Unscripted Joss Byrd

by Lygia Day Penaflor

  Don’t you dare freak out, Viva. Please don’t embarrass me during my last scene.

  “If you float away from that triangle, you’re out too far, and it can mean big trouble,” Kato says as Mrs. Rivenbach walks past the white sign.

  Big trouble.

  Mrs. Rivenbach runs up to Terrance. He sees her. She sees him.

  Viva turns her head. She sees them both.

  Terrance hugs his wife. He’s talking to her now, probably telling her how happy he is that she’s here, how nice she looks, how lonely he’s been this whole shoot.

  Liar! Liar! Liar! What does Terrance plan to do now, bring her with us to the lighthouse?

  I’m gripping my surfboard so hard that I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

  “Be cool, Viva,” Chris says.

  If Viva has a fit we’ll be done in this business just like Cameron and Oscar Coombs. Anyone on this beach—the locals, the tourists, even the crew—could take pictures or video. No director or producer from here to LA would work with us again.

  My mother stares and stares at the lady in white. I stare and stare at my mother. If I stare hard enough maybe she’ll read my mind.

  Keep your hands off the blender, Viva. Please … please … please …

  “Read these waves,” Kato instructs us. Seagulls squawk overhead. “Do you see that white water? That one’s about five seconds too late. You see the next swell? Three, two, one, that’s when you paddle, paddle, paddle as hard and as fast and as deep as you can.”

  I need to pay attention. This isn’t school. It’s important. But I’m distracted worrying about my mother, who’s now pacing behind her chair.

  This is exactly why I had you kicked off set. Why do you make everything so hard?

  “This isn’t good,” I hear Jericho say.

  “You’ll feel the movement underneath you,” Kato says. “Then you’ll stand, nice and easy, keeping your eyes up on the shore.”

  “We’re rolling! Let’s see one at a time!” Terrance calls. My mother is pulling her hair at the sound of his voice. The man in the safety boat repeats the roll; his words bounce off the water toward us.

  Hold it together, just a few more minutes.

  We hear “Action!” from the shore and then from the boat.

  “You’re up first, Joss!” Kato startles me to attention.

  There’s a swell speeding up behind me, pushing me forward. I lower onto my stomach and count. Three, two, one! I paddle, paddle, paddle with every ounce of strength … and glide!

  “Now!” Kato says. “Get up, get up! Stand nice and easy! Head up, eyes on the shore, arms out!”

  I’m up and I’m balancing and sliding across the sea. I’m brave and unafraid and free.

  “Go! Go! Go!” the boys are hollering.

  We have to ride this wave as long as we can … just ride it and ride it and ride it … as long as we can.

  Eyes up.

  Knees bent.

  I stretch one arm in front and one arm behind, and I’m a surfer girl!

  Everyone is clapping and cheering me on: Terrance and Peter and Benji and the whole crew, Jericho’s dad, Grandma Lorna and Damon and strangers are calling my name. “Go, Joss! Go!” I know that even Norah, from up in her crow’s nest, can see me. But way behind the black tent, Viva is walking away from Terrance and his wife, and from me.

  “Lean forward, Joss!” Kato yells, suddenly.

  I hear him, but I can’t think fast enough to know what he means or figure out how to do it.

  “Forward! Lean forward!”

  The board slips from underneath me. It torpedoes, nose to the sky, blocking the sun for a split second. I fall into the water, bottom first, just as the board crashes down onto my head. Underwater I’m thrown forward then pulled under and folded backward, feet over head. Somewhere deep down inside me, the chill is everything I wanted. There’s no way to fight. I’m too tired, too rubbery, to even try. The ocean tosses and churns me over and under, over and under, swallowing me into fizz and bubbles. I hold my nose as white noise whirrs in my eardrums—I want my mom … I want my mom … I want my mom … Hand over hand I climb up my ankle leash and launch myself toward the surface. Nobody else will save me—not even the dolphins.

  18

  What I’ll remember about wrapping The Locals is this stiff neck and the throbbing. I think I’ve got a cone head; the knot is getting really big. My teeth are chattering so hard I’m afraid they might chip. As I pull a bright orange towel—the color of emergencies—around my body, Terrance’s wife is rubbing my back, which feels babyish, but I let her do it because I’m getting cold and I’m headachy, and I could’ve died. And anyway, if my mother wanted to rub my back, she’d be here herself to do it.

