Hot New Thing

by Laura Langston

  John Samuel. Mom went all giggly when she found out he plays my boss in the movie. Apparently, once he was hot like Etienne. Now he has wrinkles. And smile lines. He looks like a dad. “I’m Lily O’Neal.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lily O’Neal.”

  The chairs soon fill up. Etienne sits beside me. Brooklyn is next to him. A dozen people obviously playing supporting roles fill the remaining seats nearby.

  Nic welcomes us, spends a few minutes going over the shooting schedule and introduces the crew. Then he does a quick recap of the movie’s premise.

  “Mom’s Café is about love and human potential,” he says. “It’s about ordinary people forced out of the rut of daily life by an unusual woman who shows up at the café in the fictional town of Harwood, Minnesota, and seems to know everything about them.”

  That woman would be me.

  “We have Bill, the owner and chef.” Beside me, John raises his hand. My character is supposed to help Bill find the courage to love again.

  “His head waitress and love interest, Kim.” Brooklyn gives the group a dainty wave. Kim’s an alcoholic riddled with guilt. I remember Brooklyn’s puffy, bloodshot eyes. Well cast.

  “And Kim’s brother, Michael.” Etienne nods to the crowd. “Iris helps Michael conquer his self-doubt and pick up his guitar again when all he wants to do is get into her pants.” I sneak a look at his crazy dimple. Those lips. My pulse quickens. Good thing the writers made Iris so pure. I couldn’t kiss Etienne in private, never mind in front of a crowd.

  “All three are trapped by routine and negativity,” Nic continues. “Consequently, their lives are going nowhere.” He looks at me. “Until Iris”—shyly I raise my hand—“shows up looking for work and is able to see beyond the lies these people have told themselves.”

  Nic quickly outlines the character arcs for Bill, Kim and Michael. I don’t have a character arc. I disappear from Harwood, Minnesota, as suddenly and mysteriously as I arrive. After Nic introduces the secondary characters and answers questions, we start to read.

  I first appear in the movie at the ten-minute mark. You’d think I could sit back and relax while the others read, but I can’t. Not with my heart trampolining in my chest. I listen as Etienne goes from sexy French flirt to all-American boy as soon as he opens his mouth. John and Brooklyn are smooth and nuanced. By the time I deliver my first line, I am so panicked I can hardly talk.

  “I saw your Help Wanted sign out front,” I say. “I’m here about the job.”

  Beside me, John/Bill booms, “Have you worked in a restaurant before?”

  “I—”

  Nic interrupts me. “Give me that last line again, Iris. Only louder.”

  I suck in a quivery breath. Louder? I was loud. Except the studio gobbles up sound, and I’ve underestimated how much I need to project. The mark of a total amateur. Pulling on my training and my last scrap of confidence, I deliver the line again. And nail it.

  But it takes a few minutes before my breath slows and I no longer feel a sharp jolt of fear every time I open my mouth. When Nic calls the lunch break, I’m exhausted. I’ve studied for years, but no acting class, no movie of the week, no commercial, has prepared me for how hard this is.

  “We’re going out for lunch,” Etienne says as we push back our chairs. “We can’t leave once shooting starts. Want to come?”

  Yes, no, I don’t know. I’m unnerved, as if I’ve taken a wrong step somewhere and can’t find my footing. I need to regroup. Alone. “Sorry, I can’t make it. I—uh—” What? “I have this school assignment and—”

  Confusion clouds his blue eyes. “School?”

  Oh god, oh god, he probably thinks I’m twelve or something. “Final year,” I lie. Maybe he’ll think it’s college. I check my watch. “And I need to text my instructor.” Liar.

  “School can wait.”

  I tilt my head and channel the cool, mystical Iris. “No, it can’t.”

  He gives me the look and leans in close. I start to salivate over that yummy maple-sugar bacon smell. “Darlin’, you and I need to talk.”

  It’s a line from the movie, so I feed my lines back to him. “You’re right. We do. About your guitar playing.” But when I step sideways and almost fall over my chair, it totally blows the joke.

