Everyone in our section was either nominated or presenting; all of us pretending to be casual and relaxed in our heavy beaded gowns and borrowed Harry Winstons as if this were (yawn) just another day. I wondered if my mother was watching. Despite Penny and Nicole’s advice, I hadn’t sent money. She could publish all the pictures she wanted; she’d get nothing from me. Christ, Mirabelle had to be at least eighteen by now, she could probably loan Mom a few bucks. Mirabelle. Would she be watching?

I shook off the thought and looked around at the famous faces. Meryl, Jack, Holly, Shirley. It was exciting to see this many of my idols in one place. I remembered an autograph book I’d had as a child, a peach vinyl one that read “Autographs” in embossed script letters. Nicole had the same book in lime green. On weekends, we’d chase down the famous on their way in or out of the Colony gates, competing to see who could collect the most autographs. I suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion. Nicole and I had come so far together. It was incredible to have a best friend with whom I shared so much history. I searched for her. She stood at the end of our row shaking hands with that weasel Devon Carr.

“Excuse me,” I said to Brett, stepping over him and nudging past Ed Harris and Kathy Bates. “Nicole!”

“Hey, Jax, I’m leaving for the Green Room. You’d better take your seat.” She turned to go.

“Wait.” I gripped her hand. “Nicky, remember our autograph books?” I put my arms around her gingerly, careful of hair and makeup.

“Yeah, honey.”

“But Nic, really. Can you believe we’re here?”

She ducked out from the circle of my embrace as if she had been overcome by too much perfume. “Save it for your acceptance speech,” she chortled. Then she patted my shoulder and ran down the aisle.

“Good luck, Jackie,” Devon called from across the aisle where he stood schmoozing with Steve Connigan. Steve had been nominated for best screenplay. Devon had been left out of the best director category. The power had shifted.

I avoided stepping on all the famous toes as I made my way back to where Brett slumped in his seat. I sensed the auditorium of eyes zoom in on us. “Sit up,” I whispered.

“Nobody here takes me seriously,” he whispered back as the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play.

“Oh God, please!” The spotlights flew past us. “You’re only thirty-one. With the money your films make, you’ll be knighted by the time you’re thirty-five. Sir Barney.”

“Ha-ha, Jackie.”

“Brett, can’t you just be happy for me for one second?”

He slumped lower. “Can’t you be happy for yourself? Why do we both have to be happy for you to be happy?”