“Listen to yourself. You’ll be downright sickly if you try to lose another pound. Be proud of those curves. Look at Marilyn Monroe.”
“You mean the dead one?”
She scowls. “What about that one brunette? Kirstie Alley? She’s curvy—downright fat.”
I grin—can’t help it. “Not anymore. ‘One eight hundred call Jenny.’”
“What are you talking about? Oh!” Mom’s eyes go big. “That was her?”
“Um-hum.”
“She looks good, doesn’t she?”
Case in point.
I’m not arguing with her anymore. “Look, Ma, I’m an adult. If I think I should lose a few pounds, I have the right to do it without you yelling at my friends or me.” I say that with all the respect I can muster. I don’t want to hurt my mom, but come on… I’m an adult.
Her eyes narrow like she’s going to send me to my room, then she gives a huff. “Just don’t come crying to me when you’re all skin and bones and the tabloids are having a field day.”
O-kay, how about I change the subject? “So, how are Dad and the twins?”
The twins being Michelle (whom we call Shelly) and Michael, my twenty-five-year-old siblings. Both live at home with our parents and neither has a decent job.
Mom seems as willing as I am to let the subject of my independence drop. She gives a wave. “Michael just moved into an apartment close to his college with two other students.”
“He did? No one told me he was moving out.”
Mom rubs her forehead the way she does when she’s stressed. “We didn’t want to believe it until we saw it materialize. You know we’ve been through that song and dance before. But last night he moved his things.”
“Even that old record player with the eight track?”
Her face clouds. “Well, no. Not that. Or the eight track collection. But I told him if he doesn’t come get it in two weeks, I’m putting it on the curb for the garbage truck to pick up.”
Sure she will. But I smile and nod. What’s it going to hurt to let her think I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt?
“Good for him for finally growing up. How’s Shelly? Did she get that job in Doctor Payne’s”—don’t go there, it’s been done over and over and isn’t funny anymore—“office?”
“She did get the job. Right after he told her she’s pregnant.”
“What?”
A heavy sigh blasts from her chest. “Yep. I always thought if one of my daughters got pregnant out of wedlock it would be …”
Okay, she stops herself, but was it really soon enough? I mean gee whiz already.
“Thanks a lot, Mom.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you were always the rebellious one—still are. Shelly’s always done exactly what we’ve expected of her.”
“Obviously not everything,” I sass because I’m feeling a little bit raw over my character assassination. She thinks just because I’m independent and don’t want my parents running my life at twenty-nine years old that I go around saying yes to anyone who wants to get me in the sack? Well, I don’t.
“Yes, well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? At least with you I always knew what to expect.”
“You did?”
She gives me a rueful smile. “Yes, exactly the opposite of what we told you to do.”
Ouch. Let it go, Tabby. Just let it go. “How far along is Shelly?”
“Two months.”
“How did this happen?”
Mom gives me the look, and my face goes hot. “You know what I mean.”
She heaves a sigh. “We hardly know anything about this Drew fellow. Apparently, he’s some sort of actor or model or something unstable like that.”
Because actor must equate with unstable. I’m slightly offended.
I mean, isn’t it enough that she insults me to my face on a regular basis? Must she also do it subconsciously? I’m this close to speaking up in my defense and the defense of all responsible working actors, but then I decide, why even bother? Why waste my mojo on an attitude that is never going to change? “Is Shelly getting married to this guy?”
Mom’s frown deepens. “Turns out her boyfriend already has another girlfriend. And he’s chosen to run off with the one he didn’t get pregnant.”
I feel a gasp coming on, and I’m too shocked to suppress it. “Is Shelly ever going to get it together and stop screwing up her life?”
Mom gives me a stern look, and I know I’ve crossed a line at the mere hint of disapproval of my sister.
“Be careful of the beam in your own eye, young lady.”
Sigh. I guess out-of-wedlock babies must be a splinter in my sister’s eye while my obvious need to drop a few pounds is a beam.
