Carter's Big Break

by Brent Crawford

  EJ slaps me in the neck (ouch) and asks, “Where the hell have you been?”

  They gather around me, but these fools know exactly where I’ve been. “Don’t you guys read US Weekly? I’ve been in Miami, L.A., Europe . . . I’m a jet-setter now.”

  Everyone is chuckling, except Nutt. He doesn’t usually get sarcasm, so he asks, “How the hell did you get to Italy?”

  EJ replies, “He teleported, dumbass.”

  I add, “They made all that stuff up for the magazine.”

  Bag sniffs my T-shirt and inquires, “Carter, why do you smell like a petting zoo?”

  “My character doesn’t have a shower, so I’m not bathing very much right now. Yo, who’s got some trunks I can borrow?”

  EJ gives the other guys a mischievous look that I don’t like. He slyly says, “You don’t need trunks, dog . . . You need a bath!”

  A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I try to spin away before they can get a hold of me. Dang it. I yell “Don’t!” as I push Doc off me. Hormone and Bag grab my ankles as Nutt and EJ secure my arms. I flex down and try to squirm away, but they hoist me off the ground like a rag doll. Damn, they’re getting stronger.

  I’m flailing pretty good as Bag yells, “There’s a bathtub right here!”

  I try to plead with them. “No, I’m still in my costume!”

  But there is no reasoning with a group of dudes when they’re planning to punk you. I’m moving fast as they laugh and drive their legs toward the water. I try to say, “Please!!! The costume designer will kill me if—”

  SPLASH!!! EJ, Bag, Nutt, Doc, J-Low, Hormone, me and my custom-fitted vintage wardrobe crash into the cold water. It actually feels really good, but I can’t stop to enjoy it. My boys are all howling with laughter as I swim to the edge and try to haul my soggy, fully clothed ass out of the pool. “You guys suck! I’m gonna get bitched at so bad for this!” They are still giggling in the pool and splashing me. “You don’t get it, this isn’t funny, I could get fired for this! A team of people made these clothes for me!”

  I storm off toward the front gates, but EJ hops out of the pool and chases me down. “Yo, wait! I’m sorry, man. We didn’t know that was a costume. You dress like that every day.”

  “I said I was wearing a costume!”

  He replies, “Yeah, but we already had you off the ground by then. And you do kind of stink.”

  I throw up my hands and say, “I’m trying to stay in character. I’m trying to do something here, and you have no idea how much pressure I’m under.”

  EJ stops walking and asks, “How are we supposed to know that? We haven’t seen you all summer.”

  I just keep going into the locker room and say, “Whatever!” The sound echoes off the concrete walls as I blow past the front-desk girl and jump on my bike.

  I throw the clothes in the dryer at home and hope for the best. When I put them back on, they’re a bit tighter, but hopefully if I move around in them, the costume department won’t notice that they’re less smelly.

  That night, I cruise over to the President Hotel to see how Hilary is doing. I wave to the paparazzi guys and head up to the penthouse. Matilda is waiting for me when the elevator doors pop open.

  “WHOA!” I scream. “I mean, hello. S’up?”

  She’s nervously pacing around the living room and tells me that Hilary is still asleep. Matilda seems stressed like I’ve never seen her before. I was right: she really cares about the body she’s guarding.

  I ask, “Is everything okay?”

  Tears are welling up in her eyes as she stares at me. “No, it’s not. Hilary took a bunch of pills today in her trailer.”

  I don’t say anything, because I’m not sure what she means. Matilda continues, “She overdosed,” as she reaches into her pocket and hands me a bag of pills. “Do you recognize any of these?”

  The letters printed on one of them look familiar, CIBA

  16. My eyes light up, “Yeah, this is ADHD medicine; my boy EJ takes these.” She picks them out of my palm and asks, “Did you give them to her?”

  “No.”

  She sighs, “I didn’t think so . . .” and I start to say thanks, but then she continues, “I know you have ADD, but if you took the medication, you wouldn’t be such a space cadet.” (Bitch.) “Where can I find this EJ?”

  “No way. I like Hilary, but I’m not letting you take out my best friend. We may not be rich, but we aren’t drug dealers.”

