by D. M. Paige
I put my hand up like I was raising it in class and stopped her.
“You missed a line, Becca.”
“No, I didn’t.” She looked up, her eyes flashing.
“Yes, you did.”
I showed her the script. I was close enough that I could smell her perfume. I felt a little dizzy. I inhaled a mix of fresh flowers and something sweet like vanilla.
She waved the paper away.
“I don’t need to see it. Just read it to me.”
There was something in the way that she was not looking at the paper that hit me. But it couldn’t be. She read scripts for a living. There was no way that she couldn’t read.
She caught me looking at her.
She swiped the script from me and began rushing me toward the door.
“You know what, I think I’ve got it. Thanks so much for helping me. But I think I can take it from here.”
“You can’t, can you?” I asked, looking down at the paper that she was now crumpling in her hand.
“I can. I just get some of the letters mixed up sometimes. I’m dyslexic. I have a special tutor for it. But she’s not here every day.”
That couldn’t be easy when you read scripts for a living. I felt a pang in my chest somewhere for her.
She sighed heavily. “I’m fine usually, but when I get last-minute pages like this—which doesn’t happen often on Brent’s films. But when it does, I totally freak.”
She looked at me again. I realized that I hadn’t actually said anything yet. But I wanted my words to be the right ones, and I wasn’t actually good at doing that. Especially with girls. Especially with famous girls who might have just shared their biggest secret with me.
TWELVE
“Don’t tell, okay?” she said. Her voice sounded shaky and fierce at the exact same time. She trained her gorgeous eyes on me, and for a split second I felt like I would do anything she asked.
“Who would I tell?” I said, not sure what the big deal was.
She shrugged. “You could tell Jerry or one of the crew guys, and they’d tell someone and they’d tell someone, and a week from now it’ll be on TMZ: ‘Becca Cody can’t read’.”
She put her hands up to make brackets abound an invisible tabloid cover. She closed her eyes and shuddered like the idea was painful to her.
“You can read. It’s okay, Becca. I bet other kids who were dyslexic would actually be like inspired or whatever if they knew.”
She looked at me again as if she were considering it. Then she frowned again. “That’s my call to make.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I’m a vault.”
She stared at me a long beat, as if she was deciding whether or not to believe me.
“I don’t tell a lot of people,” she said quietly, her defenses down again.
I didn’t bother to say that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Because she clearly didn’t agree with me.
I just picked up the paper and began to read the lines again.
THIRTEEN
I loved reading scripts with Becca, but the script department was not for me. I couldn’t deal with the copying, the collating, or the delivering. And it kinda showed. I was late a few times. Worse still, I messed up the page version on a few scripts. Sarah caught it before I passed them out, but her face told me she was freaked by the close call.
“We can’t do this stuff halfway, Jason,” she warned. “We could easily lose a whole day of shooting with a mistake like this. Do you know how much that would cost?”
I didn’t, of course, but how much could it be? And who cared? These people were loaded.
There were a few other mistakes, and I could tell people were getting frustrated. I could see their expectations falling. Worse, some of them tried to pick up the slack—like they thought I was clearly out of my league. I hated it all. Especially when Becca saw someone correcting me or taking over some stupid job I’d messed up.
FOURTEEN
The next week, I finally moved departments. I wondered if I would see Becca. I wonder if she’d avoid me altogether.
Sam led me to the props department. “Meet Will and Adam Rice.”
Same last name? Two guys, one old and one young, both wearing ball caps with a company logo, ran the department. They were a father-and-son team.
I assumed that they were like Jerry. They’d had some other Hollywood dream, but they’d chosen this one instead. But it turned out that props were the family business. The art department designed the sets, but the props department found all the items that brought that vision to life. They were responsible for the tiny things, like making sure that there was the right kind of toothbrush in the bathroom of the set, all the way up to the bigger things, like finding that vintage pinball machine that played a pivotal part in act three of the screenplay.
They had an elaborate system. Every item was logged in, and every prop for every day was on a schedule. Adam did most of the talking, and his dad looked on with a mixture of pride and approval as he showed me the color-coded system that they lived by.
There were no perks working in the props department. I could be anywhere. I barely saw the set. I never saw Becca. I spent all my time inventorying a prop cage full of junk.
I knew I wasn’t, but I felt like I was being punished for something. It sucked.
I wondered how these guys did this every day, but they seemed really happy with their jobs.
FIFTEEN
When I screw up, I never do it halfway, Nina always said. And this was no different. None of this crap really mattered. It was make-believe, right?
But they all took it so very seriously.
While Will was off getting a new old pinball machine, and Adam was in accounting filling out forms for more petty cash, the phone in the prop cage rang.
“Will and Adam aren’t here.”
“Well, we need the vase on set ASAP.”
