by Jordan Cooke
“There’s no need to raise your voice, Anushka. I keep my voice at a very low level and my communication skills are heralded from Burbank to Mar Vista.”
“But why am I just getting this rewrite this morning, Max? Didn’t you say we’d get it last night to look over?”
“I did, but the writer wanted to burn the midnight oil so it would be perfect before any of you read it.”
Corliss, who was standing nearby with a big dollop of zinc oxide on her nose, knew this was a big lie. She was amazed Max could tell it without flinching. His behavior so far today did not bode well for the daily job evaluation she’d promised herself. Not to mention the Trent and Tanya experience the night before, which still made her feel dirty.
Anushka put her hand on her hip and looked Max straight in the eye. “By ‘the writer,’ do you mean that dude with the raccoon eyes?”
“Anushka,” said Max in his most condescending whisper, “that’s not respectful. The writer’s name is—is—”
“Petey,” Corliss chimed in, rescuing Max.
“Whatever his name is,” said Anushka, poking the script like it was someone she really didn’t like, “I am not going to say lines like ‘I have a special surprise, Travis!’—barf—and ‘Let’s hang out and do homework!’ I don’t play characters who do homework.”
“I understand,” said Tanya. She was standing nearby in a fierce yellow bikini that could be blown off with one sneeze. “Characters who have homework don’t ever seem to have as much fun as characters like my character, Tessa, who doesn’t even seem to go to school much.”
“Exactly,” said Anushka, looking Tanya up and down and then inspecting her own costume. “And why am I wearing a burlap sack, Max, when everybody knows my character Alecia is h-o-t-t hot? I should be wearing a bikini so small it makes Tanya’s electric yellow butt floss look like an evening gown!”
Max then turned to Corliss with a helpless look in his eyes.
Seeing it, Corliss had a startling insight. Oh my God, under all that bluster, Max is just a lost little boy. One of the deeply troubled Hollywood people Uncle Ross told me about! How can I resist helping anyone with such a big case of arrested development? I’ll help him through this, but then set firm parameters—just like I did with Legend.
Corliss pulled Max aside and thought fast. When she told Trent and Tanya how fabulous and important they were, they were putty in her hands. “Appeal to her ego, Max. Tell Anushka that because she’s so well-known and so supremely talented, her audience wants to see something new from her on The ’Bu.”
“Huh,” Max said as he considered this.
“Or, you know, just tell her she’s so hot, she could make a pee-pee stained baby blanket look good.”
“Corliss, that’s completely gross.”
“Sorry, I’m just riffing here…”
“But your first suggestion is right on the money. These actors think they are expressing themselves, but they are really people suffering from—from—”
“Narcissistic injuries,” Corliss said.
“Exactly. I have to pretend each one is the center of the universe when in fact I am the center.”
“Uh, something like that, Max, yeah.”
“Corliss, if you keep up this kind of painful brilliance, you might very well end up as a paid assistant. Minimum wage, of course.”
Corliss saw her opening. She took a big breath, resolved to clarify exactly what her job entailed. “Max, I do think it’s time we set firm parameters about what exactly—”
Max made a close signal with his hand. Corliss obediently shut her mouth.
“The thing is, Anushka,” said Max, suddenly directing again, “this role is going to be a stretch for you. It is the shock of the unexpected! The 180 hairpin turn that leaves audiences breathless. They expect Anushka Peters as Sex Bomb Alecia—but they’ll hunger for Anushka Peters, Repressed Bookworm Alecia.”
Anushka’s eyes became slits. “Bookworm?”
Max made the close signal with his hand. “I have no doubt that come this time next year, Anushka, you’ll be thanking me at the Golden Globes.”
“I love award shows!” Tanya clapped.
Petey, raccoon eyes bulging, approached Corliss. “What’s up? I heard shouting all the way from the trailers.”
“Oh, hey—you’re Petey, right? I really like the rewrite.”
“You should. You inspired it.” He was smiling at Corliss.
