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Starr-struck
Author’s Notes: This is a complete work of fiction any real-life names mentioned by me will not be playing a major role in this story. If any of the events or main characters in thisstory has any resemblance to real-life events or people, this is purely by coincidence. Please do not take this story without my permission. I am merely a lowly fourteen-year-old with no job, no boyfriend (not that I’m looking, either), and no pizza. Please pity me.
Prologue: Has-Been- Starr -
Daddy never wanted me to get caught up in all the Hollywood business.
I suppose that’s why he left Mama when I was only six-year-old – to protect me from all the paparazzi and controversy that inevitably came with his role as big screen director. That, and he’d gotten rising star Lorelei Donovan pregnant when she was only nineteen. So, at the age of six I’d already had a world-renowned director for a father, and a future all-time movie star for a stepmother (albeit, one that was only twelve years and four months older than me.)
Mama didn’t care. She was well into rehabilitation centers and substance abuse counseling by then. And so, Daddy eventually had had to welcome me into the fold of flashing lights and red carpets, and I’d ditched boring humdrum Sarah Elker (Mama’s last name) to become a Matheis once more.
With my new family came clothing advertisements and small roles as somebody’s cute, lovable daughter. I’d only had to say ‘I think he’s right for you, Mommy’ and similar variations five times on the big screen, before my name began to appear in magazines all over the world, accompanied by headlines like: ‘Seven-Year-Old Starr Matheis – Following In Daddy’s Footsteps?’ and ‘The Child Nobody Wanted Becomes The Child Everybody Wants To Be.’
Kind of gives an impressionable child a major boost to the ego, don’t you think?
By the time I was eight I’d had my own line of clothing, featuring cute pink tees and denim miniskirts. By ten I’d appeared as a back-up dancer for my then-idol Britney Spears. By twelve I’d starred along such major stars as Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon.
So I was America’s Child Sweetheart – lovable and cute with the big blue eyes and wide dimples – or, at least until I was no longer young enough to pull off denim coveralls and high pigtails kept up by pale-coloured ribbons. That is, until I turned fourteen.
And everything went down the shithole from there.
I tried movies where I went on vacation and found myself falling in love with ‘the guy of my dreams,’ but those were much better suited to the likes of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen and pretty soon I’d stopped getting offers for that sort of thing. Besides, there was no way I could compete with two of them!
After I’d lost my virginity to my tutor and flashed my assets at a fellow teen-celebrity’s birthday bash, which I don’t even remember doing – although that might be due to the god-knows-how-many glasses of vodka I’d consumed that night - my reputation along with my popularity began to slide.
So, ten years after my big break I am now, and I quote, ‘Starr Matheis – Yesterday’s News.’
“I don’t believe this!” I fume, slamming today’s copy of ‘Celebrity Daily’ on the table furiously. I glare around the table, injecting as much venom into my gaze as possible, and I gain some satisfaction – however small – as Jack Winton (my arrogant bastard of an agent) and Mariah Denis (sickly-saccharine publicist to boot) visibly wince and glance at each other nervously.
“Who does this…this Janet Croydon think she is?” I’m so furious that furious doesn’t even begin to describe the beyond furious-ness that I’m currently feeling. I pick up the paper again and look back over the small column about me (as if all the media-slamming isn’t enough, now I’m only worth a small column?!), as if rereading the words might morph them into overwhelming praise or something of the sort.
Damn. No chance.
“Seventeen-year-old Starr Matheis has lived off Daddy’s name long enough,” I read out loud. “After the failure of her last three movies - ” I roll my eyes. Please, I can be hardly to blame “ – due to the lack of conviction in her performance, little Starr is a star no more. She was easily tolerated at the wee age of two - “ Tolerated? Honey, I was fucking worshipped. “ - but at sixteen, the young has-been needs to learn how to act before her light fades out. The question is, does she have enough talent to do so?”
There’s a split second of silence as I struggle to maintain a cool, collected facade. control...
“ Enough talent to do so!” I shriek. “What that little twerp knows about talent I can fit on the palm of my hand! Passing judgment on me like some big shot critic. Ha,” I scoff. “If it were Tommy Newborn, it might have been different. Janet Croydon is just some kid off the streets making trouble. Ten fucking years in the industry, I’ve had. How dare she? How dare she?”
Obviously, she’d dared, and now she was going to pay. I’d show that good-for-nothing, trouble-making piece of shit that I, Starr Matheis, hadn’t been The Child Prodigy for nothing.