“Well, like I said.…”
“Jason, I’m authorizing you to bring it,” Sam said, sounding a little annoyed and under pressure at the same time.
“Fine,” I said, sounding annoyed right back.
I glanced over the props for today. There were two vases. I took the larger one and headed to set.
When I got there, Sam pointed and I handed Becca the vase. She didn’t smile. She was focused or preparing for something. She was making some kind of weird sound with her throat like she was trying to clear it.
Sam waved me back to the side of the set with a stop-bothering-the-actress look. I stood by his side as Brent called, “Action.”
Becca was flawless once again. She managed somehow to seem scared and strong at the exact same time. It was an amazing performance, except for one thing: the vase, the one that I’d brought, was supposed to break at the end of the scene. Only instead it bounced.
Becca was staring at me, her eyes flashing with anger. I’d ruined her best take. She’d have to do it again.
“Props—what’s wrong with my vase?”
I stepped forward, ready to get yelled at.
But Adam was already racing into the set carrying the right vase—actually a box of them. He was running so hard he had to hold down the baseball cap he always wore.
The vases in the box were breakaway glass. The kind that broke into a million safe pieces. The one I’d picked up was one of those plastic ones that you could never break. “He didn’t know. Here’s the right one.”
Becca took the right vase. And closed her eyes, doing a weird breathing thing like she was trying to hold down her anger, or maybe just get back to that place she was in before my wrong vase had taken her out of it.
They had to do the take about five more times before she nailed it again.
When Adam and I were walking away, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you cover for me?” Not that everyone didn’t know I was the one who screwed up, but he’d stood up for me when he didn’t have to.
“It’s my department. It’s my responsibility,” Adam said without missi
ng a beat. “But if you do it again, you should go ahead and move to the next department ahead of schedule.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is. Does it really matter?”
“You’re right, kinda. What we do here, when it comes down to it, is make-believe. But when you take a job—any job—you treat it with respect. You do your very best out of respect for all the other people who are putting this thing together. And if you can’t do that, you don’t belong here.”
Was he offering me an out?
Did I want out?
SIXTEEN
The next day, I showed up at her trailer at lunchtime.
But the door was locked, and she didn’t answer at first. I knocked harder.
She opened the door looking mad.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the prop thing, okay. I never want to screw things up for you,” I said.
“That’s not the point,” she said, sounding disappointed for some reason I didn’t get.
“I can tell you want me to apologize.”
“It’s not just about me. Or me and you.”
I blinked up at her, more confused than ever. Was there a string of words that I could put together to wipe that frown off her face and get us back to the place where hanging out in her trailer felt natural?
“I can’t be around someone who doesn’t take what I love seriously. Can’t take any of this seriously. I’ve been working at this since I was five years old. And you walk around like it doesn’t even matter. If you don’t care, you shouldn’t be here. And if you don’t care, I can’t be with you.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off.
“Movies are collaboration. It’s not a one-man show. What we do here, we do as a team. And either you’re on the team or you’re not.”
She’d really drunk the we-are-family Kool-Aid, but I hadn’t. “You can’t really believe that. You’re a star. If you don’t think that you’re different, check out all the zeros on your paycheck and compare them to the script girl’s.”
Her look shifted from fierce to hurt.
“I have to get to set. I actually care if I’m late.”
SEVENTEEN
When I got back to the hotel, Nick, Holt’s assistant, was there.
I was pretty sure I was getting special treatment because of the whole foster thing. He’d brought groceries and takeout.
“Just checking in. You’ll have a drop-by from child services next week. I’d like to be here for it. If possible.”
I nodded and dropped my backpack on the mini couch in my room.
Nick began unpacking the groceries: lots of prepackaged meals—the fancy kind that Becca had on set to keep her flawless figure.
“Are you putting me on a diet?” I asked.
He held up one of the meals. “No, these taste way better than they look. How’s it going on set?”
“It’s cool.”
“Really?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. He wasn’t wearing business clothes this time. He was wearing a polo shirt and jeans. He looked younger and less polished somehow. I liked him better like this.
“Did they rat me out?” Did Nick actually have a contact on set? Did they give report cards? How did this work? How much did he really know about me?
“No, you just did. What’s going on, Jason?”
“I don’t know if I’m a good fit there.”
“Why don’t you just start from the beginning?” he said simply.
My voice came out flat and hard. “You can leave, man. We can skip the whole pity party. I’m good—”
“You think I pity you?” he cut in, sounding like the idea couldn’t be further from the truth.
I was used to pity. The whole no-parents thing was something that I didn’t think about, until I saw that look—that total poor-Jason look—written all over someone else’s face. It was written on Nick’s right now. Or at least I thought that was what I was looking at.
“Poor little Orphan Jason—” I said, sure that I had finally shut him up. Pulling the orphan card always worked.
