Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  “Point taken!” Brett says.

  The conversation continues about Kimmi and her character. I’m not sure how long, but when I look down at my binder, I’ve drawn about three hundred Xs on a blank page. When McGregor switches to Brett’s character, Brett nudges me. “Hey, Picasso, we’re talking about your award-winning castmate now. Pay attention.”

  He’s a player.

  “Right,” I say, not looking at him … ignoring him.

  I begin to draw smiley faces instead.

  The group comes to the conclusion that Brett’s character, Bryce, is a perfectionist. He controls his world by placing its many pieces into tidy compartments. Each character has a connection to the semi-unsupervised and trouble-causing school paper, a central element for storylines in the series.

  “You’ll see as this season progresses,” McGregor says, “that Bryce holds this group together with an astonishing ability to calm the storms of teenage life. He’s certainly the most mature one of the group.”

  “Then no wonder you hired me,” Brett says, making everyone crack up. “Since I couldn’t be more like that.”

  Most people think McGregor was at least a little punch-drunk when he came up with his second-nature method for casting, but I like the theory behind it. I really do have a hidden vixen inside me that makes me want to stop being so appropriate all the time and ignore the potential consequences—which is likely the reason I’m attracted to guys who are bad for the better side of me. Does that mean Brett has a more responsible side of him wanting to get out?

  “Now, Mr. Elliott,” McGregor says, “let’s discuss your character, Justin.”

  Jake sits a little straighter, but Kimmi doesn’t even give him a chance to reply. “Wait a minute, I need to know something first,” she says. “Why do all of these characters’ names start with the same letter as the actors’ names who play them? That’s so weird.”

  Every time Kimmi phrases a question like this, the producers and studio execs narrow their eyes at her. Kimmi better catch on to that quick. She has the very false impression that because she’s an actress, her face is higher on the totem pole than anyone else’s. But a lot of these people were in this business before most of the cast was even born, and they have enough influence in this industry to kill our careers like bugs under their thumbs. Squish.

  A gracious actor is a working actor—that’s the best advice I’ve ever been given from an industry veteran. Or in layman’s terms: don’t be a brat.

  Kimmi is lucky this time because McGregor seems amused. “Do you know, my dear, that I usually respond to that question by changing a character’s name to something a little less appealing? Rather than Kassidy, for example, you could be called Kipper.”

  Kimmi’s jaw literally drops.

  “Ah, then maybe Karp. With a K.”

  She snaps her mouth shut.

  “Or perhaps,” McGregor goes on, “I could just explain that such a method of naming my characters helps me—a fading old man—to mentally attach the same first initial to one character and one actor. Yes, yes, I know that begs another question: What if I have two actors with the same first initial? Well then, I just change one of the actors’ names—happens all the time in Hollywood.” He has a playful gleam in his eye. “Jake over here used to be called Eddie.”

  “Yep, all my life, but then Emma screwed that up for me,” Jake says. “My mom’s having a tough time with the change, but she’ll deal.”

  While my attention was on Jake, Brett had written something on my script: Tucson is boring. Let’s do something tonight.

  How can a heart flutter, stop, and then shoot into someone’s throat in less than a second? I read the note again to make sure I didn’t misunderstand.

  “No?” Brett says. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  I shook my head? Really? I said no to Brett Crawford? So easily?

  “Justin is the type who likes to start fires, just for the fun of it,” Kimmi says, so I guess we’ve moved on. But I didn’t notice because I’m busy starting my own fire—burning Brett. My former laptop wallpaper guy. “He noticed that Bryce was bugged by the crumbs, so he took another bite of toast.”

  I write back: Sorry. Tons of homework.

  Brett reads my reply and flicks my leg with the back of his hand. Then he turns to McGregor and says, “Justin doesn’t just start a fire. He stirs it to see how hot it can get, and then he feeds it a gallon of gas.”

  “Exactly right,” McGregor says. “Which leaves your character, Miss Taylor. What do we learn about Eden in the all-important first scene of the series?”

  “Eden is a spoiled only child with nothing to do but shop and stick her nose into other people’s business,” Kimmi answers for me. “She justifies her bad habits by writing columns for the school paper on fashion and student affairs.”

  McGregor drums his fingers together. “Thank you, but in this first scene, we only know about the shopping bit of that,” he tells Kimmi. “The rest isn’t introduced until later.”

  “True, but I need a break. So there you go. That’s what Eden is all about.” Kimmi stands, but everyone else stays in their seats. She gives a little cough. “Is that okay?”

  “It doesn’t appear to matter,” replies McGregor. “But I suppose we can take a twenty-minute break. When we return, we’ll let Emma answer my question.”

  Before Brett can say another word to me, I grab my bag and take off. I need a place to hide—not just because of Brett, but because I have to tell Rachel about The Bod. She’ll be so happy that she will put me into a good, normal mood.

  But Brett’s flip-flops are soon slapping on the concrete floor behind me. “Hey! What’s up with you, Taylor?” he says. I pretend like I don’t hear him and walk even faster, heading for the restrooms. When he speaks again, he’s closer. Too close. “Why are you ignoring me?”

