’m Scarlett Norris’s sister. I’ve got this.
“Well, well, look at you, all old-school glamour,” Candace gushed. “It looks great!”
It looks great, not you look great. But Angie realized the phrasing made sense and was, in fact, oddly comforting. She wasn’t herself as much as a beautifully packaged product designed to generate great media coverage. I’m here to do a job. That’s it. Nothing to worry about.
The limo wound its way to the Dolby Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, and Candace kept up a lively chatter the entire way, briefing Angie again on what to expect and how to act. Angie listened, but kept her mantras looping in her mind to ground her. She’d never been in a limousine so large or so luxurious. There was practically a chasm between her and Candace. And she hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the driver. Colorful, lushly-scented arrangements of lilies and lilacs populated the interior, and in the center sat a bar stocked with liquor so high end Angie hadn’t heard of most of the brands. She watched as Candace cracked a bottle of champagne and poured them both flutes.
“I can’t drink that right now. I’m too nervous. Do you have any mineral water?” Angie asked.
Candace looked like she was trying hard not to roll her eyes. “Of course. Just remember, the most important thing is to relax and be confident.”
Angie nodded.
The traffic through Hollywood was snarled and Angie could see that Hollywood Boulevard was closed off to regular traffic. Once they got close, and the limo driver stopped at various checkpoints to confirm their validity by Academy personnel, Angie’s breathing started to become rapid and she became aware of the light perspiration beading on her perfectly made-up forehead. She wished they’d been able to just pull right up to the theater so she could hop out, pop into the Dolby, accept the statue, and fly home. The extended anticipation was torture.
Finally, the driver got in a queue behind other limousines. Angie peered through the tinted windows but could see nothing of note. Somehow that added to her anxiety.
When their car arrived at the front of the line, Candace gestured for Angie to put on a bright smile. It felt silly, but she did it. And then she sat there, frozen. When an attendant opened the door, she could see clusters of celebrities winding their way along the red carpet. Extravagant dresses, stunning jewelry. She even clocked a woman in top hat and tails.
Candace stepped out and gave the attendant their credentials then looked back to Angie. “It’s time.”
Right.
Angie reluctantly took Candace’s outstretched hand and climbed out. Here we go, Scar.
The attendant closed the door and the limo started back into traffic as another took its place. There were so many people, celebrities, journalists, photographers, even fans on bleachers across the street. The lights were blinding, and warm. Candace took her elbow and led her to the first bank of reporters, who all called her name. They knew who she was. That snapped her out of her stupor. She gave what she hoped was a dazzling smile but feared it actually looked manic.
“Angela, over here!” a photographer shouted.
“Angela, do you think Scarlett will win tonight?”
Angie glanced in the general direction of the question. She had no idea who’d asked it.
“Angela, can you turn a little this way, toward the theater?”
Angie stood and faced the cameras as calmly as possible, answering questions, trying to sound gracious. The reporters seemed genuine and that helped.
Finally, Candace took her by the elbow again, leading her farther down the red carpet. “Now we’ve got the TV people. They don’t need a lot, just a few words talking up Scarlett. You’re kinda pretty, so don’t hide it. I’m taking you to a stand-up with E! first. Don’t forget to smile with your eyes.”
With my . . . ? “Right.” Angie fingered the photo she’d secreted in her clutch.
The pre-show interviews went by in a blur. She was too nervous to focus on any of the famous faces around her. Angie was courteous and tried to smile. With her eyes. It helped that most of the reporters read from the same script: “So sorry about Scarlett. Who are you wearing?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are here with Angela Norris, the sister of Scarlett Norris, one of Hollywood’s most glamorous stars who tragically took her own life last year,” one reporter intoned with too much solemnity. “Miss Norris, why did you feel compelled to come to the awards this year?”
“I’m here to represent my family and Scarlett, who loved acting and making movies,” Angie recited gamely.
“You certainly look like a natural here on the red carpet,” another said. “Who are you wearing?”
“Zac Posen.” She thought about Scott’s T.J. Maxx quip and smiled slightly, which helped her relax. “The jewelry is from Tiffany.”
“So are we having a good time yet, Angie?” another reporter queried, apparently going off-script.
Angie was proud that she was able to answer off the cuff, despite it being such an obvious question. “I wish Scarlett were here instead. But I’m glad I could be here.”
And so it went for what seemed an eternity. She kept hearing the same questions and repeating the same answers, trying to appear relaxed but interested and also to remember to smile. With her eyes.
When the interviews were done, Candace guided Angie into an open-air foyer of sorts. Stores on either side flanked a wide staircase made of gold- and ruby-colored steps, glittering like Dorothy’s slippers. Columns on either side had plaques that bore the title and year of each Best Picture–winning film.
Angie gasped. It looked positively grand.
“We’re in a mall,” Candace quipped. “The Oscars are held in a mall.”
“But what a mall,” Angie breathed.
Ascending the stairs with the rest of the crowd, gowns rustling, jewelry clinking, perfume trailing . . . Angie couldn’t help gawking. There was the plaque for Out of Africa, 1986. Oliver!, 1968. From Here to Eternity, 1953. The Best Years of Our Lives, 1946. Gone With the Wind, 1939.
