Hot New Thing

by Laura Langston

  Hot New Thing

  Laura Langston

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2014 Laura Langston

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Langston, Laura, 1958-, author

  Hot new thing / Laura Langston.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  isbn 978-1-4598-0431-9 (pbk.).--isbn 978-1-4598-0432-6 (pdf).--

  isbn 978-1-4598-0433-3 (epub)

  Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  ps8573.a5832h68 2014 jc813’.54 c2013-906640-3

  c2013-906641-1

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013951379

  Summary: Lily finds out that acting success in Hollywood comes at a price she may be unwilling to pay.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  In Canada:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  In the United States:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  For two bright lights in my life: Corinne and Desmond. With love.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  I almost miss my first shot at fame.

  When my algebra teacher, Mr. Basi, keeps me late Friday to give me the talk, I panic. I have to get to the studio. I need to make the audition. I need this gig. It’s a speaking part.

  After the lecture, I run for the bus, dodging puddles and spray from passing cars. Why did they ask us to wear white in January? Why?

  On board, I pick the driest seat I can find and protect my white jeans from wayward umbrellas and drippy bags. This commercial could be the one that totally launches my career.

  Hey, Lindsay Lohan started out making commercials for pizza and Jell-O. Dakota Fanning pushed Tide.

  I need this audition to be a success. All I’ve done lately is a single spot for some kind of salami, and I didn’t even speak. Plus, the money sucked. If I earned some real cash, maybe my parents would take my acting seriously.

  Reel Time is one of the biggest studios in Vancouver and takes up most of a city block. I get off at the corner, hurry past the abstract bronze sculpture at the north entrance and quickly sign in.

  My friend Claire grabs my arm and propels me down the hall seconds after I push through the tinted glass security doors. “We’re in a set of rooms on the fifth floor.” She shoots me a quick look and comes to a sudden stop. “Whoa! What happened? You look terrible.”

  My heart jackknifes. “I do?” I try to peer at my reflection in the stainless-steel frame of a passing wardrobe rack, but the woman is moving too fast, and all I see is a blur of white. “Did I get splashed? Is my hair messed up?”

  “No, it’s your eyes. You look like somebody just died.”

  “I failed the algebra test.”

  Claire sucks in a breath. “Oh, crap.”

  “Yeah.” We sprint past a group of women costumed in period gowns, two men having a whispered conversation and a janitor spraying the wall with lemon-scented cleaner.

  Claire knows all about my parents’ ultimatum. If I don’t pass algebra, I have to quit Arbutus Academy. As it is, I’m expecting my dad’s favorite speech later. You need to spend less time on acting. More time on polynomials. For your future. Your career.

  A career in polynomials? Shoot me now.

  “You need to find someone to help you,” Claire says.

  Cheat, she means. “I can’t do that.”

  Her lips tighten. “Oh my god, Lily, grow a set. You can’t do everything by the book. You’ll never get anywhere.” Claire has angelic blue eyes and long blond hair, but she’s lifetimes away from wearing a halo. “You need to move out of your comfort zone.”

  “What I need is a miracle and a decent gig.” The truth is, I’m desperate. Last year I booked half a dozen gigs, including a small speaking part in a TV movie of the week. This year I’ve had only one gig. That dumb salami. Really, how low must a girl go?

  Claire heads for the main elevator and pushes the Up button. “There’s a closed audition for a movie of the week going on this afternoon. Word is, Nic Mills is consulting.”

  “Nic Mills is here?” Mills is up there with Scorsese and Spielberg. Okay, not totally, but almost.

  “Yeah, and we’re going.”

  I tap my foot as we wait for the elevator to come. “June would never schedule us for that.” Especially me. I’ve had so many rejections, my own agent is losing interest.

  Claire leans close. “Which is why we’re crashing it.”

  Unease prickles the back of my neck. “No way.”

  “Yes way. I met this guy at a club last week and he’s some assistant to the producer. Or maybe the director.” She wrinkles her nose. “Anyway. He’s in there. I’ll text once we’re done with the toothpaste gig, and he’ll let us in.” She looks at me. “You brought an extra portfolio, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” I always carry extras. You never know when you’ll have an opportunity. The elevator pings. “But it’s a closed audition. We need an invite.”

  The elevator doors whoosh open. Inside are more audition hopefuls, girls who obviously signed in at the south entrance, a floor below. “Grow a set,” Claire mouths as she elbows her way into a sea of white clothes.

  I feel like a Q-tip squished into a box. I size up my competition. The girl on my left looks athletic. The girl beside her looks artistic. Claire is girl-next-door wholesome. Me, I look exotic. Looking exotic has its pluses, though June says it makes me harder to cast.

