Hot New Thing

by Laura Langston

I’m whisked in and out of makeup so fast it makes me dizzy and then I’m taken to wardrobe, where they can’t find anything orange so they give me a pink button-down shirt to wear over my white jeans instead. Every step of the way, June is issuing orders. “Remember to relax and breathe.” “Don’t block your face with the script.” “Move around a little.” “Listen and respond.”

  In the studio, Nic and Malcolm are waiting. Other than a camera operator and a lighting guy, the place is deserted. Two spotlights are trained on a simple living room with a bright-red sectional, fluffy white rug and rectangular coffee table.

  “You ready?” Nic asks.

  “I need to read the scene first.”

  Iris isn’t just wise, I realize when I scan the pages. She’s a wise-ass. In the first-meet scene with someone named Michael, she serves him pie and insults. I read through the scene a couple of times, memorizing the lines and thinking about facial expressions, my tone of voice, what gestures I’ll use.

  “So.” Nic rubs his hands together when I’m finished. “Okay now?”

  “I think so.” I focus on my breath. Slow and steady.

  “Who’s reading for Etienne?” June asks.

  My breath stutters. There is only one Etienne in the world, but it can’t be him. It. Can’t. Be. “Etienne?”

  “Etienne Quinn,” Nic tells me. “He’s playing Michael.”

  And just like that, my breath stops. Holy Mother of God. I may never breathe again.

  Nic turns to Malcolm. “You can feed her his lines.”

  “Personality, not perfection,” June whispers as I follow Malcolm to the stage. He says something about the living room not being the right set, but his words are like wind whistling through trees. They are background noise.

  They are offering me a part opposite Etienne Quinn? The hottest guy since fire? How is this possible?

  Malcolm sits on the couch. “You stand there.” He points. “Pretend the coffee table is the counter. Don’t worry about props and don’t bother pretending to pour coffee.” He crosses one leg over the other and almost yawns. “We’ll just do a quick read.”

  His indifference infuriates me. He doesn’t think I can do this. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the thought of actually meeting—and speaking to—Etienne Quinn, but suddenly I am pumped.

  “Stand by,” Nic calls. He cues the camera operator.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach. I can do this. I pop the top button on my shirt. I can.

  When Nic says, “Rolling,” I am ready.

  Ignoring Malcolm’s instructions, I lean over and pretend to pour coffee, making sure to keep the script away from my face and to flaunt what cleavage I have. “Let me guess. You’ll have the blueberry pie with chocolate ice cream and a side of fries.” I raise a brow, thrust my hip out and snap an imaginary wad of gum. Malcolm almost swallows his Adam’s apple. “Am I right?”

  When he flubs his “Yeah, how did you know that?” line, the flutter in my stomach dissolves. I don’t know if he messed up on purpose, but instead of making me nervous, his unease fuels my confidence. He is wrong about me. I can do this. Five minutes of banter and pretend pie and coffee later, Nic yells, “Cut.”

  Hands trembling, I lower the script. My knees are shaking too. Funny, I hadn’t noticed. Or maybe they just started.

  Malcolm stands. Suddenly I can’t look him in the eye. He flubbed his lines twice. Once he even went off script. He was trying to unnerve me, I’m sure.

  He thrusts his hand out. “Congratulations.” I slant him a look. Grudging admiration flashes across his face. “Looks like you have yourself a part.”

  Nic hurries up. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You were right,” Malcolm says. “Lily is Iris.”

  June is at my elbow, paper and pen in hand. “How soon will you need her down there?” she asks.

  “No later than next week,” Nic says. “We’re so far behind, we’ll be cramming in rehearsals at the beginning of the day’s shoot.”

  “Down where?” I ask.

  But they’re ignoring me. “Lily’s underage,” June reminds them. “It could take weeks to get the necessary permissions.”

  “I’ll pull some strings,” Nic says.

  “We can finish things in LA if necessary,” Malcolm adds.

  My heart skips a beat. “LA?”

  “Yes.” Nic nods. “The movie’s being shot in LA. That isn’t a problem for you, is it?”