  Mrs. Rivenbach takes an ice pack from the medic and holds it against my head. Her gold bracelet of diamonds all around dangles over my forehead.

  “That was quite a spill. You had us all scared to death,” she says.

  I did take quite a spill. And if I’d drowned, Viva wouldn’t have even known about it. “Is this real?” I touch the bracelet. My mother would drool buckets over it.

  Mrs. Rivenbach turns the links so that the clasp slides to the bottom. “It’s called a tennis bracelet,” she says, which doesn’t answer my question. It also doesn’t seem very practical, tennis-wise. Even Viva would agree.

  Terrance whistles for attention. Then he waves his hands over his head. “First I want to say thank you to my crew. You’ve been my dream team, without question, the best I’ve ever worked with.”

  The group claps. I tap my fists together inside my towel.

  “And thank you to the vilest bastard in Montauk.” Terrance motions to a man who’s stepping out from behind the production assistants.

  I wouldn’t have recognized Rodney if you paid me in tennis bracelets; he’s shaved clean and wearing a checkered golf shirt and bright white sneakers.

  “No, no. Not anymore!” Rodney waves the comment aside. “And I apologize for having to be that vile of a bastard, especially to these guys.” He points to the boys and me. “If I’m blessed enough to work with any of you again, hopefully I’ll be a superhero or a brain surgeon or something. I’m sorry, kids. You can call me Tom now, please.”

  The crew laughs and applauds.

  He shakes hands with the boys, who are sitting up front. “Chris, damn, you were crazy good, man. Crazy good. You’re a tremendous talent.”

  Chris stands. “Thank you. Wow, yeah, you too. I mean, wow. I was scared out of my mind.”

  “Ugh, I’m sorry.” Tom holds his hands up as if he’s getting arrested. “I’m normal. I swear. That fight scene killed me. I’ve got a bum shoulder and a trick hip. I don’t tackle anymore. I do yoga,” he laughs. “And I owe you some rice pudding! I felt like crap about that. I thought about it all night. Man, the look on your face … no hard feelings?”

  “No hard feelings.” Chris gives him a hug. Then he turns and gives me a doofy smile. “Check him out, Joss. It’s Tom,” he says.

  Good for Tom.

  Tom lunges toward me with a smile. But I step back, so he changes his handshake into a nod.

  Good for me.

  “And, finally…” Terrance pauses and clears his throat. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, to the three greatest, most talented kids in the world.” He stands in front of his cast and crew and raises a glass of champagne. The grown-ups are passing glasses around and pouring the rest of the bottle. But even though Jericho and Chris and me are the “most talented kids in the world,” no one passes anything to us. “You’ve made this a heart-stopping journey straight to the bitter end … Joss!” He points at me, and everybody hoots and claps. (Everybody, except somebody who isn’t here.) “Thanks for putting up with all my bull and…” he goes on, tearing up, “and for making all of this come true for me.” Terrance coughs and rubs his eyes. “When I was a kid, the real Rodney told me I’d never amount to anything. But … but thanks to you … well … here we are.” He shake
s his head. “So, let’s all raise our glasses…”

  Chris turns to me without a glass to raise.

  I shrug.

  “… to The Locals!”

  “To The Locals!” All the adults toast. (All of them, except somebody who isn’t here.)

  “I’ll see you all tomorrow night at the wrap party. Be there. No more weepy speeches, I promise. Just free booze!”

  And that’s a wrap.

  “Pictures, kids!” Jericho’s father pulls the cap off his camera and scrambles in front of us. “For Posterity!” he says. I don’t know who that is, but she’s got a heap of pictures coming her way.

  We strike silly poses—me with an ice pack on my head, and the boys, still shirtless, flexing their muscles. Groaning, Tom lowers onto the sand in front of us and freezes in different robot positions. Who would’ve thought I’d have wrap pictures with him instead of with my own mother? We all swap places. Then we swap places again. How many combinations can there be? In school I learned a way to figure it out using multiplication or by making a chart with each person’s initials, but I can’t remember how, exactly.

  Next, anyone with a phone or a camera steps in and out until everybody gets a chance to be in a picture. (Everybody, except somebody who isn’t here and who, now, won’t be in any of the wrap pictures.)

