Unscripted Joss Byrd

by Lygia Day Penaflor

“Oh, gosh, how would I know? I can barely use the self-serve frozen yogurt machine.”

  I giggle as I bite into my sixth strawberry. Usually it’s gross to eat in a bathroom. But in a Hollywood hotel on Oscar night when your movie is nominated for Best Picture, it’s considered fancy.

  “There, all set. You. Look. Gorge.” My mother bounces the blush brush on my nose. She looks pretty, too. Her hair is wavy like she’s in a movie from the Golden Age. “Now, for the best part—our shoes!” She claps and hurries into the bedroom. “Joss! Come quick! Look! Look what’s on!” she calls. I hop off the counter and run after her, carrying the silver tray with the rest of the strawberries.

  Live from the Red Carpet is on the TV, and the host is talking about Buy One, Get One.

  “This quiet, sleeper hit costarring the little powerhouse, America’s darling, Joss Byrd…” Suddenly my picture, a still photo from Buy One, Get One, flashes on the screen.

  “Powerhouse!” we squeal. “America’s darling!” I set the strawberries on the dresser. Then we jump up and down on the bed, designer dresses and all.

  * * *

  I’m a little out of breath by the time we’re ready to roll again. This is what happens when you miss months of gym class. Back at the drive-thru, I curl my fingers over the windowsill to get my mind back into the scene.

  “You all right?” Chris asks, taking his mark beside me. “You’re all sweaty.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” I roll my shoulders and wait for my pulse to slow down. “You know how you said that eventually everybody wants something?” I ask.

  “Yeah…” He lowers his face, curious.

  “Well, I know what I want now.” I lift my chin confidently. “And it’s not a motorized car.”

  15

  Benji stocked my trailer with microwave popcorn, fizzy lemonade in glass bottles, and candy from the shop down the road—handmade local fudge. He called them “delectables.” It’s so obvious that these freebies are supposed to keep me happy—happy enough to do a scene I don’t want to do. I’d get anything I asked for right now, like an ice-cream sundae or a chocolate croissant from the bakery in town. Since the only thing I really want is to scrap this scene altogether and that’s impossible, I at least want to get through it without worrying about what my mother will do or say or think of me. In order to get that I need to do as Chris said: be the Bessie.

  Tatum O’Neal’s close-up is on my screen. She’s scrappy as any kid can be with her eyes squinted and her jaw set. I stare at her and then I stare at her some more so that I can work up my own courage. When Tatum clenches her fist, I copy her. Then I pound on the table with my elbow bent. I press pause to make the same face in the mirror—eyes narrow, lips tight.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  Opening the door to my dressing trailer, I call for Benji. “I want to talk to Peter Bustamante,” I say. It’s my biggest line so far.

  Benji wrinkles his brow. “Peter?” Benji might be used to bringing me breakfast and clothes, but he’s never brought me the executive producer before.

  “Yes, please,” I say surely.

  He nods. “I’ll let him know, Miss Byrd.”

  The lumps of local fudge are labeled Bit of Heaven. The waxy wrapper peels right off.

  Sweet. Also salty.

  One more for good measure. I know I said I didn’t want the fudge, but it doesn’t hurt. A bit of bravery.

  I unfreeze Tatum on my laptop so that she can yell at her father to give her the money he owes her.

  “But I don’t have it,” her father says.

  Tatum stares him down. Tough as nails, she says, “Then get it!”

  “Get it!” I yell at my reflection.

  “Joss?” Peter knocks. He’s here much quicker than I expected. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  I pause the DVD and take a second before letting him in. “Get it,” I whisper to myself.

  Peter barely steps both feet into the trailer before I open my mouth. “I don’t want my mother here for this scene,” I blurt, while I’ve got the nerve. “She’s outside talking to Terrance. I want you to tell her to go.”

  He leans against the counter. “But Joss, she’s your mother.”

  “She can come back tomorrow. But not this scene. It’s bad enough she’s making me do this. She doesn’t have to direct it, too. She messed me up at the drive-thru deli. She was nothing but a distraction, a colossal embarrassment. I barely got through that scene. She’ll mess me up again if she’s here. This is my big moment, Peter,” I say, remembering how Terrance talked me into scene 15. If there was a way to ban him from being here, I’d do that, too. “You want me to do it right, don’t you?”

