𐙚₊˚𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

The press would see him go into her car. They had nowhere to eat it, and she sure as hell wasn't going over to his apartment. Fried chicken was probably the weirdest place for a first date. Was this a date? Was he asking her on a date? There had to be some handbook out there that directly stated against two of the biggest entertainers in the world getting fried chicken on a random Tuesday.

Michael interrupted before her thoughts could go any further. "We can have Vinny drive around the back. He can pick me up there five minutes or so after you go in."

He wasn't wrong. It could work. That realization was somehow worse.

She stumbled over her words, trying to form a reply. "Uhm... okay," she nodded. "That could work."

Michael smiled back. "So that's a yes?"

She reminded herself again that she should say no, but somewhere in the last twenty minutes of them record shopping, she decided to stop trying to convince herself she didn't want to.

"I guess I'm getting fried chicken with Michael Jackson right now." 

Camille sat for a long moment, just watching him. Waiting for him to take it back. To say that he was just joking and it was utterly absurd to get fast food with someone he barely knew. 

"Well, let's go," he urged, his hand pointing at the door. 

Camille snapped back. He never said anything against it. She looked past him, back at the front counter. The teenage girls had thought they already left, and continued laughing and talking. She took a sharp inhale in, and finally followed outside, agreeing to his plan to meet him out back.

Vinny stood exactly where she left him, guarding the door, a small group of fans already outside in the snow, waiting for her. Vinny went to bring his hand to her back, guiding her back to the car when she stopped.

"Everything okay?" Vinny asked. 

Camille stood on her tiptoes, whispering in his ear. She opened her mouth, looking for a rational way to put it, but closed it again. 

"We're... uhm," she started. "Getting fried chicken."

Camille kept smiling and waving, though Vincent's confusion made it increasingly difficult to pretend this was a normal conversation.

He lowered down to her ear. "You're what?"

Camille continued to smile, but just by Vincent's reasonable confusion, her expression slightly faltered, obviously embarrassed.

"Fried chicken," she barely muttered. "With Michael."

Vincent slowly nodded, now leading her back to the car. He decided he could talk further in about thirty seconds in the car when they weren't in front of a mob of people.

He opened the rear passenger door, letting Camille slide in before shutting it behind her. Five minutes later, the car pulled around the corner of the back of the building, Michael already leaning on the brick wall with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Vincent unlocked the door and Michael stepped into the back next to Camille. The car was completely silent for about ten seconds, before Vincent adjusted the rear view mirror, glancing between the two of them.

"...Will one of you explain?"

"Kentucky Fried Chicken. It's two blocks away," Michael chimed in, smiling back at the mirror.

Vincent readjusted the review mirror once, it now fully facing the back mirror, nodding. 

"Alright," he stated, focusing back towards the wheel and pulling off of the road. 

After the adrenaline had worn off, Camille finally sat in the silence. She was, in fact, hanging out with a random musician and getting fast food as a first date; if that's what this was. She held onto the paper bag in her lap, clutching her finger past the outline of one of the record's corners. The grip itself was enough of an answer to what was running through her head.

Michael noticed her staring out the car window, his gaze falling down to her hands. Her knuckles were practically turning white from her fingers curling around the bag in front of her.

"You'll bend the corners," he said quietly.

Camille blinked, so pulled from her thoughts she wasn't even sure she heard him speak.

"Huh?"

"The records," Michael pointed. "You'll bend the corners if you grip it like that."

Camille let an airy laugh out. "Oh," she croaked, looking down at her hands and now resting them in her lap.

Michael watched as she rested her hands in her lap. Even then, her fingers never quite relaxed. 

"I didn't think you'd say yes," he admitted, trying to pull her from whatever thought took her.

Camille took a sharp inhale, moving her head to look back out of the window. She wasn't looking at the city though, and instead at the reflection inside the car of Michael watching her. 

"Yeah," she quietly laughed. "I didn't either."

"Well, I'm glad you did."

She smiled, and just within a few seconds, the tension was right back. Before either of them could think of something else to talk about, Vincent pulled into the parking lot. He parked, shifted the car off, and turned to look between them both in the back seat. Their bodies were so far from each other he could've been convinced there was some kind of forcefield separating them. 

"So," Vincent said. "What am I getting?"

Camille turned to look at Michael. "I've never been here before, what's good?"

Michael's face lit up. "Seriously?" he asked. He turned towards Vincent again and listed off enough things to feed a family of four.

Vincent nodded, scribbling the order on the back of a receipt before leaving the car to go inside and locking it.

The lock sounded a click after Vincent locked the door behind him. 

Camille laughed, and finally broke the ice. "Who is going to eat all of that?"

"I didn't know what you'd like!" Michael laughed. "You'll just have to try everything."

"Everything is literally half the menu," Camille shook her head, her shoulders shaking as she bent over giggling.

"I was hungry."

"You've said that," Camille replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I still am."

"Where does it all go?" Camille asked, looking down at his figure. 

Michael smiled, glancing down at his own frame. "I dance a lot," he lightly replied. 

After they both finished their last huff of a laugh they sat for a second in the silence. Michael scooted closer, just slightly, but enough to snap the tension between them.

"How have you never had Kentucky Fried Chicken?" 

"I grew up in Los Angeles," Camille shrugged.

"You are aware there's still fried chicken in LA, right?"

Camille looked back, a small embarrassed smirk on her face. "I've never really had any fast food. My mom never let me," she shrugged, scanning around the parking lot behind the dark tinted glass. 

Michael stared at her for a long moment. "Not even McDonald's?"

Camille just shook her head.

"Burger Chef?"

"Nope," Camille smiled.

Michael's eyes widened more and more after each disapproving nod.

"My mom used to say I'd make me fat," she huffed a laugh. "Anyway, we had a cook at home, so it wasn't much of an excuse."

Michael stared in disbelief. Partially from the fact that Camille had never had a real burger or fries, but also that a grown woman would say something like that to her child.

Camille examined Michael's shock, trying to make her previous statement seem less harsh. "No but—It was okay! It's a funny story to tell now. I don't think I could ever complain about having a private chef." 

Michael's expression softened. "I don't think kids should have to worry about things like that."

For the first time since getting in the car, Camille didn't have a quick reply. She shrugged, trying to brush it off.

"I survived," she stated, almost matter-of-fact. "Besides, I'm making up for lost time."

Michael titled his head. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I have twenty years of fast food to catch up on," Camille giggled.

"Well, we've got time."

Camille looked over at him, and just smiled. For a moment, it felt like she wasn't being looked at, but instead, just, invited. He looked at her for more than the scrutinizing tabloids, the invasive paparazzi photos, and the drama of her private life. Instead, he truly just wanted to introduce a friend to his favorite fast food. Something in her chest loosened, quiet and unnameable, but just present enough to notice.

"...I guess we do."

"I knew we should've ordered more," Michael nodded thoughtfully. 

Camille laughed, really laughed this time, her shoulders bouncing as she bent at the hips. She shook her head, still smiling as she leaned back into the seat. Michael laughed with her, but watching her more than the joke. He noticed this laugh, the one in the back of a car talking about fried chicken, sounded nothing like the faux laugh he'd hear at parties. This one lingered longer; reaching all the way up to the corners of her eyes, slightly wrinkling them. 

A quick knock at the glass of the driver's door interrupted their laughter. Vincent pulled the door open, both large paper bags tucked under his arms, the cold December air rushing into the car, carrying the scent of warm biscuits, pepper, and grease. The gleam from outside the restaurant window caught the steam rising from the bags, reflecting a golden glow across the snow for a moment. 

Vincent handed the bags to Michael in the back, but paused for a second before he did, glancing between the two of them. Five minutes ago, they'd left enough space for a third person in between them. Neither of them remembered moving, yet somehow, the invisible line between them had snapped. 

Vincent climbed back into the driver's seat, shutting the door. The rush of the winter air quickly gave way to the warmth trapped inside the car. He started the car, the orange overhead light quickly dying. He glanced back through the rearview mirror.

"So," he acknowledged. "Where are you eating this?"

Michael didn't hesitate. "34-12 36th street."

Vincent nodded, pulling out of the parking spot. 

"Got it."

