He stood up and crumpled the Snickers wrapper in his hand. “Okay, wish me luck. I’m so sick of eating ramen noodles.”
“Break a leg, Engelbert,” Max said.
“Psychic Lifeguard would never allow that to happen,” he deadpanned before disappearing around the corner.
Max leaned her head back against the wall and let her eyelids drift shut again. Her phone buzzed again but she was too tired to care. She made a mental note to check in with Jake later, just in case she’d missed something dramatic at all the Spring Carnival meetings she’d been blowing off to help Brooke rehearse.
“So, these guys totally dig the blog,” Brooke announced as she reappeared. “People apparently think I’m ‘bravely funny.’ ”
“I would agree with that,” Max said, and smiled. “Are we done for the day, finally? Bravely funny blogs don’t write themselves.”
OPENBRKE.COM
MARCH 19
Lots of questions from readers after my last entry. Apparently none of you believe that I actually own shoes by Jessica Simpson, to which I say: Go try them on and then tell me who’s crazy. And honestly, as much as I treasure my Jimmy Choos and my Blahniks, I have no patience for footwear elitism. A cute shoe is a cute shoe. Maybe that will be my new cause célèbre. It beats that made-up charity those boneheads from Jugular are pimping on the cover of People this week. Whoever heard of Juvenile Fang Syndrome? They’re like the Hollywood version of that e-mail where a “prince” from Nigeria begs for financial help.
Let’s take a look at the rest of the Open Brooke mailbag:
Q. Are you dating anyone?
A. I don’t have time! My sister, Molly, is dating a guitar player (you might be familiar with his band, Mental Hygienist, because they’re in a Facebook contest right now that’s looking for the theme song for MTV’s new show Bullfight Club), and so she’s almost never around—having a boyfriend is like having a full-time job. So for me it, would be like a third career, behind school and acting. I’m not that industrious. Plus, half of young Hollywood has that Bieber hair that looks like someone dropped it on their heads from a high place. I can’t date that. He would use all my product.
Q. Have you gotten any cool auditions lately?
A. Some cool, and some whose wretchedness defies description. I did a reading opposite the star of a popular teen soap who distracted me the entire time because she was wearing knit arm-warmers, a tank top, and shearling booty shorts. I’m not kidding—they were like Uggs for your butt. If Antarctica gets an NFL franchise, then I know what the cheerleaders will be wearing. She also kept spitting on every fourth word. Insider tip: If you’re auditioning for her show, bring an umbrella. But I also read for what is going to be the teen girl part of the year, and just between us, I’m pretty sure I nailed it. (Of course, twenty thousand other aspiring actresses probably told their friends the same thing.) This movie is based on a popular book series, and so one of the stock “getting to know you” questions at the audition was about your favorite book with a teenage protagonist. I wonder how many people answered Twilight, because when I told the casting people I loved Catcher in the Rye, one of them dropped her coffee. My pet theory is that the entire genesis of teen-centric entertainment—from, say, Ferris Bueller to the very existence of the CW—could be traced back to that book’s success, and its welcome insistence on giving a teenage character the same intellectual and emotional heft as an adult one. And a snarky POV, of course. But they didn’t get to hear my mad literary science, because they were too busy trying to mop up that woman’s coffee mess. So you’re getting it first.
Q. Are you the answer to the blind item in last week’s Hey! about the meth-head child of a major celebrity?
A. It definitely sounded like it was supposed to be me. But as anyone who has ever seen me in person can attest, I’ve got the furthest thing from meth-face. Also: I’ve seen enough people in this town turn into drooling lunatics to know that I should avoid anything stronger than Advil.
However, I’ve got some juicy tidbits for you:
1) WHICH famous niece was sent packing after a Nancy Drew audition because “with her coloring she wouldn’t work as a redhead”?
2) WHICH spunky starlet got a seriously lousy birthday present from one of her party guests? He took her to Crab Fest, and I’m not talking about Red Lobster.
