Messy

by Cocks, Heather

  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I might have to ask Brady if we can rehearse after work. That must be how rumors get started. I wonder how many of them eventually turn out to be true.

  Hugs,

  B.

  fourteen

  “ARE WE DISTURBING YOUR nap time, Maxine?”

  Max jerked her head upward and tried to focus her eyes. What the hell? Why was Brooke suddenly back at school running meetings?

  But it was Brie, standing at the front of the classroom with her hands on her hips, her hair teased into a curling ponytail, an alarmingly Brooke-ish glare on her face. Max felt picked on; Magnus Mitchell was clearly hypnotizing himself by staring at Mavis Moore’s clicking knitting needles, and Brie didn’t reprimand him.

  “No, Brie, I’m captivated,” Max sassed through a yawn. “Please continue. I’m dying to know if we’re getting the twenty-foot or twenty-five-foot Ferris wheel.”

  Brie shot her one more imperious look, then continued on her spiel, which appeared to involve a pie chart. She was running this Spring Carnival meeting with the kind of organized precision usually reserved for military invasions. But the kid deserved some credit: In the weeks since Max had been to one of these meetings, Brie had navigated the committee away from fantastical ideas, like America’s Next Top Model –themed carnival rides or performances from a band consisting of rejected Bachelor contestants, and toward something that resembled a real, actual, old-fashioned carnival, apparently, by referring to it all as “retro-chic.” Anna Fury was still trying to work in some kind of judicial theme—a carnival jail for miscreants, with a trial before their release—and Jennifer Parker kept furiously clicking her pen and sending Jake dirty looks. All in all, Max was not sorry she’d ditched. Only Colby-Randall would spend this much time discussing a theme, only to have the eventual outcome be “Hey, let’s have a carnival-themed carnival.”

  Max tried to hold open her eyelids, but it was a losing effort. Brooke had made arrangements with Colby-Randall to complete her coursework without showing up on campus every day, but Max still had classes. Since she’d succumbed to financial pressure and written that Brady-baiting entry for Brooke, Max had figured she could just put down her head and push forward and not care, but instead it was getting harder to zip her lips about all of it: how she was working her ass off to give somebody else’s reputation a boost and how every time Brady smiled at Brooke it was because of something Max had done.

  Above all, Max resented these stupid committee meetings. But the welcoming look on Jake’s face when she had walked in made it tolerable. Since their phone call the other week, in which both sides had agreed to Make Plans, they hadn’t had time to follow through. Secretly, Max was relieved. Life was a lot easier when you could just shove your money under your mattress instead of putting it where your mouth was.

  A note landed dead center on her desk with a gentle thwack. Jake’s arm was perfect when it came to tossing notes in class—it was a shame that talent didn’t extend to the football field (the Colby-Randall Megastars had finished the year 2–8).

  WHATCHA DOIN TONIGHT.

  Max sucked in her breath. Was this it? Was he making plans… in a note? Using the word whatcha? Or was that all super casual because he didn’t want her to think it was a date, because even though he said he missed her, he then also high-fived her, and therefore maybe he just thought of her as a very brightly colored little brother?

  Either way, she couldn’t very well be honest and reply, Getting paid to pretend to be Brooke. Max uncapped her pen with her teeth and wrote:

  Can’t. Plans with Molly.

  “Furthermore,” Brie was saying, whacking the chart with a pointer she picked up off the desk, “I’m concerned that we’ve all forgotten that this carnival raises money for charity. Last night, I did some research on local causes, and I think—”

  Thwack.

  DITCH HER. GOING TO THE MOVIES. COME WITH.

  Max glanced around, wishing Molly were there to help her parse this. But the closest possible substitute was Mavis, and she was elbow-deep in the large intestine, which Magnus Mitchell kept nudging with his toe. This note sounded datey, but it also sounded like maybe Jake already had plans to go independently of her. What should she do? She had never more heartily wished she had ESP. There was nothing worse than not knowing where you stood with someone, and flat-out asking him was not an option. Because if Jake didn’t like her, she would look ridiculous for thinking he did, and then Chaz Kelly would be all, Kermit, dude, are you high? He’s the quarterback and you’re a potted plant. And then all the effort she’d put into removing herself from Colby-Randall society to avoid such hideous embarrassments would have been wasted, and she’d have to run off and raise goats in darkest Manitoba.

