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MidReal Story
The Hillsdale High Series
Scenario:Elaina Williams is an aspiring actress. She is 16 and runs away to LA to find a new life away from her horrible mother who treats her like she's invisible. Soon after Elaina arrives in LA she meets a nice, white American woman, mid-30's on a street corner who invites her to audition for a new tv show called "Hillsdale Highschool." The show is about teenagers in a singing competition and the reward is a record deal. Elaina ends up getting the lead character role and the show is a major success that Elaina is nation-wide famous in the US. But did Elaina's dreams really come true? Elaina meets and falls in love with her co-star Robby, an 18 year old young adult who invites her to stay in his extra bedroom in his apartment. Soon they fall in love and get married and have a child.
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Elaina Williams
She is a 16yearold runaway from a dysfunctional family in Tennessee. She is determined, naive, and ambitious. Elaina flees her mother's abusive treatment in LA and meets a kind stranger who helps her find a temporary home. She auditions for a TV show, Hillsdale High, and becomes a overnight sensation as the lead actress. Her romantic relationship with costar Robby Valentine ignites a media frenzy. Despite the whirlwind success, she struggles with the pressures of fame and family expectations.
Lola
She is Elaina's new roommate and confidante in LA. She is friendly, supportive, and observant. Lola helps Elaina settle into her new life in LA by showing her around the city and offering advice. While aware of Elaina's troubled past with her mother, she provides a sense of normalcy and camaraderie. Lola introduces Elaina to the idea of having fun and being carefree in LA before eventually parting ways when Elaina lands her role in the TV show.
Robby Valentine
He is an 18yearold actor playing the love interest to Elaina Williams in the TV show Hillsdale High. He is charming, caring, and ambitious. Robby meets Elaina on set and they form a deep connection, leading to a whirlwind romance. Despite his family's fame, he treats Elaina like royalty and welcomes her into his home. As the show's popularity soars, Robby and Elaina's relationship becomes the focus of media attention, with some questioning their age difference.
Elaina
I was only 16 when I left Tennessee.
It was the winter of 1995, and I turned 17 on the bus ride to LA.
I had no money, no food, and no idea what I was going to do once I arrived.
All I knew was that I couldn’t stay with my mother any longer.
They say a mother’s love is unconditional, that she will always be there for you no matter what.
That’s a lie.
My mother never loved me, not even for a second.
She hated me from the moment I was born, and she made sure I knew it every day of my life.
I was invisible to her until she needed something from me, and then I was beaten into submission until I gave it to her.
I step off the Greyhound bus at the downtown LA terminal.
My legs are stiff from the three-day ride, and I’m grateful to be on solid ground again.
The December air is warmer than it was when I left Tennessee, but I still shiver as I make my way through the crowd of people rushing to greet loved ones.
I watch as families are reunited, children running into their parents’ arms, couples kissing passionately.
No one is waiting for me.
I don’t have anyone left in this world who cares about me.
I make my way to a nearby payphone, thinking about calling home.
But then I remember her voice, and my stomach turns.
I can’t bear to hear her speak to me ever again.
Instead, I reach into my pocket and count the wrinkled bills I have left: twenty-seven dollars.
It’s not enough for a hotel room, barely enough for food. I look around the terminal, trying to decide what to do next.
The other passengers are all gone now, and I’m alone once more.
I wander the terminal for hours, watching as people come and go.
Eventually, the crowd thins out, and there are only a few stragglers left.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the bag of chips I bought from a vending machine yesterday.
I don’t know what I’m going to do or where I’m going to go.
I can’t stay here all night, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.
A woman in a blue cardigan watches me from across the room.
She’s maybe mid-thirties, with gentle eyes and carefully styled blonde hair.
After a few minutes, she stands up and walks over to me.
"Are you lost, sweetie?" she asks.
I shake my head no, but my voice cracks when I speak.
"I’m just waiting for someone," I lie.
She frowns, looking around the nearly empty terminal.
"There’s no one left," she says softly.
"I’m Margaret. What’s your name?"
