Horror In Hollywood Short Story Contest: “Award Season” by Sarah Fannon (3rd place)

Award Season

By Sarah Fannon

There was something in the drinks. I stared down at my White Russian, the cream floating on top like a cloud, melting into the brown liquid below. I’d barely had any, and the room was dizzier than a few sips would have caused. I looked over at Jake, who was chatting up a crowd that blurred into an amorphous thing. There was already buzz for his Oscar. He’d been nominated for three films before this one, but never won. Partygoers touched my arm and asked what it was like to work with him every day, and to kiss him. You both must have steamed the cameramen’s glasses because those scenes were hot hot hot, one woman said with a strange sort of pride despite having nothing to do with it. I said something about how it was only movie magic because Jake kissed like a limp flower and she stormed off. 

Everyone seemed to feel I was approachable, just little Katherine from Michigan who had good-lucked herself into a starring role. As a fun party pastime, I tried to picture what scene of me they’d use in the Oscar reel for Best Actress if I got nominated. They always showed tears and yelling because it was the most succinct way to show someone who had never seen the movie that hey, this person can at least mimic emotion. Maybe they’d choose the dark shot of me sitting naked in the empty bathtub, monologuing to Jake’s character about how I couldn’t trust men. Or maybe it’d be the scene where my face was a smear of lipstick and mascara as I scolded Jake’s character for treating me just like his father had treated his mother. Thinking about it made embarrassment crawl up my body like bugs. Especially because every major scene I had was tangled up in his scenes. I could imagine the camera pan to me in a velvet red dress on awards night after they played the clip, how I’d smile politely but mechanically. I wouldn’t watch the clip but would instead stare at my hands knotted up in my velvet lap. 

After another guest put their arm around me like I was a frontrunner for America’s Newest Sweetheart and that meant I was something inherently tangible, maybe even edible, I slipped into Jake’s bedroom. I’d never been in there before despite what the tabloids liked to say. I looked at the books by his bed and was surprised by the impressive titles until I realized they were most certainly just as much of a prop as anything we used on set. 

I’d only been there for a minute before someone stumbled in. It was Jake with his arm around someone I recognized as the girl who hadn’t won Best Supporting Actress last year for a film where she’d played a stripper. I showed my tits for nothing, she joked on a nighttime show the next day and I remember thinking she sounded so stupid and thankless, but having been behind the camera myself now, I understood the bitter edge to her voice. 

They looked surprised to see me and I turned bright red.

“I’m so sorry, I was looking for the bathroom,” I said in a rush.

“No worries,” he said. “Just close the door on your way out?”

I ran past them and the girl said, “I loved you in the movie. I hope you win!” 

I didn’t turn to thank her or tell her it was a longshot I’d even be nominated. I ran out and slammed the door behind me. They wasted no time at all, and I was eager to join the crowd to avoid the loud, disturbing sounds she was making.

A woman I vaguely recognized with salt and pepper curls sidled up to me against the wall and said, “Your first Hollywood party, huh?”

“How can you tell?”

“You have that glazed look of first timers, and a little glint of disgust for this,” she said, gesturing to the bodies around us. “I’m Maria. Can I offer some unsolicited advice?”

“Why not? I don’t have to take it,” I said with a hollow laugh. 

“Head home now. There’s no reason to stay if you’re not having a good time.”

“I’m not having a bad time,” I lied, taking a swig of my drink that I was still holding before remembering that it was laced with something else. “Hey, do they put something in these?”

She laughed and gave me a knowing look. “These parties happen every year, all year. They get bored with the awards, with each other, with the parties. But they keep doing it. So, they find new ways to make it fun, like by spiking the drinks so everyone is high as a kite.”

“That’s so terrible.” 

She patted her waist and said, “That’s why I carry a flask. You’ll learn, kid.” 

Maria walked off and I stayed against the wall, wondering why I was even still at the party. I’d made my appearance and could make a respectful exit. Just as I was deciding to leave, the music got way louder, but I heard a distinct scream mixed in with the bass and the falsetto. No one seemed to notice. I turned to look at Jake’s bedroom door and as if on cue, it was opening, and he was leaving through it. But the blonde girl didn’t leave with him. Emma, I remembered suddenly. That was her name. 

Jake closed the door. There was a gleaming, gold statue in his hand and I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, not just because I’d never seen an Oscar in real life before, but because it was wriggling. He set it on the coffee table and headed to the bar. No one paid it any mind, and I felt like the midwestern townie they took me for as I went to go pick it up with my hands, watching as pale spots that looked like skin became gold-plated before my eyes. I’d once read they weighed as much as newborns and it was true, the thing feeling heavier in my hand than I’d thought after watching so many winners hoist them around. I traced its gold-plated chest and felt a thump beneath my fingertip. A heartbeat. 

I slammed the statue back on the table, and as I pulled my hand back, I realized there was a blonde strand of hair twisted in my fingers that I’d pulled off from its head before it’d been slurped under the gold plating. Maria appeared at my side and I turned to her with unbridled disgust, using my face as a question because I didn’t even know how to put my questions into words. 

“I told you awards got boring,” she said with a shrug. “This adds a kick.” 

I thought of the spiked drinks and how if I’d had more, it would have turned the night into a mess of euphoria I wouldn’t be able to remember the next day, or even in real time at the party itself. It’d be a party where everybody was a collage of paper dolls stuck to one another so that I wouldn’t be able to tell you who left when or who had even attended. The kinds of questions they asked when people went missing. 

When I moved towards Jake’s bedroom, Maria put a hand on my shoulder. 

“She’s not in there, sweetheart. You should go home.”

I wrenched myself away and grabbed my purse. I went to the bar and shoved a huge cash tip towards the bartender. 

“Give me the strongest thing you have.” 

While he disappeared to the row of glasses behind him, I chugged the rest of my White Russian and stared out at the crowd. It turned to the night sky, dresses glinting like clumps of stars. The Oscar statue glinted as someone raised it above them, chanting Jake’s name. I wanted to go over there and tell them to chant Emma, that that was only fair, but I lost that train of thought and just stared as the statue was held aloft and exchanged between sweaty hands. It looked so pretty in the dark. 

The girl next to me at the bar slurred, “You’re a shoo-in this year. You’ll get your own little gold dude.” 

I turned to look at her, my mouth curling into a wild grin. “You think so?”

She touched my hand and said, “Of course, you so deserve it.” 

“I deserve it,” I muttered to myself, picturing the perfect spot I’d keep it if I ever won: above my fireplace so that it was the first thing someone saw when they walked in. 

The bartender brought me my drink and I raised it up to the girl beside me. We clinked our glasses and I said, “To award season,” before drinking the whole thing in one, long, deliberate gulp.