“What do you mean?” She felt her cheeks flush red. I inspired the rewrite? Not possible. The only thing she’d ever inspired was frustration. She knew that because her high school drama teacher once said, “Corliss, your lines are letter perfect, but your performance only elicits annoyance.”
“Yeah, you inspired it. Can’t you tell?” Petey moved closer to Corliss.
“No,” said Corliss, completely flustered, “I can’t imagine what you—”
“Wait a second,” said Anushka, who was suddenly at their side. “Come here.” She was pointing at Corliss.
“Me?”
“You too.” She was pointing at Petey.
“Me?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here.”
“Anushka!” hissed Max. “The cameras are ready and we don’t have time for your legendary process-slowing—”
“Wait a second, Max.” said Anushka before turning to Petey. “What do you mean Corliss ‘inspired’ the rewrite?”
“Corliss,” said Petey, ignoring Anushka,“how ever do you make your hair go in so many different directions at once? It’s amazing. So unique.”
“Oh, um, thanks, Petey, but I really don’t intentionally aim for a directionless hair thing—”
“Hold up, hold up, hold up!” Anushka looked Corliss up and down. “I’ve got zinc oxide on my nose and you’ve got zinc oxide on your nose. I’m wearing a sack of potatoes someone bought from Sears and you’re dressed like an Amish person going to a funeral. My hair looks like two cats had a fight in it and your hair looks like a Brillo pad.” Now she looked at Petey. “You’re turning me into her.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Petey, poker-faced. “I just wanted to make your character compelling in a way that wasn’t expected.” He smiled out the side of his mouth and winked at Corliss.
Corliss’s heart shook like a palm tree in an earthquake. “But Anushka, I didn’t have anything to do with this!”
“Of course you didn’t, Corliss,” said Anushka, seething. “It’s the men. It’s always the men.”
“Anushka,” called Max, “we’re waiting!”
“Well, I’ll be in my trailer calling my agent, Max. Either you find a way to change the script so I can be my usual smokin’ hot self, or you’re gonna have to start paying me big-time to continue playing this bag lady.”
Outside Max’s Trailer—12:00 P.M.
Corliss was burpy. Since Anushka had stormed off the set three hours ago, Max had given her exactly one two-minute break. She’d used it to scarf down five buttermilk pancakes and six sausage links from the catering truck. Now her acid reflux was kicking in. This made it hard to concentrate. And Max wanted her to concentrate—on keeping Trent and Tanya apart.
Just as she was about to tell him she wouldn’t—under any possible circumstances—continue as his devious undercover assistant, he’d sent her to his trailer to spy on the young couple.
Why am I such an utter wuss? How hard is it to go up to someone and say, “Look, this is what I’ll do and this is what I won’t do”?
Now she was sitting in a tailgate chair with a big, floppy, rainbow-colored sun hat, looking through a pair of high-tech binoculars. Far down the beach she could see Trent fixing the strap on Tanya’s bikini.
Corliss sighed. She’d been running around all morning like a total dork trying to get between them, but it hadn’t been working.
There’s obviously some kind of gorgeous, fat-free magnetic zone surrounding them, which repels someone like me. And, of course, I suck at
this because my heart isn’t in it. Because while I want to help psychologically troubled people like Max, I don’t want to become psychologically troubled myself in the process.
She zoomed in the binoculars’ lens to see just how familiar Trent’s hand looked on Tanya’s bikini strap.
“Bird-watching?” she heard someone say. It was JB.
Corliss leaped about a foot in the air. “Jeez, JB! Give a girl some warning.”
“Sorry. It’s just that you looked so cute spying on whoever you’re spying on.”
God, why is everything about me so obvious?
“Whatever do you mean?” Corliss said, ineptly claiming innocence. “I was just watching the dolphins.”
“Dolphin-watching—good one!”
Corliss ignored this. “And how did you even know I was back here? Max’s trailer is practically an FBI-protected environment.”
“Are you kidding? With your gastrointestinal distress? Everyone can hear you regurgitating a half-mile down the beach.”
Corliss giggled. Then burped. JB handed over a roll of Tums.