  A problem? It’s not a problem. It’s an impossibility. I open my mouth, but June speaks before I can. “That’s not a problem at all,” she says. “LA is just fine.”

  Chapter Three

  “It’s impossible,” my mother tells June. I’m sitting on the couch in our living room, my hands shoved under my thighs. “Lily cannot go to Los Angeles alone, and we cannot go with her.” She explains the issues: My grandmother is ill and can’t be left; tax season is coming and my father can’t be away from his office. “They’ll have to find someone else to play the part.”

  I slump against the cushions. The last two hours have been a roller-coaster ride. Up, down and back up. Now down again.

  June sits beside me. My mother and father are in striped wing-back chairs across from us. My grandmother is in the corner rocker, reading the paper. Sleety rain pings against the window. The scent of ginger chicken wafts in from the kitchen. Under normal circumstances, it would be cozy. Not now.

  “I don’t think you understand.” The tips of June’s ears are bright red under her helmet of black hair. “This is a huge opportunity. Lily is being offered a role in a Nic Mills film. The role is absolutely tailor-made for her. No nudity, nothing questionable. And she will be paid extremely well.”

  That has to count for something, right? My parents exchange looks.

  “Believe me, things like this don’t happen every day,” June continues. “Mr. Mills was in town scouting and he turned down six other actresses. An hour after that, he saw Lily.”

  During a pee break and the worst allergy attack of my life, but hey, I’m not complaining.

  “It was fate,” June adds dramatically. “Truly.”

  My mother nods. She doesn’t believe in fate, but she is too polite to disagree. Besides, she supports my acting dream 100 percent. My father, on the other hand—not so much. And now he can barely contain his skepticism. “Was it fate that made you fail the makeup test in algebra?” he asks, shooting me a look.

  I flush. Oh crap.

  “Mr. Basi called,” my mother adds softly.

  “I tried!”

  My grandmother looks up from her paper. She doesn’t understand English, but she knows I’m upset. I lower my voice.

  “I don’t get algebra. Mr. Basi said I need a tutor.”

  “With the money Lily will make on this movie, you could hire one,” June says.

  My mother looks at my father. She wants this for me, I can tell.

  “Mr. Mills is shooting quickly. Lily will be gone only six weeks. She’ll easily catch up when she comes home.”

  My parents are silent.

  “She has a future in film.” June directs her comments to my father. “I don’t think you understand that.”

  I swallow a gasp.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Dad says in a too-quiet voice that makes me freeze. “We expect Lily to go to university. For that, she needs good grades, not acting credits.”

  “Gord.” My mother puts her hand on his arm. “Relax.” My mother is short, sweet-faced and soft-spoken, but she can calm my six-foot-four father better than anyone. It’s like watching a kitten bring down a lion.

  “Lily can do her schoolwork there.” June’s gray raincoat strains across her belly when she leans forward. “And with the Latino population in LA, she might even pick up some Spanish.”
<
br />   “I’m more concerned with algebra,” Dad says. “Besides, languages are not Lily’s forte.”

  No kidding. I glance at my grandmother, who is reading her paper again. She’s lived with us for three years, and I’ve only picked up half a dozen words of Mandarin. I can mimic an accent in my sleep, but my brain shuts down when I have to converse in another language.

  “And schoolwork is only part of the issue,” he continues. Mom sends me a sympathetic look. “You’re only fifteen, Lily. You’re too young to go alone. We’re saying no for your own good.”

  “My own good? Right!” I snort. My grandmother looks up again and sets her paper aside. “I’ll be sixteen in three months.”

  “That’s still too young to go alone,” Dad says.

  “Uncle Mike lives in LA,” I remind them. “Why can’t I stay with him?” Uncle Mike is Mom’s brother. I met him once when I was three. I barely remember him, but Mom emails him regularly. And my grandmother usually spends a few months a year with him and his family.

  “He doesn’t know you well.” She shifts in her chair. “And he’s busy. I couldn’t ask him for help.”

