Bounce

by Noelle August

  “You don’t look anything like Adam.” Garrett looks me up and down.

  “Different moms.” Very different moms.

  Garrett blinks. “Ah, I see. And how old did you say you are?”

  “I didn’t. Nineteen.”

  His jaw literally drops. “Youngster!” he says, though he’s only five years older than me. “You seem older because you’re so . . . ​big. I’ll be kind, don’t worry. Well, time to get working! We start in half an hour, and I haven’t had a drop of caffeine yet. Could you wrangle some for me?”

  I’m going to kill Adam. I’m going to kill him for making me do this. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning when I left his place, but I did hear from him last night by text.

  His message was: You’re Garrett’s assistant for the shoot. Try and back out of this.

  I shake my head. I’m not backing out. How can I, when he accused me of always running out on things? He could be right, but it doesn’t matter. Proving him wrong is my top priority. I am not quitting this job.

  Then it hits me . . . ​If I got fired, then it wouldn’t exactly be like I quit. Adam couldn’t blame me if Garrett and I just didn’t get along.

  Yes. That could work!

  A brand-new Keurig coffee machine sits on the small kitchen area in the trailer.

  “Sure, Garrett. I’ll make you a coffee.” I step toward the machine, already thinking of the chemistry experiment I’m going to put together.

  “No, no, no,” Garrett says, laughing at me. “Not that coffee, Greyson von Blackwood. That coffee isn’t edible.”

  Here we go, Grey. Roll out your weapons.

  “Edible is something you eat. I’m pretty sure you mean potable.”

  I cross my arms and wait for him to tell me I’m being a superior smartass.

  Garrett stands and faces me, beaming. “What a smarty-pants! I love it! Okay, I want a potable triple macchiato, extra whip, extra caramel, extra hot.”

  “Sorry, dude. I don’t think they have that over at craft services.”

  Garrett play-punches me on the shoulder. “Well, dude, you’ll just have to go get it! I’m sure there’s a Starbucks around here somewhere.”

  I play-punch him back, except with less playing. “Are you sure you want that kind of coffee, Garrett?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure? That’s my drink! I have it every morning and sometimes in the afternoon.”

  “Obviously.”

  Garrett’s eyes go wide and his hand comes to his chest. “You’re saying what, exactly?”

  I cross my arms. “I’m just saying that I wouldn’t drink that sugary shit if I were you. If the camera adds ten pounds, you could lose about twenty. I’d do straight black coffee if I were in your shoes.” I look him up and down. “Yeah. I’d even skip adding milk. No offense, Garrettson, but you really can’t afford it.”

  Garrett’s narrow shoulders press back and he draws a huge breath. He’s about to go ballistic on me, and I am ready for it. Bring it, Allen. Fire me. Toss my disrespectful ass out of the trailer.

  He steps forward, and next thing I know, his hand is on the back of my neck pulling me toward him, bringing our foreheads together.

  Our heads are bowed, like we’re praying together.

  “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you for your honesty.”

  What. The. Hell?

  I can’t speak, but he doesn’t need me. He keeps going.

  “I’m a stress drinker. But not alcohol. Not anymore. Sweet drinks. Milk shakes. Macchiatos. Smoothies. It’s the sugar I need. I’m worse than a hummingbird with it. I mean I have the best diet, but the sugar . . . ​It’s my Kryptonite.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.” He nods, and my head goes up and down, too. “I know. It gets worse right before I start a shoot. I can’t stop myself. It’s the stress . . . ​it ruins my regime.”

  “That sucks, Garrett. But you need to let me go.”

  “I’m almost done. I really do like you, Greyson.”

  “My name’s not Greyson—”

  “That’s okay. You know I mean you. As I was saying, you’re honest. We’re going to make a great team.” He takes a deep breath. Then he kisses my forehead and steps back. “Black coffee.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s do it!”

  I flee for craft services, trying to shake off what just happened. I feel so confused. That did not go the way I thought it would. Not even close.