  He stops just short of following me into the women’s bathroom. My hand is already on the doorknob. “I just need to … um, make a call,” I say.

  “In the bathroom?”

  I shrug and try to avoid eye contact. In his well-worn navy tee, Brett looks too much like a poster I used to have of him. He announced to the group earlier that his ultra-casual beach attire—including board shorts—is due to not hiring a housekeeper yet, who will eventually be unpacking his moving boxes. So this morning, he’d just grabbed something from the first box he opened.

  Yes, Brett is extremely nice to look at, and oozes a confidence that always catches my attention, but I didn’t picture him being so spastic; he can’t sit still—constantly touching me, for example—for longer than fifteen seconds. Now that I think about it, he reminds me of a boy who used to sit behind me in the second grade and flip paper footballs at my back.

  “Our dressing rooms aren’t ready yet,” I tell Brett, surprising myself with a complete sentence. “And I have to call my best friend.”

  “Oh, chick stuff.” He brushes his bangs to the side. “Look, I’m sorry you got dragged into that hot tub crap earlier. It sorta got out of control.”

  I let go of the restroom doorknob. “Yeah. What was that all about?”

  He hesitates, brushing his hair to the other side now, as if he isn’t sure which side it’s supposed to be on. “Kimmi will probably tell you a villainized version of it, so I might as well fill you in on how it really happened,” he says. “When I first saw her this morning, I thought she was someone who I … well, once met in a hot tub. Then, you know, spent some time with in a really awesome suite at the Hard Rock Hotel—oops, I don’t think I said that part before.” He laughs, eyeing me like I should be laughing too. “Anyway, I was wrong. It wasn’t Kimmi. But whoever that Vegas girl was, she must have looked like Kimmi.”

  I am sooo not laughing. This story isn’t a far-fetched Celebrity Seeker article. I’m hearing it straight from Brett himself, and he’s clearly not the least bit ashamed of treating girls like … throwaway party favors.

  “Wow,” I reply. “For once, someone really
is as bad as the tabloids say he is.”

  “No, I promise, I’m not!” It’s the first time I’ve seen Brett with anything close to a serious expression. “I’ve only been half that bad. And McGregor says I need to be a freaking choirboy now if I want to keep this job. But I’ve really been no worse than guys even you’ve dated. In fact, I could tell you things about them that—”

  “Brett,” I say, feeling something like ice cubes sliding down my back. Definitely not the good kind of chills. “If you’ve heard anything at all about my dating history, you’d know that it’s a bad idea to compare yourself to my ex-boyfriends.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he tells me, holding his hands up between us. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I figured that’s why you were avoiding me, but I’m not saying all this because I want you to think I’m worthy dating material. I don’t date girls I work with anymore. I haven’t for years.”

  I relax again. “Neither do I. Date coworkers, I mean. Never again.”

  A smile jumps back onto his face. “I just hope we can hang out—with Jake too, or whoever. Well, not Kimmi. But I’m going to be bored to death in Tucson if you don’t stop ignoring me. And it isn’t fair for you to judge me as a potential friend based on my crappy dating record. Because you’ll never hear anyone say that I’m a bad friend.”

  I swallow, a little ashamed of myself. This is Brett Crawford, after all, someone who I’ve studied, judged, and evaluated in more ways than I’d ever admit to him. Being his friend hasn’t even crossed my mind until now.

  “That’s probably true,” I tell him. “But if the tabloids have even been half right about you, I doubt that what you’ve been doing with girls can actually be called dating.”

  I expect him to laugh, but Brett’s face turns serious again. “How would they know if I’ve ever really cared about someone?” he asks. “Why would that interest the tabloids? It would go against too many of the other stories they’ve told about me.”

  It seems like Brett wants to keep talking, but he doesn’t. And I can’t tell if my comment has made him sad, angry, or both. What I do know, however, is how it feels to be pigeonholed by the press as being so one-dimensional.

  “I totally get that,” I say, then hold out my hand. “So let’s be friends.”

  Brett looks at my hand like he doesn’t want to touch it. “Are you kidding?” he says, and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug.

  For a moment I try to imagine that the guy with his arms wrapped around me is my computer wallpaper version of Brett Crawford. But I can’t really picture him anymore.

  It’s like he just … never existed.

  At last, I make it into the bathroom. I start to dial Rachel, but I realize I don’t have enough time to tell her about Jake, listen to her scream for who knows how long, and then get back to the table read before McGregor sends a search party after me.

  Besides, there’s gotta be a more clever way to surprise Rachel.

  Jake

  I’m freaking out a little. My cell shows three missed calls from my mom.

  A year ago that wouldn’t have bugged me. Moms do that kind of thing—call you over and over again until you pick up—but my mom must know I panic now. The last time I missed three straight calls from her number, I was on a catwalk in Paris.

  When I called back later that day, her cell phone was answered by a neighbor who said he’d been trying to reach me because he had found my mom on the sidewalk, unconscious. It was the first time my mom ever really needed me, and I was halfway across the world.

  While racing through the terminal to catch the next flight home, I was still shaking gold glitter out of my hair. That’s when I decided that I truly, passionately hated modeling.

