Ready On Set Drama

by Maisie Dean

  “Trudy’s fine,” I reassured him. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but close enough. “She’s going to be fine.” That was more accurate.

  Suddenly there was a sharp knock on Nate’s trailer door.

  “Five minutes, Nate!” said one of the assistant directors.

  Nate finally blinked and put his fork down on the table. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down to the ground like he was searching for something. Probably a place to hide, judging by the stunned look on his face. Then I noticed that it was his black suede sneakers that he was trying to slip his feet back into.

  “That’s the left foot, Nate. Other shoe—no, other foot,” I said. In the end, I had to kneel down and sort him out. I made the executive decision to tie the laces for my incapacitated client as well. I was the one who had been the incapacitator, after all. As I looped and wound the black shoestrings, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Nate would stand by Trudy and, in a few short years, be tying up his own child’s shoes like this.

  “Nate, I–” I said, but before I had a chance to get any further, Thomas swung open the trailer door, letting a bright stream of sunlight into the dim space.

  “Come on, man, what’s the hold-up?” Thomas said in a full-bodied voice.

  Nate only stood up in response and descended the narrow steps to the pavement outside. He walked slowly and steadily back toward the soundstage without a second glance at me or his co-star.

  “What’s with him?” Thomas asked.

  I shrugged. “Probably the clams in the chowder,” I suggested innocently.

  Thomas’s eyebrow lifted at the edge and he gingerly slid both hands across his stomach. “I had three bowls!” he said.

  I waved my hand and briskly followed after Nate. “I’m sure you’re fine, Nate mentioned something about an allergy…” I intentionally trailed off. I took off at a casual jog, leaving Thomas behind. “I’ll see you over there!”

  Nate was already taking direction and getting into position when I showed up. The scene was to take place in an old storage locker filled with gadgets and gizmos the characters apparently used to round up ghosts and demons in the fictional world. The whole plot was an interesting parallel to my own work, I realized, as I was often the one responsible for discovering the moles or criminals in my cases.

  When the director called, “Action!” Nate suddenly snapped out of his shocked stupor and into brilliant, and seemingly effortless, acting mode. Wow, he really did have talent!

  As soon as the camera was off, however, Nate returned to his deer in the headlights routine. To avoid suspicion by letting him wander aimlessly around set, I led him as quickly as I could back to his trailer and closed the door.

  Inside his trailer, there was a counter and a mirror with light around it—a mini version of the amenities of the larger makeup trailer a few doors down. Nate collapsed into the rotating chair and rubbed at his temples with a sigh. This was good; sound and movement was a positive sign. When Nate pulled his hand away, he had face makeup on his fingers. Desperate to do something helpful after dropping the news bomb, I jumped in and grabbed a cotton ball.

  “Here, let me,” I said. I soaked the cotton with a pink solution labeled “makeup remover,” and got to work gently scrubbing off the foundation and subtle eyeliner.

  “Thank you for all your work this week,” Nate said. “The outcome… Well, it isn’t what I expected, but you still did a good job of handling my world. There wasn’t a whisper campaign at all. It was just my paranoia getting the best of me.” Nate closed his eyes while I passed over them to get all the brown liner that was left. “Now that I know the truth, everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Everything will be fine,” I said supportively. I threw the used cotton into a small silver waste bin.

  Nate stood up. “Thanks, Kacey. I should make some calls now, so you’re welcome to head out.” He hadn’t fully bounced back to his usual self but there was a weak smile on his lips. “I enjoyed working with you and your agency. Hollywood is all about favors, and you’ve really done me a solid by keeping all of this business with Trudy under wraps. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I was about to say no when a nagging thought crept from my mind to my lips.

  “Actually…” I said hesitantly. “Would it be out of line to ask if you could submit my demo reel to your agent? When I dropped the paperwork off to them, the accountant suggested it.”

  Nate’s smiled widened, and not in critical amusement like I had feared, but genuine warmth.

