“It seriously is. I saw it over the summer,” Max said. “You’ll love it. If you need company, I don’t think my brother’s seen it yet. You’d like him—he’s cool. But don’t tell him I said that.”
Brady half looked at her and then said, “Oh, great. Thanks.”
The conversation seemed to hiccup. Did I just do something wrong? Max wondered.
“You don’t scare me!”
Brooke’s voice sliced between them, severing the moment like an ax murderer chopping a phone line at a remote forest cabin. She gracefully lowered herself onto her chaise without spilling a drop from the two giant fruit-festooned drinks in her hand, although her cover-up slid down her tanned shoulder a little.
“See? I remembered the line. And I got you a piña colada,” she said, handing one to Max. “Coconut milk is full of electrolytes.” She turned to Brady and hit him with a megawatt grin. “And you got me a costar. Want some? It’s basically medicinal.”
“I wish I could, but I have an acting class in”—he checked his watch—“damn, fifteen minutes.” He winced. “My agent told me I have to hone my craft, or something. We’re doing gender reversals. I have to read something from The Vagina Monologues.” He looked vaguely queasy. “There is no way saying that sentence out loud is going to help my career. Maybe acting classes are just a big scam. Like valet parking, right, Brooke?”
“What? I valet all the time,” Brooke said, blithely nibbling a strawberry.
Brady crinkled his brow. “Didn’t you say on your blog the other day that you thought all the overpriced valets in Los Angeles were part of an elaborate scheme to lure the public into parking illegally so that the city could make big bucks off ticketing them?”
Brooke gave no sign that she was flustered by having forgotten this rant. “Just making sure you were paying attention,” she said, removing her cover-up again and settling back into her chair with a grin.
She is a good actress.
“Always,” Brady said, then donned his aviator shades and gave them both an ironic little salute.
“That’s so Top Gun,” Max said. “Be careful the paparazzi don’t think you’re Tom Cruise.”
Brady straightened up. “Please,” he said. “I’m at least two inches taller than that guy.”
“I refuse to date an actor,” Brooke said, lolling back on her chaise as he strolled out of earshot, “but Brady Swift cleans up nice.”
“Aren’t you betrothed to that octogenarian at the bar?” Max asked, maybe a bit quickly. “I saw you over there. He was really chatting you up.”
Brooke rolled onto her stomach and laughed. “Ew, Max, he produced the Dirk Venom series. He’s one of my godfathers. Besides, if chatting someone up at the pool meant you were involved, I’d be asking when you and Brady were tying the knot.”
Max felt heat climbing into her cheeks.
“Are you blushing?” Brooke asked.
“No! I think I’m sunburned,” Max said, pretending to search for sunscreen.
“Uh-huh,” Brooke said, mock-toasting Max with her daiquiri glass.
It was almost dark when Max banged through her front door.
“Is that you, Maxine, or have we been invaded by elephants?”
Max rolled her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, following the sound of her mother’s voice into the kitchen. “I forgot your ears are so delicate.”
Her mother was standing at the scratched porcelain sink in their bright yellow kitchen, running some water over an extremely depressed cactus.
“I see you’ve met Irving,” Max said.
Eileen McCormack glanced sideways at Max. “Who?” she asked, turning off the water.
“Irving,” Max said, dumping her backpack on the linoleum. “My cactus.”
“It’s dead. It’s an ex-cactus.”
“I prefer to think of him as being chlorophyllically challenged.”
Eileen smirked and put Irving back into the sink. “Sit down for a sec, honey.”
Uh-oh. Does she know I ditched Spanish?
“Is everything okay?” Max asked, sliding into the country-style wooden chairs at their kitchen table, which her father had brought home from an estate sale and repainted a funky orange. It matched their KitchenAid mixer… and nothing else. Max loved that about her father. He didn’t care about aesthetic rules.
“Everything is fine, except for the shocking state of your bedroom, as usual,” Eileen said, pouring them each a mug of hot water and carrying them to the table along with two ginger tea bags. “As a matter of fact, your father and I are really proud of how hard you’ve been working.”
“You are?” Max echoed.
