“Animal Wafers in my Stew–”
I rolled my eyes slightly as I watched the picture show, leaning back against Margeret’s chest and popping a candy cigarette between my lips.
There was a distinct difference between the Shelly I’d met the day before and the Shelly on screen. The actress in my office had been adorable, certainly, but she’d had a certain dignity to her that distinguished the woman from the child her body resembled. Her outfit, though pink and cute, had been refined, professional.
On-screen Shelly, though? She’d fallen from a tree and hit every adorable branch on the way down. Her hair had curls whose flouncing ignored gravity, and her blush stood out even on the grainy film.
It wasn’t just the makeup that made her stand out, though: The dame had pipes. Three feet tall and singing her little youthlocked heart out, she somehow managed to blend the talent that came with decades of singing experience and a genuine youthful energy, never making her role seem artificial. She sounded perfect, and between her wardrobe and her fluid dancing, you’d never know there was a diaper nestled beneath her puffy bloomers if you didn’t know what to look for.
Even knowing her, having met her in person and seen her real self, I would’ve sworn that the girl on screen was just a precocious child with a prodigious singing voice.
It made me wonder what else an actress could lie about.
We’d hit a matinee screening. Margeret had come with me, posing as my mother so I could get free admission. I normally sat on her lap so I could see over the heads of anyone in front of us, but today the effort wasn’t really needed; the theater was practically empty. Still, a few inches of extra elevation afforded a better view.
I watched the film with a careful eye. Silly songs and dance performances weren’t much my speed, but I wanted to get into Shelly’s head, into the world she lived in.
Her costar wandered into the scene–Candice Wick, a woman in her early twenties who towered above her diminutive costar. They were playing cousins, I was reasonably sure, though these two had been paired off together in dozens of films over the years, and their relationship always felt like an afterthought. Twins, back in the early days when they’d looked the same age, then big sister and little sister, then adult and child siblings, as the age gap grew more and more pronounced.
They had chemistry on screen, the sort of familiar banter you’d expect from a double act who’d been working together for more than a decade. The whole piece was too syrupy for my taste–I had a sweet tooth, but Shelly’s films were pure anodyne, cotton candy celluloid. Not exactly my tempo, but I couldn’t deny the craftsmanship and acting chops on display.
And that smile–when Shelly flashed her grin to the camera, perfectly cutesy, innocent and adorable–I knew why she’d become the face of a media empire.
The film ended on an expected note–the poor orphan girl got adopted into her cousin’s family, the day was saved, the mayor got re-elected, everyone lived happily ever after. Margaret and I left the theater in the early afternoon, holding hands in case anyone started asking questions about our alleged ‘mother-son’ relationship.
“It’s about time to get to set,” I commented, checking my watch. “Mind dropping me off?”
Margeret nodded, still smiling at the end of the film. She held my hand a little tighter than was strictly necessary as we crossed the street to the car, another indication of her chipper attitude. I knew she didn’t think anything of it, but when Margeret got in one of her happy moods, she had a habit of mothering me a bit too much.
Trying to gently steer her back into a business mindset, I added, “You notice anything about that last film?”
“What?” she asked, glancing down at me as she opened the rear door of her car, helping me inside. The car was in my name, and strictly speaking I had a license, but it was easier to just let her drive–unless I felt like being pulled over a few times per drive so that a cop could ask why I’d taken daddy’s car for a joyride. “Oh, no, what was it? The film seemed perfectly sweet to me.”
“The film did, sure,” I replied. “It’s the audience–or the lack of one. The film came out this week, you’d expect more of a crowd.”
“It is a matinee,” she pointed out. “Lots of folks are at work.”
“Sure,” I said. “But still–we were the only two there, and we only went because we were being paid.”
“Mmmm,” Margaret said, starting up the Chrysler. I caught the skepticism in her tone–I’d said something only partly true. I reconsidered my summary. Just because the film was too cloying for me, didn’t mean it didn’t have an audience.
I shrugged. “Alright, well, I only went because I’m being paid.”