"Elaina."
"Well, Elaina," she says slowly, "do you have somewhere to go tonight?"
I hesitate before answering.
"No."
She frowns again, checking her watch for what feels like the hundredth time.
"I have a spare room," she says finally.
"Just until you figure things out."
My footsteps echo against the concrete as I follow Margaret through the dimly lit parking lot.
She walks briskly, her heels clicking on the pavement, while I struggle to keep up with my heavy duffel bag.
The streetlights cast long shadows across the ground, and passing cars spray water from the recent rain.
Margaret points to a blue Honda Civic parked in the corner of the lot, fishing her keys from her purse.
I hesitate for a moment at the passenger door, remembering every warning I’ve ever heard about getting into cars with strangers.
But my stomach is growling, and my legs are tired.
I open the door and slide inside.
The interior smells like vanilla air freshener, and I breathe deeply as I fasten my seatbelt.
Margaret starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, glancing over at me occasionally as she drives.
"Why'd you leave home, Elaina?" Margaret asks gently, her eyes focused on the road.
I swallow hard, staring out the window at the blurred city lights. "I didn't have a choice," I admit quietly.
Margaret nods, as if she understands more than she's letting on. "Sometimes leaving is the bravest thing you can do."
She parks in front of a small, one-story house with a tiny front garden.
The porch light flickers as we climb the steps, and I follow her inside.
The living room is neat and tidy, with a floral couch and a coffee table covered in magazines.
Margaret leads me into the kitchen, where she pulls a Tupperware container from the fridge and heats up some leftover lasagna in the microwave.
I sit awkwardly at the kitchen table, my duffel bag still clutched tightly in my hands.
When she sets the steaming plate in front of me, I dig in ravenously, savoring the flavors of garlic and tomato sauce.
"Thank you," I mumble between bites.
Margaret smiles warmly, taking a seat across from me.
"You're welcome. I'm glad you're enjoying it."
She takes a sip from her own cup of tea before continuing.
"So, what do you think you'll do now that you're here?"
I shrug, unsure of how to answer.
"I don't know. I guess I'll find a job or something."
Margaret nods thoughtfully.
"That's a good plan. Do you have any experience?"
I shake my head again, feeling embarrassed by my lack of direction.
"Well," she says slowly, "I might have an idea. I work in casting for TV shows. We're looking for someone new right now." My heart skips a beat at her words.
This is why I came to LA in the first place - to pursue my dream of becoming an actress.
But I try not to get too excited, knowing how slim my chances are.
"That sounds interesting," I say casually, trying to hide my eagerness.
Margaret smiles knowingly, as if she can see right through me.
"It's a teen drama," she explains.
"We're looking for someone young and fresh-faced. Someone who can capture the hearts of our audience."
My stomach twists with anticipation as she continues speaking.
"We've seen a lot of girls already, but none of them have quite fit the bill. Until now."
She pulls out a stack of headshots from her purse and begins flipping through them quickly.
I watch as she pauses on one particular photo, studying it intently before passing it over to me.
It's a picture of myself, taken at school last year for our annual yearbook photo shoot.
I sit frozen at Margaret's kitchen table, my half-eaten lasagna growing cold as I listen to her explain more about the TV show.
It's called "Hillsdale High," and it follows the lives of a group of teenagers navigating love, friendship, and drama in a small town.
Margaret pulls out her cordless phone and begins making calls, speaking excitedly to someone on the other end about how she thinks she's found "the perfect girl."
Between calls, she studies my face intently, taking note of my high cheekbones and natural beauty.
I try not to squirm under her scrutiny, feeling both nervous and hopeful at the same time.
When she finally hangs up the phone, Margaret turns to me with a smile.
"The director wants to meet you tomorrow," she says, her voice filled with excitement.
"At 9 AM sharp."
My stomach twists with nerves at her words.
I've never been in front of a camera before, and the thought of auditioning for a major TV show makes me feel sick.
But I know this is an opportunity I can't afford to pass up.
Margaret must see the fear in my eyes because she reaches out and places a reassuring hand on my arm.
