The costume designer looks at my stinky-ass running shoes like they were sent from heaven, and orders me to try them on with the rest of my costume.
I try to explain, “They’re my shoes.”
But she thinks I’m some kind of Method actor who only speaks for his character. She replies, “YES! They’re perfect, aren’t they? We’ve done it again, girls!”
The assistant adds, “It’s like they’re molded to his feet!” as she’s putting them into a plastic bag.
I decide not to waste my breath with more explanations, so I ask, “Can I borrow those shoes . . . to help me get into character?”
The costume designer seems nervous about allowing the precious grass-stained sneakers out of her sight, but eventually says, “Yeah, C. B. told me you were a serious actor. . . . Be careful with them.”
I tell her I’ll try, and they furiously get to work, tailoring the clothes they’ve chosen. I’m putting my Levi’s back on—the ones that already fit—when I notice Hilary Idaho sitting by the window reading the book version of Down Gets Out. My boys would crap themselves, and I’m surprised that I haven’t. The light is hitting her just right, and she’s kind of glowing. She’s scary skinny but very pretty. She’s rocking a short Japanese robe. Her manicured feet are propped up in the window, so I can see most of her long tan legs. She’s smiling as she reads.
I slip on my (vintage) T-shirt before walking over. I’m not as nervous as I should be, because I’ve got the perfect question: “Where are you at in the story?”
She looks up at me and smiles. “Ohhh, it’s my second time through; they’re at that point where things are starting to go well for Chris, and they’re falling in love and pretending to be lord and lady of the manor.”
I know exactly the part she’s referring to, so I put on a goofy British accent and say, “Madame, did you pay the light bill?”
She giggles and does a similar accent, but hers sounds totally authentic when she bellows, “We really must get a new cleaning lady!”
We both laugh, and I say, “You obviously like the book.”
She softly corrects me. “I love it; it’s the best book I’ve ever read.”
“Me, too!” I say, offering up a high five, which she slaps like a pro. “I have to confess, I haven’t read a ton of books, though.”
She whisper/laughs, “I haven’t either. I don’t attend the most challenging school.”
I should be freaking out about how well this is going and how nice she’s being to me and how much of her upper thigh is visible, but I’m not because I’m a trained player/ journalist/warrior, and I fire out another question. “Where do you go to school?”
She motions around the room and says, “You’re looking at it; I’ve never been to a real school. I’ve always just had set teachers and tutors.”
“Must be nice?” That’s more of a statement, but I try to say it like a question.
She shrugs. “I don’t know if it is or it isn’t, but it’s all I know. I usually have trouble talking to regular kids.”
“Me, too! I’m Carter, by the way.”
We shake hands, and she replies, “I know, I’ve heard all about you.”
“You have? Cool . . . So, what’s your name?”
She releases my hand and looks confused, so I say, “I’m kidding, I know who you are, Hilary.” She looks really embarrassed to have missed the joke, so I sit down next to her and explain, “Sorry. Sarcasm is taught heavily in my school.”
“Well, you’ll have to catch me up. I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to humor.”
“You do a great British accent.”
As if she’s Mary Poppins herself, she says, “Yes I do! Don’t I?”
“See? That’s funny.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, trust me, I’m a regular kid,” I say, and bust a perfect wink!
The wink may have been too much, because she looks away and the conversation dies. So I bust out another question. “Did you learn that accent for the Princess Journal movies?”
She replies, “Yeah, I got pretty good by the third one.”
“Oh, I’ve only seen two of them. My sister has, I mean . . . so I’ve only watched bits and pieces of them.”
She laughs. “Carter, you can tell me you’ve seen the Princess Journals . . . I was in them . . . I won’t judge.”
I confess, “Yeah, I’ve seen them both, like, five times.”
She pushes me and says, “Gay-wad.”
She starts laughing hysterically, and I say, “Dude, you don’t need any help. You’re a total smart-ass!”
She giggles. “I’m not usually.”
“Unless you really think I’m gay . . . then that would make you a total bitch for saying that.”