  “That’s it, then,” Dad says.

  The matter-of-factness of his tone is my undoing. This unbelievable, life-changing opportunity is dissolving in front of me like an ice cube melting under a heat lamp. “You don’t understand! I’ve worked so hard for this. I never miss an acting class. I try out for every audition. I spent all of last summer hanging around being an understudy. I even played a dancing salami in a commercial. But this isn’t a commercial. This is a movie! With a speaking part. A part with meaning.” A part with Etienne Quinn.

  Dad frowns. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “I’m not being melodramatic. This could be my last chance!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh yeah? Then how come a year ago I had lots of opportunities and this year I’ve gotten almost none?” I glance at June. She doesn’t look at me.

  “The arts are unpredictable,” Dad says. “That’s why you need to focus on school. You’ll have years to pursue your dream after you go to college.”

  My throat swells. “No, I won’t. This is it for me. I feel it here.” I slap my chest. “My one chance to make it big. If I pass this up, it’ll be over forever. I just know it.”

  Suddenly, everybody talks at once. My grandmother, her dark worried eyes fixed on me, says something to Mom. Mom answers in Mandarin.

  With a note of impatience, June says to Dad, “Actors wait years for breaks like this. Some go all their lives without one.”

  He crosses his arms. “That’s not my concern.”

  “What if I go with her? As a chaperone?”

  I glance at her. June as chaperone? She doesn’t even like me that much. Or she didn’t until today.

  “How can you leave your business?”

  Something in his tone sparks my hope. At least he’s not saying no.

  “I’d stay in touch with clients through email and texts. I’d take work with me. I’d network. But,” she quickly adds, “my primary role would be chaperoning Lily.”

  My grandmother continues speaking to Mom. Dad studies June. “Where would you stay?” he asks.

  “My sister has a friend in West Hollywood. She has a spare room.”

  Dad looks at me. The energy in the room shifts. My hope starts to dance. “I’d take schoolwork with me,” I tell him. “I’d keep up.”

  He weighs my words. “I know you’d try, Lily. I do. And I want to say yes.” But. I hear the word before he says it. “But I’m just not comfortable without a family member there to look after you. I’m sorry.” His face softens. “It’s just not feasible.”

  There’s a sense of finality to his words, a not-happening flatness to his blue eyes. My last thread of hope melts away. It’s done. Just like that, it’s over. Tears blur my vision. I turn to June. “I’m sorry.” My voice is molasses thick. “Tell Mr. Mills thanks.”

  I stand. I need to go to my room. I need to be alone.

  “Mother says Lily must go.” Mom looks at Dad. “It’s a dragon year. Her lucky year.” My grandmother says something in Mandarin to my father. He doesn’t understand her language or her culture—and for sure he doesn’t believe in lucky years or lucky money or lucky colors—but he truly cares for my grandmother.

  “Tell her Lily can’t go alone. Tell her there will be other lucky years.” He waits for Mom to translate.

  But Mom doesn’t. “Mother agrees. Lily must stay with family. She will talk to Mike.”

  My pulse jumps. I wipe my eyes and sit back down.

  “It may not be convenient for him,” Dad says.

  Mom translates. My grandmother answers, staring fiercely at Dad. Mom smiles slightly. “Mother says it will be most convenient for Mike. Lily can have his spare room. She’ll call him after dinner.”

  And I’m back on the roller coaster. My grandmother beams at me from the rocker, her coffee-bean eyes gleaming in her wrinkled face. I want to rush over and give her a hug, but she is not like my Irish grandmother. The most affection she has ever shown me is an occasional pat with her small, soft hand. “Thank you, thank you! Tell Uncle Mike he won’t be sorry. I promise.” She doesn’t understand the words, but her smile widens.

  “Don’t get excited, Lily. He might say no.”

  “No,” Mom tells Dad, “he won’t.”

  “Then it’s settled,” June says brightly.

  I start to tremble. It’s happening. It really is.

