Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  “Lucky me,” Brett replies. As Kimmi and I continue to scan our menus, Brett tells Tara why he’s in Tucson. He does a decent job plugging Coyote Hills, but doesn’t mention anything about Kimmi or me. The waitress keeps glancing over at me anyway, and every time I return her look with a subtle smile. Brett ends with, “Emma Taylor is on the show too.”

  Tara literally gasps. “No way! Is she coming tonight?”

  “Nah,” Brett replies. “She got out of it at the last second. She had to write a lame school paper or something.”

  Great. Then what am I doing here?

  “I need my Diet Coke, right now,” Kimmi says.

  “And a steak burrito,” Brett adds. “For me, not her.”

  “I want a side salad, low-cal dressing, with pineapple tidbits, not chunks,” Kimmi says.

  The waitress squints an eye at her. “Sorry, we don’t have pineapple—tidbits or chunks. The salad has carrots and tomatoes.”

  “Just make sure the lettuce is crisp, or forget it,” Kimmi snaps.

  Tara writes it all down. When she turns to me, I give her a sympathetic sigh and say, “Hazards of the job.”

  I know Kimmi won’t appreciate the dig, but this demonstration for Brett was her idea, so she’ll have to be a pawn in it. Tara’s smile grows wider. “I can’t decide what to order,” I go on. “It all looks so good.”

  “I’ll show you my favorites.” Tara leans over and takes her time about it. The way she describes every last ingredient and flavor, you’d think she was an infomercial chef.

  Kimmi keeps squirming for her Diet Coke fix. Brett just crunches more ice.

  “That sounds delicious,” I say, as if the waitress has left me breathless from her perfect pitch of menu item #9—Smothered Nachos. Man, this is cruel, but it’s for educational purposes. “And, uh …” I glance around. “I don’t want to get you into trouble or anything, but if you could sweet talk the cooks into a little extra … I’m really hungry.”

  “You won’t leave hungry, I promise,” Tara says.

  She struts off, and I give Brett a nod. “Done.”

  Brett spills salsa on his shirt. “Whatever. You didn’t get her number.”

  “He will,” Kimmi says as she watches the waitress. “So, what haven’t I heard about you guys that’s worth knowing?”

  I really just want to get this dinner over with, so I look at Brett to prompt him to answer. And man, does he ever. He brags about his cars, his boats, his motorcycles, and surprisingly, his family. “My parents are my rock. They totally love me.”

  “How touching,” Kimmi says.

  Brett glares at her—his pretense of playing nice obviously wearing thin—and I would rather not referee a catfight, so I turn to Kimmi and bring up our mutual acting coach. “McGregor told me you were handpicked by Anne Mabley to audition for him.”

  Kimmi actually smiles, teeth and everything. “Of course. I’ve been her favorite student at MAPA from the day I started there. And since you studied with her too, you probably know that five of her students have gone on to win major film awards.”

  “And she thinks you are a future A-lister,” Brett says.

  My attention is still on Kimmi, waiting for her to reply, but then I realize where she and Brett are looking. “Anne said that about me?” I ask. “Why would she say that?”

  “Good question,” Kimmi replies. “She told me the same thing, which makes me curious. Why is she so sure of your success—are you really talented enough to put butts in seats, or is it just your abs?”

  “His abs?” Brett asks. “Have you seen his pecs? They’re crazy.”

  I’ve had my own doubts about my acting talent, but I give McGregor more credit than hiring me based on my … other assets. “Knock it off with the X-ray eyes,” I say, laughing, but in truth, I’m annoyed. They’re both staring at my chest. “I did a lot more than strut around to get this job, okay? And when did Anne talk to you about me?” I ask Brett.

  “A week or so ago?” he answers with a shrug. “I’m close with about every big name in this industry—I know everything, about everyone.” Brett glances at Kimmi before he goes on. “Which is why people usually try to stay on my good side.”

  “Is that your sorry attempt at a power play?” Kimmi asks.

  “First you think I’m hitting on you, and now I’m making some sort of threat?” Brett leans forward and eases his grin. “And just so things are perfectly clear: With Emma Taylor in the mix, why would I go after you?”