"Don't worry," she says gently.
"I'll help you prepare. We'll get you looking your best." She pulls out a brush from her purse and begins styling my hair, smoothing out any tangles or knots.
Next, she shows me how to walk confidently in front of the camera, emphasizing the importance of posture and poise.
Finally, she demonstrates how to speak clearly and smile naturally, giving me tips on how to relax and be myself.
By the time we're finished, it's already late into the night.
Margaret shows me to the guest room, where I collapse onto the soft bed and stare up at the ceiling.
I'm exhausted but too wired to sleep.
Instead, I get up and pad silently down the hallway to the bathroom.
As I splash cold water on my face, Margaret appears in the doorway, her expression thoughtful.
"Elaina, there's something I need to tell you," she says quietly.
I turn to face her, my heart pounding. "What is it?"
She pulls me aside and whispers something in my ear.
"The producers are getting desperate," she admits quietly.
"We've had three actresses quit during filming already. They said the show was exploiting them, that it wasn't a safe work environment."
My hands grow clammy as I listen to her words.
"What happened?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Margaret sighs heavily, her eyes filled with worry.
"They complained about the costumes being too revealing. And some of the scenes... well, they were uncomfortable with the level of intimacy required."
I swallow hard, trying to process what she's telling me.
"So why do you think I'll be different?"
I ask hesitantly.
Margaret squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.
"Because you seem stronger than the others. More willing to do what it takes to succeed."
I look down at my hands, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit quietly.
Margaret's grip on my shoulder tightens.
"You have to try," she insists.
"This could be your only chance at stardom." I take a deep breath and meet her gaze.
"Okay," I say finally, my voice steady.
"I'll do it."
Margaret smiles widely, relief evident on her face.
"That's my girl," she says, pulling me into a hug.
As we embrace, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror behind her.
My eyes look wide and uncertain, my skin pale under the harsh fluorescent light.
But Margaret's smile is warm and genuine, her eyes filled with encouragement.
Back in the guest room, I sit on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, my mind racing with thoughts of tomorrow's audition.
I pull out my notebook and begin practicing the lines Margaret gave me, whispering them over and over again in the dim light from the bedside lamp.
My hands still tremble when I think about the revealing costumes she mentioned, but I force myself to focus on memorizing the dialogue instead.
After an hour of rehearsing, exhaustion finally catches up with me.
I curl up under the blankets, clutching my notebook tightly to my chest, and set the alarm clock for 7 AM.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand at 3 AM, jolting me awake.
I groggily reach over and squint at the bright screen, my eyes slowly focusing on the text message.
It's from an unknown number, claiming to be Steven Spielberg's assistant.
They say they've seen my headshots through Margaret's agency and want me for the lead in their next major film - no audition necessary.
The message promises $2 million and instant stardom.
My heart pounds as I read the words over and over again, trying to process what I'm seeing.
I throw off the covers and tiptoe down the hallway to Margaret's room, phone clutched tightly in my hand.
But when I reach her door, I find it locked.
I knock softly, hoping she'll hear me through the thick wood.
"Margaret?"
I call out quietly, my voice trembling with excitement.
There's no response, so I knock again, this time louder.
Suddenly, I hear her voice muffled through the door, speaking softly on the phone.
"I've secured another one," she says quietly. "Yes, she's perfect. Fresh face. Young. Naive."
My stomach drops as I realize she must be talking about me.
I stumble backward, my fingers still gripping the phone tightly.
Suddenly, the door opens and Margaret stands before me, her hair disheveled and a silk robe draped loosely around her shoulders.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice low and concerned.
I hold up the phone, my hands shaking as I show her the text message.
Margaret sighs heavily and takes my hand, leading me back down the hallway to the kitchen.
She pours us both a cup of steaming hot chocolate before sitting down at the table across from me.
"That text was from our production team," she explains gently.
"They wanted to see how you'd handle the pressure of fame. It's all part of their testing process."
I stare at her in confusion, my mind racing with questions.