“Okay, Ma. Didn’t mean to criticize.” By pointing out the obvious. “How’s Daddy?”
“He isn’t feeling well. The doctor insists he needs to lose weight, but he’s having a terrible time sticking to a diet.” Her face twists with worry. “I find food wrappers all over the house. The man is hiding food from me. Isn’t that odd?”
“It’s an addiction, Mom. You have to help him. Not harp on him.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Mom’s face crumples. “So now I shouldn’t worry about fat around his heart? I don’t do anything right, do I?”
I know how she feels. And yes, she might be a little melodramatic at the moment, but apparently she’s having a bit of a hard day. My heart goes out to her. You know, everyone has a right to be comforted on days like this.
I walk across the room and put my arms around her slim body. She melts into me, this strong woman I’ve pulled against my whole life. I feel terrible that I’ve popped off with my opinion and hurt her deeply. “I’m sorry, Mom. Of course you should be concerned about Dad. Make him do whatever the doctor says.”
I should just tape my mouth shut. Then it can’t do any damage.
5
can’t believe this!”
I totally can’t believe what I’m reading.
“What’s up?” Laini’s tiny feet pad into the living room at the sound of my outburst. Once again the apartment smells of great baking. Tonight, Laini is trying her hand at apple turnovers, and I’m so glad because I really need something carb-laden to take the edge off after reading the drivel in front of me.
“This script Julie had couriered over,” I say smacking the pages with the back of my hand. “It’s total garbage.”
“What do you mean? I thought Julie was a great writer.”
“She is!” Personality notwithstanding. “She’s got to be doing this on purpose.”
Laini hands me a small plate with a warm turnover. “Here, I’ll trade you. Let me read that while you try the recipe.”
“Deal. I’d rather eat anyway.”
I hand her the script and dive into the warm, fruity sweetness surrounded by baked dough. Laini should really be a baker.
When I look up from the turnover, Laini’s flipping through the pages, a frown creasing her brow. “Okay, where are your lines?”
“I don’t have any,” I say glumly and shove another bite in my mouth.
“You have a week’s worth of script and not one line?” She turns her incredulous gaze to mine. “That stinks.”
“Tell me about it.” I point to the script with my fork. “Look at page six.”
She turns a couple of pages and reads aloud. “Felicia’s eyes roll beneath her closed lids at the sound of her sister’s voice.”
“That’s all the acting I do all week. Otherwise, I just lay there and try not to laugh at the bad dialogue between the nurses.”
“So Felicia’s just been wrapped up in Legacy, Illinois, in the hospital where her sister works for three years?”
“I know…”
“It just seems like when they change the bandages, someone would have recognized her. Or what about her wedding ring?”
“Page ten,” I say around sugary apple filling.
Pages flip and she star
ts to read. “‘The unknown hospital nurse takes Felicia’s ring from her finger and slips it into her pocket.’ I don’t get it,” Laini says.
“Okay, they created a flashback scene where I am brought into the hospital burned beyond recognition. The assumption is that the no-name nurse pulls my ring off because it’s so big and valuable. She thinks I’m going to die anyway, and we’ll never find out who I am.”
“Haven’t these writers ever heard of DNA testing and fingerprinting?”
“Well, there’s no one to test her DNA against and unless she’s a felon, those tests wouldn’t help figure out her identity anyway.”
Laini shrugs. “I guess. It just seems a little over the top. Don’t you think so?”
“That’s just the way soaps are. Anything can be written to explain anything. They’re not highly based in reality.” I grin. “That’s why they’re so popular. Housewives want that hour of escape.”
Laini hands me the script. “Well, maybe the next week will be better for you.”
“I hope so.” It’s just so disappointing. I mean I’ve been waiting and waiting for them to send me my first scripts. And today I get next week’s script, and I don’t say one darn word all week.
“So how’s the apple turnover?” Laini asks.