  “Absolutely. You should submit your reel,” he said. “I’ll start putting in a good word for you right now because I have to call my agency. I want to get copies of all my contracts and deal memos and get my finances reorganized. Apparently, I’ve got a family to support!” Nate exclaimed and then quickly covered his mouth, realizing he might have spoken too loudly.

  Nate still looked shaken from the news. He was fidgety as we said our goodbyes. He pulled out his phone. A small smile kept creeping back into the corners of his mouth. It appeared that something good might have come from hiring the agency after all.

  CHAPTER 16

  I woke up the next morning with a jolt. My dream had been full of paparazzi and red carpets. In it, I’d been wearing a deep red, couture gown, and walking confidently against the backdrop for an awards show. The loud voices of fans and journalists blurred together as one unified hum until one particular voice stood out in the crowd.

  “Kacey! Kacey,” Lucky’s voice had rung out over the rest. “Your case isn’t closed, you haven’t finished the paperwork!” Lucky elbowed his way through the crowd, his suit disheveled from being pushed and prodded amongst the throng of people. Suddenly I realized that all of the people behind the flashing cameras were ones I’d met on cases. Some of them were clients, but most were the criminals I had caught. Now they all looked eager and pleased to be ‘capturing’ me through their lenses.

  Then Harrison and Owen appeared beside Lucky. “You can’t go, Kacey,” Owen said.

  “I need your report tonight,” said Harrison.

  “But I–” I managed to stammer. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton. “I have to get my award…”

  Lucky smiled as if he hadn’t heard me. “See you at Doyle’s later?” he asked, but before I could answer, he disappeared.

  Right before my eyes flew open, I heard a baby cry out somewhere further along the red carpet.

  I sat up quickly to clear my head of the confusing dream. I was relieved it was already beginning to fade into what felt like bits and pieces of an old memory.

  My phone screen told me it was half past nine in the morning. I usually like to sleep in later than that on the weekends, but I was awake now, so it was time to get up. I pulled on a grey sweatshirt and some comfy leggings and made my way to the kitchen. Rosie’s hair was still in the loose bun she must have slept in. Strands of bright blonde hair shot out in all directions.

  Despite her bedraggled look, Rosie was as perky as ever. She was the morning person between the two of us.

  “Good morning,” she sing-songed.

  I happily put up with Rosie’s chipper attitude because it meant I never had to wait for the coffee to brew.

  “Here,” she said, pushing a sunny yellow mug into my hands, “Drink up. Revive yourself.”

  I took her direction seriously and swallowed several gulps of hot coffee in a row while I took a seat at our tiny kitchen table. It wasn’t much larger than a TV table, but it was large enough for two plates and two cups, or in the case of that morning, two steaming mugs and a box of stale donuts.

  “Breakfast of champions,” I said. I flipped open the thin cardboard box and selected a chocolate glazed. The box had been sitting there for a couple days and an impressive amount of oil had seeped across the bottom.

  Rosie chose a rainbow sprinkle. “Nothing like stale donuts and coffee,” she said and then frowned at her donut. “I thought that by this time in life my Saturday mornings w
ould be filled with fancy brunches across the city, new mimosa flavors each week.”

  “Too many rom-coms?” I suggested.

  “No such thing,” Rosie quickly countered.

  “Cheers to that,” I said, extending my yellow mug toward her purple one with an unsatisfying clank. While our small table was suitable for breakfast time, the hard chairs didn’t scream relaxing weekend, so Rosie and I moved onto the couch in the living room.

  I pulled out my laptop as Rosie and I caught up on the week.

  Rosie let out a long sigh. “I wish you worked with Nate Pavel all the time,” she said.

  “He isn’t exactly on the market if you remember,” I said. I had given Rosie the full update about Trudy and sworn her to secrecy.

  “I know,” Rosie said. “But a girl can dream.”