"But... why?"
I stammer, holding up my phone to show her the message again.
Margaret takes a sip of her hot chocolate before responding.
"We need to make sure you're ready for this. The entertainment industry can be ruthless. We have to test your limits, push you to see how far you'll go."
I set my phone down on the table, still trying to process what she's telling me.
"But... what about the phone call?"
I ask hesitantly.
Margaret smiles kindly at me, her eyes filled with understanding.
"That was just another test. They wanted to see how you'd handle pressure from someone claiming to be a famous director." I take a sip of my own hot chocolate, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
"So... it was all fake?"
I ask quietly, feeling a mix of relief and confusion wash over me.
Margaret nods sympathetically.
"Yes, it was all part of our testing process. But don't worry, we wouldn't actually put you in a situation like that. We just want to make sure you're ready for whatever comes your way."
I look down at my phone again, still displaying the fake Spielberg message on its screen.
It all seems so unreal now - like some kind of twisted game they're playing with me.
But Margaret's explanation makes sense too; after all, this is Hollywood we're talking about here...
I take another sip of my hot chocolate and try to push aside any lingering doubts in my mind.
Margaret reaches across the table and places a reassuring hand on top of mine.
"I know this must be confusing for you," she says softly.
"But trust me, we have your best interests at heart. We just want to make sure you're prepared for whatever comes next."
Back in the guest room, I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at the text message again.
Margaret's explanation makes sense - they were just testing my reactions, seeing how I'd handle the pressure of fame.
But still, my fingers hover over the delete button on my phone, hesitating for a moment before finally pressing down.
The message disappears from my screen, leaving only a blank slate behind.
I can hear Margaret moving around in the kitchen through the thin walls, washing our hot chocolate mugs and putting them away.
The clock reads 4:15 AM now, but sleep feels like an impossible dream after everything that's happened tonight.
Instead, I pull out my notebook and begin writing down everything that's transpired since arriving in LA - from meeting Margaret at the airport to this latest twist with the fake Spielberg text.
I'm determined to keep track of what's real and what's not, to separate fact from fiction in this wild world of Hollywood auditions and casting calls. As I scribble furiously in my notebook, I start to feel a sense of clarity wash over me.
It's like I've been living in a dream these past few days, caught up in the whirlwind of Margaret's promises and the allure of stardom.
But now, with this latest revelation about the fake Spielberg text, something inside me shifts.
I realize that nothing is as simple as it seems here - there are always hidden agendas and ulterior motives lurking beneath the surface.
Just as I'm finishing up my notes, there's a soft knock on the guest room door.
"Are you okay in there?" comes Margaret's voice through the thin wood.
I quickly hide my notebook under the pillow and pretend to be asleep, pulling the blankets up to my chin.
I hear her footsteps retreating down the hallway, and I know that from now on, I'll have to trust my instincts above all else.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar curtains, my notebook still clutched tightly against my chest.
The house is quiet except for the distant sound of Margaret's footsteps downstairs.
I check my phone - 7:30 AM.
Ninety minutes until the audition.
My stomach churns as I slip out of bed and peek into the hallway.
Margaret's bedroom door stands open, revealing a mess of papers and headshots scattered across her desk.
I creep closer, drawn by a familiar face among the photos.
It's another young runaway I met at the bus station yesterday.
I slip the photo into my notebook and hurry downstairs, where Margaret is humming softly as she cooks pancakes in the kitchen.
The sweet smell fills the air, and I grip the photo tightly behind my back, watching her cheerful movements with growing unease.
When she turns to greet me, I pull out the photo and demand answers.
"Who's this?"
I ask, my voice firm.
Margaret's smile falters for a moment before she recovers.
"Oh, that's just another girl I'm helping out," she says, her voice light.
"She wants to be an actress too."
I stare at her skeptically, my mind racing.
"But I saw this same girl at the bus station yesterday," I press on.
Margaret's expression hardens suddenly, and she steps toward me, reaching for the photo with trembling hands.
I back away from her until I hit the kitchen counter, still gripping the photo tightly.
Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoes through the house, and we both freeze.
A tall young man in a leather jacket walks into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Margaret.
"Hey there, I'm Jason," he says smoothly, flashing a charming smile at her.
"Margaret called me over to clear things up."
He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and sits down, crossing his legs casually as if we're old friends.
The whole scene feels rehearsed, too perfect.
Margaret's relief at his arrival is palpable as she steps back, letting him take control of the situation.
"Jason, tell her what you told me," Margaret urges, her voice a mix of desperation and hope.
He leans forward, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"Margaret's been helping girls like you get their start," he explains smoothly, "but not everyone can handle the truth about how this business really works."
I sit rigidly at the table, my hands clenched tightly around the photo.
Jason leans forward, his cologne overpowering the sweet smell of pancakes.
"Margaret scouts for special talent at bus stations," he explains, his voice low and persuasive.
"She sees potential in girls who might otherwise slip through the cracks."
He pauses, glancing at Margaret, who stands by the sink, wringing a dish towel between her hands.
"But there's more to it than that," he continues, his eyes darting back to me.
"There are people who can help you get ahead, but you have to be willing to take a chance."
His words hang in the air like a challenge.
I grip the photo tighter, feeling a surge of unease.
"Who are these people?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jason smiles again, but this time there's something darker lurking behind his eyes.
"You'll meet them soon enough," he says, leaning back in his chair.
"But first, you need to trust us."
He reaches out a hand toward me, palm up, as if offering me a lifeline.
I hesitate for a moment before sliding the photo into my jacket pocket and standing up abruptly.
"I... I need to use the bathroom," I stammer, backing away from the table. Jason's smile falters for a moment before he recovers.
"Of course," he says smoothly.
"But we're not finished discussing your future."
He stands up too, towering over me with an air of authority that makes my skin crawl.
His hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, his fingers digging into my collarbone.
"We're just getting started," he says softly, his breath hot against my ear.
I twist away from his grip, his fingers leaving burning marks on my skin.
The kitchen chair clatters to the floor behind me as I stumble backward.
Margaret lunges forward to block the hallway, but I duck under her outstretched arms.
My shoes squeak against the linoleum as I sprint through the living room, knocking over a lamp on the way.
The family photos rattle against the walls as I run past them.
Jason's heavy footsteps thunder behind me, getting closer with each step.
His breath is hot against my neck, and I can feel his fingers brushing against my hair.
I reach the front door and fumble with the deadbolt, my sweaty hands slipping on the cold metal.
My trembling fingers finally turn the deadbolt, and I burst through the front door, stumbling out onto Margaret's porch.
Jason lunges after me, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket.
I spin around, ready to fight him off, but he's already pulling me back inside.
That's when I see an elderly man walking his dog across the street.
He stops in his tracks and stares at us, his eyes wide with confusion.
"Everything okay over there?" he calls out, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.
Jason immediately releases my sleeve and steps back, plastered on a fake smile.
Margaret appears in the doorway behind him, her face tense with worry.
"Help," I mouth silently to the neighbor, hoping he can read my lips.
He nods and starts dialing a number on his phone, never taking his eyes off us.
Jason retreats into the house, whispering something under his breath that sounds like a threat.
I stumble down Margaret's concrete steps, my legs shaking as I run.
The elderly neighbor holds his small terrier's leash in one hand and his flip phone in the other, already speaking to a 911 operator.
Behind me, Jason shouts something about "making a mistake," but his voice grows distant as I close the gap between us.
The neighbor's dog barks frantically at the house while its owner positions himself between me and my pursuers.
I grab the sleeve of his brown cardigan, gasping for breath.
"I'm sorry," I say, huddling behind his legs.
"Please don't let them get me."
The terrier continues to bark at the house while its owner speaks to the 911 operator.
Jason paces back and forth on Margaret's porch, glancing between me and the street.
Margaret appears behind him, her eyes streaming with tears.
She rushes down the steps and stops at the bottom, her arms outstretched in front of her.
"Please come back inside," she begs.