  We keep trading spots until Tom drops out to refill his champagne glass and I’m left posing with just Chris and Terrance and his wife. Mrs. Rivenbach holds my ice pack and fixes my tangled hair behind my ears. Terrance stretches his arm over Chris until his hand settles on my head. Behind Chris’s back, Terrance whispers to me through clenched teeth, “Joss, after this you should go check on your mother.”

  Anyone on this beach would think that the four of us are a family—the Rivenbachs from Los Angeles, California, who play tennis wearing diamond jewelry. And Terrance looks like the kind of guy who would’ve taken me to the lighthouse if he promised to. But that’s Hollywood for you. It can make people believe the fakest things.

  * * *

  In room 204, Viva is inside the bathroom, crying and kicking the cabinets. But if she thinks that her boo-hooing will make me forget that she ruined my best day, she’s even crazier than she seems.

  “Viva?” I call as I pick sand out of my ear.

  No answer. Just more crying and slamming.

  “We’re wrapped. We’re all done,” I say coolly. “I caught a wave. You missed it, you know.”

  She’s sobbing in a gulping way that even she couldn’t put on for attention.

  “I wiped out real bad,” I say to make her feel guilty. “I hit my head. They put me in an emergency towel.” But the sound of her smacking things around and then crumpling herself onto the floor makes my voice and my anger start to fade. “You should’ve seen it…”

  * * *

  “I don’t want to get out anymore,” I say, staring through the window. Right outside our limo, on the red carpet, there’s too much of everything—too many cameras and flashes and bright dresses and ID tags swinging and all the people, so many of them shouting. “It’s too busy. And everybody’s going to stare at me.”

  “Give us a moment, please,” Viva tells our driver. Then she turns to me. “Of course they’re going to stare at you. Because you look so grown-up and glamorous and they all loved your movie.”

  I don’t feel grown-up or glamorous. I feel jittery in my belly and light in my head. “I want to go back to the hotel and just watch it on the TV.” I miss the hotel’s cool, white sheets, and thick, quiet walls, and I want the chocolate wafers that Doris sent in a fruit basket.

  “But the rest of the cast is waiting for you.” Viva smooths the edge of my gown. “They want to see you dressed up. All you have to do is smile. And if someone asks who you’re wearing, you say Betsey Johnson, and then you’ll go inside to sit and watch. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

  I wrap my fingers around my seat belt. Lights are flashing quicker. Shouts are growing louder. Dresses are turning brighter. I’d like to see my costars and to watch the awards show inside. But how?

  “What about this,” my mother says softly. “Do you want to go out there as a character?”

  “What do you mean?” I concentrate on the clasps on my silver shoes that are heart-shaped rhinestones.

  “Let’s make up a girl who wants every person in the world to see her. And you can pretend to be her. Wanna do that?”

  I look at her hopefully. “Who should I be?”

  “Um … Bebe VanWaterHausen!” She laughs and lifts a hand to me, presenting Bebe.

  I hold back a giggle.

  Viva pulls my seat belt away so that she can hold my hands.

  “What is Bebe like?” I ask.

  “Bebe has a twin sister, but they were separated at birth. And she thinks that if she walks the red carpet, her sister might recognize her and realize they’re long-lost twins.” My mother squeezes my fingers and looks me straight in the eyes. “You have to go out there, Bebe. It’s your mission. All right?”

  Outside, cameras are rolling by on wheels. If the cameras spot me, my twin might be able to see me. “All right.”

  “Ready, Bebe?” Viva rubs my arm. “You look absolutely faboo.”

  I hug my mother tight. We press together, poofy dress against poofy dress. She smells like salon. “Ready.”

  * * *

  “I’m okay now, though.” I tap the bathroom door. “The medic gave me ice.”

  If it were me crying, Viva would say “Don’t you dare cry.” But those don’t feel like the right words now.

  “So, it’s party time tomorrow night. I bet there’ll be some surprises. Jericho and his dad already rented a snow cone cart for everybody today. Can you believe it? Some wrap gift, huh?”

  Leave it to Jericho to show up me and Chris in front of everybody. It must be nice to be able to spend your movie money on gourmet ice.

