Chemistry

by Oliver, Tess

  "Did you say you're starting filming in three months?" she asked.

  "Yes, the start date is first week of October." I pulled my t-shirt over my head.

  She pulled out her phone. "Let me check my calendar." A smile formed. The earlier anger had dissipated, although it was still swirling around her. "Perfect. If all goes well, I'm finished early September with my part. I can join you on set. Where are they filming? I suppose they'll need two locations since the story starts on the East Coast and then moves to Nebraska. Goodie, I'm looking forward to some travel. Even if it's in farmland U.S.A.."

  I grabbed my shoes from the closet while she dashed off her plans for our time on the movie set.

  "Ask for the deluxe trailer, the one with the kitchen. Then I can cook and have dinner ready for you when you get done filming," she continued. "If we're on the east coast, I hope it's near Boston. There are a few antique shops I've been meaning to visit."

  I pulled on my shoes and looked up at her. "You'll have to visit them on your own. We're staying here in California. Turns out we're more of a Dust Bowl than the Midwest right now. I think he's found some town out by Mojave. The farm scenes will be filmed out there, and the east coast scenes are going to be on set at the studio. Sawyer is on a low budget for this one. Guess he couldn't get as much buy in as he hoped."

  "Told you Kinsey was a mistake." Something on her phone had pulled her attention, and I found myself talking to the top of her head.

  "No, it has nothing to do with Kinsey. It has to do with turning a book that is a series of diary entries into a script. It's going to have to stray away from the actual book more than usual adaptations. Some of the investors thought it was too risky. You know how people get when a book is loved and the movie doesn't get it right." I glanced her direction and discovered that she was too busy with her phone to hear anything I said. Lucky for me, I didn't give a fuck.

  "I've got to head out. Lock up when you leave." I went to kiss her good-bye but she stuck her phone in my face.

  "Apparently Sawyer already put out a press release about Cassandra's part. I think the investors are getting cold feet because the book's fans aren't happy about Kinsey Greene playing the part of Cassandra. Look at this string of tweets." She was doing her best not to break into a full blown smile. "They think she's all wrong for the part." She turned her phone around and frantically scrolled through Twitter. "I don't see anything about you. Sawyer must not have announced it yet." She looked up with round, hopeful eyes. "Maybe it's not too late to pull out. It's obvious this would be a disaster for your career if they're already upset about the female lead. I have to agree. She doesn't fit the part at all. Cassandra Youngston was very sophisticated and charming."

  "Heard about enough," I said and dashed past her into the hallway.

  "Are we on for dinner tonight?" she called. "What should I do with all that bacon?"

  I walked out without answering either question.

  Thirteen

  Kinsey

  I was so busy watching the fun, flirty swing of my dress and its skirt with the two full flared tiers, each bordered with the softest velvet, that I nearly walked right into the camera dolly. Jeanie Ortez, the key costumer, had done an awesome job fitting me with some of the coolest dresses, or frocks, as they called them back then. I could have easily lived in the 1930s with their lack of waistbands and comfy hip bands. You never had to worry about being too bloated to button your jeans. Jeanie had gone out of her way to pick some of the silky, sensual fabrics of the day like crepe de Chine, silk and the thin lush velvet trimming on my current dress. The shoes were surprisingly practical too. The short, stout Cuban heel of my black patent leather shoes with the single strap and silver buckle clacked the cement as I hurried around some movie set clutter to hair and makeup. I skillfully held a tiny paper plate topped with a gooey Rice Krispie treat in one hand, while clutching my phone with the other. Jeanie had skipped the expense of conveniently hidden pockets in the wardrobe. The script was tucked safely under my arm.

  Sheila Hopper, the screenwriter, had done an amazing job creating dialogue from Cassie's diary entries. Although, some of the work had been done for her by the author herself. Cassie had been in the habit of writing in quotes when someone said or did something that astounded or shocked her. Sheila also cleverly stuck the accompanying diary entry at the beginning of each scene. While I'd already read through the entire book, and Shelby was right, it was awesome, it was helpful to have the corresponding entry. It helped put me into Cassie's head before I walked on camera.