Angie wasn’t the biggest movie fan, but she knew some of the classics. Just seeing plaques on the Dolby walls seemed the epitome of Hollywood glamour to her. And then there were the stars. She tried not to stare at Tom Hanks, Angelina Jolie, Denzel Washington, Emma Stone, and others she thought she should know but couldn’t quite place.
And then they got to the top of the stairs where the crowd was funneled toward a bank of glass doors. Angie felt her breathing become erratic. So many people. Too close together. And there was last year’s Best Actor winner, chatting jovially with his companion like he was chatting over a cup of coffee.
Angie had to look away, down, to her hands, anywhere but at the crowd.
They slowly, slowly, too slowly advanced to the doors, slowed because of the need for tickets, ID, metal detecting. When they finally got to the attendants, Candace had their tickets in hand, ready to go, a pro. Angie pulled out her ID and again had to look down at her hands to calm herself as she walked through the metal detector, literally heaving a sigh of relief she didn’t set it off. She looked up to find Steven Spielberg giving her a small smile of understanding. Whoa.
Inside the expansive lobby, a sweeping staircase led to a second level, framed images of Oscar moments lining its walls, the entire interior done in tasteful golds, beiges, and whites. Candace led her to the far end where the circular bar was mobbed with attendees all dressed in tuxes and beautiful gowns of all colors. The energy in the air was palpable. It almost matched Angie’s anxiety so that she felt a bit of a high, riding its crest without fear for a few moments.
The Catapult nominees were seated on the first level, close to the stage, so Candace and Angie made their way toward the entrance back by the bar. When they stepped into the theater, Angie caught her breath. She had never felt like a princess before, but in that moment, she truly felt like Cinderella attending Prince Charming’s ball; the dressers and stylists were the singing mice and birds who had transformed her, Candace her Fairy Godmother. She supposed that made the Oscar the glass slipper. And she felt a ripple of apprehension at the idea of whether she’d be taking it home or not.
Several tiered balconies lined both sides of the theater, which had been decorated in gold and purple, that year’s theme. An enormous golden arch rose above the curtain with two superhuman-sized Oscars flanking the stage, overseeing the proceedings with silent solemnity. The event had the air of a royal coronation.
And as Candace homed in on their seats, Angie heard an outburst of laughter and turned to see a group coming down the aisle, led by Charles Weaver himself. While he was no Prince Charming, she couldn’t help but be starstruck by his presence. He was taller than she had expected, and his bearing, his comportment, made him loom large. People turned and whispered, some pointed, actors and directors and producers alike. Charles was a star among stars. And he knew it.
He and his companions made their way to seats directly in front of Angie. He nodded at Candace as they got situated. Angie finally sat down, and Candace, seated beside her, clutched her arm. “I’ll introduce you to Charles and the others after. Right now just focus on enjoying yourself. Breathe, recite mantras, perform Kegels, whatever you need to relax. We’ve got hours before Best Actress.”
Then the lights dimmed, and Angie caught herself clasping and unclasping her hands, unable to avoid her nervous habit in this high-anxiety situation. Attempting to remain in the moment, not in the moments to come, she focused on a woman two rows up and off to the right. She recognized her immediately. Mirabel de Nova, the Spanish actress, and Scarlett’s main competition if the pundits were to be believed. She was considered to be one of the most glamorous and beautiful women to ever grace the silver screen. Hard as it was for Angie to believe, she was even more jaw-dropping in real life. She had such lustrous hair, it shone in the overhead lights. When the actress turned to address someone in the row behind her, Angie could see how her black eyes glittered, bright and alive. Her smile was warm and inviting, her pillowy lips painted a dark burgundy that matched her elegant gown.
Angie continued to gaze at the movie star, mesmerized by her presence, and that helped ground her through what felt like an interminable amount of time. She’d have loved to be watching from the comfort of her sofa, Brontë purring on her lap. Finally Candace touched her arm as they went to a commercial break. “You heard that, right? We’re just about there.”
Angie hadn’t. She tore her eyes from the garnet earrings dangling from Mirabel’s delicate ears. “What?”
“The In Memoriam segment is on deck. You going to be okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be okay. Wait. Do I have to do something?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what to do, and when.”
That didn’t comfort Angie one bit, but she couldn’t bring herself to press Candace. Somehow that seemed more daunting than just awaiting the blade of the guillotine she could feel glinting above her. Her heart pounded and even focusing on Mirabel de Nova didn’t calm her. Breathe in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
The commercial break lasted forever, giving her too much time to create an escape plan in her head. She knew there were seat fillers who took the spots of attendees who stepped out so that it looked like a full crowd no matter what to the viewers at home. Her absence would barely be noted. She could flee. She could excuse-me-pardon-me her way out of the row. She could Uber back to the hotel. Fuck the hotel. She could Uber back to LAX. Fuck, she could Uber all the way back to Queens.
And then a lovely country star took the stage. Angie knew who she was, knew her name, even knew one of her songs, but at that moment she was a blank standing in a spotlight singing a glop of a ballad as a montage recognizing film industry titans who had passed the previous year flashed on screens behind and around.