Ah, something happy to talk about. “This is fantastic. Did you make this from scratch?”
“Of course!”
“Laini, I swear you should have your own bakery.”
I see interest flicker in Laini’s eyes. “Wouldn’t that be fun? But bakeries don’t make enough. I’d go broke in three months.”
“With food like this? Are you crazy? You’d be a millionaire in three months.”
Laini reaches for my plate and stands up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think I’d better stick with what works.”
“You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t step out in faith, Laini.”
She gives me a grin. “Okay, but right now I have a job that pays my bills. As long as I can bake for my grateful friends, I’m happy.”
“You can bake for me anytime.” If I weren’t so scared of Freddie’s militant torture, I’d ask for another turnover.
Laini turns suddenly and gives me a wide-eyed smile as though she’s had a brilliant thought. “Hey, when I come back, want me to help you run lines like the old days?”
I give the pages in front of me a once-over and stare at the back of her head as she retreats into the kitchen without waiting for my answer. Run lines? Is she kidding me? What lines?
I’m not sure, but I honestly don’t think my mouth is supposed to be covered here. My whole face is wound up in gauze, except my eyes. And staring at myself in the mirror, I’d just as soon they were covered too so I couldn’t see how hideous I look. I know that horrible Julie Foster wrote me into the script this way just to keep me anonymous a little while longer. She’s so vindictive. And if you want to know the truth, I think she’s sort of nervous about me kissing her husband once Rudolph discovers to his surprise and joy that Felicia wasn’t killed, but merely maimed (another fact I’m not so happy about) and suffering from severe amnesia.
And lest anyone forget, let me just insert a little history: Julie divorced the slug husband who made a pass at me three years ago at the Christmas party—right before she killed off my character in a fiery inferno. Then she started dating a sitcom actor from a poorly rated, cancelled-after-six-episodes show that taped in the same building as Legacy of Life. After they broke up, I’m not sure what happened, but apparently, Trey caught her eye, left his wife, and married Julie. So she is now at least three men out from the one who supposedly broke her heart by attempting (but never succeeding) to kiss me.
Now that we’re up to speed, let me just reiterate how unfair it is to bring me back and keep me wrapped up and then scarred up. If I know Julie, she’ll prolong my hideousness as long as she can. So unprofessional. And so not fair. Who wants to kiss a guy with chronic coffee breath anyway? Not to mention the fact that he smokes, and last time we played a romantic scene together, he tried to slip me the tongue and I had to stomp on his foot.
Okay, it’s getting awfully hard to breathe here. I know my mouth isn’t supposed to be covered. I do have some lines as I go in and out of an anesthesia-induced sleep on this first day of shooting since my return to the übersoap. Uh. Makeup ditz, hello? I raise my hand to Tonya, the twenty-year-old makeup “artist.”
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.
I point to my mouth and widen my eyes. I’m seriously losing the battle against my fight for air and my head is feeling woozy, then I realize my passive nature isn’t going to help me here. I yank at the wrappings myself just as the girl realizes maybe I’m this close to death. “Oh! Miss Brockman. I’m so sorry.” She makes a leap for my wrappings and relief is forthcoming. I take in a few gulps of air.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” she begs. “I’ll for sure lose my job this time.”
Has she killed anyone? Because I was almost done for. “This time?”
She nods miserably. “Last week I used superglue on Joseph Toreno’s fake mustache. I didn’t know it was superglue. But it took a few days for the stuff to loosen enough for him to pull it off. He refuses to allow me to work on him anymore.”
Who can blame him? I give her a nod of sympathy. “Have you considered a different career? You’re pretty enough to be on TV.”
“Thanks, but I’d die if anyone paid that kind of attention to me. Besides, hair and makeup have been my dream all my life. I went to cosmetology school just so I could get this job.” She ducks her head. “I’m not really supposed to tell people this, but Sharon Blankenship is my mom. She pulled strings to get me hired. She’ll kill me if I’m fired.”