“What the hell are you two waiting for?” I snap, sending my bowl of grapefruit to the tiles below, as I make a vicious gesture to the door. “Jack, go fucking scope out some openings for me – preferably a low-budget film directed by some out-of-town unheard-of hick. I’ll make it fucking brilliant and then we’ll see.” He’s already halfway to the door, cell phone glued to his ear, talking shit and business like it comes naturally oozing out of his arse. Mariah hurries after him, eager to avoid my wrath.
Damn them and their incompetence.
- Jensen -
“Hey, buddy,” Doug leans over the counter and snickers to himself, as if he’s come up with the funniest fucking joke of all time. “Go up to that hot little piece of work over there and get her to go out with you, and your coffee’s on the house.” He winks at me. “You know, since you’re such a hot-shot model and everything.”
Normally, I wouldn’t mind his good-humoured jibes, - I mean, the guy’s only nineteen and he knows he’s gonna spend his whole life making coffee for people for Pete’s sake - but after being rejected by three underwear companies in the span of one morning, I’m in no mood. The free coffee’s tempting, though. In all the years of our friendship, ever since I moved to L.A three years ago, he’s never offered me a free coffee, not once. Stingy fucker.
I roll my eyes. “Buddy, you’re a shithead, you know that?” But he knows he’s got me cornered. I back out now, and I’m a total pussy.
So I sweep my dark hair out of my eyes and head on over to the average-looking high school brat and her friends in the corner. They’ve got nothing on all the stars I’ve mingled with. Or used to mingle with, I correct myself. Ever since Italian toy boy Franco Mallone hit the magazine spreads at the beginning of January and shoved me out of the picture, I’ve been begging for shoots where they used to hire me on the spot.
“Hey,” I say, smooth and suave, as I sidle up to the seventeen-year-old blonde. She kind of reminds me of that has-been Starr Matheis, except this one’s a real blonde and she’s not wearing anything low-cut or revealing, either. She takes her time looking up at me from her menu, and when she does I’m fazed by the apparent lack of recognition or interest in the depths of her blue eyes.
“Sorry,” she drawls. “I’ve got a boyfriend.” Then, to my chagrin, she returns to her menu as if that has settled everything. Like I'm not even are snickers all around the table, and a petite brunette smiles kindly at me, despite her laughter a moment before.
“Aw, don’t take it too harsh, hun. She gets this kind of attention all the time.”
“Even from Jensen Thatcher?” I ask, even though I already know, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut, thatit’s a lost cause. There are blank looks all round.
“Who?”
Then there’s a gasp, and I turn back to the blonde in relief. Finally. Recognition. “Oh my God,” she squeals. “Aren’t you one of the Brady Bunch kids?”
Defeated, I turn back to the counter where Doug’s killing himself, laughing. “She thought you were one of the Brady Bunch kids?” he asks, in disbelief. “They’re like…old.”
“I hope you choke on your laughter,” I mutter darkly, shooting him a scowl. “Last year I had people like her all over me, you know.”
Bless him, the guy actually knows when to stop, because he wipes the counter down and hands me a steaming hot coffee, all black, three teaspoons of sugar – just the way I like it. “On the house,” he tells me, sympathetically. “You know,” he adds as an afterthought. “Models don’t really get that much fame anyway. One month they’re The Shit. And the next they’re eating shit. You’re lucky you lasted a whole year.”
I don’t know whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. “Are you going somewhere with this?”
“Movies, Jensen,” he says triumphantly. “The next logical step is movies. By the way what exactly did the girl say? I was too busy serving table 15.” He cocks an eyebrow at me and I grimace. My ego may as well be roasted on a spit and turned slowly, ever so slowly.
“She, uhhh, she’s a lesbian,” I lie. “Wouldn’t have worked.”
Doug’s grin morphs into a scowl and he throws a napkin at my head. “That’s my girlfriend, dickhead. You fucking loser.”
Oops.
Wait. Some girl chose coffee-making Doug over me, last year’s most-sought-after Calvin Klein guy? Unfuckingbelievable. Me, the It Guy, and him, the 'Your-Coffee-Will-Be-Ready-In-A-Bit' guy and she chooses him.
I’ve got to get my career back on track. “So Doug,” I say casually. “Do you know anybody who’s hiring a model-turned-actor?”
¤ - ¤ - ¤ - ¤
And this is where we end the prologue. Ahhh, and yes, I know I haven’t finished A Cliché Waiting To Happen, or Under False Impressions yet. I’ll have Chapter 9 of Cliché up during the week. No school for two weeks! w00t!
So anyway, if you’d kindly leave a review... or something, be my guest.
‘Til next update!