Camille looked over to Michael. "You're not going to tell me where we're going, are you?"

Michael smiled back, his eyes softening. "It's a surprise."

She held his gaze before a quick laugh escaped. "Alright," she nodded.

Camille settled in her seat, the paper bag of records was now sitting on the floor, replaced by the large bag of the food. Outside, the city blurred in streaks of gold beyond the window. 

Strangely, she couldn't remember the last time she was content with not knowing what was next.

Daniel sat behind the desk, flipping through a stack of paperwork, while Camille occupied the chair across from him, slowly turning side to side despite his previous pleas not to. 

The chair creaked under its hinges, and Daniel ignored it the first time. By the second, he finally spoke up, not looking up from the paper.

"Camille."

"What?" She asked, scanning around the room. 

"Stop."

She rocked one more time, the chair creaking out again. Daniel groaned, finally looking up through the glasses that sat on his nose. 

"Please."

Camille sighed loudly, stopping, then leaning forward, resting her elbows on the desk and picking up random pieces of paper that were sprawled across.

"Please don't mess with that," Daniel said, snatching one of the papers from her.

Camille's jaw dropped dramatically, as if he had just personally offended her. "You know, you really are a control freak." 

"And you're nosy."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I wouldn't say that."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Daniel replied, lowering his attention back to the papers in front of him.

Camille leaned back in the rolling chair, gazing up at the clock above Daniel's head, reading 11:14 a.m. For about thirty seconds, the office was quiet again. 

Outside the room, she could hear distant phones ringing and assistants talking while walking down the hall, holding folders and papers as they passed by the open door.

"How much longer until Vinny gets here?"

Daniel flipped his wrist, glancing down at the golden watch.

"Sixteen minutes."

She groaned, slumping lower into the chair.

Daniel didn't even bother responding. The small smile on his face told her he'd heard enough of her complaints.

A knock sounded beside the open door, Daniel's publicist standing in the entrance holding a manila folder clutched against her chest. She gave Camille a soft, apologetic smile, like she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.

Camille rolled her eyes the second she spotted the folder.

The publicist welcomed herself in, lowering herself into the open seat across from the two. "Just give me five minutes."

Daniel finally looked up and smirked, seeing Camille's annoyance. He slid the glasses off his face, setting them upside down on the desk and getting comfortable in the chair, crossing his arms.

"I just wanted to go over our plan for January," the publicist said, sliding off the paper clip from the folder and taking out the contents inside. "A few screenings, press appearances, interviews, just the norm."

"I hate the norm already," Camille retorted.

Daniel laughed, eyeing the papers she was laying across the desk. "Exciting," he said sarcastically.

The publicist slid a board across with a collection of photographs that had been taped together in a rough collage—old Hollywood actors, orange and yellow magazine cutouts, designer advertisements, and red pen marked up along the whole thing. 

"This is Interview's markup for the shoot on the 7th."

Camille and Daniel shared the board in the middle, examining it while she flipped through the planner beside her.

The publicist stopped, remembering something mid-thought. "Did you guys approve People?"

"They were all terrible," Camille complained.

Daniel scoffed and handed the woman a paper back of a rough draft of a cover with a photo of Daniel and Camille on the front. "Yes, we did. Here."

The woman took it, smiling, and rummaged through the rest of the papers.

I'll remind you, guys, later, but we have a screening on the 9th, an interview on the 12th," she flipped to the last page, turning her attention to Daniel. "Oh—and Daniel, you'll be in LA on the 14th for the audition."

Daniel only nodded, beginning to clean up his area to leave for the day. Camille leaned forward to look at the planner beside the folder, open to December on the left and January on the right, with only five days crossed out of December.

The rest of the day was free, at least for Daniel.

"There's nothing else for today?" Camille asked.

The publicist gathered her things, rising from the chair and grabbing the folder again. "For Daniel? No."

"And me?"

The woman smiled. "You'll have to ask Evelyn."

She waved, thanking them for their time, and slipped back out the open door. 

Daniel grabbed an unstapled stack of a script, hitting the bottom of the table to get all the pages even. 

"Vinny should be here."

Camille grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stood up. She was smiling, almost subconsciously, lost somewhere in her own thoughts.

Daniel looked up from the script, watching her expression. "Someone's in a smiley mood today."

The comment immediately wiped the smile from her face. 

"No I'm not."

"You're smiling right now."

She caught her expression in the reflection of the window, seeing that her smirk had somehow landed right back on her face.

"All I've done is complain today," she continued to try to argue.

"I know."

"Then how am I 'smiley'?" she said, trying to mock him dramatically. 

Daniel thought about it for a moment. "I don't know."

He returned his attention to the script in front of him. "But you are."

Camille rolled her eyes, reaching for the office door.

"Bye, Daniel."

"See you."

She almost made it out into the hallway when his voice stopped her again. 

"Try to enjoy your afternoon." 

She turned and huffed, continuing to leave and just hollering back once she was out of the door.

"You say that like it's a rare thing!"

She walked down the hall, eyeing Vinny at the end, standing next to the elevator. Vinny smiled back at her, hearing their faint conversation from down the hallway. He pressed the button for the elevator, it lighting up before the doors opened. He left his hand out, offering her to step in first.

✶ ݁ ˖

After verifying with Evelyn, Camille did, in fact, have a free afternoon. 

Her first thought was shopping, a pastime she barely had time for these days. Shopping was always difficult for her, though. Vinny would have to ask the owners to clear out every store beforehand, and even then, he still would have to spend the entire visit guarding the door. It wasn't worth the trouble most days.

Camille stared out the car window as Manhattan drifted past. 

"Where are we headed?" Vinny asked.

She thought about it for a long moment. Most stores were a nightmare, but a record store was different. Most people didn't expect to see America's Sweetheart shopping at a record store, and if they did, most were too busy walking the streets of New York to care. 

"The record store," Camille finally answered.

Vinny smiled back into the review mirror. "The one on sixth?"

Camille nodded and continued to watch the winter scenery of the city. The thing she loved so much about New York in the winter was that no matter how much blue and white was draped over every December, the city never lost its warmth. 

Yellow taxis would pass, orange neon signs would flicker, and an open door from a bar would spill the red glow from the lights inside. The city never stayed cold for long.

✶ ݁ ˖

A little bell chimed above Camille as she stepped inside.

The warm air immediately hit, replacing the winter cold. The store smelled of cardboard and plastic, along with cardamom and cedar wood from a candle in the back.

Rows of records stretched from wall to wall, the colorful sleeves of each album stuffed into bins, alphabetically categorized. The familiar crackle of a record connected to a speaker in the corner accompanied whatever was spinning on a player beside the counter. 

The second she walked in, the two employees stopped their banter behind the counter, watching her every move and breath now like she was an extinct animal seen in the wild again. 

When Camille first noticed them, she flashed a smile and said hello. The teenagers sat for a long moment, jaws still wide open, not saying anything, before scrambling to welcome her in.

"Could we get an autograph?" the younger girl blurted.

Camille laughed under her breath, nodding. "Of course, I'll sign it at the checkout."

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her large coat, now making her way towards one of the nearest bins, flipping through absentmindedly. 

The records flipped past her fingertips, one by one. She'd occasionally pull out a record, examine the cover, and slip it back into the bin. Her favorite part was always browsing, not necessarily buying.

She found herself at a bin with a paper slip titled "A" above. She searched through about four records, finally pulling out Arrival by ABBA. Dancing Queen had always been a guilty pleasure for her. 

She examined the record, turning it over to read the track list on the back.

"I didn't take you for an ABBA fan," a familiar voice chimed behind her.

Camille snapped around, immediately recognizing who it was. Michael. Part of her was confused why he was here, but then she remembered the record still in her hand.

"I'm—I'm not," she stumbled, turning to shove the record back in the bin again. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"You do realize this is a record store, right? I should be asking you that."

Camille nodded, trying to seem unconvinced and moving on to her next question. "How did you get past Vinny?"

"I asked politely."

"You asked politely?"

"Yes," Michael said, watching her so intently it almost made her nervous.

Camille backed away, now making it to the "B" section.

"Good to know that's all it takes from my security."

Michael let out a chuckle, looking through the bin beside her for records of his own.

