I can’t control what they think. All I can control are the words on each page.
Dad brings me food. Gant reads everything I write, and corrects the errors. I don’t sleep much, because I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Awake, I can shut out the image of Sabrina seizing and Annaleigh changing before my eyes, and focus only on telling my story honestly. Ryder may bend the truth, but not me. If I lie, Sabrina will see right through it.
I start at the beginning, from the time Ryder discovered me after the performance of Romeo and Juliet, through my “audition,” to the first time I met Sabrina. It’s amazing how much I feel like a character, writing a book about myself. Or maybe not so amazing. That was Ryder’s intention, after all—to play God with our lives and reduce us to pawns on a cinematic chessboard.
But we were never characters. Sabrina and I were people, real people, and our stories were never his to tell. So I plow on. Word after word, page after page, until hundreds of pieces of paper lie scattered across my desk, all with Gant’s pencil markings. I write about dreams and madness, rising stars and a beautiful sunset. I write in first person, present tense so that Sabrina will understand that I never saw any of this coming.
Will she believe I could be so blind? Will she ever read this book at all?
Sometimes I overhear the TV. Gant keeps the volume low, but I catch snippets of conversation, chat show hosts hashing out more revelations, all strategically leaked by Brian to keep us front and center while Ryder edits his movie. With each new piece of footage Annaleigh appears increasingly innocent and the case against me builds.
Seth Crane, the social climber. The sociopath. The undisputed antagonist of Whirlwind.
One day I hear Ryder being interviewed. I join Dad and Gant in the living room and watch Ryder talking up his precious movie.
The interviewer asks, “Why would Seth Crane do these things, knowing that he’s being filmed?”
It’s the all-important question. Ryder shuffles in the black leather seat. “When I look at the footage,” he begins, “I see a confused boy. It might be partly my fault. I wanted to make a movie that would generate headlines, but I never figured on how far he’d take that idea. Seth didn’t just cross the boundary between reality and fiction, he acted like it didn’t exist at all. Sabrina Layton confided in him, and he shared her secrets like it was nothing. Annaleigh Ware fell for him hard, and he betrayed her too.”
Ryder throws up his hands as if he’s out of answers. “Maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Even though Seth won a coveted role, it was obvious he never felt comfortable in the spotlight. I think he took his insecurity out on the people around him. You know, some kids are just bad seeds.”
Dad and Gant look at me. They’re worried, but they shouldn’t be. This changes nothing.
After a few quiet seconds, Dad puts on another pot of coffee, and Gant continues to read over the latest page, and I keep writing.
The ending is hardest: Standing in Annaleigh’s room, watching her change from girlfriend to stranger in the blink of an eye. Then sitting with Gant and Dad in our kitchen and drawing strength for one last fight.
And writing, writing, writing. Writing for Sabrina’s forgiveness. Writing so that she’ll know I’m not the bad guy.
Maybe it’s my penance, to relive every moment in a desperate attempt to set the record straight. Well, so be it. I believe in the power of words.
What are actors without lines?
February 6. Dad prints out several hundred pages and tells me to sleep. He squeezes my shoulder and we hug, and I break down in tears, just realizing that he and Gant don’t hate me, even though I hate myself.
I give Dad Kris Ellis’s phone number. He calls and introduces himself, says they need to meet. He stammers, but his tone is defiant. He doesn’t apologize for anything I’ve done. He doesn’t sound like a victim. He sounds like Gant. A fighter.
They leave me. I hear the car engine rumble to life, the stop-and-start squeak of tires. I don’t think they’re afraid of what Kris will say or do.
Fighters can’t be afraid of conflict.
February 10. Dad pulls up before austere wrought iron gates. A guard asks for his driver’s license, verifies our names with someone on the other end of a walkie-talkie, and opens the gates.
There are no paparazzi to witness this. They’ve grown bored and moved on to more newsworthy subjects, I guess.
We follow the snaking driveway to an ivy-covered building. The bright white doors are flanked by bright white columns. They promise orderliness and a clean start.
A nurse is waiting for me, although I’m not sure they call them nurses here. I hug Dad and thank him, and he hugs me right back—tight, like we’re unbreakable.
I follow the woman along the carpeted hallway, straight through the building to a large conservatory on the other side. Tropical plants spread tendrils over every surface. The air brims with lavender and lilac.
There’s only one person in here. She’s sitting on a cream sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap. Gray cardigan over a white T-shirt. Worn jeans with holes in each knee. She doesn’t look sexy or sultry or even alluring. She looks like . . .
A girl.
Sabrina pats the seat beside her. I’m nervous as hell, just like the first night I saw her. But I join her now as I joined her then, and she rewards me with a large stack of paper.
My book.
There’s a Post-it note on top with three handwritten words: I forgive you.
I swore to myself that I’d be strong, but I’m struggling to hold it together. Sabrina wraps her arm around me and rests my head against hers. Her fingernails are unpolished. Her hair hangs loose about her. She smells of cigarette smoke, but not as much as I remember.
“I didn’t think Kris would give it to you,” I say.