She nodded, and we puttered onto the road, right into the heart of Hollywood.
Within an hour, I was on set, standing beneath the hard gaze of a man who took his job far too seriously.
“Places,” the director snapped into his megaphone. “Places, people–I swear to god, if this is the best we’ve got, I’m going to go out and hire some actual seven year olds to take your spots.”
(He’s a real charmer,) I thought, though I put a little extra pep in my step as I moved into the desk chair that’d been assigned to me.
The director, Don Allan, glared over his megaphone at the eight of us, all ‘extras’ who’d been hired to fill out a classroom scene with Shelly. He was in his forties, with a combover that did little to hide his prominent bald spot and a constant glare on his expression, as though someone in the room had whispered an insult and he was trying to figure out who’d said it.
This was our third run through the blocking rehearsal so far, and I was beginning to worry that we’d never get out of the practice. I was only pretending to be an actor–yes, I’m aware of the irony–and I still needed to find time to ask a few questions.
“Alright,” Don Allan insisted. “Let’s do it again. Shelly’s going to raise her hand, and–listen–and then you’ll turn…and…look.”
The eight of us mimed looking over our shoulders to the back of the classroom set, our collective gaze falling onto an empty desk–Shelly was in makeup, and she didn’t need to be here for this part.
“No!” he snapped. “You’re not turning to watch a performance–you’re turning to see who asked the question! This is simple, people, what are you not understanding?” Tossing his megaphone to the side, he pinched the ridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. “I’m going to have a smoke. When I get back, I expect to see some goddamned whimsy in here.”
He stalked out. Only half the set looked convincing–he didn’t have to slam a door to leave, he just walked through the open space where the cameras would be placed when it came time to roll, past a table of snacks and out to the exterior door. That left me sitting inside half a room with seven extras who all knew Shelly better than I did.
“Is this typical behavior?” I asked under my breath, trying to match the cadence of a new actor looking for gossip. “I heard things were rough on Don Allan’s sets, but woof–this guy needs to unwind a couple degrees.”
The actors–my costars, really–were a couple seconds behind me in relaxing, waiting until after an audible slam echoed through the set, a door being closed with a firmly unnecessary amount of force.
One of the extras reached into his prop desk, taking out a pack of smokes and a strip of matches. Offering one to the woman next to him, he lit them both up, the pair of pint-size actors sharing the smoke break together.
“He gets pretty evil when we’re behind schedule and overbudget,” another extra prompted. I glanced back her way–she looked to be about eight, though she certainly didn’t sound it. She didn’t quite have the perpetual adorability of Shelly, a little too much world-weariness visible in her eyes, which is probably why she was filling a classroom desk rather than headlining. “Which, if you’re new here, that’s pretty much every day.”
I pursed my lips. Sitting back in my own desk, I put up my feet on the empty chair in front of me, mimicking the relaxed posture of the other extras. “You think that’s why Shelly’s trying to get on other films? Rumor has it, she’s trying to get in with some bigshot drama director.”
The man who’d taken out the smokes snorted. “The golden girl? No, she gets the princess treatment. Everyone knows where the checks are coming from–it might not be her name on the studio, but we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Chapel.”
Nodding along, I considered that. It tracked with what I knew, though it also painted a question mark on the director’s back. Who would benefit the most from Shelly’s inability to find other work? The studio that made bank off her name, of course.
The woman who’d been given a cigarette, one of the older-looking youthlocks in the room, stubbed out her Lucky Strike with about half of it left, tucking the remainder behind her ear and pushing to her feet. “I need to powder my nose,” she commented, though a slight lingering odor betrayed her euphemism a bit.
After a long beat, I asked, “You think Candor Taurus really wanted to hire her? I mean, that’s a role to kill for, if I–”
A loud scoff interrupted my question, and I turned to see Don walking onto set, a scowl on his face. “That’s a crock,” he snarled. “She’s not working for Candor Taurus, or anyone–our studio’s all she needs.”
I put up my hands defensively and shook my head. “Just asking about a rumor.”