  “Maybe.” Dad turns to me. “But even if your uncle says yes, and even with June there, you’ll have rules to follow. Homework to keep up with. A curfew. And you’ll have to check in with us.”

  “I will.” I force myself to stay calm, but it’s like a thousand Pop Rocks are shooting off in my stomach.

  “We’ll Skype,” Mom adds. “Once a week. Without fail.”

  “Without fail.” I giggle. Without fail. What a silly saying. Fail isn’t in my vocabulary.

  I’m going to Hollywood. I’m going to act with Etienne Quinn. My dreams are coming true.

  Chapter Four

  Lily to Claire: OMG. 1st class on plane!! LA is amazing!! Cousin is weird. Call me asap.

  Lily to Mom: At Uncle Mike’s. All fine. Don’t call. Going to bed. At studio early tomorrow.

  Mr. Basi to Lily: Homework attached. Due tomorrow.

  A noise wakes me at dawn. Startled, I peer through the darkness and see a desk I don’t recognize, an unfamiliar chair. Then I remember. I’m at Uncle Mike’s house in Montecito Heights. I arrived last night.

  My heart thrums. Today is my first day at the studio.

  Tossing back the covers, I walk across the white carpet, open the blinds and stare down the hill. Los Angeles looks like diamonds on black ink: glittering lights, tiny winking headlights on necklaces of roads. Goosebumps rise on my arm. I really am here.

  Shivering with nerves, I pull on a hoodie and kill an hour reading the script and running my lines with the iPad. It’s amazing what you can do with an electronic file and a good rehearsal app. By 6:45 AM, I’m showered, dressed and anxious. I’m worried about my performance. Getting the part of Iris is a huge break—I want to do my best. But nothing has prepared me for acting opposite Etienne Quinn. Or being in a film with Brooklyn Cory. She’s up there with Angelina Jolie. Only Brooklyn collects hot guys instead of kids.

  I follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen. In the doorway, I stare past the stainless-steel stove, cherry cabinets and marble-topped island to a multi-level deck that offers another breathtaking view. My uncle’s house is way more upscale than I expected.

  My cousin Samantha looks up from the breakfast bar. “Oh.” Her sharp black eyes appraise me. Maybe I should’ve worn something other than jea
ns today, although June said to keep it casual. “You’re up.” Like I’ve slept till noon. And then she smirks.

  If it were Claire, I’d say, “No, I’m not up. This is my stunt double,” but I cracked two jokes last night and Sam either didn’t get them or has no sense of humor, so this morning I just nod.

  She gestures to a nook under the microwave. “The pot on the left is decaf. The one on the right is high octane.” She points at the toaster and a series of baskets at the far end of the island. “Food is there. Help yourself.”

  I pour coffee and grab a banana and a container of strawberry yogurt before taking the stool across from her. “Where is everybody?”

  “Gone. My parents are in the office by seven.” She smooths her already-smooth black pants and walks to the dishwasher. With her starchy blue shirt, lace-up shoes and china-doll haircut, Samantha looks thirty instead of seventeen. Hard to believe she’s only eighteen months older than me. I search her face for something recognizable. For a clue we’re related. There’s nothing. Maybe because she’s full Asian and I’m only half.

  She pulls a key from her pocket and puts it in front of me. “Joanne forgot to give you this last night.” Joanne? Seriously? Why not Mom? “It’s for the front door.” She pulls a slip of paper from her other pocket. “Here’s the alarm code for the door in case you’re home first.” She turns to go. “Have a nice day.”

  She’s so cold, I’m amazed she’s not trailing ice crystals.

  “What time’s dinner?” I ask.

  She looks over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

  “What time do you guys eat?”

  She blinks. “Oh. You’re joining us?”

  In other words: You don’t really think we want you at our dinner table, do you? A chunk of banana jams in the back of my throat. I swallow and say, “I assumed so. I mean, I don’t know exactly what time I’ll be finished, but I figured I’d come back here.” Like I have somewhere else to go.

  “Of course. You’re welcome to. Dinner is at six. If you can’t make it, there are heat-and-serve entrées in the freezer. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.”