  “At the next meeting, we’ll be voting for which charity to support, so please give this some serious thought in the interim,” Brie said, flipping her hair over her unusually tan shoulder in a very familiar way. “No time for questions—I’m running late for my facial.”

  Brie started packing up her bag—Max noticed that her Target tote had been replaced with a Kate Spade—and the room erupted into chitchat. Jennifer leaped up from her seat and ran out of the room like her feet were on fire.

  “Dude, what’s up with Molly that’s so important?” Jake asked, handing Max her backpack.

  Max silently apologized to the universe for her umpteenth lie. “Girl stuff.”

  “Well, whatever, it’s okay,” Jake said. “I didn’t really want to see that Matthew McConaughey romantic thingy anyway. Bro might have great abs, but he seems stoned all the time. It makes me tired.”

  It was a date. It totally was a date. “I wouldn’t have made you see that,” Max ventured. “I like explosions and gore, myself. I think Michael Bay movies are the greatest thing ever.”

  “And that is why you’re the bomb, Max,” Jake said, hugging her to him. Max was so surprised by this display of affection that all she could do was stand there.

  Jake crinkled up his face. “What about this weekend? Can we go out then? Will your girl stuff be over?” He frowned. “Molly’s not having trouble with your brother, is she? Do I need to crack some skulls?”

  “Oh, no, it’s fine,” Max said quickly, mentally kicking herself. “He’s just stressed about this band thing this weekend.”

  “Dude, we should go watch him play!” Jake beamed. “That’s Saturday, right? It’s a date.” Max felt a hot flush crawl up her face. His smile was as swoon-worthy as ever. “Okay! I gotta go talk to Coach about how much he’s making me lift.”

  And off he went, and that was that. But it was okay. Max wasn’t a sweet-nothings kind of girl. Or at least she didn’t think she was. Guess I’ll find out. Finally.

  Max’s phone buzzed in the pocket of her cardigan. It was Brooke.

  WHERE ARE YOU? BOY PROBLEMS.

  Having a double life was stressful. How did spies do it?

  By the time Max finally trotted into Stage 32, any good mood that had been created by Jake’s attention had been replaced by the kind of bone-deep crabbiness only L.A. traffic could create. Other people appeared to be having similar issues.

  “Why don’t people just use their g.d. accelerators?” Kyle was booming at Germain, who gave Max a little wave and a covert eye-roll. “And why don’t we ever have any f’ing bagels left? These people are actors—they don’t eat carbs!”

  Brooke, however, seemed to be in a great mood. Judging from the fact that she was perched beside Brady on a black leather sofa next to some wardrobe racks, her mythical boy problems had clearly solved themselves. The two of them had their heads bowed over a folded magazine. Watching them, Max felt uncomfortable and short of breath, like she’d accidentally put on a too-small pair of Spanx.

  Brooke threw back her head and laughed. Max saw she was wearing a trendy pair of black-framed reading glasses. Since when?

  “Max!” Brooke chirped, catching sight of her. “There you are! Where have you been?”

  Max
rearranged her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression. “Sorry. Traffic was crazy.”

  “When I think about how those emissions are poisoning our lungs…” Brooke said with a tsking noise, cocking her head toward Brady in such a way that a curly lock dropped gracefully onto his shoulder.

  “Hey, Max,” he said, unfazed. “Did you know that Brooke was so into French history as a child that she named her pony after Joan of Arc?”

  “That is news to me,” Max said, carefully. This was technically true: Brooke’s pony had actually been named Mr. Pickles.

