Carter's Big Break

by Brent Crawford

  We take the shortcut behind Pizza Barn, and I describe my bike wreck in all of its gory detail. I may exaggerate a bit, but she seems entertained. I know that I’m talking too much, and I should be asking more questions, but everything that pops into my mind today is really negative. Finally I ask, “Hey, did Matilda really make you take a drug test when you got home the other day?”

  She ignores the real question, and replies, “That’s not my home. It’s just a hotel room and a bodyguard.”

  I look back at the Escalade on our heels and say, “I think Matilda really cares about you.”

  She scoffs, “It’s her job. She gets paid for that, you know?”

  I feel like Matilda’s job is just to protect her from stalkers, but I don’t say it.

  16. SUGAR-FREE PUDDING

  We walk into the house and I can smell waffles burning. My mom’s not around, and I can hear Lynn yapping on the phone, obviously ignoring her cooking duties. I lift the lid and crunch a fork into the smoking black squares. “You like ’em well done, yeah?”

  Hilary laughs as I throw them in the trash. I pour more batter into the cooker and ask Hilary to keep an eye on them. “When the light turns green, eject ’em.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up as I walk into the living room and wave to get my sister’s attention. “Hey.”

  “On the phone, dickhead!” Lynn replies.

  I motion for her to lower her voice, and whisper, “Hilary Idaho is having dinner with us.”

  “What?” she asks. “Hang on. My super-important movie star brother is telling me something about Hilary Idaho, and I need to take notes.”

  I shake my fist at her and whisper, “No . . . she’s having dinner here . . . with us.”

  Lynn scrunches up her face and barks, “Who is? I can’t understand you when you mumble!” She says into the phone, “Yeah, he thinks he’s friggin’ Marlon Brando.”

  I whisper as slowly and clearly as I can, “Hil-ar-y Id-a-ho is—”

  “Yes, Hil-ary Id-a-ho-BAG . . . I got it . . . and you’re a rock star because you’ve talked to that skinny, fake bitch? I’m ooon the phooo—”

  Her words trail off and her eyes double in size when Hilary walks into the living room with two waffles on a fork and says, “Carter, I need a plate for these.”

  I nod my head judgmentally at Lynn, and mouth the words “Nice job” before walking back into the kitchen.

  I compliment Hilary on her grill skills. “You could get a job at Waffle House if the movie star thing doesn’t pan out.”

  Hilary laughs, and my dad stomps in the front door from work, tosses his briefcase on the table, and asks, “Who’s that big momma out in the Escalade?”

  I throw my hands up and sigh, “Please!!! Be cool.”

  My dad is not one to be told what to do, so he makes a goofy face, hunches over, and puts on a goofy voice when he says, “Ohhh, so sorry, I’m not cool enough to hang with your friends, Will. Hello, young lady. I’m Carter’s dorky dad . . . and what’s your name?”

  I shake my head and gasp. “Daaad, this is my costar.”

  He sticks out his hand for her to shake and says, “Sorry, I don’t know what a coaster is, either.”

  She lets go of his hand when she realizes that he’s not kidding around. He really has no idea who she is. I tell her, “He lives in a cave and sometimes forgets who I am, so don’t be offended.”

  She mumbles, “It’s okay,” and removes the next batch of waffles.

  My mom plays it cool (thank God). She just welcomes her to our house and tells her she’s doing a great job with the waffles. She’s cracking eggs for her famous (not) “trash-can scramble” when Nick Brock slams the front door and stomps into the kitchen covered in dirt. He yells his usual greeting. “S’up, Carter family?”

  Mom swings the spatula at him and barks, “Dirty boots, off!”

  He sits on a chair and is untying his Red Wings when I ask him, “How is your construction job going?”

  “It sucks a fat one. How’s the movie?”

  My mom smacks his shoulder and dust flies into the air. Hilary lets out a giggle as Nick gets up and leaves a mud print of his butt on the chair. He gives her a sideways look and asks, “Heeey, don’t I know you?!”

  She smiles proudly in the hopes that someone will start to properly kiss her ass around here, but Nick continues, “Yeah, you cut grass for Harding Landscape, don’t you?”