  He laughs. “Go ahead and stay in character,” he says, breaking from the script and going back to his French accent. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re Lily or Iris.” He winks. “I could show either one of them a good time.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mom to Lily: Too tired to Skype? Are you sick?

  Lily to Mr. Basi: I need more time.

  June to Lily: What, you’re in a bakery now?

  “Etienne Quinn was totally coming on to you,” Claire screeches, and I pull the cell away from my ear. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  “I am excited. I’m not dead, you know.” I finish the last of my pasta. “But I’m not stupid, either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I put my plate down and flick on the light beside the bed. It’s already dark. I didn’t get home until after seven. “Etienne’s like that with all the girls. It didn’t mean anything. And I can’t afford to get distracted. A million people would kill to be in my position.”

  Silence. Claire would kill to be in my position. She’s been pretty clear about that. Or she was after I told her that if the situation were reversed and Nic Mills had picked her instead of me, I would have been totally jealous. It was like I’d given her permission to open up about feeling envious. I’m glad we talked about it. I wouldn’t want this film to destroy our friendship.

  “I’m on the brink of the career I’ve always wanted,” I add. “I can’t let anything get in my way.” My gaze lands on my homework. Not even math.

  “Etienne Quinn isn’t just anything.”

  Yes, but…“Come on, Claire. Would you rather make out with Etienne or be a famous actress?”

  More silence. Like she needs to think about it?

  “Tough call,” she finally says. And then she laughs.

  I tell her about the rest of my day, how we spent the afternoon walking through the first few scenes, blocking out camera angles, checking lights. How the schedule is totally messed up because of Naomi’s accident. How there’s almost no time for rehearsals now and how tomorrow we start shooting. After promising on my life to keep her informed of all things Etienne, we say goodbye.

  A few minutes later, when I take my dirty dishes to the kitchen, Aunt Joanne pops out of the family room.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” She inclines her head politely, and her straight black hair—just like Sam’s—swings with the movement.

  “Yes, thanks.” I consider joining her in front of the TV, but I have my script to read and my math to do and an early-morning call (and, anyway, she hasn’t invited me), so I don’t.

  Tuesday morning when the car arrives, June’s not there. Some chaperone. My parents would be choked if they knew she was mostly working for other clients instead of keeping an eye on me. I don’t care—not really—but I do care about last night’s weird text. I want to know what she meant. I texted her back, but she didn’t answer.

  When I get to my trailer, my call sheet is waiting and so is my costume. Thank goodness! I’m in the bathroom doing up my skirt when the front door bangs open.

  “Lily!” June hollers. “What were you thinking?”

  I hurry into the front room. June is standing beside the pink loveseat, bristling with anger. She waves a piece of paper in the air. “There were a million other things you could have said.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She glares at me. “You had to compare yourself to a piece of bread?”

  Bread. Bakery. My mouth turns dry. Oh no. “That wasn’t for the news rele
ase. That was a private joke.”

  “Nothing’s private to a publicist,” she snaps.

  I bite back a snarky reply. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been doing her job. “He was on deadline and he left you a message, but you didn’t call him back.” Her gaze slides away. “He needed the information right away. I did the best I could.”

  She looks at me again, resignation and disappointment etched into her perma-tanned face. “Well, your best wasn’t good enough.” She shoves the paper at me. “Look.”

  Due to injury, Naomi Braithwaite has withdrawn from her role as Iris in Nic Mills’ production of Mom’s Café. Mr. Mills is pleased to announce that Lily O’Neal will be taking her place.

  Ms. O’Neal has a long history of acting credits after years of study at the prestigious Arbutus Academy in Vancouver, Canada.

  A true hapa with a Chinese mother and an Irish father, Ms. O’Neal prefers not to identify with any one culture, saying, “In the bakery of life, I’m like toasted sourdough.”

  While wishing Ms. Braithwaite the best in her recovery, Mr. Mills is delighted to work with Ms. O’Neal.

