#chapter zero

chapter zero

prolouge

michael jackson × camille beaumont

los angeles, ca • 1968

word count: 1,150

Los Angeles smelled differently inside television studios.

Even Camille, at eleven years old, knew that much. 

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. 

✶ ݁ ˖

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Chapter Zero

My back is pointed towards the tall tree as I effortlessly play my golden lyre. I suddenly stop when I see a lean boy almost float towards me, his assortment of tight and loose curls bouncing with each step. He sits down, one leg over the other and tilts his head with curiosity.

“Go on!” He encourages me.

I stare at him blankly

“Please? You’re really good” He gives a big grin, which makes me intrigued.

I let out a warm smile and wave him closer. He sits beside me and I take his hand in mine. I overlap my hands over his which has the contrast like a cloud on dirt. His hands have calluses and scruff spotted on them, which made me thirst for more knowledge about this boy.

I start to play a simple song as I guide his hands through each note. His hands are the slightest bit shaky, but I continue through. 

“It’s like a map. The strings are the locations while your hands are yourself. Just think of the notes as directions, and you follow them to get a pleasant sound. That is all it is.” I say, in hopes that would calm his nerves.

“I’m not much of a musician.” He admits as his hands find a way to his knees which are now to his chest.

“Nonsense,” I counter. “Everyone is a musician, some just do not know how to express the melody they create.”

He giggles at my words and introduces himself.

“I’m Hyacinthus, you?” His deep brown eyes flutter when he says this, my heart does the same.

“Apollo” I say, not sure of his reaction.

“That’s why you are so good at the lyre?”

That’d be fun

Imagining scenarios in my head as we speak

He dies in the last episode and the epilogue leads into the main game’s story

Death is the narrator, as he should be