  “Joss, you know you have to have a guardian on set.”

  “I asked someone else, who’ll be here any second. Please, tell my mother to go.”

  Peter scratches his stubble. “Viva isn’t going to like this, Joss.”

  “Well, you don’t have to do what Viva wants. You have to do what I want.” I pound my fist and squint. “I’m the Bessie, aren’t I?”

  That stops Peter in his tracks. He blinks at me, surprised.

  I give him my stoniest expression. “Tell her she isn’t allowed here.”

  “Okay … okay.” He nods. “As long as you have someone else.”

  That very second, as if we practiced it, there’s a tap-tap-tap. I’m proud to open the door to let Norah in. I’m even prouder at how prepared she is—windbreaker, canteen on a strap—the ideal night shoot uniform. I keep my eye on Peter as Norah hugs me. I want to catch the shock on his face.

  “Norah?” Peter says. “What are you … how did you … how are you?”

  Norah holds her shoulders back. “How do you think I am, Buzz?”

  Buzz? Peter Bustamante? That’s where the name came from? I had no idea. Norah’s fight is twice as hard as I thought.

  “Look,” Peter says, “I know this whole thing has been difficult for you—”

  “Difficult? Is that what you call stealing my shitty childhood and calling it entertainment?”

  “I’m sorry it went down this way, Norah.”

  “Then don’t film the scene, Buzz. Not this one.”

  “It’s not my call.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him at this point. You grew up with us. You know what I went through. How can you sell me out for ten dollars a ticket?”

  I lean against the wall and try to remember that this isn’t my fault; if it wasn’t me, it’d be some other girl. But I can’t fool myself. Even if it isn’t my fault, it will still be my picture on the movie poster, selling those tickets.

  “Everything’s ready to go,” Peter says. “TJ’s hyped up. You know how he gets. I can’t stop it, Norah. It’s TJ’s set.”

  “But it’s my life, Buzz!” Norah is staring him down. “If you can’t stop him now, cut the scene later. Edit it out. You can do that much for me, can’t you?” she pleads. “You were my friend as much as you were TJ’s.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Cut the scene. Please.” Her voice trails off. “I have a daughter.”

  Pearl. When she’s older she won’t care whose fault this is. All she’ll see is me on the screen playing her sad mother.

  Peter drops his head. “I know that.”

  I almost believe that he’ll cave in.

  “I need to go talk to Viva. I’m sorry. I’ll see you on set, Joss,” he says. “Norah, I’ll have to tell TJ you’re coming. We don’t want any surprises on set.” Peter steps out the door.

  In Norah’s teary eyes I see that even though she’s an adult, she’s still TJ’s little sister on the inside. And tonight that little sister is me.

  “Fifteen minutes!” Benji calls through my screen door. I make a last wish for a way out of this. But when I see the wardrobe girl coming, any hope of that disappears.

  “Norah, if I could have any wish, I wouldn’t—”

  “I know.�
� She covers my hand with hers. We have nothing left to fight for or with.

  “Monique’s here to help you get ready,” Benji says, letting Monique in.

  On my laptop, Tatum is still frozen, wearing overalls and a satin hat. She’s like a dragon inside a butterfly cocoon. I close the screen. Now I’ll have to be scrappy without her.

  Nobody talks after my fifteen-minute warning. It’s so tight in this bathroom we don’t bother to shut the door. Monique turns the shower on. I watch her turn the hot water up before adding the cold. I’ve never used a trailer shower before. This one is dingy and small and smells like that too-blue toilet cleaner that’s always standing in the corner. Monique checks my outfit and backs up to let me step into the shower, fully clothed. But before I do, I see Norah sitting at the table reading tonight’s lines. I don’t want her to see that. It’s hurtful. But she’s already reading with her hand over her mouth. I can’t stop her. I can’t stop any of this.

  I step into the shower and catch my breath until the water warms up. Then I hold my head under. The water smells like plastic and rust. I tip my face down to keep it out of my mouth. The script runs through my head, and I know that at the same time, Norah is reliving the real night in her own mind. Tears build in my chest. I hold them back with all my might.

