The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

1

 GET YOUR ASSES TOGETHER AND go get me some good goddamn stories. We need to make headlines!" Mr. Reed screams into our ears like we're deaf, which we will be soon if he keeps doing that.

I put the sandwich I have been eating down, and just when I'm starting to set up and adjust my camera lens from the sudden command our boss has given us, when in more of a shock, a herd of other paparazzis rush past me, causing me to stumble and almost dropping my camera (technically not mine, I borrow them from Mr. Reed for the work. He would kill me if I dropped it).

"Isabella! What are you still doing here? Go get your ass up and get to work for what you're actually being paid for!"

"It's actually Izzy——"

"Doesn't matter! Now go!"

I'm quickly onto my feet again, glad that he didn't realize the fact that I almost dropped my camera, and start my way to follow behind the other paparazzis.

Of course it doesn't matter what my name is or what I rather preferred to be called. Of course it doesn't. Who am I even? Nobody cares about Izzy Adams of course. Nobody.

Passing by Orange County houses, especially the ones that celebrities own, the even bigger ones than the already big ones, it always makes a small ache in my chest. I quickly turn my attention back at the herd of people and paparazzis gathered in front of me instead of looking at the glamorous houses and neighborhoods I'll never be able to afford.

Max Tom, one out of the many paparazzis that also work for Mr. Reed (Also the only one who actually cares enough to sometimes ask about my wellbeing.), quickly pulls me into the deep humbled crowd when he finds me. I think without him always helping me find some okay juicy pieces, I might actually be fired from this job a long time ago.

I protect my camera with my life as he shoves people out of our way to squeeze into the front of the large crowd. I feel an elbow jab at my stomach and it almost makes me barf out half of the sandwich I just consumed not too long ago. People shoved us back, shouting into our ears to tell us to stop cutting. And I wanted to shout back to them that this isn't even a line, it's a whole ass crowd of nosy people.

But that clearly never stops Max.

"It doesn't matter how you get the piece, as long as you've got the evidence to prove it, and that it's something that'll attract people to come see or read it, then go get the goddamn piece and write it." Max said to me the first day on the job, which is an advice I've been trying to follow ever since.

This job was never really for me. You know, being a paparazzi and all. The picture taking, the constant stalking and invading others' personal space then using the photo, either selling them, or writing for it yourself. I definitely did not imagine myself doing this when I'm thirty-eight.

Technically, I'm also a writer. A part time author and paparazzi. Well, if you need me to be even more specific, then you can say part time failed author and part time doing alright and earning not enough money paparazzi.

"Shut up, bitch! Who are you calling us invaders? You've got a camera in hand yourself!" Max shouts back at someone who had been shouting shit at us ever since we shoved her back further into the crowd, the lady sticks up her middle finger at us in response.

I can feel the summer heat of Los Angeles on the brim of my skin. And, adding the amount of other people's skin and clothes squishing along with my own, it's even hotter than it already is. It's a Saturday and I just want to go home, turn up the tv and watch some Netflix (which I can barely afford by now and might have to cancel my monthly payment and account soon). But I need to find a good piece, if I don't, I probably won't be able to pay the rent in time for this month.