3) WHICH former teen star’s mom has turned into a mega-jackass? (No, it’s not anybody in my social circle.) Listen: This city is all about rejection. So if you are a mom whose kid is putting him- or herself out there every day, trying to be the one in a million who hits it big, don’t be a jerkwad. Imagine if you had the fate of your family’s grocery budget on your shoulders at sixteen, when all you really wanted to be doing was daydreaming about boys and maybe getting drunk on wine coolers at a college party. It would’ve sucked, right? So stop yelling. It’s gross. Also, I hate your pants. I’m just saying.
Until next time,
B.
ten
“PICK UP YOUR FEET, McCormack!” the gym teacher, Coach Petit, yelled. “We’re not paying you to chat!”
“You’re not paying me to run, either,” Max panted, infinitesimally increasing her pace around the Colby-Randall track. “I don’t know how you deal with her every day in practice.”
Molly, jogging alongside her for company, grimaced. “The beauty of cross-country is that it’s based on running away from her for long periods of time.”
“Where is Brooke, anyway?” Max crabbed. “I know Friday afternoon gym is totally lame, but she’s already skipped it like ten times this year.”
“She got a note from Brick’s hypnotherapist. Something about the prospect of group sports contributing to her claustrophobia.”
“I have got to get in with her doctor,” Max said. “I’m being crippled by how badly I need to take a nap.”
Things had been crazy since OpenBrooke.com launched. And yet, weirdly fantastic—being so busy somehow made Max more productive. Her grades were up, because the little time she had to study, she had to maximize. She and Brooke had slipped into a pleasant social truce—they weren’t sitting around braiding each other’s hair and talking about their periods, but they weren’t sniping at each other all the time, either. (Well, not in a mean way, anyhow. Max didn’t think she could live in a world where she couldn’t get in a couple of digs at Brooke Berlin every now and again—it was like getting a dog to unlearn how to bark—and she suspected Brooke felt the same about her.) And above all, the blog was exploding, thanks to a mention on Conan. Max loved hearing chatter about it everywhere she went, be it history class or Café Munch just off campus, or on her various errands with Brooke. It was addictive.
They rounded the top of the track, which was set into the base of one of the foothills Colby-Randall abutted. Cement benches had been erected at some point in the thirties, when the venue had been an outdoor amphitheater. While the junior class girls ran laps, the guys were running the stairs. Max and Molly reached them just as Jake Donovan finished.
“Max!” he yelled, trotting toward them. “Are you avoiding me?”
Max could feel Molly’s eyes on her. And Jake’s. And other people’s. “No,” she said, as Jake fell into stride with them.
“Hey, Dix,” he said, leaning across her to greet Molly. “Do you think Max is avoiding me?”
“Why would you think that?” Molly asked him.
Jake made a “duh” face. “Well, because I’ve texted her about a hundred times and she never answers, and,” he added, turning to Max, “you never go to the carnival planning meetings and it’s so boring, especially now that Jennifer isn’t speaking to me.”
“Why isn’t Jennifer talking to you this time?” Max asked.
“Dude, we broke up. For real. I even changed my Facebook status to single.”
Max stopped, confused. How had she not noticed that? Come to think of it, when was the last time she’d checked Jake’s Twitter? “I must have missed that,” she said feebly.
/> “Really?” Molly said, then shot Max an apologetic look.
Jake beamed. “I took a stand,” he said. “She was just always kinda mean to me. Coach told me I have to line up in the shotgun next season instead of under center, and she didn’t even care.”
“I’m sorry,” Max offered. It might have been the biggest lie she’d told all year, and based on the last two weeks alone, that was saying something.
Jake shook his head. “It’s totally for the best. I have better people to hang out with. People who make me happy.” He inched toward her. “But then I started worrying that you were mad at me or something.”
“Me?” Max asked, confused. Suddenly she felt very conscious of smelling like… well, like gym class.
A wide, white-toothed grin spread across Jake’s face. “Yeah, you, dummy,” he said. “I really missed you.”
“Missed me?” Max echoed again. Molly coughed lightly. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’ve just been really busy with an… outside project.”
“McCormack, stop flirting and step it up!” Coach Petit screamed from across the track.