"We can talk about this. We can fix it."
I shake my head, my heart still racing from my escape.
The neighbor keeps his phone raised, recording their every move.
Sirens echo from two blocks away, getting closer with each second.
Jason darts back inside the house, slamming the front door behind him.
Margaret follows, but not before shooting me one last pleading look.
The sirens grow louder, and I know I'm finally safe.
My legs give out, and I sink to my knees on the neighbor's lawn.
The elderly man keeps his hand on my shoulder while his terrier stands guard in front of us.
Two police cruisers screech to a halt at the curb, their red and blue lights illuminating the pre-dawn street.
Officers jump out of their cars with their hands resting on their weapons, shouting commands at Margaret's house.
I watch through my tears as they pound on her front door.
When no one answers, they circle the property looking for other exits.
The neighbor helps me to my feet and leads me toward a young officer who crouches down to my level.
He flips open a notepad and pulls a pen from his pocket, his eyes scanning my face with concern.
"Can you tell me what happened?" he asks gently.
I take a deep breath, ready to finally tell my story.
I sit in the back of a police car, my hands still shaking as I tell the officer about meeting Margaret at the bus station.
The young cop scribbles furiously in his notepad while I speak, his eyes darting between me and the house.
I point to the front door and describe how Margaret led me inside, how she promised to help me become an actress.
I tell him about finding the other runaway girl's photo, how Jason grabbed my arm when I tried to leave.
I explain how they took my phone and wallet, how they locked me in the bedroom with no way out.
The officer writes so fast that his hand shakes as he scribbles.
He asks me to describe Margaret and Jason, and I do my best to recall every detail.
I tell him about the suspicious noises coming from downstairs, how I found a stack of photographs in Margaret's desk drawer.
When he asks about Margaret's promises of casting calls and auditions, I pull the script pages from my pocket and hand them over as evidence. The officer glances at the pages before tucking them into his notebook.
He thanks me for my time and tells me to stay put while he goes inside to investigate.
I watch through the windshield as he joins the other officers at Margaret's front door.
They disappear inside one by one, leaving me alone in the backseat of their cruiser.
Minutes pass, and I begin to wonder what's happening inside the house.
Are they arresting Margaret and Jason?
Did they find any evidence of their crimes?
Suddenly, more officers emerge from Margaret's house carrying boxes filled with papers and photographs.
They load them into separate police cars, careful not to touch anything that might be used as evidence later on.
The young officer who interviewed me returns to our cruiser, his face grim as he radios back to headquarters.
"We've found significant evidence inside," he says into his radio.
"Requesting backup to secure the scene."
I slump against the leather seat, my whole body trembling as the adrenaline fades from my veins.
Through the windshield, I watch officers lead Margaret out of her house in handcuffs.
Her mascara runs down her cheeks as she glares at me through the glass.
She looks like a completely different person from the one who greeted me at the bus station just hours ago.
As they lead her toward a patrol car, she locks eyes with me one last time.
I shudder under her gaze, grateful when they finally put her in the backseat and drive away.
More officers emerge from Margaret's house carrying stacks of headshots and fake contracts.
They load them into separate police cars, careful not to touch anything that might be used as evidence later on.
I recognize some of the girls from their photographs, but there are many others I've never seen before.
The elderly neighbor brings me a blanket and a cup of hot tea, which I clutch tightly in my hands.
He stands guard beside the cruiser while officers photograph everything inside Margaret's house.
I watch through the windshield as they dust for fingerprints and collect DNA samples. The young officer returns to our cruiser after what feels like an eternity.
He slides into the driver's seat and turns to face me with a sympathetic smile.
"We've found your wallet and phone," he says gently.
"They were hidden in Margaret's desk drawer."
He hands them to me through the bars separating us, and I clutch them tightly against my chest.
Only now do I feel safe enough to cry.
The officer offers me a tissue from his pocket, which I use to wipe away my tears.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you," he says softly.
"But we're going to make sure these people pay for what they've done."
I nod silently, unable to speak through my sobs.