  Her expression shifts to disgust. “No, I do not cut grass.”

  My sister bursts into the room to save the day: “NICK, this is Hilary Idaho!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know that name too. . . . You’re not a weed eater?”

  Hilary pulls a couple more waffles out and mutters, “No, no I am not.”

  “Gravel girl?”

  Lynn is looking at him like he’s kicking the dog. Hilary has checked out of the conversation and is pouring batter with all of her focus when Nick wraps his massive arms around her shoulders, lifts her off the ground and laughs, “I’m just messin’ with you, Hilary! I was a Get Up Gang member in eighth grade!”

  I laugh with everybody else at the thought of this all-American linebacker watching tween TV and joining a fan club, until he throws up the Get Up Gang sign and Hilary returns the corresponding finger move, and they shout in unison, “G.U.G. fo’ life, baby!”

  Lynn grabs my arm during the second round of laughs and quietly tells me, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.”

  “Who would believe me?”

  The doorbell rings and my dad lets Matilda in the front door. Her jaw is flexed and she stares Nick Brock down, before saying, “No touching.”

  Nobody tells Nick what to do, so he asks, “Excuse me?”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t make physical contact with Ms. Idaho.”

  Nick is as embarrassed as Hilary when he says, “Yeah, sure . . . I’m . . . sor—”

  Hilary screeches, “Matilda, get the hell out of here and stop embarrassing me!”

  The mood is very tense until my mom asks Matilda to stay for dinner. Hilary pulls out more waffles and snidely says, “You’re going to need a lot more batter.”

  As we start eating, my dad asks Matilda what she does, and she cheerfully replies, “I’m an armed, legal body guardian.”

  We all kind of stiffen and think about the “armed” part of her job description. But Lynn is very interested in new careers, because being an assistant to the assistant costume designer is not as fun as she thought. She asks, “What does that mean?”

  Matilda replies, “I’m a legal representative for Hilary, like a parent . . . but I’m also authorized to shoot people if they threaten her safety.”

  Everyone is staring at her, waiting for her to smile and tell us that she’s joking, but the smile never comes.

  My sister excitedly asks, “Do you have to go to school for that?”

  Hilary answers, “No, any idiot can do it; you just have to get lucky.”

  Matilda smoothly says, “Or unlucky.”

  “Oh, that’s a burn,” I add.

  Hilary smiles and playfully pushes me. “Shut up, Carter.”

  Nick keeps us laughing through dinner by making fun of my mom and singing his version of “Go! Fight! Win!” Hilary howls with laughter when I join him for the “Weeeeiiiiieeauuuna!” She’s not used to people dogging her to her face, and she seems to love it. My life would be a lot easier if I enjoyed it more.

  Matilda gives Hilary the death stare when she puts her knife into the butter tub, and takes the syrup out of her hands before she can flip the lid. I try to eat mine dry, too, but it sucks, so I sneak some syrup when she’s not looking. Hilary only eats two bites of eggs, and half a waffle. My dad tries to take the other half off her plate, but my mom shoots the action down with her own death stare.

  We finish, and everybody is clearing their dishes. Matilda tries to clear Hilary’s plate, but puts it down when she realizes that Hilary wants to do it herself. As my mom is loading the dishwash
er she tells everyone about our family rehearsals. I’m red with embarrassment until Hilary asks if she can join in.

  Matilda says it would be okay and asks if she can read the stage directions. My dad hands her his script like it’s no big deal, but she seems really excited to get the job. Shockingly, I know all of my lines. Even my sister is impressed as I rattle them off. I sit on the floor because my character doesn’t own chairs. Hilary sits down next to me. The third scene we work on is the one that we were supposed to shoot this afternoon inside the mansion. Hilary/Maggie asks me why I won’t play sports, go to parties, or do anything fun anymore.

  I/Chris think about the answer for a second, then shrug. “‘Those things seem silly to me now, I guess. It was my mom . . . She always wanted me to play sports so I’d fit in, and she bought me nice clothes. I really thought I cared about all that . . . but now it doesn’t matter.’”