  It’s great timing for the waitress to show up with our food because I act like the shock I get down my back is from seeing a plate of nachos—stacked to the ceiling—set in front of me. I play a watered-down version of my game, but Tara still walks off with a little sway.

  Kimmi sips her soda, then says, “Emma isn’t your type.”

  “She’s female, so she’s my type,” Brett replies, ignoring his burrito that covers an entire plate. I dig into my nachos. “And I already know she likes me.”

  A chip gets stuck in my throat.

  “What girl her age doesn’t have a crush on you?” Kimmi says, as if Emma still wears pigtails. And Kimmi is what? Maybe a year or so older? “But she probably got over you the moment you opened your mouth today.”

  “Wrong,” Brett snaps. “Didn’t you notice how nervous she was around me? She was all shy and couldn’t make eye contact.” He points his knife at me. “How did she act with you?”

  “She was fine. No problem.” Now that I think about it, the way she acted around Brett, he might be right. It’s surprising that any girl at all—with a brain—could like Brett Crawford, but Emma? “So, Kimmi, back to you,” I say. “Where are you from?”

  Both Kimmi and Brett seem shocked that I care. Maybe they aren’t as dumb as I think.

  “My family has homes on both coasts—Pacific Palisades and the Hamptons,” Kimmi says, explaining plenty right there. She goes on for another fifteen minutes about her jet-setter lifestyle, then finally gets back to her family. “My father is in real estate, like my grandfather—they’re in Dubai right now working on a high-rise project. And my brother is at Harvard.”

  “Like, where else would he be?” Brett pipes up with a mouthful of burrito. “And your mom is a tipsy socialite who shimmies her way from one Bloomingdale’s to another.”

  Kimmi goes rigid. “Yes, actually. But she’s usually more than a bit tipsy. Did you get that scoop from your Hollywood connections too?”

  “I was joking!” Brett spits out, along with his food. “Is she really an alcoholic?”

  “Come on, man,” I say. “Do you chew on your feet all day, or what?”

  Kimmi’s eyes are stone. “Who cares? I hardly know her.” She holds up her hand and waves over the waitress. “Jake, you have a job to finish.”

  It isn’t easy to fake a smile with Tara this time. All the Emma stuff is blocking my mojo, and I’m stuck between feeling bad that Kimmi’s mom has such a big problem and stumped because Kimmi doesn’t care. Or does she?

  The way I feel about my dad is just as cold. Or at least I treat him like that.

  “So, how was your food?” Tara asks, handing us each a separate check.

  Brett and I say it was great, but Kimmi just pushes aside her barely touched salad. Tara ignores her, wishes Brett good luck with his new show, and smiles at me as she leaves.

  “Ha-ha, dude. You struck out!” Brett says with blasting laughter.

  “I never strike out.” I slide my check across the table. It says: Dinner is on me. I’m off in ten minutes.

  “And that,” Kimmi tells Brett, “is how a real man does it.”

  Brett finally looks up from the check. “Whatever. Nice snag, but you didn’t get her number and that was the deal.”

  “Turn it over,” I say, and Brett flips the check to see where Tara has written her name and number. “You can keep that as your consolation prize.”

  He crumples up the bill and chucks it at me.

  My game ends here, so I le
ave a twenty-dollar tip and head to my car.

  Emma

  The hair and makeup room is my favorite place in the studio: spinning chairs, sinks, long countertops, cabinets for supplies, lighted mirrors forever, and carts filled with gels, sprays, brushes, accessories, and endless cosmetics—in all imaginable colors.

  Sugar and spice and everything nice.

  On the morning of the second day, I walk in at seven thirty sharp and find myself alone with Brett. “Dang,” he says. “Why do they bother putting makeup on you? You’re even drop-dead gorgeous without it.”

  Brett Crawford just called you gorgeous, I tell myself, and my pulse stays the same. That’s almost as freaky as realizing, just now, that I haven’t thought of him once since my phone call with Rachel. But wouldn’t that have been better than having Jake stuck in my head?

  “Thanks,” I tell Brett. “I’m kind of nervous after my visit to costumes.”

  Today will be filled with camera tests so McGregor can see if the styles for each character look right to him. Personally, I hope he makes a few changes, or I’ll be wearing this same outfit for the entire first episode, which will take about eight days to shoot.