  As I step out of the trailer, I see Adam and Madeleine, my Not Mother, standing in front of the next trailer over. Freakin’ perfect. My body goes cold, and I freeze.

  Mom looks like an old-fashioned movie star, with her fitted blazer and skirt. Red lips, her blond hair in neat waves. They’re clearly having a tense conversation, which is probably definitely about me. And then they both look at me, and their matching expressions of surprise and concern confirm it.

  “Grey,” Mom says.

  The feeling of betrayal is like fire moving through me, thawing me. I can’t believe my brother did this. Let her come here. I pretend I didn’t hear her. I turn and walk away.

  “Give him time, Mom,” Adam says behind me.

  “Just give me some fucking space,” I mutter.

  I’m so rattled, I can’t remember what I’m supposed to be doing. I just keep walking. And then I’m walking past a trailer and catching a glimpse of Skyler, Mia, and Beth, sitting at the small booth inside. I only see them for a fraction of a second, but Beth looks over and sees me. In that second, I feel a sort of connection with her.

  Garrett told me earlier that Skyler got the part of Emma. Beth got some kind of consolation friend role. Maybe nothing’s actually going on with Skyler and Brooks. I mean, I’m assuming a lot. Though I did catch them in bed together. Hah, funny. But I definitely don’t feel like I’m getting the starring role with her.

  Jesus. I can’t even get my head around what these next few weeks will be like. It’s easier to count the people I don’t need to avoid. Saul, the sound guy. Bernadette and Kaitlin, from wardrobe. That’s about it.

  When I get back to the trailer with coffee, Garrett is talking to Bernadette about wardrobe. They’re looking at photos on Bernadette’s iPad, so I sit on the trailer’s steps to await my next orders. This is a risky place to be. I want to see Skyler and I don’t want to see her. I want to see Mom, and I don’t want to see her.

  The whir of generators surrounds me. I don’t know why we had to be here so early. It seems like no one’s actually working.

  “This coffee tastes like shit, Greyson!” Garrett calls from inside.

  I laugh, despite myself. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “If you say so!”

  I shake my head. Maybe I can work with the guy after all.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and see a text from Titus.

  Vogelson/Revel just emailed Rez back. He liked our demo. Call me!!

  I read it twenty more times. I’m still sitting there, staring at my phone, as Bernadette slips past me.

  Over and over, I think this is it. This is it. I’ve always felt like all we need is a chance and now we have it. If Vogelson likes the demo, we’re ninety percent there. I can perform the shit out of our songs. I can get better, too. I’m only a few months into performing. With a producer and more experience, we’ll only improve.

  I want to sprint to Adam, to Mom. I want to tell them what I’ve done, me and the band. What I’ve achieved, what I’m going to achieve, on my own merit. Without their money or support. I did this, I want to say.

  I want to grab Skyler and tell her, too, because she’d understand. This is happening to her, too.

  But I don’t move.

  I don’t move.

  I want to tell someone, but there’s no one I can tell.

  “Greyson,” Garrett says from inside. “I’m not very fond of alone-time. You should probably know that up front. Part of your job is going to be keeping me—”

  Garrett takes o
ne look at me as I enter the trailer, and his smile disappears. He pats the table, indicating the seat next to him. I guess I have no poker face.

  “I’m listening,” he says simply, his blue eyes unblinking.

  “I’m going to be a rock star.”

  “Of course you are.”

  That surprises me. It makes me laugh. And then I can’t seem to make myself stop.

  Garrett sits back in his chair, smiling as I laugh until my stomach cramps and my eyes sting. And when I finally settle the hell down, I tell him about the band and Vogelson, and Titus’s text.

  Garrett listens quietly, his eyes sparkling. I bet he knows tons of famous people who’ve starred in huge movies and maybe even filled arenas, but he’s grinning like it’s his big moment as much as it is mine.

  When I’m done, he stands and goes to the kitchen area and pulls a bottle out of the mini-fridge. “This calls for some potable champagne, Greyson. How incredible and wonderful,” he says, and I know he means it. His smile takes on a wicked tilt. “But don’t think I’m letting you go anywhere until this shoot is done.”