Jake jumped. “God, she’s meaner than Coach,” he said. “Anyway. I’m stoked we’re cool.” He did that boy thing where he turned his body so that he nudged her in the arm. “We should really hang out sometime.”
“Yes, sometime,” Max said, still discombobulated.
“Like, just the two of us.”
Max begged her jaw to stay hinged. She could feel a flush climbing her cheeks. Molly stepped in and grabbed her. “Petit is going to kill you if you don’t start running,” she said, pushing Max forward.
Jake beamed and held out a hand, palm forward. “Don’t leave me hanging, McCormack,” he said, and Max gave him the world’s most awkward high five before trotting away.
Molly turned to Max and raised her brows. “What just happened?”
Max shook her head. “I have no idea. Did he…?”
“I think he did,” Molly said. “How did you not know they broke up? You usually monitor his social media like he’s al-Qaeda and you’re the CIA.”
“I don’t know,” Max marveled. “I feel like I should get fired or something.”
Molly grinned. “I guess you’ve been enjoying yourself too much with the blog to care.”
“Yeah, right,” Max scoffed, picking her pace up to a jog. “Like writing about Brooke’s favorite toenail polish is so fun.”
But, deep down, she knew Molly was right.
The last Friday of March was cloudy and gray, much like Brooke’s mood. Two weeks had passed since her spate of auditions—not that much time in the Hollywood scheme of things, but an eternity in Brooke’s universe, which mostly revolved around instant gratification (hence the size of her closet). She knew casting often took ages, but she also felt like Hollywood waited for no one, and her blog was hot now. Somebody needed to hurry up and snatch her out of the jaws of demi-obscurity before everyone lost interest in her natterings about Andrew Garfield’s use of hair product.
Brooke distracted herself by blowing off school after lunch—running laps in gym class obviously would interfere with her digestion—and spending her afternoon on some hearty self-improvement. She’d begun with twenty minutes of yoga in her bedroom before she noticed a rogue cuticle that demanded immediate attention. That sucked her into the vortex of her bathroom, where she then accidentally spent twenty minutes hunting blackheads. Now, after doing some laps in a halfhearted attempt at cardio, she was standing in the middle of Brick’s sauna in her sport bikini—she’d bought it when beach volleyball got popular for, like, half an hour during the Olympics; it made her feel like a serious athlete—trying to smoke out her pores while dry-brushing her thighs. Cosmo swore this would retard any lurking cellulite, but it felt weird and spartan, like some kind of Communist spa treatment. She had a moment of pause, wondering if this was too unglamorous an occupation for a budding star such as herself. However, she knew cellulite had no respect for a girl’s fame level. Two seasons of the reality-hybrid COPS: Jersey Shore bore unfortunate witness to that.
At least she had the blog to cling to while she waited. Brooke loved how much people responded to it; there were three hundred comments alone on the entry in which Max confided “Brooke’s” secret crush on Colin Firth no matter how jowly he was getting. Max had proved amazingly adept at assuming Brooke’s basic tone and infusing it with a little of Arugula’s braininess and Max’s own sarcasm. Brooke might not be a household name yet, but she felt closer and closer every time someone quoted OpenBrooke.com on Twitter or UsMagazine.com linked to her in a roundup. It made her feel like a mogul—like a mini-Brick.
The door to the sauna burst open.
“You’re late, Ari,” Brooke said without looking. “Also, I think I might be giving myself a rash.”
“Sunshine, drop whatever you are doing, unless it is biceps curls,” her father boomed. “This is important.”
Brooke whirled around and saw her father wiggling his iPhone at her. He pushed the FaceTime button, seeming a bit antsy. Caroline Goldberg’s face appeared on the screen, looking—unusually for an agent—all business and no schmooze.
“Brooke,” Caroline said crisply, “we need to discuss something.”
Brooke looked from Caroline’s slightly pixilated face to Brick’s, which was drawn into an exaggerated stern expression. His lips were twitching like mad.
Oh, God. I didn’t get any parts.