Camille turned, picking up a Billy Joel album. 

"You know, most people say hi before judging someone's music taste."

"Hello, Camille," Michael responded, gazing at her like his introduction meant something now.

He pulled out All 'n All from the bin titled "bestsellers", slipping the plastic-wrapped record in between his arm and side, continuing to browse.

"And for the record," Michael continued. "I love Dancing Queen."

"Michael Jackson likes Dancing Queen."

"Camille Beaumont likes Dancing Queen," Michael restated, shrugging with a smirk.

Camille shook her head, returning her attention to the records in front of her. For a while, neither of them said much. They moved through each aisle, occasionally showing each other vinyls and exchanging brief opinions on each one. 

Michael scanned each record with insane meticulousness, reading the track list with such intent like there was something hidden within the grooves of the vinyl.

Camille found herself examining him more than the music in front of her. Never in an obvious way, but just enough of a glance that she noticed the soft, unconscious sway he'd adopt when a song came through the speakers he liked.

Once they came to the last aisle, she turned to him, glancing at the albums tucked under his arm.

"What'd you find?"

"Marvin Gaye," Michael said, flipping the record towards her. "And Earth, Wind, and Fire."

"Not bad," Camille laughed.

Michael pointed to the records she was holding. "And you?"

"We got Billy Joel," she replied, lifting and showing it off, then moving to the next. "And Simple Dreams."

"Linda Ronstadt," Michael said, nodding. "Very you."

"Very me?" Camille laughed. "You don't even know me."

"I know you enough."

"Enough from two conversations?"

"Three," Michael corrected. "The album after party, Richard's, and now."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Still not enough."

They walked together towards the front counter, the teenage girls practically fawning over seeing Michael Jackson and Camille Beaumont casually shop.

They both checked out, signed a few autographs, and sat through about 5 minutes of non-stop questions from each of the girls before finally making it to the door. For fans, they were actually extremely respectful. 

They both decided Camille would leave first, Michael following a few minutes later in the opposite direction, so it didn't look suspicious. Camille adjusted the paper bag beneath her arm.

"Well," she contentedly sighed. "Thank you for record shopping with me, even if it was unprecedented."

"Thank you for giving me another chance."

Camille smiled, remembering the promise he made last weekend. 

"Bye, Michael."

Just as she turned to grab the door, he stopped her. 

"Camille." She glanced back at him. "Actually—are you busy?"

Camille stopped, confused. "I mean, I guess not. Why?"

"I know a really good chicken place a few blocks away," Michael smirked. 

Michael shrugged. "I'll try to make it."

"No," the director shook his head. "You promised! We all wanna see you there, alright?"

Michael glanced back at Bill standing in the corner of the set, thinking for a long second before answering. He wasn't planning on going since he had a recording session in the morning, but he could always leave early to still get enough rest.

"Okay, yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Alright, good," the director said, patting him on the back and moving to somewhere else on the set.

Michael nodded to Bill, and he followed him back to the dressing room. Once they got in, Michael sat in the chair in front of the vanity, untying the front of his costume while one of the makeup artists began peeling off the prosthetics on his face.

Bill stood behind him, looking in the mirror at him.

"You really going?" he asked while the brown nose prosthetic was taken off and put on the counter.

"I said I would," Michael replied, helping to take off the wig and hat from his head.

"Doesn't mean you have to. You got stuff to do tomorrow."

"It'll only be a couple of hours," Michael said, looking back at Bill in the mirror. "Anyways, if it's terrible, we can leave even earlier. I just want to show my face for his birthday at least."

Bill only nodded as the artist began wiping off the makeup. She threw the last wipe away in the trash next to her.

"There you are," she smiled. "No more scarecrow."

He smiled back and nodded before rising from his seat, thanking her. The dressing room was already quieter than when he first went in. Most of the cast had started to leave, and the only sounds left were the distant fumbling of the leftover crew. 

He walked out of the dressing room and peeked back at the set. Oz had looked considerably more depressing than what it was just an hour ago. Pieces of the yellow brick road were being pulled apart and stacked against the side of the soundstage wall, fake trees were being lifted and carried off, and large camera and microphone equipment were being loaded onto a truck outside. 

Bill stood on the curb outside, holding the back door to the car open for him. 

"You coming?"

Michael snapped back, nodding and walking away from the plywood and paint that was once a full set.

The city passed outside the car in a blur of headlights and illuminated neon signs. The cold December air lingered outside, and pedestrians wearing large coats and boots walked down the sidewalks.

At a stoplight, Michael noticed a bar on the side of the block. It still had pumpkin and bat decorations from Halloween that they had yet to take down. 

Bill had turned on the radio at some point during the drive, but Michael barely paid attention to whatever song was on. His recording session occupied most of his thoughts.

The session was going to be low-pressure, mostly just brainstorming ideas and listening to demos with Quincy, but it still made him nervous. This album would be his first shot at a solo career, and if he didn't get it right, his dreams would be thrown away.

Michael was in no doubt a perfectionist, but he wouldn't call himself that. He was driven, determined, and obsessed with his craft. 'Perfectionist' made it seem like he wasn't able to do what he was capable of. 

A small, lined notebook sat in his lap. Most of the pages were scribbled in with half-finished ideas. Lyrics in the margins, incoherent words that referenced melodies, and notes that probably only made sense to him.

He flipped to the most recent page, something he wrote at three in the morning last night. It sounded genius then, but now, at six o'clock the next day, he hated it. He sighed, scribbling it out.

Bill glanced over into the backseat, watching him cross it out, his eyes following back up to the road.

"Another one?" 

Michael only nodded.

"Do you ever think you're too hard on yourself?"

"No."

Bill laughed. "Didn't even have to think about it," he said, shaking his head.

"I know when something's right. Not every idea is worth it."

"And when it's wrong?" Bill asked.

Michael only looked back down at the notebook, tapping his pen on the paper. "Then I keep working."

The car fell silent again. Outside, New York gleamed under the night sky. Any visible stars were covered by dark winter clouds, even though most couldn't be seen anyway. Everyone in this city had dreams, but only some made them a reality. 

✶ ݁ ˖

By the time they had reached his apartment, Michael had almost forgotten about the party entirely. He tossed the notebook onto a coffee table and walked towards the piano sitting in front of the window. 

He only turned one light on in the corridor of the entrance, leaving the piano to be illuminated only by the city lights outside, a golden hue landing directly on the keys. The apartment was quiet. No paparazzi, no cameras, no crew members, and no directors asking him where he's supposed to be.

His fingers found the keys without much thought behind them. Before he knew it, he started playing melodies, one after the other. He shook his head during one of them. It wasn't right.

A few minutes later, he picked up a cassette tape lying in a box Quincy brought him to listen to earlier that week. He placed it into the stereo, listening to the demo fill the room. He walked back over to the coffee table, grabbed the notebook again, and wrote something while listening to each cassette. Each melody got some kind of note, some with a star, some with lyric ideas, and others just large 'x's scribbled in. 

Time slipped faster than he had anticipated. It always did. While he was listening to one of the demos, Bill knocked on the door. 

"Come in!" Michael shouted, not even looking up towards the door.

"Michael," Bill said, already in the living room. 

He finally looked up, not expecting him for a moment, then remembered his plans this evening. 

"It's almost 8:30," Bill said. His voice was stern, like a father talking to his son, but his soft smile still cut through. 

Bill scanned the room, seeing the ripped-out pieces of paper scattered on top of the piano and cassette tapes lying around the floor. He laughed just under his breath at the scene. 

"We still have time," Michael smiled back at him, now walking towards his room. 

His room was considerably cleaner than the living room; a stack of records was sitting next to a player, and several jackets hung inside his closet.

He pulled a dark button-up from the closet, setting it on the bed before stepping in front of the mirror. The full day of filming had not done him justice, and after the makeup wipes took everything off, his blemishes were fully exposed. 

Some acne sat on his cheeks and just above his jaw, the sight only making him frown. Like second nature, though, he grabbed a small container of concealer out from the desk beside him. A small dab here and there, nothing major, but enough to make him feel much more comfortable going out. 

Once he was satisfied, he changed into the outfit sitting on his bed and looked into the mirror once more. He brought a hand up to his head, fixing his hair before finally turning to leave. He looked better, not perfect, but better.