“Rumors,” he spat, saying the word like a curse. “Where’s Barbara?”
“Went to change,” another extra supplied.
Don swore, then waved a hand at the whole group. “I can’t get you into better shape than this–go get into makeup, I want to be rolling in thirty minutes.”
Nobody had to tell these actors twice–in moments, the set emptied out like someone had yelled ‘Coppers’ at a speakeasy. I was the last one out, giving Don Allan a passing glance as I waddled towards the makeup rooms.
He looked tense, more so than he’d been before his smoke break. My comment about Shelly working for other studios had rattled him.
Sliding my gaze smoothly past the director, I waltzed through the rest of the studio, trying to look like I belonged. It was in some ways easier than normal–I didn’t look like a kid to the people around me, just another extra, and so I didn’t have any adults…
I didn’t have any non-youthlocks trying to get in my way.
Bobbing my head, I shook out the thoughts buzzing around in there and returned my focus to the job.
I took a second to inspect the mail cubby by the makeup rooms, but it didn’t offer much in the way of clues. A half dozen notes were set in labeled shelves, but there were no guards keeping an eye out to keep the messages private or to ensure the wrong person didn’t walk off with them. Had someone noticed a letter for Shelly sitting out in the open, there’d be nothing stopping them from swiping it before anyone was the wiser.
Walking through the door into the makeup room, I found myself blinking away at the sheer illumination in the place–every mirror had half a dozen lightbulbs around it, and there were more on the ceiling, with a few more mood lamps scattered about to boot. Makeup artists were apparently allergic to shadow, and my eyes watered a little as they adjusted to the stiflingly bright room.
Once my eyes had adjusted, I clambered up into one of the makeup chairs to await my turn. It was similar to the kind barbers used, with a foot pump at the base to raise and lower it and a swivel so the makeup artist could rotate her subjects around. A couple other extras had arrived before me and were in their own chairs–though, I noticed, only a couple had arrived. Most had apparently scattered to steal a quick break before they were required on set.
One makeup artist was assigned to us extras, applying thick layers of foundation that wouldn’t run from sweat or come off too easily while filming. Shelly had her own team, three technicians primping and polishing her appearance to a perfect shine, highlighting the contrast between her importance and our own. Sitting in the chair, she straddled the line between her reality and her persona–the miniature professional woman and the doe eyed darling tot.
The makeup team had her almost done, but it was missing something–the sparkle in her eyes, the energetic posture, the acting that turned her wardrobe from a costume into a character. Her outfit might have been On-Screen Shelly, but her mind still reflected the world-weary woman I knew lay beneath the clothing.
She made brief eye contact with me when I got in the chair, but didn’t give me so much as a nod of recognition, keeping our real relationship a secret. I was just another extra.
My feet dangled off the chair while I waited, pondering what I knew to pass the time. This job had left me plenty of time to think, but not much to think about so far, just a few loose motivations and a blank spot where my evidence should be.
That all changed as the door opened, and a skinny man in a slightly oversized suit came bustling in, a three foot poster folded awkwardly under his arm.
“Shelly!” he called, tripping over himself as he pulled one of the posters out. “I’ve got something to show you.”
I could tell by Shelly’s look that she knew this man well, and that she wasn’t pleased to see him. That pegged him as her manager, William Waters. As I saw the poster in his arms, I got an idea of why.
It was a painted version of Shelly’s likeness from behind, though with her head turned so that we could clearly see the precocious grin on her face. The real subject, though, was the disposable diaper hanging around her waist, sticking out with more poof than even the frilliest bloomers.
There was a slogan printed beneath: ‘Coddles - Protecting even the brightest smiles.’
He held it up for Shelly to see. “I just got out of a meeting with the marketing director at Beverly-Mark, they’re ready to start printing these in magazines and–”
Over the course of a second, I saw Shelly’s face flicker through all a dame’s most dangerous emotions–surprise, confusion, and then, finally, rage.
I was wrong. Her world-weary, professional act melted away in front of my eyes. Shelly’s true self came out, face contorting in anger, and then came the screaming.
...
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