  She doesn’t get to respond because Hilary yells from the bedroom, “Matilda, open this door, you bitch!”

  She walks over and unlocks the latch. Hilary springs from the dark room and has to adjust to the lights before she screeches, “How the hell did I get back here?”

  Matilda is so mad, she doesn’t say anything, so I tell her, “You took too many goofballs, Marilyn. You passed out.”

  Her head drops and she starts crying. “Damn it! Who knows?”

  Matilda tells her, “Just Carter.”

  Hilary smears her mascara and smiles at me. “Good. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  She looks sad and as fragile as a porcelain doll. Like I could push her over and she would shatter into a million pieces. She’s rubbing her bloodshot eyes with one hand and gripping the sofa with the other.

  She explains, “I didn’t mean to do it, Carter.” What the hell am I supposed to do with this? If I tell Phil, won’t he just blow it off? Or would he call her mom and shut the movie down? Her mom would be pissed, but probably tell Matilda to handle it. We’re so close to finishing the film that even C. B. wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardize his movie. He’s really nice to her, but I think he’d be fine if she jumped off a cliff after he got the last shot. The best thing I could do for Hilary is call US Weekly and lay it all out. Public shame has kept more than a few people on the straight and narrow, but it would definitely end the filming and crush her. I reluctantly smile and say, “No, I won’t . . . if you promise you won’t do any more.”

  She smiles like a great weight has been lifted off her, but then she gets pissed, quick. “This is your first movie, you little shit! And it’ll be your last if you do the wrong thing here. Who do you think you are? You think we’re friends? Do you have any idea how lucky you are to even be in the same room with me? You don’t give me demands or conditions. I’m Hilary Idaho, bitch!”

  Wow, my chest hurts like she just kicked it. I would have preferred a punch in the face to that. She motions for the elevator and tells Matilda, “Get him out of here. And take a shower, boy. You stink. Idiot thinks he’s Marlon Brando!”

  The doors close, and I’m able to push the button for the lobby before I start crying. I just stopped by to say hello, not to have my faith in humanity challenged. I have no idea who the hell I am anymore. I’ve been pretending to be someone else so much that I seem to have lost myself. I need to talk to somebody about this, or I’m going to explode. But I’ve been so busy turning everyone in my life away that I have no idea who to turn to. I walk out into the lobby and wipe the snot from my nose as a photographer flashes his camera in my face and asks, “Trouble in paradise, Starvados?”

  I don’t answer him because it won’t make any difference. I’ll just wait for next week’s tabloids to find out why Starvados Sbarro was crying at Chatêau Marmont.

  I feel so alone as I pedal toward home. I could talk to Lynn, except she’s working like a dog for the costume designer’s assistant, and she doesn’t have time to deal with my issues. My parents would freak out and not let me be in the movie. I dialed Abby’s number about ten times, but I never let it go through. I really thought that she might call me . . . like she can sense how much I need her, but she didn’t, so I keep it zipped like Hilary thought I would.

  We get back into the shooting, and she acts like nothing happened. We’re mostly doing walking shots on the streets of Merrian. Hilary is trying to be really nice to me and the rest of the crew, but I can’t help but stiffen up when she gets close. I’m like a dog that�
��s been smacked one too many times, and I can’t help but flinch. People take pictures and stop to gawk, even if Hilary isn’t in the shot. I guess the thinking is, if you’re important enough to have this crew running around, and the camera is pointing at you . . . you must be a somebody! It’s pretty cool because I know (along with the rest of the cast and crew) that I’m a nobody, but the general public has no idea! Feel free to worship me, people.

  We’re almost two weeks behind schedule, and Phil is running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He’s yelling at everyone to do their jobs faster, but his hysterics seem to have the opposite effect on people. When someone is doing their best and someone yells at them to “HURRY THE HELL UP!!!” it seems to fluster them and actually slow things down. It sure as hell isn’t my problem; I can’t act any faster, but Phil still waits for me outside the bathroom as if the whole production is waiting for me to poop. This dude’s going to give me hemorrhoids!