Nick shook his head.
“You got a tough break. You’re not the only one. I was in the system too, Jason.”
My mouth opened to say something smart, but nothing came. Nick, a foster kid? I couldn’t see it. And how did he get from there to being Harmon Holt’s assistant?
“So you’re here to show me the light or something? Let me guess, you never blew an opportunity this big.”
“Oh, I blew it, but then I got a second chance and I didn’t blow that. I was just as stupid as you are. And then I wasn’t.”
I expected him to make an exit after that. But he sat there and began unwrapping the takeout. Nick was from where I was from. He knew that actions spoke louder than words. Right now he was saying that no matter what I threw at him, he wasn’t going anywhere.
EIGHTEEN
Before he left after dinner, Nick did leave one last piece of advice.
“You don’t have to buy into the whole team thing, kid. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t learn everything you can from that place. Make a good impression. Get something out of it for you.”
“They’ve pretty much made up their minds about me.”
“Then unmake them. It’s a long summer.”
The next day on set I’d moved departments again, but I was searching for a way to move Becca. At lunch, after spending hours answering calls in the production office, I knocked on her trailer door. It opened, but she wasn’t there. I wasn’t a grand-gesture guy. But I knew I had to do something, or when the shoot was over I would never talk to or see Becca again. That would probably happen anyway.
NINETEEN
“Hey, stranger.” Nina had picked up on the first ring. “You okay?”
I sighed into the phone.
“Jason,” she demanded. She could tell within five seconds if I was in trouble or not, so I might as well just spill everything already. No point in sugarcoating anything.
“I screwed up a couple of times on set. I met Becca Cody, but now she thinks I’m a clown. How do I make her see that I’m really sorry? That I’m serious?”
When I was little, I’d wanted Nina to adopt me. But she had thirty other kids to check on. She couldn’t adopt every single one. Even when I was little I understood that. She was still the closest thing to family that I’d ever had.
She saw through my crap, and she never judged me.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.
“Do the hard stuff. Show up on time. Be helpful and don’t complain. She’ll come back to you when she can see that you’re trying.”
“Couldn’t I just make her a video or something?”
“You can do that, too. But you have to do the other stuff to back it up. Otherwise your grand gesture is an empty one.”
I nodded, even though I knew she couldn’t see me.
“So, is she as pretty as she looks on-screen?” Nina asked, sounding more like a schoolgirl than my social worker.
“Prettier.”
A few minutes later, after confirming that I was eating and sleeping and whatever, we hung up. I looked at the brand-new camera that I hadn’t actually shot anything on yet, but I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed.
TWENTY
I’d heard what Nina had said, but the idea of making the video had already taken hold. I had a day off, and I was going to use it to make a video to make it up to her.
I was used to working with clay subjects. Real people were harder. But I had to do something major.
I found the cheerleading girl I’d met on day one and a couple of the other kids from the acting class. It was a start.
The cheerleader’s name was Tamara. She wanted to know where the script was. I didn’t have one, but I didn’t let that stop me. We just sort of wrote one as we went. It was mostly me hamming it up, trying to apologize without actually saying I was sorry. Just when my character became too much, Tamara cartwhe
eled in and did this stupid football cheer/apology thing she’d made up on the spot. It was cheesy, but I hoped it was cult-following cheesy instead of walk-out-of-the-theater cheesy. Anyway, it was the best shot I had.
When we were done, Tamara helped me pack up my camera, and she told me a little about her Hollywood dreams. Because of course she had Hollywood dreams. Everyone here did. She was a triple threat—singer/dancer/actress—but no one seemed to know it yet. Her family let her come out to LA every summer for auditions. She had been doing it since she was six. She’d gotten a couple of commercials and had little parts in two pilots, but that was it. Still, she had the dream. And the discipline.
I walked Tamara back to her room, and even though I promised to send her the video, I thought maybe she still was holding out for more. Or maybe I was just full of myself.
TWENTY-ONE
I texted Becca a link to my video and waited for a response. Nothing.
In the morning. I still hadn’t heard from her. At lunchtime, she finally texted, and I went to her trailer.
“No one’s ever apologized to me by video before,” she said. It wasn’t a compliment. But I was standing in her trailer again. That had to be progress. “I looked up your videos on YouTube. Really cool. My first work was so embarrassing. But yours … you have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I meant a lot more. Having a real actress like my work felt like a big deal. “So your first work was embarrassing, huh? How embarrassing? What was it? Diaper commercial?”
“No, cereal. I must have eaten like hundred bowls of that crap—and there was really big hair and missing teeth and … wait for it … there was dancing.”
“I’d think you’d be an amazing dancer.”
“You’d think wrong. I don’t think that they even aired it. It was that bad.”