  “Nice boots,” Brett says. “I usually just see those on the Sunset Strip.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I reply. It’s hard for me to dislike any pair of footwear, but somehow these black leather boots that go all the way past my knees make me feel like I’m not wearing anything at all. And there are still at least four inches of skin between the boots and my plaid schoolgirl skirt. “But it’s this skirt I have the real problem with.”

  “I don’t see a problem,” Brett says with an even bigger grin.

  I roll my eyes. “I guess I’m just grumpy this morning. Didn’t sleep well and my call time was six thirty.”

  He roughs up his bangs. “I could’ve slept for another hour, but McGregor wants my hair shorter and re-highlighted. He thinks I look too much like a surfer.”

  “You California boys just can’t help that, can you?”

  Our hairstylist, Donna, walks in and says, “Forget California. I’m gonna turn you into a sun-kissed Arizona hottie.”

  “Is there a difference?” Brett asks.

  “Is there ever!” Donna replies as she throws a cape around him. I already decided during hair and makeup tests that I like Donna a lot, but our makeup artist, who steps in behind her, frightens me a little. Madelyn is twice my size, in every direction, and crabby. Not exactly someone I want poking around my eyes. I’ve barely greeted her when she nearly chokes me with a cape, then yanks my hair into a ponytail. “Gentle with the locks,” Donna tells Madelyn. “I’ve got something sassy planned today.”

  “You should do Emma’s hair exactly like it was for that British movie last summer,” Brett suggests. “All tossed and curly. She looked good.”

  Donna starts whipping up a color concoction for Brett and agrees that she liked my hair that way, but she’s doing something different. Madelyn just grunts—who knows what that means? And I’m also unsure of how to reply to Brett, so instead, I bring up the director of the movie. “You’ve worked with Hugh Kramer before, right?”

  “Yep. Can’t stand the guy,” Brett replies. I don’t like Kramer much either, but he had talked as if he and Brett were as tight as Tupperware. “All Kramer cares about is box office draws. If he happens to snag a star who’s also a good actor—like you—it’s just luck.”

  I squint my eyes, making Madelyn huff. “Hold still,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “Sorry.” I open my eyes wide again so she can blot off the liquid eyeliner mess I just made. “Thanks, Brett. I guess. And you’re probably right. The horses did a better job than some of the actors in that movie, but I’m glad it did well anyway.”

  “Yeah, there’s nothing like having your name attached to a box office flop. I mean, you can read a script and think it’s gonna be a colossal hit, and then …” As Brett’s hair is being wrapped in foil, we talk about the occasional disasters we’ve been involved in, and it’s refreshing to speak so openly about the unpredictable, frustrating side of the business.

  When Brett isn’t being a spastic, potty-mouthed womanizer, he’s not too bad.

  “So when you’re not working, what does a good girl like you do besides paint your toenails?” he asks. “Have you ever been to a motocross race?”

  Wait … how had he gone from movies to toenails to motorcycles in a single breath? “Never even thought of going,” I say with a laugh. Racing is one of Brett’s hobbies that is supposedly—according to gossip—distracting him from being a serious actor.

  “No way! You’d love it!” Brett looks hysterical now with his tinfoil-topped head, and we switch chairs so Donna can work on me while the color sets. “I’ve been racing for five years,” Brett says, “but McGregor made me swear I wouldn’t touch a motorcycle until we wrapped the season in April. He even put it in my contract.”

  McGregor’s contracts are a bit intense. I can barely brush my own teeth without written approval. “Did you have to swear off anything else?”

  “A whole list of stuff, which is sorta good for me right now, but it doesn’t mean I can’t watch someone else have fun. In fact, I’m going to a big race in L.A a couple of weeks from now. You wanna come?”

  “Um—”

  “Hey, don’t get excited or anything. I already told you I stopped dating my costars,” Brett says, all snarky. “We’ll be with a big group—not in couples—so it’ll be a blast.”

  The Los Angeles factor makes this easy. “Thanks, but I can’t.”

  Brett glares at me. “You don’t want to be seen with me, do you?”

  Donna and Madelyn exchange interested looks, and I want to beg Brett to end this conversation. Studio employees sign strict confidentiality agreements, but somehow on-set gossip finds its way to the tabloids anyway. All I can do now is be honest.

