Unscripted

by Jayne Denker

  “Do you think she didn’t love you or something?”

  “Are you going to charge me for this hour?”

  “You don’t have to—” he started to say again.

  I still wanted to put this into words for him, so I took a breath and gave it a shot. “I felt like I was an afterthought to her, and most of the time like I was an inconvenience. An irritant. You know, when I was little, I used to think that making myself really small, physically, would help keep her happy. That she would notice I was being quiet and staying out of the way, and she’d be pleased. I have no idea why I thought that, but I did, so I used to try to squeeze into the tiniest spaces I could find, like boxes, or the back of a closet. I even tried to shut myself in a dresser drawer once. But of course, when I went missing, she’d freak out, and then when she—or one of her staff—found me, I’d get a strong lecture, to put it mildly.” I paused, thinking. “Maybe I was doing the opposite of what I thought I meant. Maybe I was trying to get attention but telling myself I was trying notto call attention to myself.”

  “A very astute observation.”

  “Hey, you’re not the only amateur psychoanalyst around here.” I sighed. “But I am a grown-up now, and I have come to terms with Mona. I have accepted that some people get real moms, and some of us get Hollywood legends. It’s just the roll of the dice.”

  He stopped walking. “‘Real’ moms?” he repeated, smiling incredulously. “What in the world are those?”

  “You know what I mean. Hell, I’ll bet you had one of those, and a Ward Cleaver dad too. And a bunch of clean-cut brothers and sisters. You’re so normal I’ll bet you were born and raised in Pasadena, weren’t you? Admit it! And they’re still there, behind a white picket fence, waiting for you to come visit, which you do, happily, at least once a month.”

  “I’ll have you know that I grew up in Garden Grove, thank you very much—”

  “Pfft. Whitebread by any other geography . . .”

  “My parents are no longer alive, and I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Other than that . . . well, pretty accurate, I confess.”

  That stopped me. “You have no family?” Heck, even I had Jamie and Mona and Dominic, weird as they were.

  He shrugged. “Some cousins back east.” He smiled gamely. “Maybe I consider my students a family, of a sort. The way you make your cast and crew your family.”

  “Thank you for your input, Dr. Freud.”

  “I prefer Jung.”

  “Why am I not surprised.” We started walking again, and I decided to change the subject. “Thanks for hooking me up with the guest room.”

  “You’re very welcome. How is it?” My hesitation was enough. “Uh-oh . . .”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I rushed to answer. This guy had stuck his neck out for me; I wasn’t going to be rude and complain about the lodgings. It was my own problem that I erroneously thought I was going to get an antique four-poster bed and a Jacuzzi bath.

  “Oh, that’s convincing.”

  I laughed. “Okay, it’s a dorm room in a forty-five-year-old cinderblock building. My neighbors believe they can’t go out for the evening without shattering the eardrums of everyone within a four-mile radius for two hours beforehand, I’m sleeping on a cot, I think there are silverfish in the dresser drawers, and I’m pretty sure there was some kinky sex going on in one of the shower stalls in the community bathroom . . .” Mason winced. “But,” I went on forcefully, “I am so, so grateful that you found me a place to stay. So thank you.”

  “I don’t know—sounds like more of a curse than a blessing.”

  “Five words: Super Duper Nine Motor Court.”

  “You know, you don’t have to stay out here, no matter what I said. If you want to go back to L.A.—”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t, actually. Long story. All you need to know is it’s better that I’m here right now. And that means I’m all yours for the duration.”

  I hadn’t meant that comment to have any romantic or sexual connotation, but all the same, something uncomfortable passed between us. A weird kind of uncomfortable, but kind of good at the same time.

  Mason glanced at me as we walked along. “You seem taller.”

  “I’ve got my Friday-night-struttin’ platforms on.” I lifted one red canvas and raffia shoe sideways to show it off.

  “Very nice. Not much of a nightlife here, though.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Not that I’m assuming you don’t have plans. I don’t mean to keep you or anything—”

  “Like I have someplace to go.”

  “Well, then. Can I buy you dinner?”

  “Oh. No, thanks.” The words were out before I had a chance to think about it. Was I that skittish, even though we were actually having a nice time at the moment?

  Mason looked disappointed for a split second, then recovered. “Thought you might say that. I won’t insist. But . . . do you have any money at all, for food or whatever?”

  Oh, I didn’t want to tell him the truth of that. I was not up for a pity party. “What!” I scoffed. “Forget it. I’m fine.”

  And then that old complainer, my stomach, rumbled loudly enough to be heard thirty miles away in Hemet.

  Mason’s eyes bugged. “Was that you? When was the last time you ate?”

  “Mason, I’m fine.”

  “Not according to your stomach.” He reached into his back pocket. “Look, at least take this and go over to the cafeteria, get something—”

  He handed me a couple of small bills—everything that was in his wallet—but I wouldn’t take the money. “Mason, no. You’ve done enough today.”

  “What did I say earlier? I don’t want to be responsible for your untimely demise. That includes starving to death. So take it. Okay?”