  Chapter 18

  Skyler

  Mia, Beth, and I get to the studio at 8:45 a.m., which I’ve been told is a late start. But I couldn’t sleep again, revved up from the night at Maxi’s, all the attention from Garrett and his agent, Parker, and the . . . ​whatever it is . . . ​with Brooks, who drove me home on his motorcycle, gave me a tight, long hug at the door. I’m not going to lie; he feels good, smells better. There’s something so sturdy and adult about him.

  Which, of course, makes me think of Grey. Who doesn’t seem sturdy and adult at all, but who feels so alive, somehow, super-heated where Brooks is a slow and steady warmth.

  I push all of that aside to focus on the day in front of me.

  “Why don’t we grab something at the craft services table before your fitting?” Mia suggests. “I have to head over to Boomerang for a bit and then run Nana to an appointment.”

  “You’re not going to be around today?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m going to meet with Adam and Brooks to go over reels from prospective DPs, but I have to finish work on some TV spots for Boomerang. I’m holding down the fort there until production really gets going. And Nana has physical therapy.”

  “How’s she doing?” asks Beth, making me feel like a jerk for not asking that first. Mia and her grandmother are so tight, I know it kills her to see Nana wheelchair-bound after the accident she had a few months ago. The last time I saw her, she didn’t remember me at all. She seems to be slipping away, faster and faster. I wish I could do more for Mia. Anything to soothe the pain she admits to only rarely.

  “She’s a trooper,” Mia says with a sad smile. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

  After we throw down some coffee and bagels, we go our separate ways. Beth’s got to fill out some paperwork, and it looks like I have hours in wardrobe ahead of me. The table read is scheduled for 3 p.m., so I’ll see her again then. Since she’s in a supporting role, she’s got a lot of off-days, so we won’t be together as much as I’d hoped. But she’s already lining up other auditions, which I take as a really good sign. I want something amazing to come her way so badly, I can taste it.

  I spot Garrett and Grey in some weird tête-à-tête where Garrett is hanging on to Grey’s arm, and gesturing madly, while Grey looks like he wants to fade through the floor. Garrett catches my eye and blows a kiss. I pretend to catch it and plant it on my lips. He laughs, but Grey just gives me a strange look that I can’t interpret from a distance. We’ve barely spoken except to mumble “good morning” at each other.

  I head off to one of the production offices, where I’m supposed to meet Kaitlin from wardrobe. I find the room already filled with racks of clothing, more than I’ve ever seen in one place, outside of a department store. Kaitlin and Bernadette have shown me sketches for how they want Emma to look. Modern, super chic but with a little whimsy.

  Running my hands over the garments, a little thrill pulses through me. There are so many beautiful pieces here, of such high quality. All so different from my usual slouchy sweaters and jeans, peasant dresses over funky leggings. Even before I’ve put anything on, I’m convinced of how much costumes can make a character. I can see Emma, looking at these racks. See her in a way I haven’t before now.

  “Killer, aren’t they?” Kaitlin asks from the doorway. Her clothes and makeup are so on point, she makes me feel like a bridge troll by comparison. She’s loaded down with supplies, and I take a sketchbook and sewing box from her, as she sets a roll of measuring tape and her laptop onto a table by the windows.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  We chat about the character for a bit while Kaitlin gets herself together. “What are you?” she asks. “Size six?”

  I laugh. “Not since junior high. More like a ten on the bottom, eight on top.”

  “Well,” she says, with a little frown. “Some of these are a bit smaller. Some designers don’t go up past a six.”

  “Really?” It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might not fit into the clothes. I assumed the clothes would have to fit onto me.

  “Yeah, but let’s not worry about that. I think the tops will be fine, and we’ll swap out anything we like for larger sizes, if we can find them.” She pulls out the measuring tape and starts to unspool it. “Why don’t you take off your clothes, so I can get firm measurements?”

  I look at the open windows, the open doors out into the hallway. “Uh, sure.”