“I guess he hates Brian and Ryder even more than he hates you.” She swallows. “He never knew I was pregnant. I still don’t know how he feels about it. He says we’ll talk when I’m feeling ready. But he told me to read this now. He wants to make them pay, Seth.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want you to publish this.”
I sit up straight. “Why would I do that?”
She sighs. “I don’t think you wrote several hundred pages just so I’d understand what really happened. You wrote it so that everyone could understand. Maybe so that you could make sense of it yourself. But it’s my story too, and you don’t want to hurt me any more. Which is why you’ll never release it unless I give you permission.” She taps the pages. “I’m giving you permission.”
“But the things I’ve written . . . you don’t come off looking good.”
“Oh, please. There’s nothing about me people don’t already know. I just want people to know the truth about everything. And everyone.”
“We signed nondisclosure agreements.”
“Yeah, we did. And I almost hope Brian and Ryder try to sue us. Can you imagine how that would play out after the hell we’ve been through?” She gives a humorless smile. “I’m serious. Look around you. Off-white paint. Soft fabrics. Restful decor. This place is like a movie set for the pearly gates. Which is ironic, because last month the real ones were calling my name, and I’d decided to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
She rolls her eyes, and with that famous gesture, she transforms momentarily into Sabrina Layton, movie star. I don’t want to look at her that way anymore, though. Nothing good comes of holding someone to an impossible ideal.
“Listen,” she says. “My agent did a better job of looking after me than my parents, and I fired him because I didn’t like what he was saying. Kris tried to warn me that something weird was going on, and I shut him out too. Both of them could’ve stopped this if I’d let them. Instead, I convinced myself that everything was fine.” She bites back tears. “Maybe you were blind, Seth, but we were
blind together. And if you hadn’t found me on New Year’s Day, I would’ve died. Alone. That’s why this book needs to be read. So that other people will know the truth too.”
I run a finger across the top page. Imposter—even now the title rings true. “We’ll never get the book out in time,” I say.
“Yeah, we will. I spoke to my reporter friend. If we give her the go-ahead, she’ll have it out in e-book within a week.”
“Who’ll read it?”
“Are you serious? I’ve had more than twenty interview requests, just this week. Big money offers too. What if you and me go on together? Tell everyone there’s a book that sets the record straight. Thousands of people will read this, Seth. Millions maybe.”
“They’ll still watch the movie, though.”
“Will they?” Her question sounds genuine. “After they’ve read the truth, do you really think people will line Brian and Ryder’s pockets? Anyway, I can’t imagine many actors working with Machinus ever again—not when they realize how Ryder screwed us over.” She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe something else happens too. I know this young actor who has some pretty shady contacts. The kind of guys that’ll stalk you in a Mazda. Harass you in a park. And sometimes, when he tells them to, they pirate movies and release them free online, just for the hell of it.”
She flashes me a smile. Sabrina, who has been through so much, is smiling, as if what lies ahead might just balance what has passed. She has weathered the storm, and now she’s ready to take flight.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask her. “Why do you want to help me?”
She pulls a pill bottle from her pocket. The sight of it sends me back to New Year’s Day, to a drug overdose and an unresponsive girl in a Kermit nightgown. She uncaps it and taps the contents onto the page: a rolled-up check. Gant must have picked it up and given it to Kris along with the book.
“This is our story, Seth. It’s real. Tell me you wouldn’t give anything for people to know the truth. About everything, and everyone.”
She hands me her cell phone. There’s a number on the screen—the reporter friend, I figure—and I study it for a long time. When I turn to face her again, she looks vulnerable, like she’s afraid I’ll say no. But there’s something else in her eyes too: hope, and a refusal to back down. She wants to start over. Wants us to fight this battle together, as the friends she always thought we should be.
“Let’s do this,” Sabrina implores me. “Let’s steal their audience. Let’s show everyone what really happened.” She lowers her voice. “Let’s fucking ruin them.”
She holds my hand as I make the call.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Navigating a thriller can be treacherous, not just for readers but for writers too. Fortunately, I had some extraordinary folks to keep me on track, and light the path whenever I was in danger of getting lost.
Kate Harrison, my wonderful and talented editor, knew just the right questions to ask, and worked tirelessly until I could answer them. Liz Waniewski got behind the project when it was still in its infancy, and gave early direction. My readers—Paula Stokes, Brian Katcher, Corey Ann Haydu, Audrey Odom, and Clare John—were equally generous with praise and criticism, and always available for brainstorming. Danielle Borsch, Children’s Department Manager at the legendary Vroman’s Bookstore, was my go-to source for L.A. insider information.
A big thanks to everyone at Dial for bringing the book to publication, including Ellen Cormier, Julia McCarthy, Regina Castillo, Jasmin Rubero, Lauri Hornik, and especially Lori Thorn, for the moody, atmospheric cover.
Last but by no means least, my phenomenal agent, Ted Malawer, who has been with me every step of the way.
ANTONY JOHN (www.antonyjohn.net) is the author of Five Flavors of Dumb, winner of the Schneider Family Book Award, as well as the Elemental series. He lives with his family in St. Louis, Missouri, far from the Hollywood spotlight.
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