  I looked into his warm brown eyes and saw a little bit of pity, but mostly kindness there. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “What, you don’t deserve people being nice to you? Take it,” he said again. “Please.”

  I wanted to protest, but my stomach beat me to the punch, its monster noise accepting Mason’s generosity before I could get a word out to the contrary. “Fine. Fine! But as soon as I get the bank stuff straightened out, I’m giving this back to you, with interest.”

  He smirked. “I may be just a community college professor, but I can afford to take this hit. So don’t worry about it.”

  Tucking the money into my pocket, I said, “Tough. I’m going to. What can I say? I’m a worrier.”

  “Funny, I don’t believe you.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t believe, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell. I yam what I yam.”

  “Yes, you yam. All right then,” he said, running his hand through his mop of hair, “I’d better head out. Get some food down you, get some rest, and avoid the noisy shower stalls.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Have a good night, Faith,” he said kindly.

  I waved and headed in the opposite direction, a warm feeling in the pit of my very vocal stomach.

  Chapter 15

  “Oh hellno,” I muttered, leaning into the cooler.

  At this time of night, the cafeteria was dark and empty, the steam trays spirited away to the kitchens, the warming lamps long since turned off. Even the snack counters were closed. One sleepy work-study student slouched behind the cash register as I studied the packaged-up leftovers, trying to figure out what was lurking in each box under the condensation on the inside of the lids.

  “Hey,” I called to the guy, “what’s in these, anyway?” He shrugged. “Great. Thanks for your help.” I turned back to the cooler.

  Then he said, almost as though it cost him a massive amount of energy to speak, “There are labels on the bottom.”

  Well, now we were getting somewhere. I lifted a particularly heavy container and read the bubbled paper sticker. Hey, mac and cheese—I hadn’t had some in ages. I suspected something this fat- and calorie-laden was outlawed within fif
ty miles of Beverly Hills. If I ever needed comfort food, now was the time. I took it over to the cash register.

  While the logy employee deciphered the buttons on the machine, I fished out a spork from a box on the counter. “Any place to heat this up?”

  He shrugged again. “You need to?”

  “Usually.”

  “Microwaves are around the corner.”

  “Thanks bunches.”

  The darkened cafeteria was too depressing to sit in, as was the dim and echoing student center, so after I nuked the food, I decided to decamp to my monk’s cell with my late dinner. On the way, I hit redial on my cell, still trying to find Jamie. I called his phone. No answer. And no answer at my house, either. Mona was already at her beach house. I was stupid not to get a contact number for her. She had a cell phone, but she never turned it on unless she needed to make a call. I never understood the point of that, but from what I’d observed of her and others in her age group, it was a senior citizen thing.

  Desperate for some sort of contact before I lost my mind, I dialed Jaya. Our friendship still wasn’t at one hundred percent, but I didn’t have time to be skittish about where we stood with each other. I knew that even now, if I asked her, she would help me find Jamie.

  “Hello?”

  “Jaya—thank God.”

  “Faith? You all right?”

  Oh, so not all right. But I decided to skip most of my sob story. If I told her, I knew Jaya would drive out to Moreno Valley to bring me cash. Or send a car—or a helicopter—for me. I didn’t have the heart to ask for any favors like that—not just yet. Besides, everything was supposed to be cleared up in a couple of days. I could last till then.

  “I’m fine. But I can’t get hold of Jamie.”

  “So what? He always takes off without telling you.”

  “He’s not even answering his phone.”

  “Where are you that you can’t find him?”

  “In Moreno Valley.”

  “On a Friday night? That’d better be some party.”

  “No party at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Nope. But can you find him for me? Like, I don’t know, go to my house and check on him? I’m really worried.”

  “Aw, Faith, I’m not in L.A. I’m in Santa Barbara for the weekend.”

  A weekend getaway? Oh really? That pulled my nose out of my own navel for a minute. “Are you with Taco Truck Tito?”

  I could hear her grinning when she said, “Maybe . . .”

  “Good for you!”

  “Never mind my love life. Look, if you’re serious about Jamie, I can get somebody to go to your house—I can call Ashley. Or maybe you should call the police—”

  Cripes, not Ashley! And . . . “No. No police.”

  “Whatis going on? Am I going to read something juicy in the trades Monday morning?”

  “Pfft. I should be so lucky to grab some headlines.” I paused. “You’re right. He probably just took off again. But . . .”

  “Obviously there’s something more to it.”

  With a sigh, I caved. I told her about my disappearing money, and she gasped.

  “Faith! That’s—”

  “Theft. I know. But he’s my stepbrother, Jaya. I can’t sic the police on him until I know what’s going on. I really don’t think he’d have taken it without a good reason.”

  Silence on the other end of the line, but Jaya’s skepticism came through loud and clear all the same. “That guy has your number, you know that? And by that I mean your PIN numbers. And your Internet passwords, your extra checks . . .”

  “And my safe combination. But I lurve him. He’s family. He’s my bud.”

  “A bud who may have disappeared with all your money.”

  Talking about this out loud made it all suddenly seem overblown and silly. Jamie wouldn’t do something like that to me. At least, not without good reason. “Look, you know what? Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. I’m going to stay here tonight, and tomorrow I’m going to head back to L.A. and find out what’s going on.”

