Carter's Big Break

by Brent Crawford

  She seems confused by the statement, so I continue. “You’re not a skank, you are not a product, you are not a brand, you are a girl—of quality.”

  The CRX starts up and my boys drive away. She watches them go and her eyes fill with tears as she mutters, “I need to go.”

  I throw up my hands and say, “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope,” and walk toward the production trailer.

  She yells at Matilda, “Get your fat ass in the car! We’re out!”

  I knock on the production trailer door, and Phil’s assistant ushers me into the office on wheels. I hear the Escalades rumble out of the driveway as we walk to the back of the RV. Phil is trying to look busy filling out stacks of paperwork. I ask him, “You got a sec?”

  He says, “Uhhhh,” like he doesn’t, but then asks, “What’s up?”

  My heart is pounding, but I’m looking around the office like I’ve got all the time in the world. He tells me, “I’m a busy man, Carter. What do you want?”

  I slyly ask, “Do you have any more of that ADD medication?”

  He looks up from his papers in shock. His assistant backs out of the room, and Phil chuckles. “I can’t believe you’re not on it already.”

  I shrug. “My mom won’t let me.”

  “Did Hilary tell you about this?” he asks, digging into his desk. “She’s not supposed to do that.” He looks at the bottle’s label before he tosses it to me. I just stare at him and let the container hit my chest before it drops to the ground. His eyes slowly raise up to meet mine. Annoyed, he asks, “What are you doing?”

  “Tryin’ to figure out what kind of man I want to be.”

  He slyly smiles. He knows I’m here to have a serious conversation, but he tries to keep it light. “You think you want to be a producer?”

  I ignore his question and say, “I think part of figuring out who you want to be is deciding who you don’t wanna be.”

  He closes the drawer of his desk and clears his throat before saying, “Okay, so you got it all figured out? I’m the bad guy, that’s what you think?” I shrug like I don’t care. He adds, “You don’t know shit, kid.”

  I nod because I’m aware of that one. He continues. “This is all fun and games to you, but it’s a business. A competitive business that has very little to do with performances or character. I’ve got a time line and a budget, and I have to deliver a product . . . whether Hilary Idaho feels good or not. If one of my actors feels tired or anxious, it’s my job to try to fix that. If they need to feel happy, sad, pleasure, or pain, and they can’t get there on their own, I have to try to get them there. I don’t do this for everyone, but I sure as hell don’t need to justify myself to you. I think about little cute actor kids like you the same way a broker thinks about stocks. Some perform on their own and some need to be actively managed.”

  “That just sounds wrong, dude.”

  “I’m sorry, dude,” he says condescendingly. “You think your friend Nick Brock isn’t going to be asked to take steroids when he plays college ball? It’s just performance enhancement, and it is everywhere. Everything is harder than you think, and everybody is looking for an edge. People who make things look effortless are just working harder and making greater sacrifices. C. B. works out like a UFC fighter, I drank ten shots of espresso today, and Hilary needs to go blow off some steam to keep her head in the game . . . because the first day we slip . . . is our last. We’re professionals.”

  Tears are screwing up my vision, but I’m still looking at him when I say, “She’s just a girl.”

  He doesn’t respond to that because he obviously doesn’t see her that way. Instead, he asks, “You know I’ve got three kids at home?”

  I don’t say anything, so he continues. “And I love them more than anything. I’d rather they made sneakers for a dollar a day then work on one of my movies or TV shows.”

  22. THE CRYING SCENE

  When I roll up to my house, I’m so drained that I can barely pedal. But I hear the nail gun popping in the backyard, so I roll past the garage. It’s dark out, but my dad’s still busting his ass. He worked all day at his real job and came home to work on this stupid deck. He’s lifting one of the last beams into place with his shoulder and holding a level in one hand and the nail gun in the other. The frame is just about finished. I hop off my bike and say, “Looks really good, Dad.” I squat under the heavy-ass board so he can level and nail it.

  He looks up and smiles before muttering, “Thanks, bud.” The nail gun pops about five times before he sets the tools on the ground and says, “You look terrible; what’s up?”

