Dear Diary, it's Marilyn

Chapter 17

Good evening world! I should have updated this morning, I'm sorry, but I was busy with my stupid, yucky, boring driver's ed class. It's this online thing to get my permit and it takes forever! Well, not really because I'm almost done and I just started yesterday, but it's super duper tedious. I swear, if I have to read about one more car part, I'll cry.

On a brighter note, 47 votes last chapter! Woot woot! *celebratory dance* So this time let's try for 48? That way I'll have more time to write, too.

There will be a little note at the end of the chapter to clarify a couple things.

So don't forget, 48 votes! Enjoy the chapter!!!

Chapter 17

I tiptoed into Arnold’s office and held my breath, barely making a sound. Arnold’s back was towards me and he had yet to notice my presence.

His desk was messy; loose papers scattered everywhere, books piled up all over the place. A little bronze placard atop a pile of letters was engraved Arnold Maxwell.

This is your last chance to sneak out of here and run, Marilyn! But my curiosity kept me rooted to the floor. I had to know what that magazine said.

“Mr. Maxwell?” I tried to whisper, but it came out silent. I raised my voice. “Mr. Maxwell!”

He spun around in his chair to face me. His thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, his bulbous head shone with its lack of hair. Arnold Maxwell was not a terribly attractive man, or perhaps I was just judgmental.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Focus on the magazine!

“Miss Monroe,” he nodded solemnly at me, “have a seat.” Arnold gestured at the seat across from him. Though his expression was grave, the twinkle in his eye showed otherwise. Could he hear my heart pounding away in my chest? Was he enjoying watching me squirm? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

My head held high, I walked slowly and deliberately to Arnold’s desk and took a seat. I wanted to give off a confident air. Or at least seem optimistic.

“I’m sure you know why I called you in.” I nodded shortly and he continued. “I have this morning’s issue of Life Magazine right here.” He pushed the magazine towards me. “Take a look.”

I broke eye contact with him to check the magazine. The cover said “Marilyn Monroe: The talk of Hollywood”. That could be positive or negative.

 The picture was one I had taken when working for Blue Book Modeling Agency. I was leaning against a wall, my eyes half closed, and my dress was slipping off my shoulders.

I cringed as I inspected the cover. If the article was trying to make me appear a whore, it was off to a good start.

 The index said my article was on page 23 so I flipped through until I found it. At the top of the page was a nude picture of me, although parts of it had been blacked out. The header was the same as the front page. With one last glance up at Arnold, I began to read.

Every so often, more in hope than conviction, Hollywood announces the advent of a sensational glamour girl, guaranteed to entice people from all lands to the box office. Usually the sensation fizzles. But today the most respected studio seers, in a crescendo of talk unparalleled since the debut of Rita Hayworth, are saying that the genuine article is here at last: a sturdy blonde named Marilyn Monroe.

Three years ago Marilyn was trying to get a start like any other starlet: a low-salary contract with 20th Century-Fox, small parts in movies, choice as Miss Flamethrower by an Army unit. She even posed for calendar art for a few badly needed extra pennies. Somewhere between her ingenious mind and voluptuous body came a spark of the kind that makes movie personalities. Her bit parts stood out in big films (All About Eve, Asphalt Jungle).