“Channel your inner actress, Max,” Brooke had urged her. “Channel your inner me.”
“I thought I was already doing that,” Max had replied with a sweet smile.
But the schlepping seemed like a decent trade for watching a movie get made (well, at least whatever parts were made between when school ended and Max’s curfew). Despite her lifelong, self-proclaimed disdain for people who clamored to be in entertainment, Max had to admit it was fascinating. She could watch the director, Tad Cleary, all day. He was famous for directing The Character Limit, about the origins of Twitter, yet nobody knew much about Tad’s personal life because he himself rarely made small talk, even when not making small talk was rude. When he did speak, it was at a pace three times faster than most people could even process, and he never sat still. Max had never seen Tad without three of those tiny 5-Hour Energy bottles in his hand. He was so wired one day that Max saw him walk smack into a set wall.
“What are you smiling about?” Brady asked, passing behind her and thwacking her gently on the back of her head with some script pages.
“Oh, I’m just reading this hilarious book,” she said, waggling Les Misérables at him. “It’s all about sick prostitutes and young guys getting themselves killed. It’s a scream.”
Brady peered into Max’s bag. There were two other thick hardbacks in there. “Okay, I really think it’s time you tell me why you carry fifty pounds of books everywhere. And don’t say it’s a book club. Nobody can read that much in one week.”
Usually Max would’ve replied sarcastically, but after so many easy conversations, she had no trouble being herself with Brady. “This is grossly nerdy, but I’m kind of phobic about getting stuck somewhere without enough reading material,” she said. “The last flight I took, I brought four books and seven magazines, and I still didn’t let myself touch them until I’d read the Sky Mall catalog front to back.”
“That’s not nerdy, that’s just common sense,” Brady said. “Besides, the Sky Mall is full of useful things. Like that tiny-doughnut machine.” He pursed his lips. “Actually, the first thing I buy with my Nancy Drew money might be the tiny-doughnut machine. Way better than a car.”
“Oh, my God, speaking of, did you see somebody wants to remake Back to the Future, but with Zac Efron and a Mini Cooper?” Max said with a groan.
Brady winced. “Why do they ruin all the classics?” he asked. “Although it’d be nice if they shot it here, so we could have some kind of time travel–themed hot lunch at the commissary.”
“I heard tomorrow’s theme is One Tree Hill, and since a dog ate a guy’s heart one time on that show, I am dying to find out what they’re serving,” Max said. “Are you going to be here? We have to go.”
“I’ll be here,” he confirmed, brandishing a green-tinted call sheet. “Brooke and I are shooting Nancy’s first visit to Ned’s house.” He fished around in his pocket. “According to the schedule, I have about two weeks to get comfortable standing next to her on an apple box before we have to make out.”
Max’s nostrils flared a little. “Congratulations,” she said, her voice a bit testy. Brady appeared not to notice. “It’s weird,” he said, rubbing his hair absently. “I feel like I know more about her from reading her website than from when we’ve talked in person.” He shrugged. “Some people are just more comfortable in print than out loud. I was always that way.”
“So of course you became an actor.”
“By accident, remember?” he said. “And not a very successful one.”
“Until now,” Max pointed out.
“Jury’s still out,” Brady retorted. “My Razzie campaign for Worst Actor might still have some life.”
“Max!” a voice called out. They looked up to see Brooke heading their way.
“Shoot, I told her I was due in wardrobe.” Brady grinned sheepishly. “Brick is cool, but if he’d hit my back one more time, I think my spine would’ve come out my mouth. The guy is strong.” He smacked her with the script again as he headed away. “We’ll have to talk later about how I saw Snakeacuda on cable this weekend. You are going to love it.”
As he walked away, Max tried to imagine him and Brooke making out for the cameras. It made her shudder. Brooke and Brady went together like peanut butter and herpes.
“Max!” Brooke hissed.
Max looked up to see Brooke standing right in front of her, hand on hip. “You really need to listen when I call you. What if it had been urgent?”
