Page 1 of Jane Deyre

CHAPTER 1

Jane

Bus number three since I left my house over an hour ago. One long connection after another. Each one slicing through a thick blanket of fog. The packed 217 from Culver City to Hollywood is as hot as it is humiliating. Standing room only. Passengers packed in like sardines. Halfway to my destination, I give up my seat for a pregnant woman. Nice me. (No one else offered!) Now standing and clinging to a metal pull with my blue-gloved hand, I endure the strange looks of fellow commuters. Dressed in a Smurfette costume from head to toe, I must look like a giant plush toy. Or some freak.

I’m sweltering. Nausea swells in my chest, and beneath my costume, sweat beads cluster on my skin. A claustrophobic, suffocating feeling comes over me. Bile rises to my throat. On the verge of hurling, I hop off the bus before it gets to my stop. A blast of heat assaults me. Once the fog lifts, it’s going to be another scorcher in Tinseltown. With the temperature predicted to rise close to one hundred. Maybe setting record highs.

I’m going to melt in this ridiculous, oppressive costume. Maybe get heatstroke and pass out. The non-breathable synthetic fabric is moreover padded. In cartoon land, the Smurfs are cute little blue people, but I look and feel like an ugly big blue monster—twice my actual size. The getup includes a detachable polyfoam headpiece that weighs a ton and makes it hard to breathe. Oh, and let’s not forget the white rubber shoes that cover my feet. And are killing me! Besides my blister-fest, I’m sweating between my toes. And I’m going to have to be on my feet all day.

Only three days at this job and I already dread it. Hate it with a passion, but I have no choice. Making ends meet does that to you. I’m three weeks behind on my rent and facing eviction.

I’ve read a lot of self-help books. Telling me I’m a master of my destiny. To do positive thinking, create vision boards, and ask the universe to fulfill my desires. I’ve done all that stuff. Being the Smurfette has never been in my thoughts or dreams. Or anywhere on my vision board, which is filled with photos of famous actresses, Hollywood mansions, dazzling gowns, Golden Globes, and Oscars. Sometimes I have to wonder if these preachy books are all full of shit, the authors clever manipulators, preying on naïve, desperate people like yours truly and cashing in on bestseller lists. I’ve held on to my vision board with the slimmest sliver of hope. Anyone can win the lottery, right?

With the poor visibility and awkwardness of my costume, I walk slowly. And cautiously. As if I’m running a marathon, I feel perspiration gather under my armpits and drip down my spine. Not only is it hot and foggy, it’s humid. The air thick. This day’s already bad and it’s only going to get worse, way worse, when summertime tourists cluster around Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, wanting to take a picture with me. A dollar for a photo with the blue Smurfette. Children with runny noses and grubby hands love to hug me, and dirty old men, who must have some fetish with the blue cartoon character, lift my white tunic and pinch me. You should see all the black-and-blue marks on my butt. Why couldn’t I get to be Wonder Woman? No one messes with her. And I bet she makes a lot more money than me.Grr!

I repeat, reader: I hate this job. But maybe, just maybe I’ll be discovered. Despite going nowhere, I’ve held on to my dream. Being a courtroom extra onJudge Judywould be a step up from being the Smurfette. One step closer.

So early in the morning, this residential section of Hollywood Boulevard is deserted. Except about twenty feet ahead of me, I make out a small female form. A woman dressed in a jewel-toned, ankle-length caftan and a shimmering magenta turban. I laugh to myself. She must be a Madame Tussaud impersonator, the French sculptress who founded the eponymous museum. A museum that features the wax likenesses of Hollywood icons, fromBreakfast at Tiffany’sAudrey Hepburn to my idol, Edwina Rochester, wearing the iconic red dress she wore inMiracle in the Rain. A museum that will never honor me at the rate my career is going. Any chance of ever having a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame next to legendary Edwina Rochester’s is fading too. Okay, a girl can dream... but still.

My eyes stay on the slight woman ahead of me. Her gait is brisk, almost bouncy, but suddenly she teeters. Before I can blink, she’s taking a tumble and falling onto the pavement. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear her shriek. I break into a sprint. I don’t think the Smurfette’s ever run in her life.

I reach her in no time. She’s in a state of panic, struggling to lift herself up.

I help her to her feet, feeling her shaky, bony frame beneath the brocade fabric, and ask if she’s okay. Not responding, she adjusts the oversized sunglasses that mask most of her small face and points ahead of her. Her sultry voice all breathy. “My precious Pee-lote! Please save my Peelote!!”

I follow her gaze and scampering ahead of us at lightning speed is a big fluffy white cat that blends in with the fog, his or her red leash trailing behind it. The animal is heading into the trafficked intersection of La Brea and Hollywood. With all the muscle power I can muster (seriously, I deserve to be Wonder Woman!), I whip down the street in my clunky rubber clogs and catch up to the feline beauty. Crouching and out of breath, I snag the cat by its rhinestone-studded leash. Just in time before a car hits it. Questions swish in my head. People walk their cats? Wear sunglasses in the fog? I don’t know. This is Hollywood. Everything is possible.

“Gotcha!” The cat lets out a screeching meow. Turning toward me, he arches. His long hair stands on edge like porcupine quills and he extends his razor-sharp retractable claws. He looks terrified by me. I can’t blame him. I look scary. For the first time, I’m thankful for my costume. It’s protective gear. Armor.

“C’mon, Peelote,” I coax, noticing the cat’s ID is spelled Pilote. French for “pilot.” “Let’s go back to Mama.” After a bit of stubbornness, Pilote acquiesces. A relieved, overjoyed Madame Tussaud meets us halfway, her sunglasses lifted onto her jeweled turban. For the first time, I can see her face in full. It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Her skin is taut, her features fine with enviable cheekbones, full ruby-red lips, and thin arched eyebrows. What’s extraordinary are her deep-set eyes. Their color. Amethysts that match the exquisite gem-set brooch pinned to her turban. With her bony, purple-veined hand, she takes the leash from me.

“Bad boy, Pilote,” she scolds, the accent on the second syllable. Her voice is deep and throaty, slightly tremulous, like she’s drunk and smoked her whole life. She gazes up at me. There’s something mesmerizing about her that sucks you in with those violet eyes. Something familiar.

“He’s always taking off. Hence his name, Pilote. I found him in Paris at the flea market when he flew out a window and crash-landed at my feet.”

“That’s a perfect name for him.” I now know he’s male. Too bad his owner can’t see the smile beneath my costume.

“He’s my prized possession. I must reward you.”

“No worries,” I say. “I’ve got to run. Or I’ll be late for my job.”

She bats her violet eyes and I notice how thick and long her eyelashes are. They almost look fake. “And what, my dear, might that be?”

“Um, uh, I’m a street performer. I take photos on Hollywood Boulevard with tourists.”And make stupid windshield wiper arms to grab their attention.

She gives me a once-over, eyeing my costume from head to toe. I can visualize her mental eye roll.

“You poor thing. How on earth do you see and breathe...” She scrunches her brows. “In that frightening outfit?”

I tell her the eyes, nose, and mouth have hidden screens that enable me to do both. I don’t mention it’s really uncomfortable.

“Well, I certainly hope they pay you a lot of money for what you have to put up with.”

“Actually, I make my money on tips from people who take photos with me.”

“Not to sound gauche, how much do you make?”

“So far on a good day, fifty bucks.”Barely.

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