  I look up. “I didn’t say ‘bakery of life.’ He made that up.”

  “That’s what PR people do,” June wails. “Only it’s up to us to ensure the stories they make up paint you in the best possible light. He should have run it by me first. Honestly, I—”

  “And my father is Irish-German and—”

  “German doesn’t sell in Hollywood,” June interrupts. “It’s too close to Austria—Schwarzenegger ruined that for everybody.”

  I don’t care about the Terminator. “And doesn’t hapa mean half Hawaiian?”

  “It’s anybody who’s mixed-race Asian American.” She snatches the release from my hands.

  “But I’m not Ameri—”

  “And hapa sells well in Hollywood.” She taps her watch. “Don’t you have to go?”

  I grab my shoes. She’s right. I’m due in makeup in three minutes.

  “This is Hollywood,” June reminds me as we walk out the door. “This is the big time. Everything you say and do is fodder for the press. And for overworked publicists who want a fresh spin for everything. You’ll be watched constantly, Lily. Never forget that.”

  June’s words echo in my head as I walk into the studio. This is the big time. You’ll be watched constantly.

  As I stare at the crew crowding the set, I feel self-conscious. Did other people see the news release? Do they think I’m dumb too? To my relief, nobody pays any attention to me. Everyone is focused on the job at hand.

  Overnight, Mom’s Café has taken over soundstage two. There’s the front of the café with its sit-down counter and cash register. There’s the kitchen with its industrial stove, walk-in refrigerator and prep area. My heart flip-flops. And there’s the funky front entrance where I first appear on camera.

  I spot John and Brooklyn in the kitchen, walking through a scene with Nic. Etienne is slouched in a black director’s chair, studying his lines.

  A chubby guy wearing a headset and a too-tight plaid shirt hurries over. “Oh, Lily, hi.” His name tag reads G. Rangler. Script Supervisor. “We’ve made changes to your scene.” He hands me some sheets with my name scrawled at the top. “I’ve emailed you a copy and printed them out as well. Your changes are in blue.”

  A chill shoots through me. I was up half the night running lines with my iPad. Now I have to learn new ones? I skim the pages. And there are a lot of them.

  Oh crap.

  You can do this. You’re a pro. You’ve done improv.

  The first day passes in a blur as everyone struggles with the changes and Nic’s many demands. At lunchtime, I hide in my trailer, telling everybody I have homework to do. Thank goodness I stuffed my iPad into my bag when I left Uncle Mike’s. I pull up the rehearsal app, download the email with the script changes, import the new dialogue and get to work learning my new lines. Luckily, my first scene is with John, who is easy to work with even if he keeps missing his mark when he walks into the scene. It’s up and down for the rest of the afternoon, and by the time we finish for the night, everybody’s worn out and cranky.

  Wednesday, I do my first scene with Brooklyn. Though we’ve blocked our moves and spent an hour rehearsing before the cameras roll, Brooklyn constantly changes things, forcing me to improvise. Once, she feeds me the wrong line. When I hesitate and Nic calls, “Cut,” Brooklyn’s eyes flash Gotcha.

  In spite of my flubs, Nic is complimentary. “Great blend of detachment and concern,” he tells me when we stop for lunch. He’s wearing his usual denim ballcap and a brilliant fuchsia Hawaiian shirt. “You’re hitting all the right notes, Lily.”

  Brooklyn shoots me a venomous look as she leads Nic away. “What about me?” I hear her ask. “Am I hitting the right notes?”

  After lunch, Brooklyn’s nastiness gets worse. So does my performance. Not only do I flub my lines, but I forget all about continuity. The script supervisor jumps all over me when I pick up a coffee cup with my left hand and then, when we reshoot the scene, forget and pick it up with my right. I flick my hair a couple of times when I’m not supposed to as well. Nic continues to encourage me, but his impatience shows. By the time the car drops me at Uncle Mike’s later that night, I’m exhausted. All I want to do is eat and crash. But tomorrow I shoot my first scene with Etienne, and I want to run my lines again. Plus, I still have math to do.