  I nodded, distracted by my task of recutting my demo reel. I wanted to spruce it up before Nate passed it on to Ms. Zimmerman. I only had one shot left, I had to make it count.

  “What are you doing on there?” Rosie asked.

  Nate’s favor was one thing I hadn’t caught Rosie up on yet. Something in me was hesitant to expose my wavering career desires once more. It must have sounded like a broken record to her by now.

  “Just retouching my demo reel. Nate offered to pass it along to his agent for me,” I said, keeping my eyes on the screen.

  “Oh,” Rosie said.

  Rosie was so much like a sister to me that it only took that one word and her tone to tell me exactly what she was thinking.

  “I know, I know. I’m happy with the Bookers. But then this opportunity arose. I might as well give acting one last shot, right?”

  Rosie’s tone was calculated. “Right,” she answered.

  “Besides, it’s not like anything will come of it. You should see the women in that place, and they’re just the assistants!”

  “Might as well try,” Rosie said again in the same distant tone.

  I let my breath out in a huff and pushed my messy hair back over my shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m doing exactly what Tippy said I would. I hate it when she’s right, but she doesn’t have to know. Nothing will come of it anyway,” I rambled on.

  “That woman can read minds,” Rosie said with wide eyes. “Good luck keeping it from her.”

  Rosie turned on an episode she’d missed earlier that week, while I snipped and added to my five-minute demo reel.

  “Shoot,” I said, growling in frustration.

  Rosie was too wrapped up in the drama on-screen to notice. I was having a technical issue with the file size of one of the clips. It was one of my more recent roles, the last one before I’d started working for the Bookers. In the clip, I looked more mature. My acting was brief but skillful. I had to include it if I wanted to have a shot at impressing Ms. Zimmerman.

  I emailed Owen and explained the technical glitch as best as I could with my limited computer lingo. Minutes later, he emailed back, “Working in the office this morning. Come by and I’ll sort it out.”

  Rosie mumbled her goodbye when I grabbed my laptop and purse and headed out the door. According to her, the episode was “just getting good.”

  In the car, I realized I’d forgotten to bring my auxiliary cord to listen to the music on my phone. My car was too old to have any wireless capabilities. I turned on the radio. A couple songs later, a particular name caught my attention and I turned up the volume. The radio hosts were discussing something that had been released on the internet.

  “I’m honestly shocked, Tonya,” said the male host.

  The female host scoffed. “Shocked? I’m horrified. It’s completely unacceptable, there’s no way Nate Pavel is ever coming back from this.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The office was empty except for Owen, which made sense because it was Saturday morning. Lucky had most likely just woken up in an unfamiliar bed somewhere in the city. Tippy was no doubt attending some sort of brunch with free-flowing mimosas. And even Harrison, the truest workaholic there ever was, preferred to have his Saturdays for whatever it was that Harrison did outside of work. Owen had the office phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder when I walked in.

  “Yes. I hear you. We’re going to throw all available resources at this and find the source of the leak,” Owen was saying while using both hands to type lightning-fast across one of his keyboards. He must have been speaking with Nate. “Yes. We will.” With that Owen ended the call.

  I glanced around at the empty desks. Resources were scarce at present.

  “Nate?” I asked.

  Owen answered gravely and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

  “I heard something on the radio, what happened exactly?” I asked.

  “It’s probably easier to show you,” Owen replied. “Plus, it isn’t something I want to recap using exact language.”

  Now I was even more curious. Owen hit play on the video which already had a million and a half views. In the video, a man wearing a burgundy sweatshirt paced back and forth, seemingly unaware he was being filmed. He held a stack of papers which I soon identified as a script. The quality of the video wasn’t excellent, but it did look like Nate. When the man spoke louder, I was positive it was Nate. I had been listening to his voice all week. In the video, Nate appeared to become distracted while doing a scene, then angrily shouted racial slurs at someone off camera. His words were vulgar, and his tone was angry and charged up. The hateful speech didn’t sound like anything the Nate I knew would ever say to anyone, but I had only known him for a week.

