by Kasie West
I sank to the couch and put my face in my hands. The learning curve of living with my dad was a steep one. He was stricter than my mom, and I was trying to figure out how to deal with that. I’d only ever lived with him one weekend a month and two weeks every summer. In between, we kept up with each other via email, texts, or phone calls. We were both discovering that living with one another full-time was something else altogether.
I started to stand, and my hand met the hard cover of the laptop. Now, in my post-confrontation guilt, probably wasn’t a good time to google my name on the computer. I was already feeling down, and reading comments on the internet wasn’t a good way to change that. But the combination of time and access to the internet always seemed to draw this desire out of me. I typed my name into the search engine.
It used to be only a few hits came up, mostly related to The Cafeteria. Now everything that came up was related to Grant. The first headline I saw read, “Just who is this unknown starring alongside superstar Grant James?”
“Just a nobody,” I said. Worse than the entertainment articles were Grant’s fans. They were brutal. Social media was full of mentions about who they wished had been cast as the lead instead of me. Like Natalie Mendoza, another big-name movie star. Did they really think this indie film could afford two big stars? I wasn’t sure how it afforded the one. This had to be a major pay cut for Grant.
As I scrolled through more pages, an image came up. I gasped. There were pictures of me online, of course—my headshots and stills from the commercial I’d been in and the TV show. But this was awful. Me arriving on set in my sweats, zero makeup, and a sour look on my face. The caption below it read: Save Grant James from the undead.
“Stay off the internet, Lacey,” I said, shutting the laptop. “Not helpful at all.” I dragged myself to bed.
A huge spread of food was always available at craft services, and I made my way to the covered tent the next morning after makeup. Amanda, wearing a long black drape to protect her wardrobe, was standing at the food table, dishing cantaloupe onto her plate. She looked over when I walked up, and startled a little. Then she laughed.
“If I were a zombie hunter, you’d be the first to go,” she said.
I put my hand to my chest. “I’m hurt that I mean nothing to you.”
“Death.”
I bared my teeth at her, and she smiled and took a step back. I grabbed a banana. “Did you and Grant do another round of that game after I left?”
“Actually, we did.”
“Did you learn anything interesting about him?” It had been fun, but we had shared only basic facts the night before. I still felt like I didn’t know him very well.
“About Grant James?”
“Did someone else show up?” I peeled the banana and ate it in small pieces.
She plucked a piece of granola out of a bowl on the table and threw it at me with a smile. “No, but it’s Grant James. He’s been in the public eye since he was six. Nothing he told me last night, including the drumming and carne asada fries thing, was new. Pretty sure everything you’d ever want to know about him is online somewhere.”
“Online,” I mumbled in disgust.
“Yes, you need to stay off the internet for at least the next eight weeks. That will not help you. It doesn’t like you for stealing its boyfriend.”
“You’ve googled me?”
“I was curious about who this nobody starring alongside my boyfriend was.” She winked at me. I liked Amanda; she seemed to say whatever she thought.
“Yeah, yeah. So . . . about Grant,” I said. “I didn’t know those things he revealed last night. The only things I’ve read about him are that his parents divorced when he was ten; he has one brother, who’s adopted; he owns three houses; and his favorite person is his grandma.”
“You read the People article too?” she asked.
“Did someone say something about my grandma?” Grant asked, walking by the food table and swiping a doughnut as he did.
“We weren’t talking about you,” I said, then under my breath added to Amanda, “Tell him we were.”
“We totally were,” Amanda yelled after him, and he smiled at her over his shoulder. She nudged me with her elbow. “You’re good.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
Noah, the first assistant director, peered around the corner with the scowl he seemed to always wear. “Lacey, they’re ready for you.”
“More, later,” I said to Amanda.
She waved a fork with a piece of cantaloupe on it at me.
I followed Noah.
Grant was already in the graveyard, standing on the pile of dirt next to the hole of a newly dug grave. His hair was styled to perfection. His eyes looked extra blue under the lights.
“Hey,” I said, stepping in front of him. “Doesn’t it feel weird that we’re filming at an actual graveyard? I’m surprised we haven’t gotten any complaints.” I nodded my head toward the group of people beyond the fence who had been absent when I arrived but were now pressed up against the chain-link. They held big signs. None of the signs were angry protests. All of them were variations of We Love Grant James. I wondered if he could go anywhere without being recognized. I smiled. Was that my future? I could get used to people holding signs for me.
He popped the last bite of doughnut into his mouth, then tamped on the dirt pile with his foot. “It’s because we’re in the back half of the graveyard. Nobody is actually buried here.”
“I know, but still.”
“How is all this graveyard appreciation coming from a girl who hates animals?”
“You do know graveyards and animals aren’t even close to the same thing, right?”
“Right . . . graveyards aren’t living things. Do you really hate animals? All of them? Even kittens? Who can hate kittens?”
“Have you been analyzing this since last night?”
Remy joined us on the dirt pile. “Hi, guys, how you feeling today?” He held the shot list in his hand with the scenes that we’d be filming that day.
“Good,” I said.
“This girl doesn’t like kittens,” Grant said.