  Hilary/Maggie asks if I miss having a mom, and I begin my biggest monologue in the script: “‘I still have a mom. She takes me shopping at Target about once a week and she buys me anything I want and we walk out with, like, twenty bags of stuff and she’s so happy. I’ve had the dream about fifty times now, and I’ve figured out that when we reach the parking lot, it’s about over, so I put down the stuff and try to give my mom a hug and thank her, but I never get to do it and I always wake up crying. It’s funny because the muscles in my face hurt the next day from smiling so much during the dream. I really do try to be happy, because I know that’s what she’d want, but it’s hard.’”

  I wasn’t trying to deliver a performance or anything. I was just trying to say the words in the right order because it’s a lot to remember, but I did it almost perfect. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that my mom has started crying.

  A tear rolls down Hilary’s cheek as she reads, “‘We can work on that, but I wasn’t talking about clothes. I’m talking about fun—’”

  I interrupt her. “‘I have fun with you.’”

  “‘What would your mom say if she knew that the only time you smiled was when you were asleep?’” she asks with real compassion. She’s a much better actor without all of the producers and cameras around.

  I just look at her for a second and shake my head. I’d like to say the next line quietly, but my mom is openly blubbering, so I have to turn up the volume when I say, “‘She wouldn’t like it, but she’d like you.’”

  Matilda reads, “‘Maggie passionately kisses Chris.’”

  Hilary looks at me intensely, like she might. I’m into the scene, but I’m still aware that my parents are in the room and her body guardian is “armed.”

  Nick saves me by jeering, “Go for it!” and everyone laughs.

  The next scene allows my sister to read the part of Maggie’s friend, who thinks my character is a dirtbag, so she’s having way too much fun flicking her hair around before reading, “‘He probably has lice!’”

  Nick plays the principal of the school with a funny deep voice. He tells me that although he enjoyed my essay, he had to call social services. Hilary asks him with disgust, “‘How could you?’”

  It’s a sad and serious scene. I’m supposed to be depressed but also relieved that I don’t have to be homeless anymore. Nick is done with his lines, but he jumps up and yells, “Do not question the PRINCIPAL!!! I have absolute power!” The scene turns into a Saturday Night Live sketch when he picks me up and starts tossing me around the room. Everyone is cracking up.

  After about an hour, we’ve done most of the script. The crying scene was a bit wonky because Hilary did her fake crying, and Nick thought she was trying to be funny and so he started fake crying, too. It pulled me out of the scene, and Hilary seemed pretty embarrassed. Matilda picked up the slack and started reading the next scene, so Hilary couldn’t stay down for very long.

  We run through tomorrow’s scenes twice, and finally Matilda says, “Fade to black.”

  Nick adds, “That’s it?”

  Lynn asks Hilary, “Isn’t it too short to be a movie?”

  Hilary says, “No, this is actually really long. You should read the crap I usually work on. We’d have been at a club doing shots by now!”

  Everyone just looks at her. That joke may fly in Hollywood, but at the Carter house it goes over like the time my mom tried to sneak sugar-free pudding into her cream puffs.

  Matilda clears her throat angrily and gives the script back to my dad. “We should go. Hilary needs to do cardio and tan before bed.”

  Brock tries to lighten the vibe by stretching and saying, “Whew, me too,” but nobody laughs.

  Hilary is embarrassed and clarifies, “I was joking.”

  I make a face, like “It’s not a big deal,” and offer up a high five before saying, “So, I’ll see you at the butt crack of dawn?”

  She halfheartedly returns the five and tells my mom goodnight before following Matilda to the SUV. We all watch from the kitchen window as Matilda shuts Hilary’s door and they drive off. Mom mutters, “Poor thing.”

  Lynn scoffs, “Whatever, she’s a bazillionaire.”

  Dad adds, “She’s gonna need that money when she realizes she never had a childhood.”

  It’s not even dark yet, but I’m exhausted, so I hug my mom and start down the basement stairs for bed. I stop to look at the photographs that cover both sides of the walls. I space off, staring at them for about ten minutes. Baby pictures, sports, birthdays, vacations, family reunions, anniversaries, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all the pictures are filled with smiling faces and captured laughter.