“There is no such thing as a blog emergency.”
“You don’t know that. And besides, it is vitally important.” Brooke looked around the dusty area behind the set, seemingly trying not to breathe through her nose. “Stand up for a second,” she said.
Max obliged, wondering if there was a bug on her chair or something. Brooke beamed. “Thank you,” she said, sweeping into Max’s seat.
“Hey!” Max protested.
“Max, I can’t sit on the floor. This is a Phillip Lim,” Brooke said, presumably as an apology. “Besides, with me sitting and you standing, we’re more like eye-to-eye, right?” Brooke lowered her voice. “And I have a very, very big job for you.”
“Please tell me it involves getting you another latte, so I can spit in it.”
“Maxine, be serious. And hygienic.” Brooke folded her hands in her lap and beckoned Max closer.
“I need you,” Brooke began with a flourish, “to blog me a date.”
Max blinked. “Those words don’t make sense in that order.”
“Look, Daddy just met Brady, and he, like, loved him. Loved him,” Brooke said, a flush of excitement on her cheeks. “You should have seen it. You have to help me date him.”
“Wait a minute,” Max said, holding up her palms. “You said you wouldn’t date short, bespectacled actors.”
“Rules are made to be broken,” Brooke said, waving her hands dismissively. “A precious connection is too smart to… wait, what was it he said? Anyway, whatever. The point is, Brady totally digs Internet Me, and he’s all shy around Real Me, so I want you to use the blog to seal the deal.”
“No way. No,” Max said, feeling a creeping sensation in her limbs. “It doesn’t seem fair to Brady. Do you even like him?”
Brooke looked thoughtful. “What’s not to like? He’s only short-ish, he’s totally cute, he doesn’t wear Drakkar Noir. And we’ll totally be the new Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. I definitely like him enough for that.”
“So I should just sit by and let you trick him into thinking you’re into him?”
“No, you should write an awesome blog entry that will totally help convince him to make a move, and then we’ll just… play the roles.”
“And you don’t see anything morally wrong with this?” Max sputtered.
Brooke sniffled. “I just want Daddy… He was so thrilled at the idea, and… I just want him to…”
“No, you are not going to play the Poor Pitiful Princess Wants Daddy’s Love card,” Max groaned. “Not again.”
“Okay, fine,” Brooke pouted. “What if I promise not to date him for very long? Just enough so that Daddy can see me trying, and we maybe get a magazine cover?”
Max crossed her arms and frowned. Brooke narrowed her eyes.
“NYU will be awfully bummed if you get accepted and you can’t afford tuition,” she said softly.
Oh, God, so she played the trump card instead.
“Unless it’s something else,” Brooke mused, studying Max’s face. “I asked you a few weeks ago if you were into Brady and you said no. Change of heart?”
“Don’t be insane,” Max huffed.
“Are you jealous?”
“I don’t care who he hooks up with. He can do what he likes.”
“Great, then it’s a deal!” Brooke leaped up and hugged her. “Can’t wait to read the entry!”
And she disappeared before Max could say another word.
Max pulled into her gravel driveway—the best and loudest incentive against
breaking curfew—and killed the car engine. The house was dark, except for two glowing porch lanterns, which illuminated her brother slumped in the swing and nursing a Dr Pepper.
“You look miserable,” she said. “Did Molly finally notice your freakishly long second toe and dump your mutant ass?”
“We made it.” His voice was quiet.
“You… ew, Teddy, first of all, nobody says that outside a Judy Blume book, and second—”
“No, no, no, the band,” Teddy said, exasperated. “We made the finals of the contest. We’re playing the House of Blues.”
“That’s…” Max looked at her brother’s long face. “Great?” she queried.
“It should be,” he said. “But you know how I feel about Mental Hygienist. We’re having fun, but I am not sure we should ever play those songs outside of Colby-Randall parties.”
“Are you telling me you don’t want to be the face of ‘You (Rock)’?” Max quipped.