She laughs for about five more minutes and then tells me that the third Princess Journal movie never actually came out. When I ask her what happened, she kind of dodges the question and explains how movies get made all the time and never get distributed. “They run out of money, or they don’t test well.”
I think “test” loosely translates to “it sucks.”
She explains that it wasn’t even released on DVD because it was worth more to the producers as a tax write-off than as a flop.
I quietly ask, “How did C. B.’s first movie, Genoa Eyes, get distribution?”
She tells me that it didn’t until it won the Cannes Film Festival, and art films don’t have to make as much money as regular movies. She obviously loved Genoa Eyes, like Abby did, so I don’t bag on it.
She sighs, “C. B. is such a brilliant director. I hope I don’t let him down.”
I nod and say, “Me, too.”
She laughs. “You don’t have anything to worry about.
C. B. loves you, Carter. I’ve only had one meeting with him, and all he talked about was you. He really thinks you’re special. A lot of my guy friends wanted this part.”
I add, “I’m probably a lot cheaper.”
“That’s why Phil likes you, but C. B. believes you have ‘raw talent.’ He wants me to hang out with you as much as I can, so I can learn from you.”
I gasp, “Learn from me? You’ve done a hundred movies!”
“He wants me to forget everything I know about acting, and just ‘be normal,’ but I’m not sure what that means. You know, I shot my first commercial when I was two months old? I’ve sold ten million records, been in thirty-seven national commercials, and I’ve actually only done twelve movies, but ninety-eight episodes of The Get Up Gang.”
“What are you, thirty-five years old?”
“Sixteen.”
“I guess I can try to help you be normal, but you’ve got to help me with the movie stuff.”
“It’s a deal,” she says.
We high-five like longtime friends. I know that I should ask her another question, but I’m feeling like such a badass because someone has finally noticed my “raw talent” that I try for a joke. “Okay, Hilary, first thing we’ve got to do is get rid of this kimono.”
She squints her eyes and asks, “Naked? That’s how I become a regular girl?”
“Dude, are you sassin’ me on the first day of training?”
She comes in close and whispers, “Be careful what you ask an actress to do, because we’re usually up for anything.”
“And I will stop you right there, because it seems like you’re flirting with me. And normal girls do not flirt with me.”
She nods. “Got it. No flirting. Should I write this down, Mr. Carter?”
“See, it still seems like you’re flirting.”
“Sorry, I do that.”
I clarify. “No, don’t misunderstand. You’re allowed to flirt with guys. I see girls around here doing it all the time. I’m just letting you know that they do not do it with me.”
She gives me a sly smile and says, “I will try to restrain myself.”
“Thank you.”
She says, “No-no, thank you.”
I smile because I’m o
fficially flirting my ass off with Hilary Idaho. This is championship flirting, and I’m involved! I’m so cool, but how? I can’t stop to figure out what I’m doing or not doing. Keep it loose and use your instincts, playa! I want to keep doing this for the rest of my life. Hit her with a question!
“Are you really dating Zac-Michael Wienus?”
She laughs. “No, we broke up. Don’t you read the tabloids?”
I shake my head, and she seems very happy that I don’t. She adds, “Well, I just read that I’m engaged to a Saudi prince, so that’s a new development.”
I nod and say, “Cool, so there’s still hope for that lost Princess Journal movie.”
She stops laughing and asks, “Do you have any questions for me, Carter? About filmmaking?”
A million of them fly through my head, but the one I grab on to is: “Okay, you and I are supposed to make out at the end of the movie, right? Do we need to rehearse that, or do we just wing it?”
She thinks for a second before she says, “Now who’s flirting?”
My mouth drops. “Oh, wow, I was, wasn’t I? I didn’t even mean to.”
She giggles. “Sure you didn’t. You’re a player, aren’t you?”
I shake my head like I don’t know what she’s talking about . . . but I do! My killer instincts are out and in full effect. I shrug like a pimp and say, “Must be that ‘raw talent.’”