  I shuffled past the fake facade of Cassie's upper class neighborhood. The set designer and her crew had done an awesome job of capturing the essence of stately Georgian manors and looming stone mansions, all surrounded by perfectly trimmed trees, park benches and black lacquer lampposts. We had approximately three more weeks in the studio set, then it was off to the California desert, or, as Sawyer described it, the twenty-first century Dust Bowl. The scenes that were set on our west coast version of the east coast had one major character missing. Cassie didn't meet Tom's younger brother, Nate, until she got to Nebraska. Before filming started, Sawyer said he woke in the middle of the night with the brilliant idea to keep Jameson off the set until we reached our new location. He also, during his middle of the night insanity, decided to skip line read throughs and dress rehearsals for the first few scenes with Cassie and Nate. He theorized that it would come off more natural and thus result in that magic the two of us had on the Kisses set. I told him he was insane and delusional and since he was the director I would have to accept his lunacy and move on. Although, I had to admit, not having Jameson lurking around set helped ease my early case of nerves. After a few rough first days, the actors playing my parents, two people I'd never worked with before, got into the groove, and we pulled off what I thought were some pretty decent scenes.

  I came upon a dilemma when I reached the door to the hair and makeup trailer. I had no free hand to grab the handle. I kicked the door lightly with my toe. Gina, the key hair stylist, opened the door. "There you are, Kiki. We need to hurry. They need you on set in fifteen."

  I hurried up the steps into the trailer. I had already been in makeup and hair once. My long brunette locks, the ones that flowed in cascading curls on my horrid wedding day, had been sheared off to a cute, early century bob cut. They were all the rage back in the thirties. I was sad at first but now I was loving it. It was so easy to take care of. Those 1930s girls really knew what they were doing with fashion and hair.

  Rocky, the makeup artist, stopped me on my skitter to Gina's stylist chair. He stretched his chin long and bunched up his hand drawn brows as he inspected my makeup for any flaws or smears that might have occurred since I left him. "Looks good. You even managed to keep that cherry lipstick on that pouty bottom lip. Move along." He swept me past with a dramatic flourish.

  I was cautious not to drop my marshmallow cereal treat as I hoisted my bottom onto the chair, but as Gina spun me around to face the mirror, it slipped off the plate. I caught it just before it landed on my crepe de Chine dress. "Woo, that was close. That would have been tragic." I nibbled the treat.

  "I'll say. Jeanie would have been beside herself if you had ruined that dress."

  I peered up in surprise. "Huh? Oh yes, the dress. Naturally, that was the tragedy I was talking about."

  Gina was a buxom brunette who wore t-shirts that seemed to have been leftover from her days as a little girl. They were a good two sizes too small in every direction. She pulled the hem of the red one she was wearing down to cover the ring in her belly button. Her upper teeth chewed her bottom lip as she surveyed the damage I'd done pulling the dress over my head.

  "I'll have to repin those curls on your cheeks, but the rest is going under this hat for the next scene so I won't worry about it." A wine red felt cloche with grosgrain ribbon trim sat on the hat rack on her vanity counter.

  "The cloche," I said, "another brilliant idea from last century. If you don't fe
el like washing your hair, you just pull that bucket over your head and no one will notice."

  Gina set to work sprucing up my pin curls. I was just about to take another bite when the door opening was followed by a command. "Drop that Rice Krispie treat. You're on a diet." Shelby reached Gina's station on the word diet. She held out her hand just like an angry teacher who had caught a kid on his cell phone in class.

  "It's just one treat and it's puffed rice. Mostly air," I countered. "And I've already lost seven pounds."

  Shelby rolled her eyes. "Yes but the camera adds back ten so you're technically plus three."

  "No, I don't think that's how it works."

  Shelby reminded me her palm was waiting. "What would you know about numbers? It took you two years to pass algebra."