Scarlett was the last to be projected on the big screen, prompting sustained applause. Angie locked in on her face. You were so beautiful. Keep breathing. She was stunned by the reaction. Scarlett had been working in the industry for years but had just broken through in a big way with Catapult. She clearly had cultivated good will on her way up the ladder. Angie’s terror abated a bit.
Until Candace leaned in and whispered, “Now . . . get up.”
“What?” Oh, my God. “Why?”
“Stand up and acknowledge everyone. Smile, take it in, be gracious. Do it.”
Mortified, a small frozen smile on her lips, Angie rose to her feet and tentatively looked behind her, then to her left, and then her right. The rapturous response from the audience, people she recognized, some she’d seen in movies literally her entire life, gave her an inch of confidence and she stood a bit straighter. “Thank you,” she said softly, so softly she could barely hear herself but she imagined everyone read it on her lips, every movie fan around the world sitting in front of millions of TV and computer screens.
And that was when she caught sight of Mirabel de Nova, turned back in her seat, applauding, her eyes glassy with tears. She blew Angie a kiss, a genuine and touching gesture. Angie gave her a nod of acknowledgement.
And then, just like that, the song was over, the segment was over, the moment was over.
Angie took her seat again and was shaken back to reality when the presenter boomed, “And now, our nominees for Best Actress.”
“Here we go,” Candace whispered.
As last year’s Best Actor winner took the stage, Angie pulled the short speech out of her clutch. She felt anxious but not unhappy. It was an odd, unfamiliar feeling but one she was grateful for.
She focused like a laser on the movie star at the microphone, trying to center herself around his voice. His words. A ripple of a thrill coursed through her when Mirabel’s name was announced as the second nominee.
And then Scarlett’s.
Angie couldn’t tell for sure, but she seemed to get the most robust response from the audience.
The actor didn’t even hesitate to reveal the winner. He was opening the envelope as he said, “And the Oscar goes to,” and then he pulled the card out with a flourish, proclaiming, “Scarlett Norris!”
The crowd roared, rising to its feet as one, applauding and cheering. An enormous picture of Scarlett flashed on the screen behind the stage. Everyone in the row in front of Angie—the Catapult cast, nominees, and DreamWeaver execs—all turned to her. And there was Charles Weaver himself, a grin on his face, so wide he was beaming. At her.
She was taken by his gaze, like the sun was shining on her.
And then she remembered. She had to take to the stage.
Amid the applause and cheering, she managed to hand Candace her little gold purse and slip out of her row. She ascended the stairs, and accepted the statuette, but it was a blur. And then, she was standing at the podium. The audience sat down and became quiet. Even though the intense lights were in her eyes, she could feel everyone in the audience regarding her, everything heightened into such sharp precision it almost hurt.
But she knew what she had to do. For Scarlett.
“Thank you, thank you so much, everyone.” She glanced down at the paper she was clutching then returned her gaze to the cavernous space and began to recite the words she knew by heart. “I’m Angela Norris, Scarlett’s sister, and I’d like to thank everyone on behalf of both her and our family.” The words sounded stilted and not at all right.
She took a breath, two, three, four.
Tell them about Scarlett. Just tell them truth.
“As you know, Scarlett died last year.” Her voice sounded hoarse and unsure. She cleared her throat and continued, clearer and louder. “But she didn’t just die. She died by her own hand. And the thing is, none of us realized what kind of pain she was in. She always seemed so strong. She was a wonderful, happy girl growing up. We’d dress up in our mother’s old clothes and pretend we were a famous singing duo. We’d pick berries and chase fireflies in summer like every kid on Long Island. Scarlett baked cookies for her friends’ birthdays. Once for Halloween, she dyed my hair black because we thought that would make me look scarier in my witch costume, which didn’t make our parents very happy.”
The crowd laughed lightly.
“What I really want to say is, Scarlett always came through for me. She looked out for me, was my big sister, and I’ll always love her.” Her voice cracked and so she paused. “But she was hurting. And no one knew. And I know what that is, because I’ve struggled my entire life. To feel good enough. To find the strength to just get through a day. To wake up and try to feel like life is worth living. But I’ve made it through so far. One step at a time. So for Scarlett to . . .”
The theater was filled with a silence that boomed back at her.
She took in a deep breath.
“For Scarlett to do what she did . . . Well, it was shocking. I mean, if she can’t do it . . . How can I? But in some ways her loss has steeled me. It got me here. Out of my comfort zone. Way out of my comfort zone.” Angie gave a little laugh and the audience was right there with her. “I am doing this for my sister. And I want everyone out there who is struggling to know that you’re not alone. It’s cliché, but it’s true. Other people are struggling, too. You just might not know how. So when you’re working so hard to just get through the day, I hope you can find some solace in the fact that many of us are doing the same.
Scarlett would have been so proud of this. Thank you.” She lifted the gold statue aloft with both hands.
The theater was dead quiet for a beat. Then came an eruption of applause so strong and sustained it startled her. But she stood firmly on the stage, looking out into the blinding lights, and basked in the adulation because she knew it wasn’t for her, it was for Scarlett.