Caroline cleared her throat. “I hope you—”
“—feel comfortable answering to the name ‘Nancy Drew’! ” Brick finished in a volcanic torrent of speech, as if he could not possibly contain himself any longer. The phone clattered to the floor as he folded Brooke into his arms, squeezing so tightly that she sensed a decrease in her lung capacity.
“Really?” she squeaked.
“Really,” Caroline’s face said, staring straight up at them from the tile floor. “You’re about to star in the biggest teen movie since Twilight. Can someone please pick up the phone? This is an unfortunate view.”
Brick scooped it up. “Sorry, Caroline. We just needed to unleash our joy.”
“That’s touching,” she said tersely. “Anyway, they think you’re perfect for it. I believe their exact words were—”
“—that you had the ideal mix of brains and beauty to pull off the part!” Brick crowed, doing an endearing little hopping dance. All of a sudden, Brooke felt light-headed, as if someone had punched her in the stomach. If I pass out and crack my head open and die in the sauna before I become a movie star, I am going to be so pissed.
Brooke sank onto the cedar-plank bench and let out a breath. “Seriously?” she asked.
“Yes!” Brick said.
“Yes,” Caroline reiterated. “Apparently, it came down to you and one other girl. They told me that what finally tilted them in your favor was—”
“—how savvy you seem on your blog!” Brick finished for her.
Caroline looked mildly annoyed. “Is there anything else you’d like to add, Brick?”
“Just that I always knew my Brookie was a wordsmith and a talent,” he said fondly. “She’s a chip off the old Brick.”
“They want to get this signed quickly,” Caroline said. “I’ll get going on the contract. Brick, you’ll need to call your lawyers, and…”
Caroline kept talking—about on-set tutors and forms signed in triplicate and blah blah blah. But Brooke barely heard her. She felt like her blood had just started swirling twice as fast through her veins. Her thoughts were completely scrambled—if she were asked to transcribe them, they’d go something like, “Ngvk4jn99434rnfnnfsgnanyo-hijhqwrk!!!!!1!!!”
I got the part. I got the part. I got. The part.
“I got the paaaaaaaaart!” she screamed. Then she covered her mouth, embarrassed.
“Yes, I’m glad we’re clear on that,” Caroline said curtly.
“You knocked ’em dead, Sunshine!” Brick trilled, wrapping his arms around Brooke again, his pho
ne still clutched in his hand.
“This is indeed a tender moment, but can we be done here?” Caroline said impatiently. “I have things to do that do not include a FaceTime chat with Brooke’s rear end. Although I see you’ve been dry-brushing your thighs, Brooke. Don’t. You’ll get a rash.”
Brick turned the phone upward. “Thanks for giving us the news, Caroline,” he said, beaming. “And the grooming tips.”
“No problem. Congratulations again, and be sure to keep that blog going, Brooke,” she said.
Brick punched End and let out a whoop, then picked up Brooke and twirled her around the sauna, over and over, like she was seven again and he’d just returned home from shooting a movie on location. It was the best moment of Brooke’s life. She closed her eyes and inhaled his familiar smell of chlorine, Brut, and a whiff of carrot juice, and wished this moment would never end.
eleven
MAX THREW HER SHOULDER into her mirrored closet door and pushed. It didn’t budge. The damn thing never properly lived inside its plastic track, so it kept dragging against the carpet, making it almost impossible to get to the clothes on one side. She was due at a table read for Nancy Drew soon, her closet was a barely penetrable mess—not unlike her room—and she couldn’t find anything to wear that wasn’t dirty or suddenly totally horrible. She wished Molly would answer her phone. She needed advice. So far the only thing she’d unearthed was a relatively untarnished black denim skirt and a huge navy blue V-neck sweater that she was pretty sure she stole from Teddy.
Why do I even care? Maybe whatever makes Brooke so obsessed with her looks is contagious.
“What are you doing in there?” Teddy asked, nudging her in the butt with his toe.
Max jumped and glared at her brother. “Can you please announce yourself next time?” she said, annoyed. “What if I concussed myself on something?”
“I thought that was announcing myself,” Teddy said. “But next time I’ll have Jeeves make sure Milady is ready for visitors.”
Messy Page 10