As he slipped out of his room and back into the living room, Bill just sat, leaning on a nearby wall.

"Ready, Joker?"

Michael smiled and nodded, and Bill then led him out of the apartment. 

✶ ݁ ˖

The music could be heard spilling out of the huge house before Michael even opened the door of the car. The driveway was fully uphill, leading to the house at the top. Distant skyscrapers reflected gold and orange from the lights inside.

The second Michael stepped through the front door, he regretted coming. Despite the sheer size of the place, it was absolutely packed. Actors crowded every corner, balancing drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Smoke consumed every square inch of every room, and records played somewhere deep within the home. 

People were talking over each other, and Michael had to tap people on the shoulder just to hear his "Excuse me." Laughter could be heard routinely from every group. Richard's parties were always loud. 

"Michael!" Someone yelled.

He barely had taken a few steps in before the person grabbed his shoulder. Richard Pryor stood in front of him with a drink in one hand and a smile plastered across his face.

"I didn't think you were coming!" Richard yelled over the noise, bringing him in for a quick side hug.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Michael said, half lying. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Don't remind me, I'm getting old." Richard laughed, swinging a hand over Michael's shoulder and began leading him deeper into the house. 

As they moved through the crowd, Michael's attention caught across the room, somewhere in the kitchen.

Camille stood beside a record player, talking in a group and holding a cup in one hand. Her eyes glanced across the room before they finally landed on him, too. Her expression immediately dropped, and she quickly turned back, continuing to talk even though he knew she saw him. For a moment, Michael considered walking over.

"Michael, there's someone I want you to meet," Richard interjected. 

Michael turned, letting Richard drag him somewhere else. He'd find her tonight eventually. 

✶ ݁ ˖

By the time Richard had released him from the conversation, twenty minutes had passed. Michael stood slightly on his toes, glancing over heads at the party and back to the kitchen, but Camille was nowhere to be seen. 

Maybe she had gotten another drink. Maybe she had left. It seemed odd; the party had just started. Out of all the loud, drunken conversations he had been having, he wouldn't mind having a genuine conversation with someone. 

Michael smiled and excused himself from the group he was barely listening to, finally slipping away. The house seemed even busier than when he first arrived, with people crowding every corner and hall. He spotted a bathroom at the end of one of the hallways and made his way towards it. 

As he got closer, he reached for the handle, but the door opened before he could try. 

Camille stepped out, both of them freezing for a second. She first looked shocked before her expression eased into something else entirely. 

The fabric of her dress smelled of cigarettes, and smoke lightly curled outside the wooden door. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she tried to pass him, but he turned and stopped her. 

"Wait–Camille."

She turned around to face him, her lips pursing into a tight-lipped smile. 

"Hi," Michael said, almost relieved.

"Hi."

He wanted to talk to her all night, and yet, now that he had the chance, he was blanking. She looked at him, raising her eyebrows, seemingly annoyed and waiting for him to continue.

"Uhm," Michael started, looking for something to say. "How have you been?"

"Good."

"Yeah? That's good," he said, nodding awkwardly.

"Yeah, keeping myself busy," she replied, trying to be a little nicer.

"No–that's good to hear," he fumbled his hands together. "Yeah, I've been doing the same."

She waited for him to say something else before someone interrupted behind her.

"Camille!"

She snapped her head in that direction and put a finger up to tell them to wait a moment. She turned back to Michael, already backing away slowly.

"Don't go anywhere?" she asked, trying not to smile.

Michael only stalled, then nodded quickly. "Yeah, yeah, for sure! I won't go anywhere."

Camille smiled and walked away, and he waited, leaning on the wall outside the bathroom. Someone passed him and asked if he was in line. He put out an arm, letting them know it was free.

Michael waited for almost ten minutes before he peeked around the corner of the hall, finally landing on the staircase. Camille stood, laughing in a group with some people he didn't recognize. Once he finally realized how much time had passed, he eventually left the hallway and walked back into the living room. 

He let another hour pass, just walking around and talking to people. Bill pulled him aside at one point and asked if he wanted to head out, but Michael told him a little longer. Something in him told him to stay, to wait it out, so he did.

Michael noticed Camille laugh with someone, then slip down the same hallway from earlier. Ten minutes later, he saw her do it again. By the fourth time, he decided to follow her down to the bathroom.

He sat, leaning on the wall outside, until he finally heard the doorknob turn. The scene was almost identical to the first time: her walking out, looking at him, shocked, and smoke following behind her. 

Camille just looked at him for a second. The hallway was dark, only the orange bathroom light peeking out of the door to illuminate his face. Directly behind his back there was a window. The deep blue lights of the night sky shone off the jacket he had on. The contrast was striking. 

For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Camille lightly laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because she couldn't believe he was standing there.

"Seriously?" she asked. 

"What?" he said, even smiling a little. 

Camille just shook her head, trying to walk past him once again.

"Camille."

Him saying her name so sternly made her stop and tense up. She didn't even turn fully before he kept going. 

"You've been to the bathroom four times in the last hour." 

She turned, and he wasn't smiling anymore.

"Have you been counting?" she replied, trying to keep her annoyed act up.

"No." 

Camille waited for him to continue, but he didn't. She spoke up instead. "What does it mean to you? You want a cigarette or something?" 

"I don't smoke." Something in his demeanor made Camille stay. 

"Do you always do that?" he asked.

"What?"

"Disappear."

The comment made her scoff. What was it to him? Why did he care? 

The reply came almost involuntarily. She was truly upset now. "Don't you have somewhere you have to be?" she blurted.

For the first time all night, Michael stayed silent for a moment. He looked at her, then something shifted in his expression.

"Don't go anywhere?" It was the same question he asked two months ago now. The same question she asked him an hour ago.

"Oh."

Camille immediately regretted saying it. Not because it wasn't true, but now he knew something even worse: that she cared. 

"You're upset about the record party," he said, his eyebrows softening. 

"I'm not upset."

"You are."

"I'm not," she replied, turning her head and breaking eye contact. The lump in her throat had grown now.

"Camille."

Her eyes followed back up to his. Could he stop saying her name?

"I didn't mean to leave like that," he said apologetically. 

The hallway sat silent for a moment. She hated how this small thing had blown up into this, but part of her was relieved he apologized. 

"You did, though," she mumbled.

"Can I try again?"

"What?" 

"Our conversation."

"We'll see," she smiled, rolling her eyes sarcastically.

"You're Camille Beaumont, right?"

Both her elbows perched on the counter of the bar. "Depends who's asking," she lowly laughed.

The man laughed harder than necessary. "I just saw your movie last week."

The bartender set down another drink in front of her, this time a vodka soda. Champagne wasn't strong enough anymore.

Camille nodded while he kept talking, but she was completely zoned out. It was something about a screenplay, something he had a vision for that was "exactly her." Her eyes kept drifting back towards the velvet booths in the back, surrounded by people laughing and talking.

It was honestly a sad sight; she, drunk, sitting at a bar, only talking to the people that would pass and occasionally the bartender. She knew she shouldn't have gone out tonight.

The room had gotten louder now, more people were drunk, and cigarette smoke began to burn the air. She spent so long looking around that she found a clock at the back of the room, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Her brows furrowed in a drunken anger when she realized it had been 50 minutes that she'd been waiting.

"Are you listening to me?" the man beside her finally asked.

Camille blinked, letting her eyebrows soften and her smile return.

"Sorry," she laughed softly. "Long night."

The man touched her arm, eyes scanning down from her face now. "You should let me take you out sometime."

Before she could even respond, Evelyn emerged from the crowd like a saving grace.

"There you are," Evelyn smiled at Camille before looking over at the man. "Honey, I've been looking everywhere for you."

Camille sent a thankful look, immediately catching on. "Oh my God," she said, standing from the bar. "I didn't even realize how long it's been, I totally forgot!"

The man looked disappointed but handed her a business card anyway. "In case you change your mind," he said, flashing a smile as Camille backed away.

Once they got back into the crowd, Evelyn stopped and grabbed Camille's shoulder.

"You okay, girl?" Evelyn asked.

"I'm fine."