  Stepping out, I wrap a towel around my body as Monique dries my feet and wriggles my sneakers on. The next person to enter my trailer is Louie, the sound tech who’s here to attach my mic. Norah is still holding the script. Bending it. Folding it. Creasing it. I can’t look at her face. If I do, I won’t be able to hold back my tears anymore.

  I grab on to the mic so Louie can drop the battery pack and the wire down the back of my wet shirt. My shorts are too flimsy to hold the pack, so he tightens an elastic belt underneath my clothes.

  Benji knocks. He’s ready whenever I am.

  Louie still has to clip the mic somewhere on my shirt. I hope it takes him a long time to find the right spot. The longer the better. But he tucks the mic right under my collar, clips it there without a hassle, and he’s done.

  As Louie steps away, I glimpse Norah and me in the mirror. Her chin that looks like mine is held high. At this moment I know deep in my gut that I want to grow up to be just like her. I’ve never felt this way about my mother.

  Monique hands me a sweat suit to put on just to keep warm. I take it without so much as a nod. She’s just another half a grown-up who seems to care but is useless when it really counts. The hoodie says MONTAUK on the chest. The bottoms say THE END across the butt. I pull the sweats over my wet wardrobe. It’s time.

  * * *

  Our basecamp is lit by spotlights like it’s part of the movie, too. The craft service table is set up right next to my trailer. I can smell freshly baked cookies. If this was an order from Terrance, it doesn’t mean anything to me.

  Following Benji down to the beach trail, I hear Terrance’s voice crackle through Benji’s walkie-talkie. “Is the Bessie ready?”

  Benji presses the button and answers, “We’re walking.”

  Up ahead are Chris and Terrance, ready and waiting. I keep my eyes down to avoid Terrance, but when he comes up and pulls me aside, there’s nothing I can do.

  “You’re my firecracker, kiddo. You know that, don’t you?” he says.

  Nothing at all … nothing at all …

  “We’ve got the camera on the crane and we’ve set up another on the beach so we’ll shoot two angles at once, all right?”

  He’s trying to make this quicker, easier—the more angles we cover at once, the fewer takes we’ll need. But what does it matter now? After the first bullet, I doubt you can even feel the second or the third.

  “I know this is a tough one, but you can do this,” Terrance says. “You’re the only Norah I ever wanted.”

  I hate these wet clothes that are now seeping through my dry clothes. I’m shaking. I can’t control it if I try.

  Terrance presses something into my palm. “Here, take this. It’s for good luck. If you’re in a tough spot, just hold on to it and use everything you’re feeling and push through.”

  It’s a piece of brown sea glass from the butt end of a bottle. Terrance isn’t just a liar. He’s also an unoriginal gift giver. I look up for a last word from Chris, but he’s already headed up the trail with Benji. The next time I see him he’ll be TJ and I’ll be Norah.

  * * *

  I start running even before Terrance calls action. Thin strips of glow-in-the-dark tape guide the path down to the beach. I can hear my heartbeat and my breath. The camera on the accordion crane rustles through the branches overhead. For a second I actually think I can outrun it. I speed up, farther and faster. I can do it. I can outrun Terrance and Peter and my mother and the camera. I can outrun my life.

  “Norah!” I hear. There’s no escaping. I’m in this scene now, doing it exactly the way everybody wants me to do it. “Norah! Stop! Stop! What’s the matter?”

  The path opens. I burst out of the trail toward the endless black ocean and run until I stumble in the sand and fall to my knees. The second camera is waiting on the beach. There’s no getting away no matter how fast I run.

  “Norah!” Chris drops beside me. “God, you’re soaking, you’re shivering.” In a second, I feel his flannel shirt around me; the warmth, the softness, the comfort are real, but I can’t wrap it tightly enough to vanish inside of it. “What happened?”

  Covering my face, I sputter, “I can’t … I can’t say it!”

  “It was him, wasn’t it? He did something to you?”

  “Don’t make me go back there, TJ, please.” I squeeze handfuls of sand to grab hold of something, anything, but the sand keeps slipping, slipping, slipping through my fingers. “I can’t go back there.”