  “The snow cone guy’s even wearing a white uniform and a striped paper hat. I didn’t get any yet. There’s all different flavors. They have coconut. If you want to go, they’re probably still there.”

  When I knock, she doesn’t answer, not even to yell at me to get lost. I don’t know what else to do but take out my phone. And I can’t think of anyone to call except for Terrance.

  WAT SUD I DO? I text. Big deal if he sees my spelling now. I don’t care what he thinks anymore.

  IS SHE OK?

  CRING HARD

  SHE’LL BE FINE.

  CAN U COM?

  I CAN’T. JUST STAY WITH HER.

  The shoot is already over, but Terrance is still making me to do his dirty work. His answer—I CAN’T—stabs me in the chest because it isn’t true. Terrance Rivenbach can do anything he wants. He just doesn’t want to come. He doesn’t care about me or my mother. The Locals is wrapped for him, and so are we.

  “Forget him. He’s just a blowtard,” I say to the bathroom door, too softly for my mother to hear. “… We’re on the same side again, aren’t we, Viva?”

  I hear her pulling tissues from the box and blowing her nose.

  “We can go for lobster … if you want,” I say. “It’s our last chance.”

  After a few minutes it’s so quiet on the other side that it’s scary; Viva is anything but quiet.

  “Viva?” I knock louder. “Mom?”

  “I’m fine,” she finally answers, sniffling. “It’s just so stressful at the end of a shoot.”

  I let out my breath and lean against the door frame.

  “You know me,” my mother says. “I’m always worried about what we’re gonna do next. I just hate to sit still. The thought of us running out of jobs…” She pulls more tissues and then unrolls toilet paper. “But don’t you start getting stressed out, too.”

  “I won’t,” I lie. I don’t know what’s worse: filming The Locals or not filming The Locals. “We could work on dancewear-slash-shapewear. I could help you think of a name. Doris says marketing is all about branding.” I try to sound hopeful.


  “Oh, forget it. What’s the use?” Viva blurts. “It’s a stupid idea. All my ideas are stupid.”

  I hope not all. I’ve finished four movies now, haven’t I?

  “God! I’m such a screwup!” she yells. “When am I going to pull it together? Look at me … what a wreck.”

  I touch the door with my fingertips.

  “I knew it wasn’t forever.” Her voice softens. “But I just … can’t I have something good for a little while? For me? Is that too much to ask?”

  I fill a glass of ice water for my mother and leave it on the bedside table. I also open the laptop on her bed. The screen flashes pictures Viva must’ve taken of the ritziest, most beautiful houses in Montauk: Lego-like homes with clean, sharp edges, country cottages with worn wood shingles and perfectly clipped hedges all around. These are the kinds of houses with names like Covington Manor or the Beaumont Green. My mother has always wanted a house with a name.

  The slideshow stops when I wake the DVD. I skip to Viva’s favorite scene in Paper Moon and press play. The character Trixie Delight is saying how hard it is to keep a man. “I don’t know why, but somehow I just don’t manage to hold on real long … So, if you wait it out a little, it’ll be over, you know?”

  I understand now that while I’ve been busting myself to play the director’s sister, my mother has been working just as hard, maybe even harder, to play the director’s girlfriend for as long as she could. I never knew before tonight that Viva knows exactly what it is to be an actor. Come Monday, we’re both without a set to go to.

  Even though the sun hasn’t set yet, the day is over for my mother and me. So I pull my hungry, sunburned, sandy, and knotty-haired self into bed. As I change into my pajamas under my covers, I knock my mother’s Vogue magazine—the one with a model with cherry-red lips and a very tight bun—off the bed. I hate Vogue magazine all of a sudden; it’s filled with Mrs. Rivenbachs posing in vineyards, wearing designer gowns, and holding genuine LV bags (not the imitations my mother buys off the street in Manhattan).

  Who cares if bags or gowns or diamonds are real when people are fakes?

  When I hear Viva turn the doorknob, I pull the sheets over myself and press the sore spot on my head to feel the hurt. I’m so ashamed that I ever wished away Viva’s high heels and makeup. Terrance might have twinkly eyes, but they only hide how sneaky he is inside. My mother, who chases palm trees and daydreams about mansions, is who she is. And whatever comes and goes for us, I always get by because I am who I am—a dirt driveway kid who keeps shaking off the dust.