"You've been sitting at that bar for like an hour. Are you waiting for someone?"

Camille frowned immediately, "It's been like 30 minutes."

"So, you were waiting for someone?"

"No? Why would I wait around for someone I met like 20 minutes ago?" she said, obviously tipsy and bringing the glass to her mouth again.

Evelyn just huffed a laugh at her drunken math. "Why don't we call it a night?" she asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the exit.

Camille stared back in the same direction where she saw him leave an hour ago, and now it was all full of faces she didn't recognize. She sighed loudly before letting Evelyn take her away.

✶ ݁ ˖

Michael stood up from one of the velvet booths in the back. It was finally one of his only chances to go back to the bar, as all the now-drunk producers, directors, musicians, and other people he had just met sat around talking to each other.

Just as he stood, his eyes instinctively glanced back at the bar, a routine for him now. He'd been casually checking throughout the night, noticed her still sitting, and continued his conversation. This time, though, she was gone. Only a row of finished drinks sat where she was.

The guy she was just talking to rose from the seat beside her, scoffing before disappearing into the crowd. Last time he looked, he saw them talking. Camille would just flash a fake smile as he'd get closer.

Quincy came up behind him to drag him back to the table before he noticed where he was looking.

"You just missed her."

Michael only nodded and turned back to talk to these industry people, only thinking about Camille when someone would laugh more than necessary or flash some big, fake smile.

"Maybe next time," he thought before letting himself continue with his night.

✶ ݁ ˖

October 27th, 1977, London, GB

"Camille! Over here!"

"Daniel! One more picture!"

"Camille, who are you wearing?"

"Can we get one together?"

The flashes exploded, practically blinding the two and the whole entourage behind them. Camille grabbed Daniel's arm, walking on the velvet red carpet and past the gold barricade into the theater. Every city said the same thing in different accents.

Daniel leaned down, whispering in her ear.

"They're going to marry us in the next magazine."

Camille giggled, continuing to smile and wave towards the cameras with her free hand. Beyond the paparazzi, she saw screaming fans pushing up against the fences.

By the time they got into the darkly lit building, she could still see the flashes of the cameras even though they weren't there. They had practically burned into her eyes, and she had to rub them just to adjust to the light inside.

Once she could finally see, she examined the room, starstruck. To call it a theater was an understatement. Golden crystal chandeliers hung low, giving the whole room an amber hue. Giant velvet seats sat near the back, and large booth seats with bartenders already walking around were at the front.

Her eyes followed up, looking at the second balcony. Intricate gold trim lined the edges beneath the warm theater lights.

The stage was the most jaw-dropping aspect. Large velvet curtains were closed in front of the stage, standing at probably 20 feet. Gold metal outlined the screen with visuals of waves and circles etched in.

While she stood, staring, Daniel finally brought her back to reality, dragging her to the lobby.

The lobby was much smaller, with groups of actors and industry people standing around in clumps, talking and laughing loudly. Bartenders and ushers walked around in suits and silk dresses, holding platters of champagne. Somewhere in the corner, a live piano was playing.

The second she stepped in, another actress walked up and grabbed her hands dramatically.

"My God, look at you," she said, scanning her from top to bottom. "London is absolutely obsessed with you."

Camille smiled widely. This is what she loved about fame.

"That sounds slightly terrifying," Camille laughed, easing into the interaction with her.

"Not at all, dear. Everyone is so excited."

A platter follows them, the actress grabbing two and handing the other to Camille, taking a large gulp before speaking again.

"I saw Vogue compared you to Audrey Hepburn yesterday," she said, swallowing. "I'm sure most people are just here to watch you."

Camille's smile lowered, just slightly, and she nodded, letting go of her hands. The woman slipped away after someone grabbed her arm, leaving Camille back alone in the loud room.

Before someone came to talk to her again, she thought for a second. She's been to a million of these kinds of events, and yet, since that album afterparty, every single one has reminded her of Michael.

Just thinking about it upset her. Not because she even really knew him or cared about him, but just because in a sea of all these fake industry people, he was the only one who seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

"You seem tired." God, she hated that she remembered that.

Before she could think about it for a second longer, another person grabbed her arm and directed her towards a group to introduce themselves to her.

✶ ݁ ˖

During the screening, Camille sat in the front along with Vincent, her manager Martin, Daniel, and his whole group.

During most of the movie, Camille watched the audience instead of the screen. She wanted to see people's reactions to the art and film she was extremely proud of. 

As she scanned around the room, she saw just what she was expecting. Some crying, some laughing, others sipping on their drinks while nodding. What she didn't expect, though, was that a lot of them were looking back at her.

They wanted to watch her. Her reactions. Her whispering to Daniel. The way she laughed quietly behind her hand. Even though she was literally on the large screen right in front of them.

By the time the movie finished and the lights came back on, the theater erupted in applause. Camille stood waving and thanking the audience sitting in their seats, even though now, most of them were giving a standing ovation. 

Every single one of their eyes was on her, and when Daniel stood too and gave her a side-hug, the crowd only got louder.

Once the applause died down, people began making their way back to the lobby. Some of the more important people said their goodbyes, air kissing her cheeks before leaving. 

The second she had a free moment, she tried to slip out of the theater and into the bathroom.

Daniel grabbed her arm and asked,

"Are you coming to the lobby?"

She flashed him a small smile. "I'll be right there."

She walked out into the hall and stepped into the bathroom. Even the restrooms looked extravagant, with marble countertops and golden sinks. She locked the door behind her and leaned against the wall, taking a cigarette out from her clutch. 

She lit the cigarette and just sat in the quiet, the music and talking still coming through the walls of the bathroom. 

The silence almost felt unnatural after all the noise. Her reflection stared back at her as the smoke floated around the room. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect dress. Her eyes, though, looked exhausted. 

Without even thinking, she instinctively smiled at her reflection. That expression disappeared almost immediately when she realized what she was doing. 

A burst of laughter and music echoed faintly through the walls. The afterparty must've already started. She closed her eyes, her head leaning back against the wall. 

As she sat and smoked, she heard a muffled conversation outside the door. Although she couldn't hear most of it, she caught her name. 

"Camille was stunning,"

"Did you see her with Daniel?"

"I hear they're together."

She rolled her eyes at their gossip, but realistically, that's what the world thought. By tomorrow morning, there would be another article about her. 

The large, bold headline with a photo of her and Daniel. An excerpt about her body, her face, her expression when someone asked a personal question. She could vividly picture what it looked like already. 

She walked over to the counter, her hand now resting on the marble while the cigarette burned in the other hand. 

"You look tired."

She was. She has been. She was exhausted, and he was the only one who pointed it out. 

She thought about how he talked about the ending. When she looked around the room today during the ending, most people weren't even watching.

She laughed under her breath, pitying herself. 

She took another breath of the cigarette and shook her head, smoothing out her dress and fixing her hair. 

As she stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray and then went to the door to release herself, she only had one thought on her mind.

"Never again," she scoffed.

Finally, she exhaled and walked towards the record player sitting on a wooden bookshelf in front of one of the windows.

She perched down, flipping through the different records on one of the shelves. One vinyl caught her eye, and she pulled it out, sliding the record out of the paper case and carefully dropping it onto the player by the edges. 

She drops the pin down, the record crackling before starting the first song. Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life fills the apartment, his background vocals sweetly reflecting off the walls. 

Camille smiles to herself, following back to the bathroom to get ready again. If she was going to go out, she at least wasn't going to make it feel miserable. 

She grabbed the bunch of wipes and threw them in the trash right next to her. As she unzipped her makeup bag, she began taking out products and brushes. 

The cigarette she had grabbed earlier sat sideways laying on the ashtray on the bathroom windowsill, smoke both lingering in the inside air and floating outside the window. The music from the living room drifted through the apartment, muffled. 

Staring at her exhausted face, she examined the makeup left on her face from what the wipe couldn't take off: the cracked concealer at the corner of her mouth and the dark mascara that still sat on her eyelashes. 

For a moment, she considered calling Evelyn and cancelling anyway. Instead, though, she reached for the blush sitting in the bag. 

By the time her makeup was done, she finally looked like the alive, photo-ready version of herself. She went out of the bathroom and down the hall towards the other side of the apartment, the music growing louder as she passed by the record player. 