Teddy shook his head. “I tried to tell Bone that righteous doesn’t rhyme with ficus, but he ignored me.” He shifted in the swing so Max could sit down next to him. “Does this make me a dick?”
“Not when there are so many other things that make you a dick.”
Teddy punched her shoulder. “Come on, I’m serious. The band was always just sort of a goof to me, like something to do before I went off to college. Now it’s going to be on my permanent record.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Max asked. “I mean, Mark Wahlberg rose above it. Bone isn’t nearly as embarrassing as the Funky Bunch.”
Teddy laughed grudgingly. “Point taken. It’s not really my kind of music, though,” he explained. “It’s not me. I always figured I’d do something a little more unplugged. More Bon Iver than Bon Jovi.”
“So what?” Max said. “Record execs know that people have more than one artist inside them. Remember when Molly showed us that Japanese Vogue where Lady Gaga pretended to be an Italian man named Jo? Just put on, like, a dirty tank top and grow a soul patch.”
“You are so the wrong person to talk to about this.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can be serious,” Max promised. “And I seriously believe you are overthinking this.”
“Really?” Teddy stared out at the dark front lawn, on which a half-deconstructed wheelbarrow had been disintegrating for weeks. “I mean, did we even earn this? Our Facebook page got like twenty thousand more fans after you mentioned us on Brooke’s blog. The Berlin stamp of approval might be swaying things a little.”
“Probably,” Max said, “but who cares? Take the opportunity while it’s in front of you. Because who’s to say you’ll get another one? Maybe just do what it takes to get your foot in the door and then find a way to do your own thing. Maybe this is just the beginning.”
Teddy pondered this for a moment. “My stomach hurts. Is this what riding on a Berlin girl’s coattails feels like?”
“Hilarious,” Max said. “And maybe that is what I’m doing, a little bit. But you aren’t. You didn’t ask me to mention you on the blog, and neither did Molly. I just did it. Think of me as, like, your in-house PR.”
“Is it always going to be this weird?” Teddy mused. “You know, sitting around wondering if you’re only getting your moment because of who you’re dating, or who you know?”
“No idea—nobody sucks up to me,” Max said, though she thought briefly of Carla. “Can you imagine how much it sucks to be an actual famous person? This is why half of them go to rehab.”
“I know. I’ve been fame-adjacent for like five minutes, and it’s already messing with my head,” Teddy said. “Thank God Molly is so normal. I don’t know how she does it. And you seem pretty much the same as you were before you became Brooke’s new best friend.”
“Yeah, I was a hot mess before, and I still am,” Max joked. “And listen, for what it’s worth, I really do think you’re torturing yourself needlessly. You’re not getting anything you don’t deserve. It’s not like you’re the Kevin Federline in this situation.”
Teddy drummed his thumbs against the wooden seat. “So I should just chill out, not care why we made the finals, and just support the band, and see where it takes me,” he finally said.
“Yep. You have plenty of time to do you later. Do this first.”
“That sounds sort of sensible, almost,” Teddy said, feigning amazement. Or at least Max liked to think he was faking.
“Well, I am incredibly smart,” she said. “Everyone who reads Brooke’s blog says so. Indirectly.”
Her brother ruffled her hair, probably because he knew she hated it. “Well, I will say it directly. You are smart,” he said. “I think it’s Brooke who’s riding your coattails.”
“I wear hoodies,” Max demurred.
“Thank you, Maxine.”
“You’re welcome, Theodore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy and important.”
Max trudged up the stairs to her room and kicked shut the door, flinging her purse onto the bed. You have plenty of time to do you later, she repeated to herself. Do what it takes to get your foot in the door. All it would take was a blog entry or two, and the rest wasn’t her responsibility. If Brady fell for it—for Brooke—then that wasn’t her fault. And if Brooke fell for Brady, that wasn’t her fault, either.
Take what’s in front of you now.
Grabbing her phone, she checked the time: 10:05 PM. Jake would be up. She punched at his name on the screen.