  My head drops and I spill . . . all of it. He doesn’t interrupt me, and he doesn’t freak out; he just listens. When I finish he asks, “What do you want to do?”

  I give him a blank look and reply, “What should I do?”

  He shakes his head and says, “Wish I could tell you, but I don’t know anything about this movie world. You’re telling me about real grown-up problems here, and there’s a lot of money involved. Kids aren’t allowed to work for a reason. You signed a contract with these people. If you just walk out, I think we could be sued.”

  “So you think I should stick with it?”

  He replies, “I’d never tell you that. I’d rather you and Lynn got jobs in a coal mine than go back to that movie set, but I can’t—”

  I feel bad because I can tell that my dad is upset. I don’t know how much money I’ve made so far, but it’s a lot. This money could help our family for years. We’ve encountered a new place in his parenting career, and he’s not ready for it. We both thought he had a few more years of telling me what to do and knowing that whether I liked it or not, it was the right thing. Another problem he’s facing is the million times he’s given me his famous (not) “quitters never win” speech. Every time I wanted to bail on football practice or swimming or drop out of grade school, he’d talk me off the ledge and yammer on about the “unexpected lessons and gratification of finishing a task” and how my “decisions would affect people I’d never considered.” We seem to have arrived early to the time in my life when I’m supposed to have heard all of his lectures enough times to know what to do . . . but I don’t.

  We walk into the house, and he clears his throat as he drops his work gloves onto the kitchen table. He’s not going down without a fight (quitters never win). He tries to drop one more nugget of fatherly advice on me: “Basing your decisions on money or fear is always a bad idea. Some people let those two things run their lives, and there’s a lot wrong with the world because of it.”

  I must be giving him a blank look, because he shakes his head with frustration and mutters, “I-I-I honestly don’t know. Time usually illuminates the right path—”

  I’m waiting for the “but” but it never comes. This is yet another reason they don’t let kids into the adult world: My dad really isn’t the expert I thought he was, and I don’t think I’m supposed to realize this for a while. He simply advises me to try and get some rest and see what tomorrow brings.

  I go to bed, but I don’t sleep.

  My alarm goes off at five thirty a.m. and somehow I stumble out of the house. We’re back at Saur mansion for the pickup shots, and the crew is busily running around setting up for the day. The Ferrari is here, but no Escalade yet. I bypass the craft service table and head into the makeup trailer. My bruises have started to heal, or I’m getting tougher, because it barely hurts today. I head to my trailer and look over the day’s scenes. There are a few walking shots and an easy scene where we talk about the writing contest. I wish we could have shot everything in order, but I guess it’s impossible. It’s a lot for my ADD to keep up with, and I’m as shocked as everyone else that I’ve made it this far. I’ve been so focused on this script that when I space off, I just drift onto another aspect of the story or my character. Sometimes I really think I’m going nuts, and now I know why Daniel Day-Lewis doesn’t work very much.

  The final scene on the list today is the one I’ve
been worried about since the audition: the crying scene. Abby and I auditioned with this sucker, so I’ve known the lines for months. C. B. liked what I did that day, so much that he was able to talk the producers into giving a “nobody” like me this amazing part. But I have no idea how to get back to that place where I started sobbing in front of complete strangers. What happens if I can’t get there? Could I be sued for not crying?

  Hilary and I have rehearsed it with C. B. and McDougle a bunch of times, but I keep forcing it. When I read it with Abby, I was so mad at her for flirting with College Carter Dumbass and making fun of me, that it bled over to the scene. I was angry but also hurt and shocked that someone I cared so much about could do that to me. I’m trying to think about Hilary and how screwed up her life is and how many people envy her and how cool she can be, but also how much of spoiled bitch she is. I think about how much she’s let me down, and C. B. and Matilda, and the thoughts do make me sad and frustrated. But she’s so guarded that I’ve never felt as close to her as I did that day with Abby, so to expect me to feel remotely the same intensity of emotion . . . I just don’t think it’s possible. C. B. keeps telling me to relax and just breathe. He thinks that my raw talent will kick in and I’ll knock it out, but I kind of think that my raw talent = luck.