  As much as I’ve been dreading the crying scene, I’ve been looking forward to shooting the scenes at Merrian High. It’s cool to be at school when there aren’t so many people, and the ones that are here are staring at me like I’m a big shot. A couple of cute girls are checking me out when I stumble out of the makeup trailer. I walk over to the craft service table and eat M&M’s until one of the girls says hi to me.

  “Hey,” I mumble with a mouth full of chocolate.

  They ask if I’ll sign their copies of US Weekly.

  “Sure, d-d-do you guys go to college around here?” I ask, knowing they’re in high school . . . because I’m so smooth! I’m thinking about inviting them back to my trailer when they look down at my scribble and ask, “Who the hell is Carter?”

  I shrug as if to say, “Who do you think, baby?”

  They walk away in disgust, and I hear the tall one say, “I thought that was Starvados Sbarro.”

  The short one adds, “No, that boy is obviously his stand-in. He’s no pizza magnate. . . . You can tell.”

  I ask the empty bowl of M&M’s, “Please tell me what a pizza magnet is.”

  We’re still waiting for Hilary to arrive, and Phil seems especially pissed off today. His assistant tells me that they’re setting up a classroom shot, and they’re going to try to add Hilary’s face to someone else’s body in postproduction.

  “You can do that?” I ask.

  He seems annoyed when he says, “We make movies . . . We can do anything.”

  He’s an assistant, so all he can really do is get coffee, but whatever.

  McDougle is playing the teacher who rats me out after inspiring me to write a great paper about my terrible life. She has all the dialogue, and probably needs to concentrate, but I see her coming out of her RV, so I go over and say hi.

  In a Kung Fu accent I mutter, “De masta and de student finaaally meet on de field of baddalle!”

  She replies, “Carter, how much candy have you eaten today?”

  “De Masta say, nooo too much can-dy for de powaful stu-dent! Whuuuuu-aaaaaahhh—!”

  She interrupts my crane kick. “Carter!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay focused,” she demands.

  We walk into the classroom full of extras. Abby is sitting with Jeremy, so I give them a nod and take my seat behind them. Jeremy waves, but Abby doesn’t seem to notice. She’s wearing one of Hilary’s costumes, and she has blue dots glued all over her face. C. B. is intensely working out how he wants the camera to move, and another guy is using the tape measure to figure out how far away Abby’s dots are from the lens. I should be focusing on this scene. I don’t have any lines; I’m just supposed to look anxious and angry, but I’m trying, unsuccessfully, to get Abby to look at me. HELLO!!! The star of the movie is over here! The guy that the camera and lights are pointing at?! The guy who doesn’t have dots all over his face so he can be edited out later? I flex my jaw just in case she looks over. I clear my throat. Why the hell won’t she look at me?

  C. B. yells “Cut” before I realize we were shooting anything, and he seems really happy. “Nice work, Carter . . . that was some raw emotion,” he says as he checks the gate and starts breaking down the camera.

  Phil tells everyone that Hilary is finally here, so we’re moving on to the hallway scenes.

  Abby is told to change clothes and remove the dots from her face because she’s going to have to be an extra for the rest of the day. She and Jeremy are in the hall shot with a few other kids, and so is College Carter Dumbass. Great! I was told he got the part of Jeff Becker, the d-bag that tries to steal my girl in the movie. Abby would say, “Art imitates life,” if she was talking to me.

  C. B. directs Abby and Jeremy to walk through the frame holding hands like they’re boyfriend-girlfriend. I think it’s pretty funny, but Abby is all business, so while they’re rehearsing I mumble, “Cute couple.”

  Abby mouths the word, “Concentrate!” very seriously in response . . . as if I need her help here. Like, who the hell does that little extra think she is?! Telling me, the pretty-much star of this movie, what to do with my—

  “Carter!” C. B. yells in my face and snaps his fingers. “Are you ready to shoot one?”

  I look toward Abby and say, “Shoooot, I was born ready.”

  She rolls her eyes, and C. B. walks back to his camera.

  This is the scene where Hilary tells me that Jeff Becker has asked her to go to prom. She talks about it as a joke, like “ha-ha,” but my character knows that she’d really like to go, and gets pissed about it. I have this whole monologue I’m supposed to say, but I forgot to look at it during our last break. Hilary must be having one of her bad days because she doesn’t even say hello to me when they usher her onto the set. We walk through the moves a few times to get the background people to move correctly (friggin’ extras!).