“Always pack these in case of an enchilada emergency.”
“Thanks, JB,” said Corliss, consuming about five.
“And are you thirsty? I have a spare Arnold Palmer.”
“What’s that?”
“Lemonade mixed with iced tea.”
“Sure, thanks.”
JB handed her the extra Arnold Palmer and sat next to her. Corliss wondered if she could confide in JB about her job drama. He looked trustworthy enough. In fact, he sort of looked like the male version of her. If she couldn’t trust someone who had absolutely no fashion sense, impossible hair, and a mysterious skin condition, whom could she trust?
“JB?”
“You can trust me.”
“Huh?”
“You were going to finally tell me who you were spying on. But you were sizing up the Jeebster to see if you could trust him.”
“That’s amazing! How did you know that?”
“I’m a little psychic.”
“I’m a little like that, too! My mother says, anyway. That’s awesome. We are a lot alike.” They smiled at each other. “Okay, but you have to swear.”
JB raised his hand. “I swear on a stack of Paris Hilton porn videos.”
“That’s weird, but okay. Here’s the thing: Max wants me to drive a wedge between the burgeoning love connection that is at this moment occurring between Trent and Tanya.”
JB’s eyes widened. “Seriously? But they are, like, the prettiest about-to-be couple that God ever created.”
“That may be, but God is no match for Max Marx. And Max says I’ll have to nip this particular sexual chemistry experiment in the bud before Trent breaks Tanya’s heart. Apparently, Trent is a big player or something.”
“Trent Owen Michaels is such a player, they’ve already retired his jersey! That boy gets more tail than a kitty-litter box! Don’t you read the National Enquirer?”
“No, I read abnormal psychology textbooks. Wow. Really? So I guess Tanya might really be in jeopardy…But the whole thing makes my skin crawl, JB. I’m supposed to be learning the ropes of the entertainment industry! But all I’m really learning is how to be creepy. And I suck at it. Trent and Tanya are just getting closer by the minute and my indigestion is getting worse.”
“Hmm,” said JB, pushing his glasses up in a thoughtful gesture. Corliss pushed hers up, too. She could see JB’s mind working. “First off, I think you should stick with your job.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Do you know how many people would kill to spend the winter on any beach, let alone Malibu beach?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Second, I think there’s a way to figure out this Trent and Tanya thing—and just generally be goofballs in the process.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark.”
“Listen, it seems to me that if I were a cute girl, and I had to get between a couple, I might try to get the guy interested in me.”
“But I’m not a cute girl, JB. I’m Corliss Meyers, the four-eyed wonder—aka Corliss Myopia! Besides, even if I were a cute girl, I would so not be into pretty boys like Trent Owen Michaels.”
“First of all, m’lady,” JB said, sucking up the last of his Arnold Palmer, “you wouldn’t have to go through with anything—just distract Trent enough to dissipate his ardor. ‘Dissipate his ardor’ is a phrase I learned from Rocco. In this case it means ‘throw some cold water on Trent’s board shorts.’”
“Um, thanks for the translation, but I scored pretty high on my SATs.”
JB smiled. “Of course you did. That’s why it’s a delightful surprise that you are a total cutie-pie.”
“I am not, JB.”
“Face it, Corliss, you are. It’s just that your cutie-pie-ness is buried under a pile of crazy bad taste.”
That stung. “Thanks a lot!”
“I can say it ’cause it’s the same for me,” JB explained. “If anyone ever really cut my hair, gave me a prescription for Acutane, and whitened my Arnold Palmer–stained bicuspids, I wouldn’t be half bad-looking.”
Corliss had a hunch this might be true. Even though JB looked like one of those undernourished fry cooks at Mickey D’s, if she squinted she could see some underlying dreaminess.
“So what are you suggesting, JB?”
“I’m suggesting a Corliss makeover. Top to bottom.” He blushed. “Not that your bottom needs—”
“Let’s keep my bottom out of this, okay?”
“Fair enough. My sister gets all those girl magazines and I read them when I’m on the toilet and—”
“TMI, JB.”