“Absolutely. I always say that if you have a goal, you should stop at nothing until you achieve it, and I am very impressed with how completely you’re pursuing this NYU program.” Eileen’s face took on a dreamy look. “You are displaying all the drive and determination of a true Colby-Randall achiever. Tutoring Brooke can’t be easy, especially on top of carnival meetings and school and working at Fu’d.”
Oops. Apparently, she’d forgotten to tell her mother that she’d quit.
“Although I should’ve known you had it in you,” Mrs. McCormack continued, stirring her tea with a sly sidelong glance. “You were, ahem, very single-minded about getting the dissection portion of AP biology removed from the Colby-Randall curriculum.”
“Well,” Max said, taken aback by hearing compliments from her mother instead of promises of detentions or groundings. “It is barbaric. And gross.”
Eileen chuckled. “And you won that round. But honey, we are also a bit concerned about you. We think you’re working too hard.”
“Since when is that phrase in your vocabulary?”
“You’re rarely at home, Maxine. Trust me, one day you will wish you’d spent the springtime of your life enjoying having little or no real responsibilities instead of working yourself ragged.”
“I can totally quit the carnival,” Max offered. Please, God, make her let me quit the stupid carnival.
Eileen laughed. “Nice try,” she said. “But we don’t want you to spend all your teenage years slaving away.”
“I don’t—” Max began, but her mother held up a hand.
“I know it’s been harder around here financially since your father got laid off. And despite his best efforts”—Eileen cast a despairing eye over to the white-tiled counter, on which sat the charred corpse of a hand mixer—“he hasn’t sold an invention yet. But I want you to know we’re still doing okay, moneywise. And your father has a lead on several part-time jobs to help supplement the fees for your NYU program, so you can quit working until next year.”
Max sucked in a breath. This was as shocking to her as if Eileen had announced she was ditching academia to become a Lady Gaga impersonator. And two weeks earlier, Max would have been thrilled to hear it. Even today she was tempted. No more lying, no more tagging around after Brooke.
No more Brady, said a voice in her head.
Max shook it off. In two months he’d be too famous to talk to her, anyway, and this meant her free time and possibly NYU would be all hers. Finally.
“I really appreciate the gesture, Mom,” Max began. “I don’t know what to say. It’s seriously amazing.”
Eileen reached out and squeezed her hand. “Well, you are seriously amazing, and we are seriously serious about this.”
Max took in her mother’s earnest, warm eyes—identical to hers in shape and color—and saw the gray streaks shooting through her ash-blonde bun. Eileen looked tired. Max suspected she was sugarcoating how easy it would be to bring in extra cash and felt a wave of appreciation. The offer meant more to her than she could say. Which was precisely why she had to do the right thing and say no. Max knew she’d never be comfortable taking the help under false pretenses, not when it might make things harder for her family. Besides, for once, the right thing was also the easy thing. Posing as Brooke online had turned out to be not just profitable but… fun. She couldn’t aband
on OpenBrooke.com now.
“Thank you, but it’s actually okay, Mom,” Max said slowly. “I’m doing fine. I’ve almost got enough saved.”
Eileen frowned. “Are you sure?”
Brady’s face floated into Max’s mind. She couldn’t abandon him, either. He needed her. For eye-rolling purposes.
“I’m sure,” Max said. “I promise. I’ve got this.”
thirteen
“THIS IS NANCY’S BEDROOM,” Brooke said, pulling her father by the hand toward a pile of garbage bags. “One of the first scenes we’re doing tomorrow is the one where she’s trying to read Les Misérables by candlelight but she keeps hearing gunshots.”
“Powerful!” Brick intoned, squatting and running his hand over the bags, which were fluffed and rolled to look like a mattress with a pillow and a comforter. “In every slum, there is a hero.”
He paused and fished around for one of his many phones, this time the BlackBerry. As he made a note of his brain wave, Brooke heard a snort from Max’s direction—she was sitting in a chair in the corner of the soundstage actually reading Les Misérables, so that she could brief Brooke on the specifics—but Brooke ignored it. The Nancy Drew script was a little bizarre in spots, but it had everything: tears, drugs, crime, love, dirt, and even a professionally choreographed nightclub scene. She would rock it. More important, Brick thought it would be a blockbuster, and he’d never been wrong (unless you counted that one astronaut film back in the early nineties, Jupiter’s Eye Needs Glasses, although Brick always tersely insisted it was supposed to be funny). Brick had even cleared his schedule for a personal tour of the set. Brooke couldn’t remember the last time he’d rearranged his agenda on the spot.