  "Ouch, hurtful bitch," I muttered as I dropped it onto her palm. "Do I get it back at the end of the school day?" I asked.

  "Nope. Summer vacation, maybe, but only if your mom sends a note." Shelby hopped up in the stylist chair at the next station. She spun around once. I couldn't blame her. They were well oiled chairs that with the right push could spin like the tea cups at Disneyland.

  Gina finished with the curls and started pinning on the hat. I needed to be on set soon.

  "Oh, delightful bestie." I peered sideways at Shelby because I couldn't turn my head. "Could you get me a water from the caterer's tent? My throat is dry and scratchy."

  "Wow, I went from hurtful bitch to delightful bestie in ten seconds." She hopped off the chair. "That has to be a record. I'll meet you out there with the water, milady."

  Gina finished pinning on the hat and leaned back to admire her work. "Adorable." She stepped aside, and my reflection bounced back at me from her huge mirror.

  I'd been told so many things about my looks from casting directors and producers, her eyes are too big, her nose is too short, lips too full, her left ear sticks out farther than the right. It was an industry that could gut your self-confidence with a few sharp words. And it wasn't just the big shots. The fans could be far more ruthless. Readers were so unhappy about me playing the part of Cassie, she's too old, too fat, not sophisticated enough, that I nearly told Sawyer to forget the whole thing. Even the Forever Kisses fans had their doubts about it working out. They worried it might erase some of the magic from Kisses. Shelby had to block all my social media because it was so hurtful. But lately, I'd learned to tune it all out. I was me. I was the face staring back at me in the mirror and I was O.K. with her, all of her. And I thought Cassandra Youngston would have been O.K. with me too.

  Fourteen

  Kinsey

  October 24

  Perhaps I had accumulated far too many possessions in my twenty-one years. It took me days to decide what I should leave behind as I only had a five piece set of luggage for my things. I wrapped several breakable items, things that had more sentimental than monetary value, a framed photo of my mother and the porcelain kitten she gave me just before she died, in my small wool blanket to keep them from breaking. Otherwise, I forced myself into practicality and packed things that were not fragile and that folded nicely. I had to sit down on the final suitcase to flip closed the brass locks. In the end, I was satisfied I had packed enough to at least get me started. I had never been to the Midwest, but I could only assume the weather was more tolerable than the east coast.

  The goodbye scene was nothing more than a scene from a badly produced theater play. Thomas Biggs, who suddenly fancied himself a gentleman, said he would wait outside while we said our farewells so as not to intrude on our family moment. Father attempted one last hug (I had not allowed so much as a pat on my hand since he sold me off to Mr. Biggs). His burly arms wrapped around me, but I stood like a tin soldier with my arms stuck to my sides and my face a mask of stone. Margaret (I'd dropped The Stepmother title because as far as I was concerned we were no longer connected in any way) had the nerve to open her arms as if I would step forward into those long, thin spider-like appendages. I nodded curtly and turned to walk out the door.

  Mr. Biggs, or Tom, as he insisted I call him, only I was finding it hard to do so, was standing by an old Ford truck. He had packed away his outdated, threadbare suit in exchange for a blue chambray shirt that looked as if it had been around since the beginning of time, or at least since the invention of chambray. Dark blue corduroy trousers completed the ensemble, which was only made more quaint by the addition of his stretched out felt hat. The truck, our vehicle for the long journey, seemed to have been originally painted blue, only most of the color had worn off leaving behind the steel gray body. The cab could hold no more than two people. The bed was bordered by strips of timber that looked as shabby as the rest of the vehicle. Beneath an oily green tarp were mounds of something (supplies I hoped and not dead bodies since we knew nothing about the man) taking up most of the bed of the truck. My five pieces of luggage, my entire existence, were sitting on the brick path leading from the house to the street.

