The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

8

ROSALIE STOPS THE RECORDING AND takes the last sip of her whiskey.

I wait for her to hit play again but she doesn't, instead, she stands up and looks at the clock in the study room.

"It's late, let's continue tomorrow."

I look at the time, it's only ten-fifteen.

"Is it?"

She nods, setting down her whiskey glass on my glass desk. "I think it is. Tomorrow morning? Same place here?"

I look at her, and I mean really look at her. She looks unstable, like she'll fall any moment now. Her eyes are red and watery, her eyebrows slightly crinkled together in a fuss. And it really makes me wonder how she's taking this, how I'm taking all this.

Who the hell was Maeve Sun Lively? Who was she really?

"Okay then," I get up, packing my notebook and laptop.

When we're outside the study room, not too far from the living room, I can hear the TV turned up and Carlise sits at one of the sofas.

Rosalie starts walking over to Carlise, she sits down beside her on the sofa, and I see her muttering something to her, her voice raspy with the sound of tears in them. I'm too far away to make out what she's saying but I don't go over either. Carlise doesn't say anything in response, she gathers her into her arms and I see Rosalie, who had held herself up for so long in front of me, falls into Carlise's arms. The two of them rest quietly with the sound of the TV in the background playing.

I turn in my steps and walk back to my room, leaving them in the living room. I take a hot shower and change into my "I'm Maeve Lively's Biggest Fan!!" shirt and a comfortable pair of shorts for pjs. It wasn't exactly late, but so much has happened I feel so tired like I've also been holding myself up. But there's no one for me to fall into.

I take a last glance at my notes, which has question marks overlapping each other.

If Maeve wasn't born in the city, if Maeve was never born with wealth or any sort, how did she do it? How did she become so successful? How did she get away from her abusive mother?

I want to tell myself it's probably her face, her body, that has gotten her where she is. But I don't exactly think that that's true. There's just something about her, even though I never knew her in person, you could just see it on the screen, on her. It's like, even under all the impossible circumstances she is put under, she's meant to be on the screen. Some people are born given something to accomplish, and I can't help but think if that's really the case, then Maeve Sun Lively was born to be famous.

CARLISE OR ROSALIE MUST have set a secret alarm in my room for me, because a rapidly annoying and heart-shocking noise wakes me up at six-thirty in the morning. And I'm guessing it's Rosalie when I get out of my room and into the kitchen, because Carlise is nowhere in view.

She's already dressed in a pink blouse and white jeans, reading a book and sipping a mug of freshly made coffee on the kitchen counter. When I come in, still rubbing at my eyes, she smiles at my shirt.

"Interesting shirt choice."

I look down and realize I'm still in my pjs. Ugh, that stupid Maeve Lively shirt I've decided to wear again, but I mean it is comfy.

My mind isn't always the best in the morning, especially when it's super early. I have half a clue at where exactly I'm at and what's supposed to be the plan for today. I'm eating some oatmeal Rosalie has apparently cooked up though, and it tastes blank and boring. Is this what actresses eat everyday to keep in shape?

"Are you ready now?"

I look up from my oatmeal bowl I've been trying to get myself to finish. "What?"

"I asked, are you ready now?" She looks at the clock in the kitchen. "I have to get to film set at around eight or nine, the sooner we start the more we can get done."

I nodded and pushed one spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth and shoved the rest away.

We're back in the study room, me with my laptop and notes and pen, and Rosalie with another glass of whiskey in her hand.

It's early morning and Rosalie didn't seem to me to be the type of person to be a morning drinker. I feel a little concerned.

"Do you need that drink?"

She looks down at the fully filled cylinder glass in her hand and looks back at me. "It's what keeps me steady."

I don't ask more and let her pull out the recorder we left off of yesterday.

"Ready?" She asks, her grip tight on her whiskey glass.

I look at her and I wonder if she's ready.

I nod and she hits play.