When I called his assistant back to schedule the meeting, she didn’t tell me to bring Iris. She didn’t say not to bring Iris either, but she’s half of the website and the driving force behind much of it. There is no way I can do this without her. “I brought Iris with me if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Great.” He waves for us to follow him. We enter a short hallway with boxes lining the wall. “My office is back here. Sorry for the mess. We moved in over the weekend.”
“Two girls found murdered in a crappy office in Atlanta,” I whisper to Iris in my best news anchor voice. “Film at 11.”
Her shoulders shake from laughter and she slaps my arm. “Stop.”
Nick ducks into a doorway and we enter a large room with a desk, chair and leather couch pushed against one wall. Posters and plans hang over the cluttered desk. Iris tsks quietly under her breath at the mess. She’s like that, neat and organized, but he doesn’t notice. He pulls a rolling chair out and sits, gesturing for us to do the same on the couch. “Ashley went to get us some drinks from the coffee shop next door; she’ll be back in a minute.”
Iris opens her bag and extracts a pen and a blue-covered note pad. She shoves it in my direction and I take it. The notebook, my notebook, has rainbow colored owls across the front[1]. She dives in again and pulls out another for herself (plain black, no flash). I say a silent prayer of thanks for Iris and her bag of tricks. God knows what all she has in there. I never carry a purse, I make her tote my stuff for me or put it in my pockets.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you down here.” He smiles in my direction. Uncomfortable with the attention, I shift in my seat, which makes the leather squeak under my butt. Awesome.
“We figured it was about our website or something,” Iris says.
“Not the website exactly. And not to make things awkward, but I really wanted to talk to you, Ruby.”
Iris stiffens, her pen hovering over the pad. “Ruby?”
Me?
“Should I go and wait out there?” Iris asks.
Nick looks as though he’s about to say yes, so I jump in. “No. Stay. What do you want to ask me?”
“Okay, to get to the point, we were impressed with your performance as Alexandra in the video you two made.”
Iris beams and I nod. “Okay?”
“Your take on Alexandra is exactly what we’re looking for.” He says, scratching his neck and revealing the edge of his tattoo. It’s a tail of some kind that leads into the top of his shirt. Maybe a dragon? He’s so badass. “For the miniseries.”
“My what?” I ask.
“Your performance in the fan video. That’s what we want for the miniseries. Gabe and I have watched it a dozen times at least. We’d like to test you for the role of Alexandra for the TV show.”
Iris sucks in a breath beside me while my palms become damp with sweat. “I’m not an actress.”
“Could have fooled us,” he laughs. “We think you are. Gabe wants someone who understands the role. There’s no question you ‘get’ Alexandra. You fit the look and the age range and you’ve already proven you can do this.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about acting, I mean, not for real.” I had participated in plays at school, but it was mandatory. This is real. Real acting, on a real film, with other real actors. Portraying Alexandra.
“Just an audition,” he says. “Do that for us.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Iris’ hand clamps around my arm. “You can do that, right? See how it goes?” she says. She’s smiling when I try to squirm away, but she holds on tighter. Her eyes say it all: Don’t screw this up.
I want to say no, but Iris sees this as an opportunity. I know her. I know how her mind works. She wants on this set and right now it’s up to me to get us there. I take a deep breath. “Sure. Yes. I can do it.”
Iris and Nick both smile in relief. “Great,” he says, swiveling in his desk chair. “We’re getting situated in the office and Gabe’s in New York wrapping some things up for his next novel. The open casting is next week, but we’re having an invite-only audition on Saturday morning. Can you make it?”
“This weekend?” I ask. “Yeah, I can come on Saturday.”
We’re interrupted by several taps on the door, and a girl pops her head in the office. “Excuse me, but I’ve got iced coffee and juice if you guys want.”
“Ruby, Iris, this is Ashley,” Nick says. She doesn’t look much older than us. She’s pretty, with long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Casual was the dress code apparently. She’s wearing a short jean skirt, flip-flops and a tank top.