“Hey, Jake, it’s Max,” she said, simultaneously waking up her computer and opening a blank blog window. “So, I’ve been thinking. Let’s make plans to hang out.” She paused. “Just the two of us, like you said.”
OPENBRKE.COM
APRIL 13
Greetings from the set of Nancy Drew, where we started shooting before dawn today. People who win movie awards never thank the real hero: caffeine. I have never been this productive before dawn in my entire life, unless you include a few all-nighters to finish my homework and that one time I got stuck in the Valley at a party for… well, I can’t tell you, because her hit show won’t want anyone to know that the reason we all got stuck was because her secret life involves getting hammered on wine coolers and then slashing everyone’s tires. When are famous people going to realize that technology means there is a public record of just about everything? If you want to act like a college student, here’s a thought: Go to college.
But it was a productive morning—we did a very intense scene that involved a lot of smeared mascara (I looked like Courtney Love, twenty years ago—and actually maybe also twenty hours ago). It’s also Friday the 13th, so we spent all day walking around ladders and staying ten feet from any window and instituting a no-cat policy. Although when I went outside for a breather, I almost got run over by a golf cart driven by none other than Moxie Stilts. She was wearing a dress that I’m pretty sure was made of potholders (the skirt seriously had a thumb) and she looked pissed. Someone’s either angling to get another shout-out here on Open Brooke (all press is good press?) or she’s really mad that I told everyone about her drunky-funky birthday party. Listen, honey, if you don’t want to get called out for taking off your pants in front of God and everyone, then leave them on. It’s not hard.
But it’s also not worth giving her that much attention, so let’s talk about what I’ve learned my first day on the job:
1) Always make friends with the camera crew. The more they like you, the better you photograph. Funny how that works. Also: They have the good doughnuts.
2) I know my teen readers won’t believe this, but on-set tutors might be worse than high school. Mine are nice, and there are some perks—no cafeteria food with suspicious hairs in it, no detention, no deputized but ultimately powerless student committees pretending they get to make decisions, when really the school board runs the show and the student “leaders” are stuck having to say things like “Please attend our Dance-a-Thon benefiting Celebrities Climbing Mount Everest to Raise Awareness About Deadly Limb Sprains�
�� with a straight face. But it turns out that being in class with other people is actually a plus: If you haven’t read chapters seventeen and eighteen of Chemistry: The Molecular Nature of Matter and Change, there are other people to take the heat off you. As it stands here, I would have to fake a seizure.
3) According to the schedule, in a few days I shoot my first kissing scene. Again, being paid to make out with somebody probably sounds like bliss to you guys. And I’m sure it will be the best perk of the job. But I’m nervous about it (and no, not just because Brady Swift is kind of—okay, really—cute). Everyone keeps giving me tips about finding my light and not letting my nose get in the way and knowing which side I look better on when I’m kissing someone, and suddenly I have so much more to worry about than whether or not my breath is minty fresh.
4) My wig rules. I wasn’t sure if I would work as a redhead. Would it be a gorgeous Amy Adams red, or more like the time Ashlee Simpson fried her hair crimson for Melrose Place: Failed Reboot? But I am loving it. When I put it on, I can feel myself leaving behind Brooke Berlin and becoming somebody else. It’s refreshing. Usually everyone expects me to be a certain sort of person, like a bimbo, or a snob (although I don’t think I am either). This blog has been the best way to unleash the real parts of myself that people don’t see—whether they’re not looking or just don’t want to—so thank you for reading, everyone; yes, even you, Commenter Who Keeps Asking if I Will Show You My Boobs. But I’ll be honest, even with all this writing, it’s still hard sometimes to share this side of myself out loud. Slipping into someone else’s shoes and saying exactly the words everyone expects to hear can feel kind of like a vacation. I mean, it’s not an over-water bungalow in Bora Bora—Nancy, after all, lives in a hovel in Baltimore—but it will do.
Messy Page 14