  “Don’t worry. Everyone’s tied up with meetings.”

  I unzip and step out of my jeans, pull my shirt up over my head.

  “I’m going to measure everything,” Kaitlin says, getting down on the floor. “So, we’re going to be really good friends by the end of this.” She pushes her silky brown hair over a shoulder and curls the tape around my ankle, then makes a note in her sketchbook. This goes on for every part of my body—from toe to head with about twenty stops in between.

  “Don’t suck in,” she says, when she goes to double-check my waist.

  “Sorry. Didn’t realize I was.” But the more that tape cinches around me, the more conscious I am of my size. Not that I’m big, but that my proportions maybe aren’t the greatest. My hips and thighs are fleshy compared to my narrow shoulders and completely average breasts. I’ve never thought about it much, but seeing those measurements go into her book makes me wonder how I compare—to the clothes on those racks and to all the other girls trying to make a go of it as actors.

  “Am I . . . ​Is there a problem?”

  She makes a last notation in her book and looks up at me. “Problem?”

  “I mean, with my size. Or . . . ​measurements. I mean, should I try to lose some weight?” It kills me to even ask the question. It makes me feel needy and insecure. But this is all such new territory. I want to look good for the part. To be able to wear those beautiful clothes of Emma’s like I truly own them.

  Kaitlin hands me a shirt to try on—a tailored blouse in navy, which I’m relieved to find fits perfectly. “Well, you are a bit bottom-heavy. Which we can totally work with, of course. Though the camera does add . . .”

  She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t really have to say more.

  I step into a gray wool skirt with a ruffled, asymmetrical hem. It’s definitely a tight squeeze. We can zip it, but it bunches at my thighs and wouldn’t be great if I actually plan to breathe. I feel a zing of panic. Maybe they should have tried to dress me before giving me the part.

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask.

  “Well, just lay off the bread and pasta. Try to cut down on alcohol. All of that makes you look bloated. Just go a little easy.”

  I nod and step out of the skirt, relieved. Probably just cutting beer and chicken wings from my diet will go a long way. Having fruit and yogurt instead of the bagel I just slathered with a metric ton of cream cheese.

  This is manageable.

&n
bsp; “You know, I’ve got these supplements you might be into,” Kaitlin says, heading over to her sewing basket. She comes back with a couple of blister packs filled with what look like vitamins.

  “What are they?” I sniff the plastic, which smells like every other vitamin supplement I’ve ever smelled. Herby. A little like dirt.

  “They’re all natural. A little bit of a water pill and then some goodies to rev up your metabolism. Totally safe.”

  “Do you know what’s in them?”

  “It’s a long list, but nothing crazy. Amino acids. That kind of thing. They should definitely help. Here. Try a few of mine and see what you think. Even if you can just lose a few pounds before filming starts, you’ll probably feel better.”

  I nod and take the pack from her. I’m sure they’re fine.

  We try on a dress that’s beautiful but also tight. Next time, I’ll definitely skip the bagel.

  Chapter 19

  Grey

  Wednesday afternoon, Bernadette sends me back to the costume trailer for a fresh shirt.

  “That one’s history,” she says, shaking her head at Garrett. He’s sitting at a desk in an office set up in the studio, coffee stains splattered across the front of his button-down. Today, we’re shooting footage of his character, Mr. Knightley. He’s supposedly some kind of real estate tycoon who rarely works. My dad’s friends with a couple of real estate tycoons and those guys never stop working, but this is the Hollywood version, I guess. In the film, Knightley mostly just lounges around and gives Emma Beautiful Emma a hard time as he struggles to hide his ardor for her. Painful.

  “It most certainly is. We can’t take me anywhere,” Garrett says, with a big smile.

  You can, but it’s a hazard. Turns out he’s super accident-prone. The problem is he thinks he’s a multitasker, but he’s really not. Earlier this morning I stopped him from smashing into a car as he was walking, texting, and talking to me. Part of my job is turning out to be making sure he doesn’t kill himself. I’m babysitting a toddler.