She places the drinks on the desk after Nick clears some space. “Nice to meet you.”
Iris accepts an iced coffee, but I decline in an effort to get out of here sooner. “So, Saturday?” I prompt, making a face at Iris that it’s time to go.
“Sounds good.”
“Should I prepare anything? Do I need a script or something?”
“No. We’ll just do a reading and you’ll get the scene that morning. It’s not like you don’t know the material.”
“Ha,” Iris snorts. “Seriously.”
I shoot her a look and nudge her with my elbow. “I guess we’ll see you Saturday. What time do you want me here?”
He reaches for his phone and touches the screen a couple times. “Auditions start at 10.”
“Great.” Iris raises her eyebrows while he continues to focus on his phone and makes a jerking motion at herself. Ohhh. “Can Iris come?”
He looks up and smiles. To which she beams back and, oh, jeez, get a room. “Sure.”
“Thanks. I’m interested in all aspects of this. The casting and filming and everything you do.” She stands and leans over his desk.
“I’d be happy to show you around.” I watch the interaction between the two. The smiles and interest. Oh God, he may be as interested in her as she is in him.
I try my best to get everyone toward the door and, when we finally reach the lobby, Nick pauses, “Just to be clear, I need you to hold back on the specifics of all this on your website for now.” Iris’ smile falters. Knowing her, she’s already writing the post in her head. “But, once we get some of this settled, I’ll happily give you an exclusive on casting.”
“We need to be on top of it,” Iris says. “If we ignore the speculation, we’ll look like idiots. We’ve covered every moment in the Zocopalypse fandom for the last two years.”
Nick considers this for a moment. “Alright, let me write up a couple things and email them to you. You can use those as a basis for your information.”
Overwhelmed, I stop listening while they negotiate. After forever, Iris finishes talking and gives Nick a hug. Okay, one meeting and they’re hug buddies. How did this happen? We step into the oppressive summer heat. The door barely shuts behind us and Iris jumps around like a maniac.
“Alexandra! This is huge!” She settles down and unlocks the car because it’s hot as Hades and we can discuss this in the air conditioned car. “This is so great. You’re going to get this part and I’m going to be your assistant or manager or biographer or something. I’ll film the whole thing and we can diary it on the website. This. Is. Amazing.”
Iris continues planning while she cranks the car and backs out of the parking lot. I half-listen, sharing her giddy excitement, but my nerves flare, allowing doubt to settle in my stomach. Despite Iris’ plans for our future, I have no idea if I can do this or if I should even try.
g
There’s a Moon Pie in the pantry downstairs and it’s all I’ve thought about for the last hour. Chocolate, graham cracker, 6,979,696,797 calories of pure lard and a piece of edible heaven. I want it, but I’m too chicken to leave my bedroom. Things have been tense since I came home and announced the purpose of my meeting with Nick.
“No,” my mother said the instant the idea left my mouth. Big surprise. She always says “no” first. It’s like her mouth refuses to say the word “yes” on ins
tinct. Some motherly dream-blocking gene I don’t possess yet.
“Why not?” I challenged. Bad idea. She listed the reasons, ticking them off her fingers one by one:--College.- I’ll be throwing away my four years of high school and all my hard work.- I’m not an actor. - I know nothing about acting. - I have a job and obligations over the summer. - Did I want to turn out to be like Lindsay Lohan?[2]
My mother opens her mouth to continue, but my father shoots her a look and she clamps it shut. He then says to me, “You know we support you, always, but this doesn’t sound like something you would want to do. Remember the class play in fifth grade?”
Little Red Riding Hood. Me in the role of Red. Epic failure.
This riles me up a little. Am I pigeonholed for the rest of my life because I puked on stage when I was 11? What if I want to do this? I’m 18 and an adult. I can make my own choices. (Right?) Can they tell me I can’t even try?