  I’m trying to breathe deeply and shake out the insecurity when I hear shouting outside my trailer. I open the door as Sport Coat Phil is running across the yard. C. B. is right behind him. He’s yelling at him like he’s going to kick the crap out of him, but the two men jump into the Ferrari and tear out of the driveway, going about ninety miles an hour. They blow past the Merrian police car sitting out front. The cop just watches them go. (Man, I hope I’m a somebody someday.) The crew seems worried, but they continue to appear busy. I catch Abby staring at me, but she quickly looks away. I have no idea what’s going on, but I know that I have no control over it, so I go back into my trailer and get back to my breathing.

  I wake up about an hour later (I may have overdone the relaxation exercises) to the roar of the Ferrari pulling into its parking spot. C. B. is alone, and I wonder if Sport Coat Phil is lying in a ditch somewhere bleeding and wondering why he had to hire the toughest writer/director of all time. No luck; he’s in the passenger seat of the Escalade as it pulls up in front of Hilary’s trailer. Phil jumps out and barks orders to the gawking crew. Matilda slowly climbs out of the driver’s seat. She looks pissed and embarrassed as she opens the back door, revealing a strung out Hilary Idaho. She’s dead asleep, lying across the seat. I step out into the yard as Matilda grabs her armpits to drag her out. Mascara is smeared all over Hilary’s face, and she looks like a drunken junkie hooker. Her eyes flicker open for a second, and they’re glowing as red as her nose. She looks like she might puke, but takes a wild swing at Matilda instead. The big lady dodges the blow with the skill of a kung fu master and continues to move Hilary’s skinny body forward. As her trailer door is closing, Hilary notices me watching the struggle. She looks away and then a scream echoes through the RV.

  Eventually, the costume and makeup ladies go in, and yet another hour goes by. Everyone is staring at the trailer but trying not to. My sister and Abby are talking next to the craft service table, so I go over to get a Coke (not to see what they’re talking about).

  Lynn asks, “Do you know what’s going on?”

  I think about spilling my guts, but then decide not to.

  Abby says to my sister, “Told you he was clueless.”

  Lynn shoots Abby a look like, “I’m the only one who gets to call him names, bi-atch!”

  Abby looks slightly embarrassed when she says, “Well, I heard there was another party at Grey Goose Lake, and Hilary got really drunk and made a total ass of herself.”

  “Seems like you already know what’s up.”

  Abby rolls her eyes, and my sister points at me as if to say, “Watch it.”

  I reluctantly ask Abby, “Did you hear if she hooked up with any of my boys? That’s just what I need—for EJ to have sex with a celebrity.”

  She sighs, “You know, it’s okay that you care about her. You don’t have to say lewd things—”

  I snottily reply, “Oh I don’t? What a relief, I have your permission to care about someone. Maybe I could show my concern however the fu—”

  Lynn throws a peanut M&M, and it hits me in the forehead. “Ouch!”

  The trailer door finally opens, and none of us can believe our eyes when Hilary steps down in full prom makeup, hair, and dress. She looks like the cover of a magazine. She’s awake and really, really alert. Her eyes dart around the set like she’s trying to figure out where she is. Her gaze eventually lands on my shoes, and she stumbles toward me and my old muddy Nikes, as if we might know something. She’s about a foot away from me when her eyelids close. I think she’s fallen asleep, until they snap back open, and she leans on my shoulder for support.

  Everyone is staring at her and waiting to see what I’m going to do. I brilliantly say, “Hey.”

  She looks up at me and seems shocked that I’m attached to the shoes she’s gawking at. A lightbulb goes off in her addled brain, and she remembers that she actually came over here to bitch at me. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  My sister’s head snaps to the side, but I put up my hand to call her off. I give Abby a nod and quietly reply, “Yeah . . .

  I’ve heard that before. What makes you say it?”