She turned on the light, eyeing the huge walk-in closet. She felt almost ungrateful seeing all the clothes hanging in front of her. 

It wasn't that she didn't like being famous; she actually loved it. In an egotistical way, she loved the attention. The billboards she'd drive by with her face on them, the magazines with her on them in carriers outside shops, the times she'd pass by theaters and see The Quiet Between in bold lettering. She felt bad about how exhausted this life made her, knowing it was probably someone else's dream. Honestly, it was her dream too. 

Her eyes landed on a dark wine colored dress. It was short and body-hugging, revealing enough to still look sexy but simple enough to put on and leave. Camille slipped the fabric over her hips and looked in the mirror. She scanned from the bottom up to her face. 

"Beautiful," she thought, scanning past her legs and hips.

"Perfect," up to her waist and chest.

She paused, studying her face for a moment, her expression blank, thinking of a word to describe it. 

"Tired."

She slipped back into the hall, grabbed her purse, and, leaning over to slide her feet back into the heels tossed by the door. The first side of the vinyl had stopped, and she left the needle sitting on it. 

Just as she was about to go sit and wait on the couch, the door knocked. Vincent was outside. She looked back down the hall to her closet, the light on this time. She saw her oversized shirt and shorts sitting on the floor, waiting for her to finally be ready for bed. 

She grabbed the doorknob and swiftly walked out, locking the door behind her. 

✶ ݁ ˖

The city blurred outside the car window with streaks of gold and damp rainwater on the concrete from earlier in the day. This was her 7th car ride of the day, and she was tired of driving around the city. Vincent sat in the front, driving Camille and Evelyn to the event. 

Camille sat comfortably in the leather seat, her head resting back and one leg crossed over the other, her heel dangling from her foot. Beside her, Evelyn sat flipping through the planner on her lap before looking back up at Camille, smiling empathetically.

"Come on, girl! She giggled, "Relax! Let yourself have some fun!"

Camille dropped her head to the side, looking back at Evelyn. "I'm too tired to be optimistic."

"Sounds like the first drink you're ordering is a coffee." Evelyn laughed.

Camille's laughter followed before they both quieted, and her eyes continued back up to the roof of the car. Their silence paused for a second, Evelyn continuing the conversation just as Camille's eyes fluttered shut. 

"You know, Quincy's gonna be there tonight." 

"Quincy Jones?" Camille asked.

Evelyn nodded, her finger still following down the paper in front of her. "Mhm. I talked to him earlier. He loved the film. He's excited to see you tonight."

Camille exhaled before continuing, "That's terrifying."

"Everything is terrifying to you." Evelyn laughed.

Their silence continued while Camille sat in whatever thought was passing by. 

"Who else is gonna be there?" 

Evelyn brought the pen to her mouth, looking up while trying to recall. "Hmmm. I know Stevie will be there, Diana, John, and probably Daniel. I talked to his manager earlier."

"Okay... not as bad as I thought."

"I told you you'd have fun." 

Camille looked back out the window at her reflection shining off the dark window. The version she was seeing looked much more put together than she felt. Outside, New York kept moving whether she was tired or not. 

The car slowed next to the curb of the building. Even from inside, Camille could still hear the music faintly through the walls. Two men in black stood outside the doors beside gold and velvet railings. 

An unrecognizable crowd stood outside, smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly enough to echo down the street. Valet cars moved fast in and out, flashes of cameras occasionally going off.

Vincent walked around the car, going to open their door. Camille smoothed the end of her dress, mentally preparing herself before stepping out, Evelyn following.

As her heels hit the concrete, people immediately started recognizing her. Paparazzi that were leaning on the wall shot up, bringing their cameras to their eye and yelling obscenities. 

Her smile returned automatically, and she waved towards the group. She and Evelyn reached the entrance, and Evelyn talked to one of them, scanning over the guest list on a clipboard he was holding.

Camille's eyes followed behind her and around the city, waiting. Evelyn grabbed her arm, dragging her through the doors.

The second she stepped in, warm air and music hit her. Dark amber chandeliers hung above her, dimming everything around her. A table near the back laughed so hard it turned heads.

Before she could even move further, someone grabbed her arm lightly. 

"Camille Beaumont in the flesh," he commented. "It's so hard to get a hold of you these days." 

"Yes, I've been very busy. It's good to see you!"

His eyes scanned her body, smirking creepily before noticing something behind her and walking away.

Another woman quickly passed her, air kissing her cheek. "Honey, you look incredible."

"Thank you," Camille replied.

"How has the press tour been?"

"Honestly exhausting, but I wouldn't trade it for anything." She flashed a fake smile.

"And that's why you're the best in the business." The woman patted her back and swiftly moved.

More faces blurred after that. More conversations, more compliments, more fake laughing. She had now successfully gotten halfway into the room. It did take at least ten introductions she was going to forget in 20 minutes, though. 

Some producer sat and talked to her for 15 minutes about his new album, not asking her one question about herself. Another actor kissed her cheek while telling her The Quiet Between was the most beautiful film of the year. Someone she barely recognized tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she and Daniel Hart were hooking up.

Each fake interaction blended into one, and she finally slumped on a high chair next to the bar, ordering a glass of champagne. She sat, just breathing for a second, and looking around the room, when she heard a familiar laugh behind her. 

She spun in her chair and looked at the man, waving and a genuine smile brightening her face. They both stood up from their chairs, walking towards each other and finally landing in a hug.

"Look at you," Quincy laughed warmly once they pulled apart. "You're all grown up now."

"You sound like every interviewer this past month." She laughed.

"It's been that bad?" 

"You have no idea."

He motioned her back to the seats in front of the bar, and she eased into the fabric chair. 

"I saw the film last week," he said. "You were incredible in it."

"Thank you, Quincy, that actually means a lot." Her gaze softened.

"You looked different in it."

Camille tilted her head slightly. "Oh gosh, different good or different bad?" 

"Different, like you're finally making art that means something to you."

That caught her off guard. Most people talked about her looks, the press, or some tabloid rumor. This is why she loved Quincy; he was one of the only people who saw her for more than that. 

"That might be the nicest thing someone said to me tonight," she admitted, bringing the champagne flute up to her mouth. 

"Well, everyone in this room is full of shit." He replied, casually.

Camille laughed hard enough that she nearly choked on the sip of her drink. 

"There she is," he pointed at her dramatically. "That laugh right there–that's the girl I haven't seen in years."

"Quit it, Quincy!" She shook her head, smiling down at her glass. "You make me sound deeply troubled."

"Aren't we all?" Quincy said, leaning against the bar, his eyes scanning the room before focusing on someone behind her. He brought a hand out, ushering the person over. 

"Speaking of deeply troubled people," he said softly so the other person wouldn't hear. 

Camille turned slightly in her chair, following Quincy's gaze through the crowded room. A man emerged next to the bar. He wore all black, short curls falling loosely, framing his face. The closer he got, the more familiar he looked.

"Camille, this is Michael," he said, grabbing his shoulder. 

"Michael Jackson," she looked at Quincy, surprised, nodding to him before reaching out a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Michael looked back at her, confused for a second before asking, "Have we met before?"

She smiled and tilted her head. "I don't think so."

"Maybe I'm wrong." He said, taking her hand and shaking firmly.

"I hope so," Camille laughed. "Otherwise, that's a little embarrassing for me."

The awkwardness lingered for a second too long before Quincy interjected. "So, Michael's here working on a movie."

"A movie? Don't you make music?"

Michael laughed shyly, "Yeah, but Diana Ross got me the part. I'm making an album too."

Someone tapped Quincy on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. He grabbed Michael's shoulder, standing up from his seat.

"I'll leave you guys to it." He said, leaving a hand out to invite Michael to sit down.

Michael nodded and took the chair while Camille shuffled in her chair, getting comfortable.

"What kind of album?" Camille asked, taking another sip from her drink.

"My first real solo one. I'm actually really excited about it. I'm living here alone with my sister while I work on it." 

"That's exciting," she replied. "New York alone is rough, I would know."

"Yeah, that's what everyone keeps telling me."

"That's because everyone secretly hates New York. You know, it's fun until you're eating takeout on your floor at three am." Camille lightly replied.