  But today it’s all about the teeth. I check them out as the elevator begins to rise. One girl has square, giraffe-like teeth and another has a mouth full of small pearls. I run my tongue over my incisors. My teeth are somewhere between the two. They’d better be bright enough. I white-stripped twice last night and again this morning.

  The doors open on the fifth floor. June is waiting. She’s a short pigeon-shaped woman with a helmet of dyed-black hair and perma-tanned skin. “Finally!” She shoves the call sheets into our hands. “I’ve filled them out. Clip your head shots and resumes to the back and go into the waiting room.” She points to a nearby doorway. “They’ll audition you in groups of five.”

/>   I glance at my number—twenty-six—and sneeze.

  “Bless you.” June turns to Claire. “The casting director wants a sweet teen look, and you do that so well. When you take a cat, choose a white Persian. That’ll be lovely with your hair.”

  “Cats?” No wonder I’m sneezing. Which I do a second time. “Who puts cats in a toothpaste commercial?”

  “Don’t ask questions, dear.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Once I had to pretend to smell bacon while I talked to some daisies. “I’m allergic to cats.” I try to see into the room, but there’s a crush of people at the door, and I can’t see over their shoulders. Still. Just the thought of anything feline makes me sweat. I lift my arms away from my sides. And sweat is so not my best look.

  June pushes her red glasses up. “Lily.” She gives me the smile I have come to hate. The I-am-apologizing-in-advance-because-you-won’t-get-chosen smile. “I wouldn’t worry about the cats. I doubt you’ll be in the room very long. But just in case—go with the Siamese.”

  “Siamese?” They’re the absolute worst. It has something to do with their dander. Maybe I should wait in the bathroom until it’s my turn. June disappears down the hall.

  It won’t be that bad as long as I don’t touch it. I follow Claire through the doorway. The second I see the room, my throat starts to close. It’s worse than bad. It’s my very own cat nightmare come to life.

  The room is stupid small. Seriously, I’ve seen bigger playpens. And there is no ventilation, not one window. There isn’t even a fan. But there are dozens and dozens of cats. Okay, a dozen. Maybe two dozen. I’m not counting. All I know is the place is a blur of cats—in laps, on the floor, playing tag with their tails. I have never been exposed to so many cats at once. And at least half of them are Siamese.

  What kind of toothpaste commercial is this, anyway?

  Claire shoves a blue-eyed, brown-tipped Siamese at me. “You take this one.” She picks up a white ball of fluff. “June’s right. I need a Persian.”

  Unblinking, the cat stares up at me. My eyes start to water. When I sneeze again, it doesn’t even flinch. My shoulders tighten. Hiding in the bathroom won’t cut it. I need fresh air and an antihistamine. Another audition down the drain. Damn, this day sucks. “I have to leave.”

  “You can’t.” Claire leans into me. “We’ve got somewhere to go after this, remember?”

  The Nic Mills thing. “I can’t go anywhere if my eyes are swollen shut and I cannot breathe.” Choking on cat dander and disappointment, I step sideways and almost crush a cat’s tail. I was so counting on this gig.

  Claire rolls her eyes. “Save the theatrics for the audition.”

  “No. You don’t understand! I can’t stay.” My voice is climbing, but I don’t care. I back into the hallway, the Siamese still in my arms.

  Claire follows. “It’s just one cat. It’s no big deal.”

  My eyes are tearing up. “Just one knife. Just one bullet. Hello! Just one cat.” Although, truthfully, just one cat wouldn’t be this bad. But a busload? Big-time bad. If I’d known, I would have taken an antihistamine or brought an EpiPen or something.

  “It can’t happen that fast,” Claire says.

  “It can, especially if I touch them.” My throat’s getting tighter. I cough. “I’m seriously allergic to cats.”

  “We’ll be done in twenty minutes. Take deep breaths.”

  “Deep breaths could kill me.”

  “Oh my god, Lily, you are such a drama queen!”

  I don’t have the breath to argue. “This isn’t drama,” I wheeze. “This is my life.” I thrust the Siamese at her. Howling in protest, the Persian jumps from Claire’s arms and bolts down the hall.

  I hurry to the elevator and push the button.

  A tall woman wearing black comes out of the waiting room, all jangling bracelets and pursed lips. She glares at me. “What’s going on? We’re trying to work here.”

  “And I’m trying to live!” I’m getting dizzy. I need fresh air. An antihistamine. And I need to get out of my shirt. There’s cat dander all over it.

  “My friend is a little upset,” Claire interjects.

  “I’m not a little upset. I am majorly upset!” My eyes are itching, but rubbing them will only make it worse. “I’m having an allergy attack that could become an asthma attack that could kill me, and I need some help right now!”

  The woman’s face turns a scary shade of purple.

  “Iris!” A short burly man comes tearing down the hall. He’s wearing a denim ballcap, an ugly green Hawaiian shirt and a huge smile. “I found you!”