“And this is the Nickerson mansion set,” she said, parading Brick toward a large makeshift living room, connected to a foyer and a double front door. “I’ll be here for the scene where Nancy realizes there’s cyanide in the carpet fibers because it triggers her rare skin allergy.”
“Disease is an actor’s greatest platform!” Brick boomed, following Brooke through the old soundstage. “Does it come with welts? Welts can be very evocative.”
“I hope so!” Brooke said. “That reminds me, one of the producers has been dying to ask you something about prosthetic ears. Let me go find him.”
Giddily, Brooke all but skipped away, leaving Brick to inspect the staircase in the Nickerson entryway that went only as high as the camera needed it to go. Today was the most fun she’d ever had, leading him around this fictional world that was all hers. He looked to her for information, he wanted to discuss her project, and he read and talked to her about her blog. When she’d told him that she got a hundred thousand hits the other day, he’d actually wiped a tear from his eye, handed her his last Clif Bar, and said she was turning into everything he’d hoped she’d be.
Except that Clif Bar should have gone to Max.
Brooke did not regret hiring Max. But every time her bosses praised Open Brooke or told her it was a key part of her getting hired, a super-annoying voice in her brain spoke up and reminded her that, technically, all of her happiness was based on a lie.
A very minor lie, though. Really quite small in the scheme of things. Max’s writing was based on Brooke’s experiences, after all. Lifetime movies were based on true stories, too, and nobody minded that the serial killers didn’t write the scripts themselves. Brick himself had used a ghostwriter for his official autobiography, Brick by Brick. So Brooke decided OpenBrooke.com was simply ripped from the headlines of her own life the way Law & Order was ripped from the New York Post. Everything else was a tiny technicality. So her brain voice could shut its piehole.
Brooke couldn’t find Zander or the other executive producer, Kyle, so she headed back toward the set. Brick’s deep voice carried toward her, echoing against the backdrops.
“… the forgotten subtext of the movie,” Brick was saying. “I’m impressed!”
As Brooke rounded the corner, she saw that he was talking to Brady, who smiled at her shyly. Brooke allowed herself a moment to appreciate the effect she had on people. She knew this was a good hair day.
“Hi, Brady,” she said. “What did I miss?”
“I was just telling your dad about a UCLA Extension course I’m taking on action films,” Brady replied, his ears turning a tiny bit red. It was sort of sweet. “I’m doing a paper on themes of abandonment in the Dirk Venom movies, and I thought…”
Brick clapped a hand on Brady’s back so hard that Brady coughed. “I was beginning to think nobody saw all the work I put into Dirk’s backstory. I bet I have it all written down, still. Thirty pages of feelings. I actually called it Thirty Pages of Feelings. I should give it to you for your paper.” He pulled out his phone. “I will e-mail myself a note.”
“Thanks, sir. Um, so how are you doing, Brooke?” Brady asked, making brief eye contact and somewhat nervously picking at his pockets. “I saw Max had The Hunger Games in her bag the other day—are you guys reading that now?”
“Yes, of course,” Brooke said, hooking her arm through Brick’s. “Daddy and I make it a point to stay on top of the latest diet trends.”
Brady seemed confused. Brooke wondered if she had made a mistake. Then he chuckled.
“Very funny,” he said. “Can’t wait to hear your take on the whole trilogy. I thought the ending was—well, I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“A reader, eh?” Brick crowed. “Very impressive!” He thumped Brady on the back again. “Actors should be soldiers of academia. Our greatest tools are our brains.”
Brooke could swear she heard another snort off in the distance.
Brady checked his watch. “Whoops, I’m due in wardrobe for a fitting,” he said. “Always great to see you, Brooke. And it was nice to meet you, sir.”
“Well, son, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Brick said, thumping him again. “Call me Brick.”
As Brady loped off toward the costumer’s room, Brooke gazed curiously up at her father. He was beaming at Brady’s back. “That is one impressive young man, Sunshine,” he said. “It takes a very bright mind to pick up on my subtle subtext in Dirk Venom. Especially the second one.” He winked at Brooke. “Nancy hooked a good one. Maybe life will imitate art, eh, Brookie? I’ve always wanted you to date someone as brilliant as you are.”