“Kittens are tolerable,” I said.
“Hmm,” Remy said. “Maybe we should have your character eat kitten brains for a shot.”
My mouth dropped open.
Remy gave Grant a head tilt. “Turns out she likes kittens more than she was letting on.” He glanced at his clipboard. “Besides, audiences wouldn’t forgive us for that. We better stick to humans.” He clapped us back to business. “Okay, we have extras coming in this afternoon for some zombie fighting scenes, but this morning it’s just the two of you. So lots of pining. This is the graveyard you might have to be buried in if this cure doesn’t work. It’s a heartfelt scene. Sad eyes, loving looks, the works.”
“Sounds good,” Grant said, and I nodded my agreement.
“Quiet on set,” Noah called as Remy backed out of the shot. Everyone went silent, even the birds, it seems. The boom operator placed the microphone in place, hovering over our heads.
The guy with the slate came forward.
“Slate in, sound rolling, camera rolling,” Noah called out.
“Scene eleven. Take one,” the guy who held the slate said.
“And action,” Remy said.
Four
There may have been lots of supposed pining, but I could tell, even after six hours, that the scenes Grant and I had shot weren’t working for Remy. Apparently our chemistry was still off.
“Is her hair red?” he’d called out at one point, referring to me. “It’s too bright. It’s clashing with all the blood. It needs more mud or something.” And so more mud was added to my hair.
Now I was standing by a light, filthy hair, surrounded by zombies. I felt hot and a bit claustrophobic. Someone tripped next to me, and I reached out to keep them from falling, when a huge light began to tip. I grabbed the pole, but it didn’t help, the light crashed to the ground, bulb shattering and breaking
with a burst. Someone screamed. Several members of the crew rushed forward and immediately began brushing the scattered glass into a pile.
“What just happened?” Remy yelled, staring right at me.
I held up my hands. “It just fell.” I wasn’t sure what had happened. Had the tripping zombie knocked into it? I was just glad nobody seemed hurt.
It was then that my advocate on set stepped forward and said something to Remy that I couldn’t hear. Probably that the underage star with a special contract was going over her allotted hours for the day because Remy said, “What happened to hiring thirty-year-olds who look seventeen?”
Grant laughed next to me.
I scrunched my nose at him. “You could’ve had a thirty-year-old as a costar.”
“That’s hot,” he said.
“Really?”
He shrugged and laughed again.
“That’s a wrap for the day,” Remy called, surprising me. Really? We were ending early? With my dad not breathing down his neck, I thought Remy could fix the light and talk down the advocate. He’d done it before.
As Leah removed the premade section on my face I asked her under my breath, “Should I be worried? Does he think I knocked over that light?”
“No, that was an accident. You did great. He’s just a big bear. Sometimes he forgets a movie becomes a movie during edits.”
“You’ve worked with him before?”
“Lots of times.”
“Leah!” the big bear said.
“Yes?”
“I want more . . . more . . . something on the zombies. Let’s chat.”
“See,” Leah said. “This is his filming persona. He’ll be happy in the end.” She tucked the section she’d taken off my cheek into a red plastic case.
“Red for blood?” I asked, nodding to the case.
“Don’t forget guts. Blood and guts.” She gave me a smile and left to go discuss makeup with Remy.
Grant was talking to some guy who I had seen on set before. He was tall, wearing shorts and flip-flops, and didn’t seem happy. I waved goodbye, but Grant didn’t see me.
I started peeling off wardrobe layers as I walked toward my trailer. Suddenly Aaron was at my side. “Are you okay?” He was looking at my hands like he’d find them bloodied up.
“I’m fine. Was your dad mad about the light?”
He rolled his eyes. “He’s always mad. You did great today. I like the way you glare at Grant. I think it’s very zombieish. My dad liked that part too. He gave a happy grunt.”
I held in my laugh because I could tell he was trying to give me good feedback. Being a director’s son, he’d probably been on a million sets throughout his life. “You’re going to make a great director one day.”
His eyes shot to the floor. “Thanks. Do you need anything?”
“I’m good. Thank you.”
He nodded and left me to myself. I slipped off my blouse. I was down to my tank top and ripped-up skirt by the time I closed myself inside my trailer.
A guy around my age sat on the couch, one of his feet propped up on the coffee table, his backpack open beside him. He was the most clean-cut-looking guy I’d ever seen in my life. Had he come straight from singing in a church choir? His dark hair was cropped short on the sides and a little longer on top. He wore a collared shirt and black pants.
I backed out of my trailer, pretended to check the name on the door, then entered again. “I didn’t order a cute boy today. Did I?”
The guy pulled a pencil from the open backpack, took his foot off the coffee table, and leaned forward without even the hint of a smile.
“Are you here to run lines?” I asked. Maybe this was why Remy hadn’t put up a fight about ending the day—he’d sent a coach. I headed for the cabinets in the corner where I stored my script.
“I’m Donavan, your new tutor.”
I did a one-eighty and walked to the hanging rack instead. I hung up my blouse and corset. “Ah. I didn’t order one of those either.”