  During our break from the table read, I head for somewhere quiet. The best place I can find is a corner on the far side of the studio, away from the actual sets. It takes Mom five rings to pick up. “Good morning,” she says. “I wanted to catch you before work to wish you luck, but you must’ve started early. Sorry if I interrupted.”

  I breathe easier. “Nah. I had to be here at seven. Everything okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay.” She says that, but her words sound more slurred than usual. She’s probably just tired. “You’re the one we need to worry about,” Mom adds. “All this fame go to your head yet?”

  That’s one thing that hasn’t changed a bit: Mom is just as sarcastic as ever. The fact that her stroke didn’t affect her personality is all that should matter to me, but when her voice is different, and her face is different, and she can’t move her arms all over the place when she talks, like she used to, I’m reminded every day that things will never be the same.

  And I can only do so much to fix it.

  “I’m just chillin’ in a private cabana right now, surrounded by my entourage,” I tell her. “And after work, I’m buying a high-rise penthouse so I can host parties every weekend. Which reminds me, I need parental supervision. When are you moving down here?”

  I doubt either one of our opinions will budge on the matter of her living in Tucson now, rather than two hours away in Phoenix, but it’s worth a try.

  She laughs. “Jake, the only thing more pathetic than a young bachelor living with his mother is a mother clinging to her son. I’m happy here, and I’m also happy to be rid of you and your early morning trips to the kitchen in your boxers. So leave me alone about it.”

  I groan. “Fine. But you’re missing out on my mad cooking skills.”

  “Thank heaven,” she says.

  We talk a bit longer, then I reply to a series of texts from my friends. It’s still early, but they’re probably already together, hanging out around the pool at Devin’s house. When it’s a hundred and ten degrees before noon on most days, swimming is one of your few choices for summer entertainment. It’s either that or go to the mall, and we outgrew the mall years ago. Devin texts me first, but Mark and Sophie soon join what appears to be a coordinated attack:

  Devin:

  Hey Fabio. Do you think she’ll go out with me? Talk, dude. Tell me everything.

  Me:

  About my job? It’s okay.

  Devin:

  EMMA TAYLOR you prick.

  Me:

  Who?

  Devin:

  I’m on my way to Tucson. You have two hours to live.

  Mark:

  Ignore Devin. Emma will like me better. All her boyfriends have been blond.

  Me:

  You actually pay attention to that stuff?

  Mark:

  Yes, because I’m normal. You’re a freak. Is she snobby?

  Me:

  The blonde? Yes.

  Mark:

  What blonde? There’s a blonde?

  Me:

  Yep. His name is Brett Crawford. He’ll love you.

  Mark:

  Elliott, I’m driving down with Devin to strangle your pretty-boy neck.

  Me:

  Stop obsessing about how pretty I am. It makes me uncomfortable.

  Sophie:

  You promised to text me a photo of Brett Crawford! I’ve been waiting all morning!

  Me:

  Sorry. He’s wasted. Didn’t think you’d want to see that.

  Sophie:

  LIAR! He so wouldn’t do that at work.

  Me:

  He’d probably do that and a lot worse at work.

  Sophie:

  Crazy!!!!! Is he really drunk?

  Me:

  Nah. Just unusually stupid.

  Sophie:

  You’ve ruined my day :( :( :(

  Me:

  I’ll make it up to you. Want to meet Emma Taylor sometime?

  Sophie:

  YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Me:

  You’ll like her.

  Sophie:

  Oops. I just told Mark and Devin that you’re gonna introduce me to Emma. You’re in trouble.

  Me:

  So I’ve heard. Remind them that they have Pixy Stix for arms.

&nb
sp; I look up from my phone when a PA calls everyone back to the table read. The info dump this morning has been a bit overwhelming, but there’s been plenty to hold my attention—one thing in particular.

  Yeah, I might’ve promised Devin and Mark that I’d check out Emma for them and eventually talk them up or whatever. But that was before I met her.

  Emma

  McGregor wraps at four, way earlier than we’ll usually get to go home, which is great because I have a crazy anthropology paper due at the end of the week and I haven’t so much as found a topic for it yet. I’ve been too busy moving and trying to get over my crush on a guy I hadn’t even met—pretty lame, considering that all I really needed to do was meet him.

  Brett’s jabs at Kimmi throughout the day became seriously ridiculous, but when it came time to read lines … wow. He plays his part like Bryce truly is another side of him. In fact, for a first read, everyone was amazing. McGregor’s smile was ear to ear by the end of it.

  My ability to talk was at least kicked up a notch after my chat with Brett in the hall. But apparently my brain cells are still popping like soap bubbles because now I can’t find my call sheet—an actor’s daily bible—so I have no idea what time I’m supposed to be here tomorrow. And this only adds to the long list of idiotic things I’ve done today.

  Every PA in sight already looks swamped, so I stop by the production office on my way out. A girl with spiky strawberry hair stands behind a desk. She looks like she’s only a few years older than I am, but I can’t tell for sure because she is hidden by stacks of folders. “Sorry to bother you,” I say.