Michael huffed a laugh. "That already happened yesterday."

Camille looked at him immediately, laughing. "See? You're adapting just fine."

The silence returned after both lightly laughed, Camille taking another sip to try and cover it up. Michael shuffled his chair closer, leaning in and speaking lower now. 

"Do you actually like any of this stuff?" He asked. 

Camille tilted her head, asking, "What? Parties?"

"I guess. Just all of it. Doesn't it feel so?" he paused, searching for the word. "Fake?"

She looked at him, then back to her heels resting on the metal of the chair. "You figured that out pretty fast."

"You seem tired."

It caught her off guard, her breath hitching for a moment. She looked back up to his eyes, searching.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only a little." He smiled at her, leaning back, lightening the conversation.

"I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you, but your movie was amazing," he added.

Camille only smiled politely at first, expecting the conversation to drift back into the routine compliments she was hearing all night, but he kept going. 

"The ending bothered me, though."

Her eyes narrowed, catching her attention immediately. "Bothered you?" Her eyebrows lifted slightly. 

"Not in a bad way," he added. "I just kept thinking about it after."

"Most people don't really talk about the ending." 

"I know," Michael laughed softly. "They only talk about how pretty you look in it."

She stared at him for a second. 

"That's usually the review, yeah."

"I liked how lonely she was," he admitted, quieter now. "Even while she was around him."

Before Camille could respond, someone tapped Michael lightly on the shoulder. 

"Sorry, man, they're looking for you."

Michael looked up at him, blinking like he forgot where he was for a second. 

"Oh," he glanced back toward Camille apologetically, rising from the seat. "Sorry."

"It's alright," she said, lifting her champagne glass. "You're apparently very important."

He smiled. "Don't go anywhere?" he asked, questioning.

"I'll try." Camille flashed another smirk before he got lost in the crowd again. 

"Very busy." The interviewer said under her breath, flashing a smile at Camille. She licks her thumb and pointer fingers, going to turn the page of the stack. 

The other, male interviewer, butted in, not reading the script between the two of them, seemingly having it memorized. 

"This role definitely feels different than the kind of parts we have seen you in."

Camille's eyes followed him, engaging in the conversation. He was positioned right next to the camera, so she had to look just right past it in order not to look in the lense. It was definitely unnatural, but something she had perfected over the years.

"Yeah," she replied, "I think this is the first time I've played someone closer in my age." She lightly laughed. 

"I still can't believe you're twenty." He said quickly, looking in her eyes the whole time. 

The female interviewer looked at him, noticing he wasn't following the script, and furrowed her brows in confusion. She still didn't dare to say anything, though.

Camille's smile almost faltered, her breath hitching for only a second. 

"That's what they're saying," her hands unraveling, "I'm not thirteen anymore." She tried to speak positively.

"Well, America's definitely noticed." He said, just almost under his breath, his eyes scanning her before they followed back down to the script. 

Camille's smile disappeared for a second. Before she said anything, she looked just under the camera, at the tripod. Every word, every breath, every face, was being filmed, and since this was a live interview, it could be used against her in the media, too. 

She softened her reaction, smiling again, and the female interviewer asked another question.

✶ ݁ ˖

The interview finished, and Camille shook both of the interviewers' hands, thanking them. She walked out of the studio, shouting one last "Thank you!" to the rest of the staff before slipping out of the door. 

Her publicist, Evelyn, sat right outside the door and started walking with her down the hall and back into the dressing room. Camille walked fast, sighing loudly while Evelyn tried to keep up with her. 

Camille snapped her head to say something to Evelyn.

"Why did he stop reading the script?" She protested. "I swear, Evelyn, they do it on purpose. They catch me off guard and say something off-script just to get a reaction."

Evelyn only hummed lowly, listening. 

"And for what?" she continued, "So they can plaster my reaction on some tabloid? I'm tired of it. There's a reason they have a script."

Evelyn still said nothing, opening her mouth, looking for words to help. 

They both stopped in front of the dressing room, Camille turning and sighing again, looking at Evelyn and reaching out for her hands. 

"I know it's not your fault, Eve. I'm sorry for lashing out." She brings one of her hands up to her head, rubbing her forehead. "I'm just exhausted, and those people are the cherry on top." 

"It's okay, I understand. He wasn't supposed to say any of that, but it's too late at this point." Evelyn says forgivingly. "Don't stress yourself out, okay? You handled that perfectly."

"Thank you, Eve," Camille says, dropping their hands and smiling. 

Evelyn turns on her heel, going to walk out the doors of the studio. "I'll go get the car, I'll be right back." 

Camille walked into the room, slumping onto a couch and taking a cigarette out of her bag before lighting it. 

She eased into the cushions, finally breathing in the quiet. It was never fully quiet though, there was always someone laughing too loud down the hall, a phone ringing on repeat, and the sound of the crew moving things around the set. 

Her head tilted up, resting on the back of the couch, and watching the cigarette smoke lightly curl around the fluorescent overhead lights. The silence was lonelier than comforting, and yet, it was still better than the interviews back-to-back. She wished she could be seen for her work—her art, and not just her image. 

As she brought the cigarette to her mouth, she looked back down at the cherrywood coffee table in front of her. Left on it was some magazine, with the large lettering and out-of-context photos, in order to grab the viewer's attention. 

She and her co-star, Daniel, were pictured on the front, laughing after one of their press conferences. They were both walking out of the building, her hand lightly grabbing his arm as she bent over, smiling. 

She and Daniel were cordial, but she wouldn't consider them friends. They were really just coworkers, and Daniel had an excellent sense of humor, yet they were now the topic of celebrity gossip. She brought the magazine closer, examining the grainy paparazzi photo. It was believable, honestly, they did really seem to be close, especially in private, and that's what the world loves to talk about. 

The comfort was disturbed by a knock at the door. Evelyn slightly cracked it, peaking her head through. Camille nodded her head, telling her she could come in. 

"The car's ready for you," Evelyn said, "Vinny's right outside."

"I'll be right out, thank you." 

Camille shone a smile, and Evelyn closed the door behind her. She took one last deep inhale, closing her eyes with the exhale before sitting up on the couch. She walked over to the vanity and stubbed the cigarette into the metal ashtray, grabbed her purse, and walked out. 

She and Evelyn walked down the hall before meeting her bodyguard, Vincent, and he went to open the door for them. As he pushed past the second door, he muttered something before opening it completely.

"I have to say, the paparazzi are pretty—"

His warning was muffled by the flashes and questions from the paparazzi stationed outside in the parking lot of the studio. Most of the TV and movie studios were gated, but since this was just an interview, they didn't rent out anything of that nature. 

Her brief peace from the dressing room was immediately interrupted. 

Flashes exploded instantly. Questions came crashing, overlapping each other, before Camille could even process what they were saying. 

"Camille, over here!"

"Camille, how does it feel starring in your first PG-17 movie?"

"Camille, one picture!"

"Are the rumors of you and Daniel Hart true?" 

The cold city air hit her skin despite it being warm out. Car horns echoed down the street, and each flash of the camera only made her smile harder. 

Vincent kept a strong hold on the small of her back, guiding her into the car parked on the curb. Her heels clicked against the pavement while cameras followed her every movement.

She thought back to the magazine in the dressing room. She wondered what the new headline would be.

America's sweetheart is bossy. America's sweetheart snaps. America's sweetheart drinks too much. America's sweetheart leaves the interview visibly upset.

The questions of each person began to melt into the city air as Vincent went to open the door.

"Head down." He muttered just next to her ear. 

Camille slipped into the car without another word. The flashes continued, but the questions had died out. As the car began to drive, no one spoke. She stared straight ahead, the corners of her lips still upturned. Once they continued into routine traffic, she finally sighed and let the expression fall. 

She leaned back into the leather seats, closing her eyes again. Outside, New York gleamed with gold, wet pavement, and dreams, but inside this car, it only felt constricting with exhaustion.

✶ ݁ ˖

By the time she had gotten up to her apartment, her feet were killing her. Vincent unlocked her door and held it open. 

"See you at eight tomorrow?" He asked, empathetically.

"Unfortunately."

He laughed, "I'll see you then, kid."