  “Do you have gas money?”

  “I know where I can get some.” I winced, hating myself for thinking of Mason as a human ATM, but it looked like I had no other option.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Yeah, I am. I’m sorry to bother you. I was just alone and freaking out.”

  I clicked off and looked around to get my bearings. It wasn’t hard anymore; I was getting pretty familiar with the layout of the campus, and the buildings that once seemed identical were now easily identifiable. Of course, the round theater building that appeared on my right was always recognizable. I took the sidewalk that circled around the back, certain that if I went that way and cut across a corner of one of the interminable parking lots, I could get back to the dorm faster than the route through the middle of campus I took earlier.

  Security lights illuminated the small lot at the back of the building; I could see people milling about on the loading dock. The scent of cigarette smoke drifted toward me on the warm air. Someone left the group, slipping back into the building, and the slam of the heavy metal door echoed loudly.

  It seemed weird that the students would be working on something in the theater this early in the school year—an upcoming lecture or dance show, perhaps? But there was a fair amount of activity, and my first thought was perhaps Alex was there, putting in his required tech time for his degree. I just couldn’t resist taking a little peek.

  Once the shadowed figures had gone back inside, I waited a few more seconds, then followed them. It was pretty difficult—no, impossible—to keep the door from making noise, so I decided to be up front about my arrival. I let it creak open and close behind me with a whunk, then crossed the stage. A bunch of kids were sitting there, but they didn’t notice me until I entered the glare of the hot lights past the proscenium. The students who were facing me, their back to the house, jumped.

  “Ms. Sinclair! What are you doing here?” Brandon exclaimed, as the students who were directly in front of me turned to see what was going on.

  “Just passing by,” I said.

  “We can be here,” a girl I recognized from the advanced acting class said, pretty defensively. “We have a key.”

  “Didn’t say you couldn’t.” Although tempted to try to look stern and make them squirm, I just didn’t have the heart. “Relax, guys. I don’t care what you’re doing in here as long as you’re not vandalizing the place.”

  As I glanced around the circle—there were about ten kids but no Alex (I tried not to feel disappointed)—the back door opened again, and a voice called, “Fresh provisions!”

  I looked over my shoulder. Kaylie and Elias stopped dead in their tracks, perilously close to dropping the cases of beer they were carrying.

  “Hey,” I greeted them genially.

  Elias recovered first and turned on his brilliant smile. “Beer, Ms. Sinclair?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I almost didn’t recognize Kaylie; she was looking exceptionally pretty tonight—her brown hair down, waves framing her face, and she was wearing a floaty, sleeveless tunic over barely there denim shorts. Then the pleasant effect was spoiled when she scowled at me. “Are you going to tell on us?”

  “Are any of you underage?”

  Brandon said, “No,” as some students surreptitiously slid their bottles behind their backs.

  “I’ll just go then,” I said, working hard to hide my amusement. I really didn’t care if some of the kids were underage—hell, the drinking age was considered an adorably outdated formality in Hollywood (imagine telling Miley Cyrus she could only have soda at a party)—but I figured my current status as an instructor, even a temporary one, obligated me to blow the whistle on underage students drinking in the theater after hours. What I didn’t know, I couldn’t report on.

  Kaylie stalked away, but Elias hurriedly put down the beer he had brought in and crossed to me. “No, stay! We’re lots o
f fun.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But . . . can’t. Sorry.” I indicated my plastic container. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  A girl to my left looked at the box suspiciously. “What is that?”

  Brandon rose to his knees. “Did you get that from the after-hours cooler?”

  “Uh . . . yeah? Why?”

  Alice made a face and shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  “What are you talking about?” I checked the food; it looked and smelled fine. “A little mac and cheese never hurt—”

  “Omigod, you did not get the mac and cheese!” Trina exclaimed.

  “No! Never get the mac and cheese!” Brandon cried, and several other students agreed, loudly.

  “I like to live dangerously.”

  “Then it really willbe your funeral,” Taylor muttered.

  “Hey, missy, I’m pretty tough, you know. I’m not afraid of some suspect leftovers from a hinky cafeteria.”

  Kaylie reappeared and interrupted with, “So are we doing this or what?”

  “In a minute,” Brandon said. “I think we should dare Ms. Sinclair to eat her mac and cheese first.”

  “Doing what?” I asked Kaylie, then what Brandon said registered. “‘Dare’ me? Honey, nobody dares me to do anything.”

  “Does that mean you’re gonna eat the mac and cheese?”

  “Eventually.”

  “No, I mean now. Where we can see you.”

  And then a merry chant of “Eat! It! Eat! It!” erupted from the happily buzzed kids. It didn’t stop till I shouted over them, “All right! All right! Just to shut you guys up, I will absolutely eat some of my delicious dinner right in front of you.” I popped open the plastic top and whipped out my spork. “Nobody get jealous, now. This is all mine.”

  “No problem there,” Trina said, making a grossed-out face.

  I looked around at the circle of students, all watching me eagerly. “Y’all are weird, you know that?” And then I downed a big sporkful.