She giggles, but stiffens up when a large softball coach of a woman stomps over to us from the costume racks. The woman’s voice is way deeper than mine. She murmurs, “Ms. Idaho, your Pilates lesson starts in four minutes. It’s time for Mr. Carter to go.”
Hilary stands up and screeches in the lady’s face, “MATILDA, how dare you! The director of this project has asked me to spend as much time with this boy as I can. For you to interrupt our meeting is totally unprofessional and unacceptable. Now go!” She stomps her foot and points to the bedroom, but Matilda just stands there and looks down at me with contempt.
I’m thinking that this is the bodyguard I was supposed to watch out for, but I may need to watch out for Hilary. That was a mood swing even my sister would bow down to.
Matilda calmly says, “We need to stick to the schedule. Perhaps he would like to do some Pilates with you so that he can experience some of your world before you rush off to embrace his.”
It seemed like she was listening to our conversation. And just so you know, if someone asks you if you want to do some Pilates, tell them NO! It’s worse than CrossFit, but in a totally different way. The costume ladies give me some shorts, and we go down to the hotel’s gym with this hot-ass trainer lady in black spandex. The gym doesn’t have any weights or fans or rock music playing. It’s just a few wooden medieval torture devices called “reformers” with pulleys, straps, springs, and harnesses that you lash yourself to and try to grunt and rip your body into these impossible positions. It’s all about your “core” and your pain threshold.
Hilary is going about this program as if she were born doing it. She ties her skinny body into a pretzel and then unties it over and over again with fluid motion and small changes. It’s beautiful to watch, but after a few minutes, I understand the machine’s name and I’m completely “reformed.” I’ll do whatever it asks. My hips are dislocated and my left leg is wrapped around my head. I’m looking directly at my own ass and supporting all of my body weight with two fingers. Every muscle in my body is trembling with pain, but I don’t dare release the pose for fear that this contraption will shoot me across the room! After an hour of this hell, the lady tells me that I’m through and I’ve done a great job. I know she’s lying, but I feel three inches taller and I’m as upright as an action figure. If my chest wasn’t twitching and flexing every few minutes, I might want to try this workout again . . . after a few weeks rest.
12. HOW WE ROLL
Next, Hilary and I take a shower together. . . . Not really, but in my head we do. I use a guest bathroom in the suite, and my shower takes longer than it should. Mostly I was trying to figure out the best way to help her get into character as a normal Merrian teenager. She can’t go to the mall because she’ll get mobbed. The pool is out because of her spray tan, and I can’t take her to the Merrian High weight room until my chest stops twitching. I decide to take her out to Grey Goose Lake for C. B.’s party.
I borrow a T-shirt and some board shorts from the costume department while the whole circus prepares Hilary for the change of venue. The makeup ladies descend on her like a NASCAR pit crew. Hot rollers, hair spray, airbrushes, nail files, and polish applicators all working at the same time. I don’t get to watch the bikini waxing, but I can imagine how it went down, and it was beautiful. I have to use the restroom (because I drank a lot of water during the Pilates session). I come out of the bathroom ten minutes later (I drank a lot), and Hilary is finally ready. Her little outfit probably cost more than my bike, but all I can see is the strings of her bikini poking out of the tops of her shorts and tank top. Please, God, let me see Hilary Idaho in a bikini!
About ten of us make our way down to the parking lot. I realize why everyone was wearing sunglasses in the elevator, when the doors pop open and a gang of paparazzi start yelling, clicking, and flashing away. I can’t see a damn thing so Hilary grabs my hand and leads me through the chaos. We jump in the back of an Escalade, and I try to get my eyes to work again.
Three matching black SUVs roll out of the garage in tight formation with ours in the middle. I try to give a tour of Merrian, but it’s hard to tell the driver where to go because he has to radio the lead Escalade to makes the turns ahead of us. I’m used to riding my bike or being driven by someone, so I keep forgetting to give them enough notice to coordinate.
I ask, “Can’t we just take the lead?”
Matilda sternly replies, “Leave the security to us, Mr. Carter.”
It’s also hard to talk over all of the ladies on their cell phones, and her mom keeps interrupting me to say, “Oh, isn’t that quaint?!”