Apparently, my mother thought so because again she said no. But then she softened her look and said, “We know you love these books and everything surrounding them, but this movie thing? Zombies aren’t real and college and work are. It’s time to grow up.”
Stunned and hurt that she would go there, I stomp up the stairs and slam my door, proving how adult I can be. Now I sit, hungry, craving a Moon Pie, but unwilling to cave enough to go get one. The other crappy thing is, while holed up in my room, I have time to think. They’re right. There is a bizarre, thin line between reality and fantasy in my life and sometimes it merges together. I like living in the story — where nerdy girls kick ass and hot boys beg them for kisses. But I also know, sometimes, I take it too far and, at some point, I do have to (gulp) accept I can’t live in the fantasy forever.
I’m going to college. I want to go to college. I have a job I enjoy and the money is good. Why would I risk that for some brief stint on television?
My battered copy of Zocopalypse lies next to me on the bed, providing me with familiar comfort (James Brown is also next to me, but he kind of smells and hogs the bed). In a lame attempt to distract myself from the Moon Pie and my parents, I pick it up and settle on chapter two.
Miles down the road, Alexandra stops the truck. Both still have their hands on their guns. Neither releases their weapon. Wyatt finally says, “S#*&@!! Where the hell did you come from?”
“The barn. Are you going to kill me?”
“No. Are you going to kill me?”
She shakes her head. “Are you going to rape me or torture me or anything? If that’s your plan, just tell me now so we can get it over with.”
Wyatt runs a hand over his sweating forehead. “Sweetheart, sex is the last thing on my mind right now. You can put down the gun. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She does, but keeps the weapon on the worn leather seat. She slumps against the headrest and her shoulders shake as she begins crying.“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“What? No.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m just losing it.”
He reaches for her face, and she flinches. “Hold on a second. I think you’re hurt. There’s blood on your cheek.”
Alexandra pushes his hand away and she shakes her head. “It’s not mine.”
“Guts? From one of them?” He raises an eyebrow skeptically. They both know what that can mean.
“No. I just killed two of them. Back there,” she jerks her thumb in the direction of the barn.
“You sure they didn’t get you?” He has to ask, but even so, he fumbles under the seat and comes back with a cloth, a handkerchief. “Here,” he says, but he doesn’t hand it to her. He wipes the spot from Alexandra’s cheek.
“No, they didn’t.” Fat tears roll down her cheeks, making the blood gooey and easier to remove. “The blood is my mother’s. They got her, not me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”Wyatt grimaces and looks out the back window. Even in the darkened truck cab, his good looks are obvious. “Do you want me to go back? Do I need to…”
“No.” She shakes her head and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “It’s done.” His eyes flick to her gun and then to her face. He pretends not to notice her brushing tears from her cheeks. He pretends he isn’t either.
I toss the book on the floor with a thud, waking James. “There’s no way I can be Alexandra,” I tell him. “I mean, like I can sit there and get all weepy in front of Andrew Xavier! The minute he touches me all tender and hot, I’ll melt into the cab of the truck like a stupid little fangirl!” Before I chicken out or continue on a tirade directed at the dog, I hop up and dig the business card Nick gave me out of my pants pocket. Pushing James Brown over, I sit back on the bed and dial his office number.
g
Moon Pies are delicious. And gooey. I’m busy trying to lick the marshmallow off my fingers when the doorbell rings.
I open the door and pull my thumb out of my mouth. “Um…”
“Hey, Ruby.”
Gabe Foster is at my house. Gabe Foster is at my house. Gabe Foster is at my house.
“Sorry to show up like this but,” he narrows his eyes. “I think you have some chocolate or something right here,” he points to his cheek. Good grief.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “Moon Pie,” I say through a mouthful of graham cracker deliciousness. I haven’t moved. Or said anything else. Gabe Foster is at my house.
“Can I come in? Can we talk?”
“Sure? Yeah. Yes.”