  She looks frantically into my eyes. Her face scrunches up, and I’ve never seen a pretty girl look so ugly when she yells, “You come on all sweet and introduce me to your god-damn family and friends and tell me I’m a quality girl—”

  My sister and Abby judgmentally cross their arms at the same time, and I shoot them a “not now” look, as Hilary continues her rant. “Then you leave me all alone and you keep talking to my freaking stand-in all the time!”

  She loses her balance and stumbles over her high-heeled shoes. I spring forward and catch her before she crashes. “Hey, hey, are you okay?” I ask as her eyes fill with tears. Her paint job starts to run, and black streaks wash down from her fake eyelashes. Her body is trembling in my arms like it’s freezing, but her skin is burning up.

  She looks up at me, smiles, and says, “Yeah, I just did a little bump . . . I’ll even out in a second.”

  I look up into Matilda’s eyes, and she can’t hold my gaze. Her head drops and I notice that C. B. and the rest of the crew are watching us. My head shakes with disappointment as I whisper into Hilary’s ear, “I don’t think you should be here.”

  She pushes off me in a rage and snaps, “What the hell do you know about it? I’m here to work, not make friends or get your approval. If I don’t work, my family starves!”

  That seems a bit dramatic, but I don’t say anything. She seems to be looking through me. She starts laughing and then crying again. “My mom is coming. Did you know that? Matilda called her because she’s a sneaky bitch, but the joke is on her because she’s gonna get fired over this.”

  I’m absolutely positive that Matilda is the only person who really cares about Hilary, but I don’t say that either, because she’s stumbling around, yelling, “You think you’re so cool, with your bicycle and your friends and your sister and . . .” She starts sobbing again, and it’s hard to pick out what she’s saying. Something about “pressure” and “one chance to prove . . .” something.

  Phil’s assistant eventually comes over and tells Abby that she’s needed on the set. He notices the glob of mascara running down Hilary’s cheek and radios Phil to fly over to the craft service area and figure out what’s going on.

  Hilary and my sister are staring at me like it’s my turn to say something, so I try to explain. “I-I-I didn’t really understand what you just said. . . .”

  She sighs. “Of course you don’t understand. You’re a nobody! I thought you were my friend, though!”

  Everyone is looking at me, wondering if I’ve got the sack to tell her off, or if I’ll puss out.
In past situations, I would just ask Hilary a question or two to disarm her and give myself a second to think up something good to say, but I can’t think of any questions. I don’t really want to know any more about this girl. I’m just trying to keep it real when I say, “Dude, seriously, you don’t want to be friends with me. ’Cause if one of my boys was screwin’ up like you are, I’d have to yell in his face that he’s a selfish, stupid bitch! And I’d follow that with a hard punch to the shoulder. Your boney-ass arm would fall off if we were friends. You don’t want to be friends; you just want another servant. You don’t have a clue what friendship is about.”

  She isn’t sure how to take the threat/lecture, so she just falls into my arms. I hug her quivering body as she cries. She’s sobbing like a little kid and getting black stuff all over my shirt. Sport Coat Phil marches over to us and barks, “Come on, Carter, let’s go!” like I’m causing all of this and intentionally screwing up his schedule. He’s unaware that I’m completely supporting her body weight until he tugs on her arm and she flops to the ground. His eyes focus on the limp starlet’s streaked face and my stained T-shirt. He yells at me again. “Damn it! What the hell did you do?”

  I point to myself and angrily ask, “What did I do?!”

  Phil ignores the question and picks her up. He throws her over his shoulder like a rag doll and yells, “MAKEUP!” like a soldier in a movie would yell “MEDIC!”

  Ms. McDougle’s car pulls into the driveway. C. B. and Abby walk over from the set to see what’s going on.

  Phil hollers, “Hilary will be out of makeup in fifteen minutes. If we are not shooting in twenty, heads are gonna roll!”

  Matilda flies up and locks her kung-fu grip on Phil’s arm. She orders him to “Put—her—down!”

  He’s not used to being given an order, so he doesn’t follow it, but his elbow is being crushed, and he feebly whines, “Owwww! I need her! We have to get started!”