  “We won’t. We won’t. I promise.” He brings his face close to mine. “But you have to tell me, Norah. You have to. What did he do?”

  My eye catches movement behind the monitor—somebody tall and round, rocking from side to side.

  “It’s okay,” Chris says.

  Rodney’s here, he’s here, I want to tell Chris. I didn’t even think of him coming.

  “Whatever it is, just say it,” Chris says. Our eyes lock.

  How can I do this with Rodney watching me?

  I cover my ears as if I can stop from hearing my own voice. “He was in the shower. And he was yelling at me to bring him a towel…” I’ve got so much hate inside me that I’m trembling. “He kept yelling and screaming that I’m supposed to replace the goddamn towels when I do the laundry…” I bury my head and clutch my shins.

  “Then what? What, Norah?” Chris puts his hand on my back. “What did he do?”

  I shake my head against these words and every single person who’s forcing me to say them. Feeling the dim spotlight against my face, I swallow hard and try to let everything out. “I was in the doorway with the towel…” Spill it. Spill it. Get it over with. “I could see him behind the curtain … He kept yelling, ‘Well, bring it to me. Get the hell in here.’ I didn’t want to go in there…” One take. One take. Say it! Say it! “But he was screaming so loud, I went in.” It’s just me and Chris. Just Chris and me. “He grabbed me, grabbed me and pulled me in. I was slipping, I didn’t want to open my eyes, I didn’t want to see him. But he pulled me up in front of him … and the water was so hot…”

  Chris is shaking now, too. He’s punching his knee and breathing hard while I try to go on with Rodney staring. The moment I say it, Rodney’s going to picture me in front of him, and I’m going to be known as this girl forever.

  I brace myself to push the lines out. And then, through the words and the breaths between them, I feel like Norah.

  “He said, ‘Shut up. Quit crying. You’re not a baby anymore. So you might as well make yourself useful from now on.’ I didn’t want to be in there, TJ. I didn’t want to see him. I was trying to get away, but he held me there … He made me touch him. He made me do it.”

  Chris pulls me int
o his arms, bringing me back into myself and out of Norah. I rub my hands in my lap to wipe myself clean from this dirty thing I’ve said, from this dirty thing that Norah was forced to do.

  “Please don’t make me go back,” I blurt through my tears.

  Chris chokes back his own tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Norah,” he sputters. “I should’ve been there. We won’t go back. I promise.” He holds me closer, and I know that it’s really Chris hugging me, and he knows that it’s the real me who’s hugging him. “We’re not goin’ back.”

  I’m crying so hard for me and for Norah when she was little and for Norah now that I can’t stop. If I squeeze my eyes against the light, maybe the camera will be gone when I open them.

  “She got it,” Terrance says from behind the monitor. “That was it. That was Norah. Cut!”

  “You did it, Joss. It’s over.” Chris tucks his chin to whisper in my ear, under the strength of our mics. His tears slide down my earlobe. “Screw all these assholes. To hell with them. Everything’s for us now,” he reminds me, smacking the sand. “It’s all about us from here on.”

  “Checking it…” Terrance calls.

  Everyone holds still while we wait for Terrance to check if the tape is any good. But the ocean is moving—it’s rolling and crashing, rolling and crashing—even “Cut” can’t make it stop.

  “Did you get it?” I grit my teeth from the cold or anger. Both. “Did you get what you need, TJ?”

  “Beautiful, Joss. It’s perfect. We got it!”

  My tears sting. I run to Norah in the warming tent where I asked her to wait. I didn’t want her on the sidelines or watching the monitors. She didn’t need to see all that. Norah hugs me without a word as Monique wraps a heated towel over my shoulders. The towel doesn’t make a difference; I’m colder now on the inside than I am on the outside.

  This was the first emotional scene I’ve ever done without using a trigger. But the next time I need to remember a terrible moment, I’ll just think of this.

  “Joss!” Terrance calls, catching up. He ignores Norah, who’s stiff as a soldier beside me. Either Terrance is crying or his eyes are shining from the moonlight. Either way, I know that he will never, ever cut the scene. “Wow, kiddo. You were so, so—”