  “Wrong flower. I’m Lily.” The wheezing’s getting worse. It’s like having an elephant on my chest. The elevator pings. “And I am leaving before I die.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Oh yeah?” The doors slide open and I step inside.

  He grabs a card from his pocket. “Call me.” He jabs it at my arm. “Today. Tonight. When you’re feeling better.”

  The doors start to shut. I glance down at the card. And I cannot believe what I’m seeing. Nic Mills. No way. I blink my itchy, runny, swelling eyes. The letters don’t change. Nic Mills.

  I shove my foot between the elevator doors. They crash back open. “I’d love to talk to you,” I gasp. “But I need to take my shirt off first.”

  Chapter Two

  They find me a robe and an antihistamine and a big glass of water. Then they take me downstairs to a conference room with plushy brown chairs and trays of pastries and two windows and no cats. I sit at a shiny oak table with June, who has turned all maternal. Her sudden interest has less to do with my near-death experience and more to do with the fact that Nic Mills likes me, I am sure.

  “Lily is my Iris!” Nic Mills smiles like a happy garden gnome.

  “Who is Iris?” June has her game face on: polite and interested, fresh red lipstick to match her red glasses.

  “Iris plays a small but pivotal role in my new film, Mom’s Café.”

  Mom’s Café? Weird that I haven’t heard of it. I keep tabs on all the shoots happening in Vancouver.

  “Naomi Braithwaite was supposed to play Iris,” Mills adds, “but she was injured bungee jumping and she’s pulled out. Casting has come up with half a dozen replacements, but none are right. And now we’re behind schedule!”

  Naomi Braithwaite? I am so light-headed I can hardly breathe. Nic Mills is considering me for a Naomi Braithwaite role? He’s known for doing things differently and taking chances on newbies, but still. This is huge.

  “You say the girl has done summer stock?” asks the only other person in the room.

  The girl. Nice. I stare at him. He’s a thin guy with a goatee and sharp black eyes. He doesn’t even look at me.

  June’s head bobbles as she stretches the truth. “Absolutely!” I was an understudy last summer and appeared exactly once. “And she comes with glowing recommendations from Arbutus Academy.”

  Mr. Goatee isn’t buying it, I can tell. “There are casting protocols,” he says.

  Oh no. He’s the casting director?

  “We’ll have to screen-test her,” he adds. “We need to be sure.” He shoots me a brief, distasteful glance, but I don’t care. He’s just said the most magical words of my entire life: screen-test her.

  “We don’t have time,” Nic says. “But I’m sure. With those exotic eyes and high cheekbones and that long black hair, she could be anything—Hawaiian or Mexican or Native American or Filipino.”

  “She’s too tall to be Filipino,” Mr. Goatee says.

  People are so quick to stereotype. Some Filipinos are tall. My friend John is almost six feet.

  “She passed for a Lebanese girl in a commercial last year,” June adds.

  And an Italian salami, I almost say. Can’t forge
t that.

  “That’s my point. Iris belongs to no culture and all cultures. Like the original Eve.” Nic slaps the table for emphasis. “I’m telling you, Malcolm, this girl is Iris.”

  For the first time in, like, forever, being half Chinese and half white is working in my favor.

  “To think if I hadn’t been on my way to the john,” Nic adds, “I would have missed her.”

  I crash back to Earth. Seriously? I have been discovered by a director on a pee break?

  “I want to see what she can do before we sign her on,” Malcolm says.

  “And I want to know more about this part.” June clears her throat. “Is there nudity? Swearing? Lily’s a minor and her parents are conservative.”

  And I want to tell them both to stop with the roadblocks. This is Nic Mills we’re talking about. Nic Mills, who has turned three unknowns into megastars in the last five years.

  “There’s no nudity, nothing suggestive,” Nic tells June. “Iris is a server. Most of her scenes are in the restaurant. A few are on location. There might be swearing—I can’t remember.”

  He turns to Malcolm. “You want to see what she can do? Fine. We’ll get her made up and into something orange and we’ll take her downstairs for a cold reading.”

  I am suddenly nauseous. Cold readings suck.

  Malcolm pops his briefcase and hands June a stack of pages. Sweat beads my upper lip. That’s my movie script. If I ace the reading.

  “Pages seventeen through twenty,” he tells June. “I’ll call makeup and tell them you’re on your way. Studio three’s on dinner break. We’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  As June and I take the elevator downstairs, I seriously feel like I am having an out-of-body experience. This situation is crazy. It’s like a dream.

  “It looks to me, dear, as if this Iris character is something of an oracle.” June is reading the scene. “Someone who is uncommonly wise for her age.” She peers at me over the top of her red glasses. “You can pretend to be wise, can’t you?” She looks back down. “And funny,” she adds after a minute. “Wise and funny.”