  When the clip ended, Owen said, “Nate called in and swore up and down that whoever this guy is, it isn’t him.”

  “Is there any way we can know for sure? Where did this video even come from, and why is it being released now?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. But Nate swears it wasn’t him,” he said.

  “And what about all those resources we’re supposed to throw at it?” I said, taking in the empty office again.

  Owen didn’t look perturbed. He puffed out his chest and typed away at the keyboard. “Luckily for this business establishment, and for Nate, I happen to be the right guy to analyze digital footage.”

  “My hero,” I said.

  Owen’s face reddened.

  I took a seat on the edge of his desk and swung my foot back and forth.

  Owen cleared his throat. “This may take a while. You don’t have to stay,” he said.

  “I’m sad to say that I really don’t have anything better to do at the moment,” I replied. “Plus, you might need backup. I’d better stay.”

  Owen smiled, his gaze rooted intently on the computer screen.

  ***

  It took Owen, the computer whiz, under half an hour to determine that the footage in question was nearly a decade old.

  “Why would it surface now?” I wondered aloud. Owen was used to my vocal musings by now. He tended to hear them all as rhetorical, which was only an issue when occasionally they weren’t.

  “The bad news is, judging by the biometrics program I ran, this is, in fact, our Hollywood up and comer. Do you have any idea why he would lie?”

  I widened my eyes and gestured to the screen. Nate’s language had been all kinds of offensive.

  “I don’t mean deny it in front of the general public. I meant lie to us, the investigative team hired to help him with his career stalemate,” Owen clarified.

  I shook my head. It didn’t seem like him at all, but I’d seen his brilliant acting in dozens of scenes over the course of the previous week. He was an actor, capable of creating all manner of believable stories.

  I was still seated on the edge of Owen’s desk, swinging my feet around impatiently. “It doesn’t make any sense. Not the video, not the timing, not any of this. We need to get the truth from Nate. I’ll call him,” I told Owen.

  At that moment Owen’s eyebrows lifted and he looked past me at the front door of the office. I had already pulled out my phone, but he leaned over and put his hand on to
p of the screen.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said.

  I heard the rattle of the doorbell and quickly spun around to face the newcomer.

  “Nate!” I said. “What is going on?”

  Nate’s face was flushed and blotchy. His breathing appeared to be rapid, and his hand kept returning to the side of his head to smooth down his hair.

  “I was hoping that you would be able to tell me,” Nate said.

  I could only describe his tone as desperate. For a moment, Nate’s gaze traveled around the room, taking in the haphazardly stacked boxes of legal files and dated desktop computers. His brows knit together even more deeply. It was his first time in the office, and he did not look impressed. I certainly wouldn’t either if I had become accustomed walking into the lobby at Zimmerman Talent.

  Nate marched over to where Owen and I were still hunched over his laptop, his face tumbling into an even greater display of despair upon seeing the still image from the paused video.

  “Play it again,” I told Owen.

  Nate grabbed at his face with both hands. “Please, no. I’ve already seen it–”

  “Play it, please,” I repeated to Owen and he struck the space bar.

  “Nate, just see if anything jogs your memory,” I said gently.

  It was right at the point where the man in the video—Nate, according to Owen’s biometrics—threw his script aside with a final flurry of curses and offensive slang, when Nate’s jaw dropped open.

  “It is me,” he said, dazed. “I have put this out of my mind for so long that I didn’t even recognize it anymore.”

  My heart sank. It was Nate, and it was all across the country by now. No matter how much I liked him or privately felt like a silent cheerleader for his new and unexpected family, I couldn’t see any way of protecting him now.

  “You said those things?” I asked softly. In the back of my mind, I was praying that there was some kind of explanation.

  “I did,” Nate said. “But it’s not what you think! I swear. My drama club tried to put on this play back in high school. It was meant to be provocative and illuminating. All that racist stuff is only part of the play.”