Sharon Blankenship. The matriarch of Legacy of Life and diva to put all other divas to shame.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I say.
She leans over my shoulder, and I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If Sharon’s your mom, I don’t think you have to worry about getting fired.” Her face immediately perks up. I smile. Now that I can breathe again, I’m feeling more generous.
A stage guy shows up just as Tonya puts the last of the gauze in place. I look like a crazed mummy, with fabulous violet eyes. Contacts for the part. But they really are gorgeous. The stagehand ogles the pretty makeup girl and barely notices Mummy-girl. “They’re ready for Miss Brockman.”
“She’s ready to go.” Tonya flashes me a bright smile and I’m charmed. I think I might have found a new friend.
Okay, so what do I have to do all day? Lie in a very uncomfortable hospital bed while “nurses” bustle on and off set, messing with my IV and talking around me.
Old Nurse says to New Nurse, who is unfamiliar with Felicia’s situation: “Oh, isn’t it just a shame? Imagine being so disfigured and in a coma for three years.” (Oh, masterful writing, Julie. I’m awed. Really. Not.)
New Nurse: “Isn’t there any way we can find out who she is?”
Old Nurse: “We’ve exhausted every avenue at our disposal. Until she wakes up… if she ever does, we’ll just have to wait and pray for the best.”
Nurses bow their heads for a moment of silent prayer. Pu-lease.
Oh, oh, my big moment. Time to put all that acting experience into motion. I move my right index finger. The camera is zooming in, but the praying nurses don’t notice that their patient is obviously coming out of her three-year coma.
And cut.
And there we have it. Acting at its most brilliant.
Squeeze those muscles, Tabby. You’re as flabby as old lady Blankenship.”
If I weren’t going ten miles per hour on the elliptical machine and dripping with sweat, I’d take the time to tell Freddie-the-horrible to keep those remarks about our show’s matriarch to himself if he knows what’s good for him.
“I. Am. Squeezing. You jerk.” I can’t breathe, and I know that’s not good.
; “Your butt is that squishy even while squeezing? Oh this is so much worse than I expected.”
Okay, the guy has been training me for more than a month, so he knows exactly what my glutes look and feel like. He’s just being mean and trying the tough love approach to get me to work harder.
“Okay, Freddie, who told you to get me to lose more weight?”
Mr. Innocent gives me those eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cupcake Abs, and what are you doing slowing down? Get back up to speed, and for that little ‘break’ I’m adding five more minutes.”
Totally unintimidated, I come to a complete stop. Freddie looks like he’s going to go through the roof. “What do you think you’re doing? Step it up, girlfriend.”
“Not until you tell me.”
“Okay, fine. Jerry.”
“Bull. Jerry couldn’t care less. Have you seen his wife?” Two hundred pounds if she’s an ounce, and Jerry adores the Missus.
“Okay. It was Julie Foster.”
“Julie?”
He gives a nod. “The cow says she’s not writing for an overweight heroine. It’s too hard for audiences to believe the hunky guys like Trey are in love with fat women when there are so many hot women running around.”
“Hunky?” I can’t help but laugh. “If they had to kiss his coffee breath, they wouldn’t think he’s so hot.”
“I just do what I’m told.” He has that eye of the tiger, and I know I’m about to get yelled at so I move my legs and go back to the torture. But I’m definitely having a talk with the powers that be about this.
Jerry, I can’t physically get below a size six, and even a six is pushing it. I’m genetically predisposed to a size eight or above.”
A snort from Julie raises my hackles. I whip around in Jerry’s plush office and face her. “Why can’t you write me in as curvy, not fat?”
She ignores me and stays focused on Jerry. “Jerry, sweetheart, no one is going to believe a man like Rudolph will fall in love with someone with a large behind.”
Oh, she is begging to be tossed out of that chair onto her own boney backside.
Catch a Rising Star Page 6