  Brooke pushed up her glasses and rubbed her nose. Max was unreasonably pleased to see they had left a mark. “We’re trying to get in some quality bonding time,” Brooke said, giving Brady a flirtatious elbow and Max a pointed look. “Tad has us doing our first kissing scene next week, and it’s just been so nice to try to get to know Brady a little bit before we get so intimate.”

  “Yeah, my personal rule is never to kiss a girl before you know her middle name,” Brady said. “Apparently Brooke has two, which would make her porn-star name, what? Ophelia Mayflower of Arc? That’s fantastic.”

  Brooke giggled and leaned over Brady’s lap toward where Max was standing. “Did you know Brady once almost choked to death on a sandwich?”

  “It’s true,” he affirmed. “Ruined my appetite for pastrami. I can only eat it once a week now.”

  Brooke slung her arm casually around Brady’s neck. “See? It’s so valuable to get close like this,” she said. “If we don’t get comfortable giving up our personal space for each other, then scene fifty-two will be a bit of a shock.”

  They grinned at each other. Kill me now, Max thought. Apparently her powers of persuasion matched well with Brooke’s… well, powers.

  A harried production assistant stormed over to them. “We need Brady,” she told them, without looking up from her clipboard.

  Brady stood and pushed his (hideous) argyle sweater sleeves up over his elbows. “Ned Nickerson is about to find out that his father was in league with the crack dealers in Nancy’s hood,” he said. “I get to punch someone from my apple crate.” He cracked his knuckles. “That thing is in so many scenes with me, I feel like I should name it. Any suggestions?”

  “Mr. Pickles?” Max muttered before she could stop herself.

  “Brady, I’ll come watch in a minute,” Brooke interjected, leaping to her feet and nudging herself between them. “First, Max and I have to talk about what we’re going to read next for our book group. I really want to do The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, but she keeps agitating for Sweet Valley Confidential.”

  Max opened her mouth and then shut it.

  “I used to sneak Sweet Valley High books out of my sister’s room when I was a kid,” Brady said. “That’s how I learned that if you wake up from a coma with someone else’s personality, the easiest cure is to hit your head on the coffee table.”

  “Brady,” the PA repeated flatly. “They’re waiting.”

  He grimaced. “Look at what a diva I’m turning into already. Nice to see you, Max.”

  “So what do you think?” Brooke whispered as soon as Brady was out of earshot. “Is this working? He always just wants to talk. It’s been four days and he’s had tons of opportunities to accidentally put a hand on my knee, or something, but he’s not making a move. Is it me? Is my breath secretly bad?”

  She exhaled lightly in Max’s face, a warm vanilla-spearmint breeze.

  “Can I get my paycheck?” Max asked. “I have a ton of homework tonight.”

  “He’s just so gentlemanly. You don’t think he’s gay, do you?” Brooke suddenly gaped. “I mean, not that I mind being someone’s beard, but I’d just like to know. It totally affects what eyelashes I wear.”

  “Paycheck,” Max repeated flatly.

  “Oh, fine,” Brooke said. “I just thought you’d want to hear about how your plan is going. The check is in my trailer.”

  “It’s your plan, not mine,” Max said, following her through the cold and slightly dank soundstage and then outside to where the Airstreams were parked.

  “Same difference,” Brooke said, opening the door and ushering her inside.

  Brooke’s trailer was as cozy as Stage 32 was cavernous. Persian rugs hid the linoleum, and a queen-size daybed in the back room was decked out with a royal blue velvet duvet and multiple bright silk throw pillows. The perfunctory but functional kitchen in the middle faced a small table with bench seats in deep chocolate leather, and whatever wall space was available had been covered with framed vintage movie posters. Turned out living in a trailer wasn’t so bad when you were doing it on a billionaire’s dime.

  “I’ve got your money in here somewhere,” Brooke said, rooting through some books on a long counter under the window. They included The Corrections, Literature of the Western World, Volume II, and Ulysses, all stacked in a failed attempt to hide The Secret.

  “A little light reading?” Max asked, thinking of when Brady had used those exact words with her.