  After a while my mom throws a dish towel down at me and says, “Focus, please. You were going to bed.”

  “Yeah, have these pictures always been here?”

  She laughs. “I change them every once in a while, but yeah, we’ve always had family pictures on these stairs.”

  She walks back toward the kitchen, and I say “Huh” to no one. I must’ve run up and down these steps a million times, but never stopped to look at the pictures. I swear I’ve never seen this one of my grandma. She’s about my age, and she’s riding one of those Budweiser horses. The picture’s got a few years of dust on it, so it must have been here a while. The frames are different sizes and only a couple of them match, but they’re laid out carefully and spaced just right. What a pain in the ass it must have been to hang them. Not to mention, live the lives.

  I’m looking at my parents’ wedding picture when I hear my sister tell someone, “No, he’s still on the stairs, zoning out.”

  Dad snaps me out of it and asks, “You need a ride to the set tomorrow?”

  I tell him, “I’m good.”

  He asks, “Are you?”

  I don’t think he’s talking about giving me a ride anymore. “Yeah. Sorry if I’ve been a dick lately.”

  He smiles. “Yeah. We don’t have to see eye to eye all the time.” He motions to the pictures on the wall and says, “But just remember, whatever happens with this movie . . . we’re always here for you. Okay?”

  I nod and he walks back into the kitchen. My family is pretty great.

  17. PIZZA MAGNATE?

  The next day starts much too early, but I’m excited. I was too nervous to enjoy yesterday, but now that I’m a one-day veteran I should be cool.

  I step into the makeup trailer and say hi to the ladies already working on Hilary. “Wow, you’re here early,” I say.

  Hilary can’t move her face because of the airbrush that’s being used on her upper lip, so she just flips me the bird.

  The makeup ladies laugh, like she just said the funniest thing ever, and I smile because she’s making an effort to be a smart-ass. The mood is way better this morning, so I ask the ladies if they could use that airbrush tool to touch up my bruises instead of the painful sponges and pencils.

  They flatly say, “No.”

  I nod and wait my turn in the extra makeup chair. A new US Weekly is sitting on the counter, so I kick back, like I’m at the barbershop with my dad. I cross my
right leg over my left because I’ve been thinking lately that I should try to be the kind of guy who crosses his legs from time to time.

  C. B. and Phil always stick one leg over the other one when they sit, and it looks pretty smart. I feel a little dumb when I do it, but I bet I look cool, so I keep it there. I look down at my ratty old Nikes and think back to when they were new, when I was going to a party at Maria’s house last year to meet up with Abby for the first time. The grass stains weren’t there, the soles weren’t burned off at the edges, and I was pretty innocent. I had my first real kiss in these. My mom had no idea when she was paying for these suckers that I’d be getting action and shooting a movie in them someday.

  I’m ripped out of my daydream when I finally focus on the cover of this US Weekly. My whole body flexes and my stomach sinks as I begin to process what I’m looking at. I squeal, “Haaaaaa!!!” when I realize I’m staring at myself! A blown-up grainy photograph of Hilary Idaho in bikini bottoms and Yours Truly with both of my hands outstretched . . . smothering Hilary’s hooters. We’re standing on the bank of Grey Goose Lake, the rope swing is just out of frame, and her head is tilted back in laughter under the headline, “Sex on the Beach!”

  I frantically flip to the article and yell, “Has anyone seen this US Weekly?”

  A makeup girl says, “No, they just dropped it off.”

  Oh, I’m in big trouble. The next page contains fifteen different shots of me and Hilary totally looking like we’re getting it on. Some of them are pretty hot, but all of them are lies! The first shot takes up the whole page. I’m lying on top of her in the mud; the caption reads, “Hilary Gets Dirty With Starvados!” What the hell is a “Starvados”? The next one shows me standing behind her with my hands on her hips, giving her a boost so that she can grab the rope swing a little higher. She’s bent over, just slightly, her eyes are half closed, and her mouth is somewhat open. I know she’s grunting with effort so she can reach that top notch, but that’s not what it looks like! I’m flexed because I’m lifting her, and I have to say, I look pretty buff.