  I drop my stuff in the bedroom and head for the kitchen. When I reach the doorway, I see Samantha and Uncle Mike having an argument. I don’t know what they’re saying—they’re speaking Mandarin—but Samantha’s hands are clenched at her side, and Uncle Mike’s tone is clipped.

  Awkward. I clear my throat and wait a few seconds before removing a pasta dinner from the freezer and putting it in the microwave.

  They continue to talk, though my uncle’s voice is calmer. It’s only when he calls my name that I realize he’s talking to me.

  I turn to face them. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Mandarin.”

  He immediately switches to English. “Will that be enough dinner for you?” He doesn’t look like Mom, but I see a little of Grandma in his kind brown eyes.

  “Yes, thanks. Sorry I was late and missed dinner again.”

  “Don’t apologize. We understand you have a job to do.” He gives me a polite smile, the kind you give to strangers who hold the door open at the mall. “Feel free to use our home as you would your own.”

  Samantha rolls her eyes.

  “Thanks.” The microwave beeps. I remove my food, gather cutlery from the drawer and leave.

  The TV is on in the family room. The warm, comforting sound of the laugh track reminds me of home. I know I need to work on tomorrow’s scene—and tackle my math—but I miss my parents, and I miss Claire. I could use the reassurance of a familiar face. Some company while I eat.

  But then I hear Samantha say, “I don’t know why you spoke Mandarin to her. She’s white, not Asian.”

  My foot catches on the carpet, and I almost stumble. Story of my life. My Asian cousins say I’m white, and my white cousins say I’m Asian. Neither side claims me as their own. When I reach the family room, I keep on going. I don’t fit. And I don’t need another reminder.

  Chapter Eight

  On Thursday I arrange for the driver to drop me at the studio forty minutes early so I can have some quiet time alone in my trailer before we start shooting. I’m anxious about my first scene with Etienne. My worry is unfounded. Etienne is a generous actor, not stealing the scene from me but throwing himself into his role and helping me look good in the process. The energy between us is amazing, and I manage to channel the coolly mysterious Iris without missing a beat. At lunchtime, John drops a fatherly arm across my shoulders. “No hiding in your trailer doing homework today.” He leads me to the food table
. “You’re eating with us.” As I sit with the group and listen to them talk about the shoot, I start to relax. This is my tribe. I get these people. Even better, they get me. My confidence grows. I have a future in this industry—I know I do.

  On Friday everything falls apart.

  “You look tired,” Ellen says when I get to makeup that morning. She blends extra concealer under my eyes. “You out partying last night?”

  I laugh. “I wish.” Instead, I stayed up way too late finishing my math. Or trying to. I emailed everything off this morning, but I know some of the answers are wrong.

  When I get to the studio, dozens of people are bustling around, moving cameras and adjusting lights. Extras watch the activity with barely concealed excitement. “Morning, Lily,” says a grip as I head to the food table. “How’re you doing today?”

  I smile back. I’m no longer a stranger. I’ve truly found my place. “Good, thanks.”

  Then I see a familiar plaid shirt. It’s George Rangler, holding an armload of papers. My heart sinks. Oh no. Not again. “Nic says to take fifteen and read through the changes.” He presses the sheets into my hand.

  As I read through my new lines, a headache starts at the base of my skull. This is a busy scene. It’s the first time Etienne, John, Brooklyn and I are in a scene together. Plus, there’s supporting cast. One slip and the whole thing falls apart.

  We start shooting late, mostly because Nic and the cinematographer decide to change camera angles, which means lighting has to be changed too. This puts Nic in a bad mood. He stops John repeatedly, unhappy with the inflection in his voice as he delivers his new lines to Brooklyn. Then continuity jumps on Brooklyn for changing her angles when she pours coffee for a customer. By the time it’s sorted out, my headache is so bad I’m almost nauseous. And when my turn comes, I keep blowing my lines.

  “Cut!” Nic tugs on his ballcap and bolts from his chair.

  Oh crap. That’s ten times I’ve messed up.