  “I have to keep up appearances!” Brooke beamed. “Mostly I just use them as free weights.” She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Where did I put that check? Can you check the bedroom, under my vanity? Daddy said I shouldn’t be careless with my knees.”

  Max swallowed a groan and pushed through the curtain, squeezing between the bed and the table and searching for anything resembling an envelope. All she found were some Kleenex that had been used to blot lipstick and a loose subscriber card from an issue of Self.

  As she twisted herself back upright, Max heard low voices coming from the main room. She cracked open the curtain and saw Brady leaning against the trailer door, speaking earnestly as Brooke beamed. Max shrank back just enough that she could watch undetected. It’s for research, she told herself.

  “… supposed to be one of the worst movies you can see in L.A.,” Brady was saying. “I’m dying to go.”

  Apparently he still hadn’t gone to see The Room. Brooke looked at him a bit blankly even though it was one of the most infamous activities in town.

  “You should be seeing good movies, to figure out which screenwriters you want to work with next,” she instructed him. “I’ve also been wanting to see that one where Cameron Diaz gives a kidney to Zach Galifianakis and then they take over each other’s personalities. It’s supposed to be hilarious.”

  “Oh, well, sure,” Brady said, flustered. “I guess I just thought it might be fun to go see something hilariously bad. You know, escape from the business for a while.”

  Brooke grabbed Brady’s arm and smiled up at him. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Does this mean you’re asking me out on a date, Brady Swift?”

  The imaginary Spanx roared back, strangling Max’s gut more ruthlessly than before.

  Brady flushed. “Well, I just think you were right before,” he said. “It’s hard to get to know somebody with all this going on, and if we’re going to work together—”

  “Intimately,” Brooke interrupted him, pointedly.

  “—well, yeah, so I think we should probably hang out on our own, you know, where no one is screaming at us to go to set, and I’m not wearing eyeliner.”

  Brooke batted her lashes. “I would love to go out with you. Our conversations have become so important to me, even if they’re short.”

  Brady flashed Brooke a self-conscious grin. His dimples were so deep, you could ask him to stash your car keys in them. “Well, okay then,” he said.

  Max pinched shut the curtain. She didn’t want to see any more.

  fifteen

  Heath wasn’t like any pirate Francesca had ever seen. Lean and pale, with a shock of brown hair and milky brown eyes, he was intense and hungry and oh my god he was Edward Cullen flarrrrgh.

  Max punched the delete key with abandon. She didn’t care if it broke off and smashed into a million pieces. Half the point of taking on Brooke’s blog had been to unlock Max’s own creative process. Instead, her NYU wri
ting sample got worse every time she restarted it. And it didn’t help that Teddy was upstairs playing the same riff on his guitar over and over and over again.

  “A little variety, please, maestro?” she bellowed in the general direction of Teddy’s upstairs turret room. He thumped the floor and kept playing.

  Max looked out her bedroom window and saw her dad puttering around with something that looked like an old-fashioned hand-push lawn mower with an oscillating fan attached, presumably to keep the person mowing the lawn from getting overheated. They were in the middle of a heat wave—the WeatherBug on Max’s computer claimed Los Angeles had hit a hundred degrees that day—and with the air still unpleasantly oppressive, Max was beginning to regret not taking Molly up on her offer of a postschool swim at her place. But Max felt too antsy to relax on an inflatable raft.

  “I have to work on my application,” was her excuse. Which of course meant rewriting the opening sentences about seventy-five times, reading all the comments on OpenBrooke.com (the last entry, about how “if it zips, it fits” is not a proper style mantra, had gotten more than four hundred), and flipping between the Lifetime Movie Network and infomercials. She’d stopped even pretending to work when she discovered a Colon Zap ad starring Jennifer Parker.

  Brooke called. Max sent her to voice mail.

  Vampires didn’t scare Francesca. Neither did werewolves. No, what she really feared were robot zombie werevamps. And dying alone in her garret never having left Los Angeles and doing nothing but writing a dumb blog. THE END.