I step back and allow him space in the door so he can come in the kitchen. I shut the door and face him. Gabe Foster is in my kitchen.
“So, I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”
“I thought you were in New York.”
He rubs his hand through his hair. “Just flew in a couple hours ago. I probably smell like airplane.”
“So,” I gesture to a chair at the kitchen table and sit down across from him.
“Okay, well, I know you called Ashley and told her you didn’t want to audition. I’d like you to reconsider.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t play Alex.” This was easier over the phone. “I don’t know. This isn’t me. I’m not an actress. I’ve got college and registration and dorms and all that. And Alexandra? Those are shoes I’m not sure I can fill.”
He sighs and leans his elbows on the table. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I mean, I want you to play this part. There’s something about you that feels right for this. You’re young and maybe a little naïve.”
“Hey!” I interject, having heard enough about my maturity level today.
“Hold on,” he raises his voice. “I’m trying to say, you’re young and naïve, but you also exhibit a kind of confidence and strength. All qualities Alex has. Not only that, you get it. You get her. I can trust you with the part.”
Holy mother of all guilt trips. “I know you want this done right, but I don’t think I’m the right girl.”
“How can you not be the right girl? You know everything about Alexandra. I’ve seen your blog posts, the discussions about the characters, the forum questions and tweets. I’m not sure there’s a fan out there who can help me get my vision across better than you.” He leans closer. “I’ve worked on parts of Zocopalypse since I was 14 years old. I can’t let this go to just anyone.”
I realize Gabe basically wants me to take care of his baby. How can I say no? How can I say yes? “What if I do it and I’m terrible? What if I ruin Alex? What if I kill your baby?”
“My what?” Can you hear eyes rolling? I swear I heard his roll out of his head and down the street. “Do you think I would let you do that? Just come in for the test. If things go badly, then at least you tried and you have a great story for your website, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Here’s the other thing. I hope this goes somewhere – the show, but how many zombie programs are there on TV?”
“None.”
“None,” he says. “It’s a crap shoot
. The odds of us getting a slot in the fall lineup, even on cable, are slim.” He’s right. The idea is ridiculous.
“You’re telling me to do it because in all reality Zocopalypse, in television form, will never succeed?”
He laughs, kind of nervous and tense. “I’m telling you that I’m taking this huge risk, putting my creation out there for the world to see and have it shot down before it even gets off the ground. I want you to be part of that colossal, probable failure.”
“You’re offering me the chance of a fangirl’s lifetime, which could end up being a critical failure, and you think I should say yes.”
“Pretty much.”
James Brown lets out a loud, prolonged snore of approval from his bed in the corner. I make a face. “Hush, dog.”
“That was a dog?
I laugh. “Yeah, James Brown snores like a 250-pound man, not a 15-pound dog.”
“I thought it was some kind of monster attack – and wait, your dog’s name is James Brown?” He reaches down and calls James. After a bit of stretching, he ambles over to get his ears scratched.
“Yeah, my parents have this thing for naming their animals after dead musicians. The last cat’s name was Marvin. His life came to an equally violent end.”
“Marvin, as in Gaye?”
“Yeah, before that we had two dogs named Buddy and Kurt, and another cat named Hutch.”
“Who’s Hutch?” he asks, scratching James behind the ears.
“My mother had a major crush on some dude name Michael Hutchence.”
“Oh, INXS – suicide. I love this. It’s like zombie dog names.”
“Don’t tell my mom that!” I laugh. “Anyway, if you knew my parents, you would realize this is completely typical.”
The quiet stretches between us. It’s less awkward since my rambling stories of dead famous guys and our silly pet names lightened the earlier moment. In the most sincere voice I’ve ever heard, Gabe says, “Ruby, please be my Alexandra.”
“Okay.” I feel lightheaded, which is partially from the way Gabe’s looking at me. His sincerity is overwhelming. I swallow. “I’ll do it. I’ll audition.”
FanGirl Page 6