I cancel the tour and just tell them to go out to the lake. As we’re rolling along, a motorcycle keeps zooming up to our windows. There’s a guy riding on the back, taking pictures of us through the tinted glass. Matilda points at him and fires an imaginary finger gun at him as he passes. I laughed the first time she did it, but after the third, I realize that she’s actually practicing. She catches me watching her and points the imaginary weapon at me. “What happened to your face?” she asks, like I’ve done something wrong.
“Bike jump went bad.”
Hilary asks, “Are you in the X Games?”
I chuckle and am about to say “Yeah, right,” when I cut myself off and just say, “Yeah.”
The makeup ladies nod as if they’re impressed. Matilda just flexes her jaw like she knows I’m lying. She must be ex-CIA or something.
Hilary starts telling a story about how she used to date the skater Ryan Sheckler and what a dork he is, when I hear a call come into the driver’s earpiece: “We have a situation coming up on the right.”
I look ahead of the lead SUV and see my boys pedaling along in a big pack, screwing up traffic on the two-lane road. Hormone’s dad must have confiscated the CRX, because he’s riding his old GT again. J-Low is in front, and Nutt is riding in the drainage ditch. Bitchy Nicky is a passenger on EJ’s pegs, and she doesn’t look happy about it. Doc is riding on Bag’s pegs, and he seems okay with it. I ask the driver to pull up along side of them; Matilda nods that it’s okay. All of the cyclists stiffen as our big-ass truck slows down to match their speed. I roll the window down and their tense faces all explode with relief when I pop out and say, “S’up, bitches!”
Nutt rides out of the ditch and grabs the window frame as we roll along. “What the hell are you doin’, Carter?”
“I’m just chillin’ with my new friend, Hilary Idaho, here.” She sticks her head out the window and smiles at them. Their jaws drop at the same time.
Bag is only able to say, “Son of a . . .” before he driv
es off the road and crashes into the drainage ditch, sending Doc flying headfirst into the embankment.
The ladies in the car are obviously not used to seeing guys smash themselves into various states of brain damage, like I am. They scream, “Oh NOOOO” and “That poor boy!”
Doc just lies there for a second, but I assure them, “He’s fine.”
The driver has slowed down to a crawl but asks Matilda, “Should I stop?”
Hilary answers, “Yes, you asshole!” so he does. She and I hop out of the car and jog toward the stalled caravan of BMXs. Matilda follows us closely. By the time we get to them, Doc is holding his shoulder, and Nutt is waving his hand at him and demanding, “How many fingers?!”
I give a few high fives and introduce everyone to Hilary. It’s kind of weird because my boys and Nicky are all staring at Hilary’s boobs to see if they’re real or not, and a photographer is running around us, clicking and flashing away.
I try to cough orders to my friends by covering my mouth and barking, “Whrr-raise the gaze!” That’s something our football coach came up with. If you see one of your boys staring at a chick’s breasts and he’s not aware of it, you’re supposed to pretend to cough the commands until they realize and finally “raise the gaze,” but there’s just too much going on around here.
Hilary finally crosses her arms and asks me, “Did you ride your bicycle to the hotel, Carter?” I nod that I did, and she motions to EJ and his hose beast. “I thought you were going to help me become a regular kid. I’m trying to get into character here. If this is how you guys get around, then that’s how I want to do it.”
Nicky jumps in. “Hilary, this is not how I travel!”
Everyone ignores her, and I shrug. “Okay. E, could we please borrow your bike? We’re going to the lake, so you guys can just ride in one of these SUVs.”
I was only offering a ride to EJ and Nicky, but I’m pretty relieved when everyone else piles their bikes into the front vehicle and jumps into the back two. The makeup ladies do not seem impressed by these sweaty boys climbing over and smashing into them. Matilda is the last one into the Escalade and shows me her finger gun, threateningly, before shutting the door. Hilary and I are left alone on the road . . . with this damn camera guy clicking away. Shouldn’t Matilda be intimidating him instead of me?
Carter's Big Break Page 8