“Daddy, you’re so silly. I’m sure Brady doesn’t think twice about me,” Brooke twittered. She was mostly lying. She was Brooke Berlin, after all. Making guys think about her was in her DNA.
“Nonsense, Sunshine! He clearly appreciates your beautiful mind. A connection like that is too precious to waste,” Brick said fondly. “Plus, get some lifts for his shoes and you’d look perfect together! A love story would be such great PR for the movie!”
Well, that much was true.
“And just think of the screenings we could have at our house!” Brick continued. “I could talk him through the scenes where Dirk Venom cleans his gun, and what it means about his relationship with his parents. And I could show him my custom Bowflex!”
“Then you date him, Daddy,” Brooke said glibly.
“Don’t be silly, Sunshine, he’s not my type!” Brick chortled. “But just remember: An open mind leads to a full heart.”
Brooke could tell what was coming next. “Wait, that would make a great slogan for the rom-com Heather Graham wants to do with me,” Brick mused.
Brick’s face glowed as he punched merrily at his BlackBerry. Brooke studied him for a few seconds and then smiled. It was obvious what she had to do.
Max curled up and shifted in the armchair. The Nancy Drew soundstage also occasionally housed Pretty Little Liars, and she’d found a cozy chair from one of the girls’ rooms that hadn’t been put away yet. It made for a quiet place to read or do homework whenever she had nothing to do—which was frequently, since half the time Brooke dragged her out here for “research” and then just lay around on the meticulously made bed of trash bags, trying to absorb Nancy’s aura.
/> In the weeks since Brooke got the part, Max was increasingly glad she’d turned down her mother’s offer of financial help. She’d started feeling less like an employee and more like a teammate. Brooke often pulled her aside for advice—granted, it was usually on something cosmetic and/or crazy, but she still wanted Max’s opinion. Countless nights Molly had wandered into Brooke’s room to find them with their heads together over the script or giggling over an idea for a blog entry.
“Max McCormack, are you actually starting to like my sister?” Molly had later wondered, amused. Max had just snorted and changed the subject, rather than admit that maybe this was a little bit true. She remembered Molly once noting that Brooke was entertaining when she wasn’t being a total pain, and finally Max had begun to see it.
Max had also gotten to know the other key players pretty well, beyond just Brady. Zander, the hipster producer, was desperate for a vinyl copy of an old Rolling Stones album and nearly passed out with joy when Max found one at Amoeba. The other big boss, Kyle, wore a rubber band around his wrist and snapped it every time he cussed. He got around this by abbreviating everything—“g.d.” this, “f’ing” that—but every so often he would let fly a four-letter pejorative and then thwack himself in the arm. He and Max had spent twenty minutes over sandwiches the other day, discussing whether shiz counted as a swear word (Max contended that no word with an artificially added Z counted as anything at all). Carla Callahan started sucking up incessantly once she saw how much time Max spent hanging out with Brooke, tagging after the two of them—“Oi, mates, fancy a brewsky?” she would bleat in faltering British tones that were blending with the Boston accent she was using for Nancy Drew. And Germain on Camera A had shown Max how to work the equipment and then secretly let her frame one of Brady’s close-ups.
“Don’t tell,” he’d said, winking. “My union will kill me.”
All told, between that and the never-ending process of script tweaks and rewrites, Max was absorbing a ton—so much more than just bits and bobs for blog ideas. The only frustration was that the more time she spent on set, the weirder it got when people quoted Max’s own words at her, expecting her to agree that, yes, that paragraph she had slaved over was clever of Brooke. It was hard seeing Brooke praised for her blunt insights, while Max was being dispatched to get Brooke’s coffee, or grab Brooke a banana, or make sure Brooke’s trailer had toilet paper. When Max protested to Brooke that the movie had several PAs on staff whose sole job was to do these exact things, Brooke insisted that although she didn’t feel good about it, either, Max had to keep up appearances—and if appearances were that she was a personal assistant, well, then it really didn’t make sense for Max to refuse to make a Starbucks run for her.
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