  Tom shoved his floppy brown hat on his head and nodded once to me. It was the pinnacle of our courtship thus far. The man couldn't even take the time and energy to smile. Come to think of it, I had yet to see him even tilt his mouth for a grin. It didn't seem too farfetched to imagine that he never smiled. He was as bland as a warm glass of milk, and now he was my glass of milk. On second thought, warm milk has far more to offer.

  Once the two of us, Mr. Biggs and the future Mrs. Biggs (God help me) were standing face to face on the brick pathway, our first test of compatibility proceeded and needless to say it was disastrous. "Sir, T-Tom, you'll need to move some of your clutter so there is room for my luggage," I'd said politely enough, considering the circumstances. Tom surveyed the towers of ivory leather bags with their shiny brass locks and whimsical traveling stickers I'd collected while journeying abroad. "Which case has the most important belongings?" he'd asked in his flat farmer's accent.

  "It's all important but if we're prioritizing before loading them up, I'd say the tallest one has my most needed and important possessions (the framed photo of my mother and my diary, I thought but saw no need to say out loud) followed by the square one and the long rectangle," I'd explained.

  He nodded. "Great, why don't you wait in the truck while I load up." I followed his suggestion eagerly. It was late October and my camel hair coat was proving insufficient for the autumn chill. I glanced back to see that Tom was lifting up my top priority case to lower into the back of the truck. With some effort and a good deal of strength, I managed to yank open the passenger side door. I stumbled back a few steps but holding tightly to the door handle kept me from falling on my backside. "Careful with that door. It sticks," Tom had added unhelpfully. I stared into the cab of the truck. The dashboard was being held on by thin strands of rope and the passenger, my seat, had a curly spring sticking up from the right side.

  "Careful sitting down. There's a broken spring. Just sit next to it." Tom was truly a master at stating the obvious. And from there—as my late Aunt Belle, a salty old woman who chewed tobacco and had more husbands than sense—would say—it all went to hell.

  * * *

  I made it to the set for call time. Sawyer was doing last minute checks on camera angles and sound. My co-actor was sitting on the sidelines going over the script. The part of Thomas Biggs was played by Roger Evans, a newcomer to the big screen. He'd had a part on a long running soap opera before his first movie break. He had the polished good looks that made him shine on film, but he lacked in the charm department. He was one of those banal, mostly serious guys who rarely laughed and hated messing around on set. He had yet to flub even one line, which made me slightly self-conscious because I was a flubber extraordinaire. Fortunately, Sawyer was used to it. He had been remarkably patient with me while I got into the swing of things. (I'd caught him in the middle of a meditation session more than once, which may or may not have been because of me.)

  "All right, get ready to lock it up," Sawyer called through his megaphone. The scene was going t
o be shot outside with the facade of the Youngston house in the background. Just like in the book, it was mid October, only mid autumn in California was quite a bit different than fall on the east coast. Cassie's camel hair coat with the fur trim was causing beads of sweat to form on my brow.

  "Powder please," I called frantically before we needed to take positions. The young makeup assistant rushed out. I leaned down and she neatly blotted my forehead beneath the brim of the hat. She scurried off as Sawyer sounded his warning bell meaning it was time to take our marks. Roger handed off his script, pushed the floppy hat down over his dark hair and walked over to the luggage props standing next to the truck.

  "We're picking up where Cassie is walking around to the passenger side to climb into the truck. Kiki, we loosened that truck door some, so you'll have to pretend that it's stuck. Just don't fall on your ass."

  I nodded. "Right, avoid ass fall, got it." There was some giggling amongst the crew, which earned a scowl from Sawyer. I plumped up the fur collar of the coat and took a deep breath.

  "Roll camera, roll sound and action." The slate snapped.

  Cassie walks to passenger side and struggles with truck door.

  I pushed off my mark and clacked my heels sharply as I circled to the passenger door. I curled my fingers around the handle and pretended to pull. It moved the slightest bit, but I furrowed my brow to give the illusion of a stubborn door. I yanked hard and stumbled back, without an ass fall, like in rehearsal.

  Tom: Careful with that door. It sticks.