“Your father told me you’d say that. And he told me to tell you that it’s this or his having a long talk with your director.”
Remy would hate that.
“Did he also tell you how to deliver that message? Because you’re channeling him very well. Although your scowl is a little on the heavy side. Maybe tone it down a notch.”
“Do you need to get ready before we start?”
“Ready? Do you have some brain warm-ups for me?”
His eyes scanned my face, unruffled by my teasing.
“Oh. You mean my makeup. Am I scaring you?”
“Not at all. I found your packet and see you’ve done only about half.”
“I’ve done half? Nice.” I sat on the couch next to him. “But here’s the problem. I can’t do homework with a stranger. Tell me your five-minute history.”
“My five-minute . . . what?”
“Your . . .” Wait, he was a stranger. Remy may not have sent me a coach, but that didn’t mean this guy sitting next to me wouldn’t make a good one. “You can help me.”
“Yes, exactly. Do you want to start with math or English?”
“Chemistry.”
He flipped several pages on the packet. “Do you even have chemistry this year?”
I began taking everything between us and putting them on the coffee table: my packet, a binder, a pencil, his phone. “You have never seen me without makeup on.” Sure, I was missing the big section on my cheek that made me look even creepier, but I knew what was left still wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Your dad also told me you would be very creative at finding ways to get out of this.” He reached for the stuff on the table.
I grabbed both of his arms and turned him to face me. “I’ll do your packet in a minute.”
“It’s your packet.”
“Whatever. Just help me real fast, and then we can work on that.”
He sighed. “I am setting my phone timer for five minutes. When it goes off, we start on the packet.”
I crinkled my nose. “You really are a choir boy, aren’t you?”
“Five minutes.” He picked up his phone.
I smirked a little. He could hold his own. Most boys let me get my way. “Fine.”
He clicked a few buttons, then set it back on the table. “So what do you need me to do?”
“Just sit there and tell me when you feel something.” For many auditions I’d had to go from meeting complete strangers to performing a scene with them in seconds. This was a little different, since he wasn’t an actor, but he’d be fine.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I lifted my hand slowly, then ran a finger along his shoulder while I stared into his eyes. He had nice eyes—chocolate brown with thick lashes.
He jerked back. “Wait, I thought you were going to try to scare me.”
“You’d think, right? No, I need to know when you feel a spark.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“I’m not trying to form a lasting connection. I just need to know how to create chemistry with all this on.” I pointed at my makeup.
His eyes traveled over my face. Had Grant’s eyes been traveling my entire face today too? Maybe he needed to concentrate on the one thing the makeup artist didn’t touch—my eyes.
“Hey . . .” I realized I’d forgotten his name.
He realized I’d forgotten too. “Donavan.”
“Right. Sorry. Donavan, don’t look anywhere but in my eyes.”
“Okay.” His eyes went back to mine. It was obvious he was feeling nothing but uncomfortable at this point.
I needed to change that. I kept my hands to myself and twirled my hair while locking eyes. I tried to make mine soft and vulnerable. My dirty hair crunched as I twisted it around my finger, and I held back a sigh. This was the problem—I was relying on the tactics I normally fell back on in a romantic scene, things that wouldn’t work in my current makeup-ed state. I inched closer to him on the cou
ch. He smelled like mint gum. If he had a piece in his mouth, he wasn’t chewing it. He was perfectly still.
I reached for his hand that was resting on his knee and slowly laced our fingers together. His fingertips were slightly calloused, and I wondered what he’d done to earn those. Yard work? Building? I used my thumb to draw circles on his palm.
His body relaxed, sinking into the couch more, leaning closer to me. I leaned in as well, until my right shoulder touched his left. Then I let my eyes flicker over his face. He had tan, clear skin. His lips were a bit chapped but full.
The phone alarm went off, causing him to jump. His cheeks went pink as he reached for his phone.
“Perfect,” I said, backing away. “You felt something, right?”
“Um . . . sure.”
I knew he had. He wouldn’t have blushed otherwise. “And what about me? Did it seem like I felt something?”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank you. That will be very helpful for tomorrow.” And it would be. I hadn’t tried the hand thing on Grant. And I’d make sure we were better about maintaining eye contact.
“Did you?” Donavan asked.
“Did I what?”
“Did you feel something?”
Had I? I’d been concentrating so hard on making him feel that I hadn’t noticed. “No. But that doesn’t matter.”
Donavan picked up the packet off the table and handed it to me. “That was interesting. Now let’s get to work.”
“Can I take off my makeup first?”
“So many excuses.”
“Okay, fine. Packet. What’s another hour being stifled by makeup?”
There was a knock on my door seconds before it swung open, and Faith came in carrying some pink pages. Faith was young, probably in her early twenties. She wore glasses and always had her hair pulled up into a messy bun. “Revision for tomorrow’s scenes.”
“Really?” I took the pages and scanned through my lines. They weren’t much different, so I would be able to memorize the few changes easily.
“Noah said that you need to get something done to your nails tomorrow too, so you need to be here a little earlier.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked, looking at Donavan like she was offering to kick him out. I had no idea she was so protective of me.