  C. B. asks Jeremy to stop “prancing” a few times, but Jeremy is too fabulous for his own good, so C. B. recasts College Carter Dumbass to play Abby’s fake boyfriend.

  I quietly tell C. B., “Yo, that’s the guy playing Jeff Becker . . . would he really be walking down the hall holding hands with this other girl?”

  C. B. explains, “They’re background; it’ll just look like shapes walking through the frame.”

  “Oh yeah, cool, um, couldn’t you get one of these other extras to do that? I don’t care; it’s just that that guy’s nineteen and she’s fifteen, so it may be illegal, you know?”

  C. B. glares at me and says, “How about I direct this movie and you get the next one?”

  “Yeah, cool, whatever—”

  He barks, “Background action!”

  The extras start to move, and Abby whispers something into College Carter Dumbass’s ear. He giggles and whispers something in response.

  C. B. yells, “Hilary and Carter . . . ACTION!”

  I’m just supposed to be getting stuff out of my locker at this point, so I lean against the wall to try and pull myself together and not freak out. Did Abby just make fun of me to him again? Hilary walks up and says her line about the dude asking her out. I’m supposed say, “‘Why don’t you just go to the dance?’” but I’m so pissed off at Abby while I’m listening to Hilary that I just bite my lip and shake my head.

  Hilary says her line, “‘Isn’t that lame?’” and I’m not getting it together, at all! I’m shaking with anger. I still haven’t said a word, and I don’t think I’ll come up with anything anytime soon. My brain is so defective and filled with Abby’s little mind games that I decide to head-butt the locker, hard. BANG!!!

  Hilary stops acting and asks, “What’s wrong with you?” I look her in the eyes and try not to fall down. I grab my head and struggle to remember why the hell I just head-butted a locker. Hilary has no idea that I’m ridiculously pissed off at a couple of whispering extras. I rock back on my heels, and she grabs my wrist to steady me before asking, “Why are you doing this?” But I jerk my hand away. She gets back into character and decides to skip over my monologue about why I hate prom. She tries to
say her next line, “‘I was joking . . . I don’t even want to—’”

  BANG!!! I kick the locker as hard as I can. The metal crunches under my foot. Hilary jumps back in shock and repeats her last line, “‘I was joking!’” but I don’t even acknowledge her; I just glance toward Abby and limp out of frame.

  C. B. yells, “CUT!” Phil and his assistant ask, “What the hell was that?” It’s dead quiet until C. B. exclaims, “That was amazing!” and starts clapping. Then everyone is applauding my screwup . . . except for Abby, Hilary, and the crew guy who’s going to have to replace the locker door. C. B. continues, “Carter you really are the next Daniel Day-Lewis! Cut the fluff and get to the pain, brother!”

  I nod a half-assed thank-you and hobble toward craft service to get some ice for my swelling head and foot. I need to figure out what scene is coming up next, and why I’m such a freak.

  19. J-J-JEREMY AND THE JETS

  I change my shirt and look over the script as the knot on my head continues to grow. It’s a big fight scene that takes place in the middle of the movie. It begins with Hilary/ Maggie exiting the school with a group of jocks, and they discover me digging in the Dumpster. The guys call me a bunch of names and then beat me up. This event definitely happened to C. B., because he’s talked a lot about it, and it seems like he’s really looking forward to reliving the moment. I guess putting a humiliating experience from your life into a movie, book, or play would be therapeutic and possibly the ultimate revenge. It’s kind of sad, though, because I know a-holes like the guys who beat him up. The jerks who think it’s funny to pick on someone weaker so they can feel stronger. I won’t mention it to C. B., but I bet those kids don’t even remember punching him or calling him a dirtbag or throwing him into a trash can. I’ll bet they recall the time they gave a homeless guy a dollar or helped an old lady cross the street. They may have even read Down Gets Out, or they’ll see the movie and have no idea their cruelty has not been forgotten. It’s brewed inside a guy for fifteen years. A guy who now drives a Ferrari. So whatever, I guess.