  “Okay, yeah, that’s definitely part of it,” I tell Brett. “It’s nothing personal, but if we happened to be photographed together—with a big group, or not—we could still be labeled as a couple. That’s just what happens if you work together and hang out.”

  “Sometimes, I guess.” Brett falls quiet after this, so I let him stay that way. But after just thirty seconds or so, he looks back and says, “You won’t believe what an idiot I was last night—I feel so bad. When we were at dinner, Jake asked Kimmi about her family, and I accidentally made fun of her alcoholic mom.”

  Did I hear him right? “How can you accidentally do that?”

  “It just sorta happened, you know?” Brett replies. “I’m always saying and doing the wrong things, even when I don’t mean to. I hate it. Anyway, I was thinking I could try to smooth things over with Kimmi. Payton Wilson is going to the motocross too, and I bet Kimmi wouldn’t mind meeting ‘Hollywood’s Hottest Young Bachelor.’ You’ll come if she does, right?”

  I laugh. “No! Adding her would just make it look like a double date.”

  Madelyn keeps passing between our chairs, getting another tray ready—probably for Kimmi, who should be arriving any minute. Jake won’t be too far behind her.

  “Then let’s make it an unofficial publicity trip for Coyote Hills,” Brett says. “I’ll invite Jake too. McGregor will love it if we’re all seen together. Early buzz—his favorite words. Well, besides ‘Emmy winner,’ and ‘sizzling-hot ratings.’ ”

  Kimmi’s reflection pops into the mirror. “Where are we going?”

  “L.A.,” Brett says, all smiles. “We’re gonna hang out with Payton Wilson. You in?”

  Every part of Kimmi that can perk up does so, but her holier-than-thou expression returns in a hurry. “Whatever,” she says, as if she’s doing Brett, and even Payton, a favor. “Are you going, Emma?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s going,” Brett answers for me. “She only gets to ditch us once a year, and she used up that pass last night.”

  “You’re ready, doll,” Donna says as she finishes the last dose of whatever o
zone-killing fog she’s spraying on me. “See you later on.”

  I stand, and Brett scans me—like totally scans me. “I wouldn’t worry so much about your costumes. Every guy in the world’s gonna have plenty of nice things to say about them.”

  “Great. What a relief.” I tug my skirt as low as I can and wish there was just one more button on my way-too-tight white shirt. “This is one role that will definitely challenge me.”

  “How can you complain?” Kimmi asks as she examines the seat I just vacated. What does she think I left behind, an egg? “Look what costumes did to me.”

  She’s in baggy capri pants, a bright-purple square-neck top, and sneakers.

  “Well, like we talked about yesterday,” I say, “Kassidy has a style all her own.”

  Kimmi rolls her eyes. “Who cares about her character sketch? I’ll be wearing designer labels by next week.”

  A blast of laughter comes from Brett. “Good luck, sweetheart! The only choice you’ll be making around here is what color of underwear you put on.”

  Wrong. I was handed a flesh-colored pair of Spanx this morning, due to my ultrashort skirt. “Not even that is a sure thing. Today, for instance,” I say, and Brett scans me again, so I hit him. “Knock it off! Do you think girls don’t notice that?”

  “He knows they do,” Kimmi says. “And speaking of behaving badly, I’ll be surprised if Jake staggers in anytime before noon.”

  Jeez. Did he get wasted? The thought makes me feel kind of … disappointed or something.

  “That dude is one serious pickup artist,” Brett tells me, as if he’s impressed. “He hardly said a word to this waitress last night, but he still ended up leaving with her.”

  Oh.

  Not only is Jake exactly like every other guy in this industry, but Brett just gave him a slap on the back for it. My taste in men totally sucks.

  “It’s crazy what you can learn about someone in so short a time,” I say with an amused little smile. I’m good at those. Ask any film critic.

  Despite the mixed results of the first week on set, the second week is fantastic. There’s been too much drama in my head for way too long, so I’m thrilled that McGregor runs the production like a conductor of a symphony and keeps me focused. Shooting scenes seems to go twice as fast as usual, and I love it. Somehow, I even feel comfortable as my character.