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Lizzie mulls this around, her lips pooched out as she thinks before saying, “But he wants you to be in movie. Isn't that weird?”
It’s hard to tell when she’s just riling me up and when she’s being serious, but this seems to be one of the latter instances.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, wishing I could believe my own words. Because the fact is that with every mile we drive on the highway following behind Cory, I worry more and more that I’m making the worst decision of my life. Not only am I risking our financial security, I’m putting my pride up on the block. I’ve never acted, and it’s not like Cory’s movies are independent little things that get screened at maybe three theaters. With Cory’s name behind it, this is destined to be an international blockbuster. So how can I possibly live up to so much hype?
At the airport, I park my Jeep in long-term parking. I actually own it outright, and while it’s old and rusted along the bottommost edges, it’s mine. So after patting its hood affectionately, I pay for three months’ worth of parking in advance. Minutes later we’re in the terminal, thousands of people surging around us, announcements calling out gate numbers and late passengers’ names, screens displaying the delays and cancellations.
“You ready to fly, kiddo?” Cory asks Lizzie. She nods exuberantly, her snaggle-toothed grin wide and wild. “What about you, Hot Stuff? Ready to head out west? Like that mouse movie you used to be so obsessed about. What was it called? With the mouse that played violin?”
“Fievel,” I say the word robotically, because I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing over Cory’s shoulder.
Something’s happening just thirty feet away. A wave of shrieks and waves, of camera flashes and friends calling out for their compatriots to check something out. Even when I catch a glimpse of the person at the epicenter of this storm, it takes at least ten more seconds for my brain to process who is actually approaching us, her flats slapping the tiled floor, her entourage sprinting to keep up with half a dozen suitcases between them.
“Is that—?”
“Sarah!” Cory finishes my thought as this gorgeous woman wraps him in a tender hug. She even places a kiss on each of his cheeks before pulling away. “What on earth are you doing here? Last I heard you were between films, chilling at your chalet. I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”
“I was,” she says in her characteristic accent that falls somewhere between Korean and French, resulting in an absolutely mesmerizing melody. “I was just outside trying some of that famous southern barbecue I had heard so much about. Our plane was rerouted, you see. Something about a storm. And what a perfect storm it is to place me in your company sooner than expected.”
Cory then wheels back around on me. “I have to introduce you two! Augusta, this is Sarah Park. Sarah, this is Augusta. She’s the new talent I was telling you about. And this is Lizzie, her daughter.”
I’m certain I’m the only one who notices the microscopic pause in his speech before declaring Lizzie my daughter and not his. But I notice it, and I make a note of it.
Sarah does not. What she does is immediately envelop me in the same hug and cheek kisses Cory received.
“It seems I’m to be your best friend then.” She turns to Cory. “That is what we agreed upon, isn't it? You haven't gone and filled my hole, have you?” My eyebrows raise at this, and Sarah laughs. She slaps her mouth cutely and says, “This tongue of mine. Of course, I meant ‘role’, not ‘hole’. Why would Cory be filling holes?” She turns to me. “You must forgive me. English is my third language.”
Sarah Park.
It’s a name that you would gasp at a friend for not knowing. There are days that I see her face more than mine—plastered on billboards, the sides of buses, in those advertisements on the web that you can’t skip. Sarah Park isn’t just a movie star; she’s currently the movie star.
I’ve never been one to throw myself at celebrities. I convinced myself in high school that one day I would be famous myself, so I took to looking at stars as my peers rather than the towering gods that they are. But Sarah Park is different. The only way to view her is as this unattainable celestial being, able to be observed but not touched.
The daughter of a Korean pop singer and a French fashion model, she’s been walking on a red carpet since the day she could put one foot in front of the other. By the time she was sixteen, she was already outshining both her parents. Now she’s at her peak, and she’s standing right in front of me, paying no mind to the crowd of fans that has gathered around us, their phones recording every word of our confrontation.
As friendly as I’ve heard she is in interviews and from second-hand reports on the web, I can’t help but feel put on the defensive. It’s not like Cory and I are in a relationship. But he is the father of my daughter. And an old friend. One who happens to have grown well away from his start as an ugly duckling. Still, I hate the thought of him filling her ‘hole’.
“This is to be your first time in front of the camera, am I right?” Sarah asks, her eyes full of a mesmerizing intensity.
“Not exactly, but it will be my first film.”
“Oh, you’ve acted in television roles then? I had no idea.”
“Not exactly,” I say, all too aware of the constant barrage of flash photography and phones recording what I’m sure will soon have millions of views on Youtube. “I do this history class for public access television.”
“A teacher! How lovely. So you get to sit around and read history books all day. What a luxurious life!”
Not exactly. But I don’t get a chance to clarify what my daily grind actually looks like because her attention has flitted over to Lizzie.
“And who is this exquisite creature? Why, you are the epitome of loveliness.” She kisses Lizzies cheeks, just as she did mine and Cory’s. Lizzie giggles at this.
“I’ve seen you in movies,” she says, but not in that star-struck way that some people worship idols. No, it’s matter-of-fact, as though the fact that Sarah Park appears on the TV is no more grand than the way her mother does. It’s a little thing, but my heart swells at this testament that I must be doing something right raising her.
“That is right,” Sarah responds with. “And your mummy and I are going to work in the next movie together.”
Lizzie nods at this, but there’s something else going on in that little noggin of hers. With kids, it’s impossible to predict what connections they’re making in conversations. Her next question is a perfect example of this.
“So, you’re going to go to Disneyland with us too, right?”