"Night, Vinny."

Before the door even closed, she shook off her heels, leaving them by the door. One stood up straight, the other toppling over. She didn't care to fix it. She walked beside the kitchen island, taking out her earrings and dropping them lazily on the counter along with her purse.

The makeup sat heavily on her skin, and the hairspray in her hair gave her a headache hours ago. As she walked past her bed and into her bathroom, she lazily wiped a makeup wipe on her cheek. 

She rubbed, probably not even getting everything off. She could barely recognize herself through the layers of makeup. This was the Camille she knew. The one with eye bags under the concealer and cheeks that weren't as rosy as her blush. 

"Jesus," she muttered.

She looked like herself, which somehow felt worse tonight. 

By the time she finished, she already felt lighter. She changed into an oversized shirt and pajama shorts before walking back out into the living room, preparing to watch a movie. She grabbed a bag of chips, set them on the coffee table in front of the TV, and walked back to the island to grab a cigarette from her bag.

For a few minutes, no one wanted anything from her. She was able to just exist outside of Camille Beaumont. As soon as she lowered herself to sit on the couch, the phone rang.

She watched it ring twice before groaning loudly and walking over to pick it up. 

"Hello?" She said, irritated.

"Don't hate me," an apologetic Evelyn replied. 

"It's ten o'clock, Eve," her body slumping over the counter now, exhausted. "I just got home."

Evelyn paused, guilt in her voice, "I know, I'm sorry. Just let me explain."

"I don't need you to explain. I already know I don't want to go."

"I actually think you'll have fun," Evelyn giggled, "It's a music industry event–a record release afterparty."

"I'm an actress," Camille replied. 

"And you're also the most talked about girl in America right now." 

Evelyn paused before adding, "It's a networking event. It'll look good for the press if you show up. Everyone's gonna be there."

"I was really looking forward to going to sleep early tonight."

"You don't have to stay the whole time," Evelyn continued more gently. "Just show your face, talk to some people, then you can disappear. You're very good at Irish Goodbying."

A small smile pulled at Camille's mouth, despite herself. 

"Rude, but true."

The line ran quietly as she thought. She just got home, changed, and took off her makeup. She'd have to get ready all over again–put on the mask again.

"What am I even supposed to wear?" 

"There she is," Evelyn sighed dramatically. "I knew I could get through to you."

Camille glanced towards her bathroom, the light peaking down into her room. Makeup wipes were still scattered on the counter. Ten minutes ago, she was finally feeling like herself again, and now, she was going to put her walls right back up. 

She sighed, "Fine. But I'm blaming you if it's terrible."

The streets outside smelled like gasoline and heat. The way the green palm trees would shine under flickering streetlights would take on an orange hue. She could even softly hear the bustle of life outside. The distant sounds of cars cruising, horns honking, sirens in the distance, and a group of older men, drunk, singing along to some blues tune down the block. That was the version of Los Angeles Camille loved.

But inside CBS Studio 33, the smells only made her nose burn. Hairspray, hot stage lights, powder makeup pressed into vanities and velvet chairs, and a cigarette somewhere outside, somewhere where some adult thought the kids couldn't smell. 

"Stay still for me, honey, will ya?" Some adult asked through the pin that her teeth were holding. 

Camille's eyes scanned around the room while she continued stitching her dress, when she heard screaming. 

Not scared, but excited. The kind she didn't even flinch at. The kind that followed when someone famous arrived.

"Well," Camille's mom said from the corner couch, not even looking up from her magazine. "There goes my quiet."

The room erupted in chaos; production crew members rushed in holding clipboards, a makeup artist almost dropped a box full of brushes, tripping down the halls, the sound of teenage girls shrieking pierced through the room.

"Who is it?" Camille frowns.

Her mom licks her pointer finger, flipping the page. "The Jackson 5."

Camille sat silent before the dress lady interjects, "You know. The little one everyone likes."

Everyone likes. She rolls her eyes slightly. Everyone liked her too, that's why she was here. 

The door swung open before she could ask anything else. The bright lights of the hallways pooled into the room as too many people walked in. All laughing, talking over each other, as they swiftly passed by her, only glancing for a second. 

In the middle of it all was one boy, young. A dark curly afro sat on his head. He wore a tight yellow shirt tucked into his dress pants. His dark eyes flickered toward her quickly, soft and strangely apologetic. The gaze was interrupted when his brother came down to whisper something in his ear, placing a hand on his back to direct him forward. He looked strangely calm, even tired, like he wasn't nervous at all. 

The illuminated applause sign shone red at the top of the wall. A producer, following loosely behind the brothers, crouched down next to her, smiling and placing a hand on her shoulder, his thumb briefly comforting her. 

"You ready, sweetheart?"

She nodded, stepping into her shoes and taking his hand to follow. She glanced back at her mom, but she didn't look up, giving a small wave as she saw Camille leaving in the periphery. 

As she followed the producer to the back velvet curtain of the stage, he looked back at her, asking, "You remember your lines?"

She nodded. 

"You remember to walk out when Carol Burnett says your name?"

"Mhmm."

"Perfect girl."

Always a perfect girl. Perfect smile, perfect attitude, perfect posture. Perfect America's little sweetheart.

Behind the curtain, she watched the stage. The brothers stood, laughing at something Carol said. They all looked excited, except for the little one. Michael Jackson. He sat, barely flashing a smile and only joining their laughter when he was looked at. That felt strangely familiar to her. 

"And ladies and gentlemen," Carol announced, "Camille Beaumont!"

She walked out gracefully, careful not to stumble in the gold heels adults insisted made her look older. Her eyes followed the crowd, even though the studio lights above dimmed everything beyond them. The applause sign now displayed green as she flashed a bright smile and waved to the audience before positioning herself on the black mark on the floor of the stage, never looking down.

The next few minutes blurred together in the way television did. Music, lights, smiles that could reach other planets, and adults moving kids around like chess pieces. At some point, Camille stood beside the brothers, acting like she had known them forever. The audience didn't know she didn't. The camera didn't know that they didn't even introduce themselves backstage. 

"And look at this!" Carol yells dramatically. "America may never recover from the cuteness on this stage!"

Her cheeks flushed red, smiling embarrassingly out past the stage as the audience erupted in cheers.

One of the brothers teased him, "Michael's got a girlfriend!" Which made the applause and laughter only grow.

One of the producers guided her forward so the camera could see her better. No one noticed how strange any of it was. That was Hollywood. Adults said things, children smiled through them, and everyone clapped. 

⠀⠀✶ ݁ ˖

After the next few hours of filming, her cheeks were sore from smiling so much. She said her goodbyes for the camera and slipped back behind the curtains. Another adult guided her through the halls and back into the green room. The studio felt quieter now. Audience members had left, crew members cleaned the set, and the costume crew began unpinning each of their outfits, unrushed now. 

Someone offered her a glass Coke bottle, but she declined, her mom speaking up behind her now.

"I thought I reminded you she wants Shirley Temples. That's all she drinks after filming."

The person looked back fearfully before nodding and slipping out of the door to get one.

She sat for a moment before the same crew member erupted back through the door, handing her the drink. She looks down at it, a ridiculous amount of cherries sitting on the top of the glass. 

She smiled back, forgivingly, "Thank you." Before bringing the straw to her mouth. 

There's always a period of waiting after the end of filming, and Camille would usually just wander the halls until her mom and security team would tell her it was time to go. This time, she slipped carefully through the door of the green room, eyeing each door on each side of the hallway. One of the metal door plaques read "office." Another was "wardrobe." She sat on a small bench in between two of the doors. 

Michael, the little boy, came out shyly from one of the doors, looking down at his feet while walking through the corridor. He stopped in front of her, looking down into her glass and awkwardly looking back up at her.

"Those are gross," he commented.

"Nuh uh." She replied, taking another sip of her drink.

He giggled under his breath before a door opened at the end of the hall. Someone calls out his name. He paused for a second, looking back at her again. 

"Bye." He said, lightly waving shyly. 

She swallowed the sip of her drink, watching him start to walk off. 

"Bye."

Camille's mother entered the hallway, offering a hand to let her up. She followed her, walking out of the studio and back into the dimly lit parking lot.