“Sorry. I read them when I’m otherwise engaged. Another phrase I learned from my supremely articulate new friend, Rocco. Anyhoo, I just happen to know how to bring out female beauty. Clothes, hair, et cetera.”
“Wait, are you gay, JB?”
“No—and it’s the tragedy of my young life. All that knowledge about styling and where does it get me? Discriminated against in the best salons because I like boobies!”
Corliss laughed and laughed. “I don’t know why, but ‘boobies’ always kills me.”
JB smiled at her. “So is it a deal? We’ve got a short day today. Want to hit some stores when we’re done? Turn Corliss Myopia into Corliss Majestica?”
Corliss thought about it. Wasn’t this idea entangling her further in the drama-rama she was trying to disentangle herself from? Was JB right that she should stick with her job? And what if his idea miraculously worked and Trent went for her? Most importantly, what if JB oversold his styling talents and she ended up looking like some psychedelic drag queen?
But he was so sweet, sitting next to her, chewing his ice as he tried to come up with solutions. And he was always so helpful—first with her fanny pack, then with her stomach distress, and now with her ridiculous job. There was just something about JB that made Corliss feel safe.
“Okay, JB. You’re on. I’ll meet you in the parking lot when shooting’s done today. But don’t tell anyone. All of this has to be between you and me.”
He raised his hand. “I swear on Britney Spears’s divorce papers!”
Malibu Hot Springs—3:11 P.M.
Corliss and JB lay immersed in adjoining tubs of hot mud. Steam rose from their submerged bodies. Their glasses were entirely steamed up. They looked like four Coke bottles buried neck-first in a lava pit.
“This feels awesome,” said Corliss.
“It takes off the dead skin cells.”
“Hey, my skin cells are in pretty good shape, thank you very much.”
“Corliss, almost ninety percent of the body’s surface is made up of dead skin cells. I read that in an article entitled ‘Your Body: Dead on the Surface.’”
“Creepy. Your sister subscribes to a dermatology magazine?”
“No. I read it in CosmoGIRL!” said JB without flinching.
“And you’re sure you’re not gay?”
/> “Outside of a tiny bro-crush on Justin Timberlake, I’m as straight as Ashlee Simpson’s new nose. Hey—wait a gosh darn minute.”
“What is it?”
“Weren’t we supposed to get a complimentary glass of bubbly with our mud bath?”
“You’re worse than my uncle Ross! We’re not exactly legal drinking age, JB.”
“Corliss, with an attitude like that you’re never going to get anywhere in this town.”
“That’s exactly what my uncle Ross says! You’re completely sure you’re not gay?”
The Corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Rodeo Drive—5:10 P.M.
Corliss tingled all over. “JB, my skin feels amazing. Like a million tiny happy bugs are crawling all over it.”
“And you say I say weird things.”
Corliss didn’t care how she sounded. The mud bath made her feel like years of decrepitude had been washed away forever. (It didn’t hurt when that complimentary glass of Dom Perignon finally showed up.) She kept running her fingers up and down her forearm, marveling at how silky smooth a person’s skin could feel. And now she was shopping.
Shopping!
She’d never really been shopping before—unless you counted the Circle Center Mall in picturesque downtown Indiana-no-place. That’s where her mother bought her clothes at Gymboree until she was fifteen.
“But Mom, the sizes at Gymboree stop at twelve!” she’d complain.
“That would only matter, Corliss, if you were physically mature. Once your breasts come in, we’ll start shopping at T.J. Maxx.”
Corliss shuddered at the memory. Then she reminded herself that all of that was behind her. She was now at one of the world’s most famous shopping intersections. Bentleys and Rolls Royces pulled to the curbs, where women in towering Ferragamo heels emerged and handed off pocket pooches to their drivers before heading into Barneys.
“JB, I don’t know what to say…” She clutched bags from Lisa Kline, Neiman Marcus, and Saks. “How can you pay for all this stuff? I’ll have to find a way to pay you back as soon as I have a real job.”
