by Jordan Cooke
“I’m not talking about the line, Anushka!” Rocco bellowed. “I’m talking about myself! Rocco DiTullio, scion of a famous filmmaking family, spending my days reciting cheeseball lines on a TV show so tawdry, tasteless, garish, and vulgar that it manages to take popular culture back twenty years! And for what? So I can pay the bills while living as a frustrated auteur? The indignity!”
“Okay, look,” Anushka said in a soothing voice as she lead him back to the sofa while checking the extent of her butt bruise with a hand mirror. “I only understood about half the words you just said there, but I think I get the gist. You’re an artist. And you think you’re lowering yourself. I have two words for you: what ever. You can sort that out with some shrink, Rocs. In the meantime, hit your mark, say your line, and don’t drop your costar! Are we reading each other?”
She waited for him to say yes. Or no. Or something. But he just stood there, quivering at first and then, after a moment, rattling like a tall building in an earthquake. Anushka put down her hand mirror and stepped back. Something inside her told her to be afraid—be very afraid. It was at that precise moment that Rocco made a sound—a sound that started somewhere in the depths of his massively muscular body and proceeded upward, a sound that sounded a little like a sleeping lion who’d just been stepped on.
“Indigestion?” inquired Anushka, now officially scared out of her wits at the quivering mass of boy muscle clenching his fists just inches from her. She scrambled backward, trying to find the door to her trailer without taking her eyes off Rocco—but he was too fast for her. He leaped over her in a flash, reaching for the door before she did and—in the process of bolting from the trailer—he tore it off its hinges.
Rocco’s Trailer—Ten Minutes Later
Anushka stood in the sand outside Rocco’s trailer. The hot afternoon sun bore into her bare shoulders, but she felt a chill nonetheless. Rocco was obviously in deep doo-doo, that was clear enough, and she was maybe the only one on the set who could help him. That’s because she was convinced they were more alike than they’d ever want to admit. She rapped on the door quietly. “Rocs? It’s me. I think we need to talk.”
“Is it just you?” came an uncharacteristically chastened voice from within.
“Just me, yeah.” After a moment, the door opened. Rocco, eyes downcast, gestured for Anushka to enter. She’d never been inside Rocco’s trailer before and she was amazed—but not surprised—to see that it had been decorated exactly like the inside of a library, with shelves of books and comfy chairs and reading lamps. So masculine, so smart—just like Rocco. If only he weren’t such a snob, she thought as she entered, I could be really turned on by this dude. . . .
She took a seat on a tufted brown leather Ralph Lauren armchair and crossed her legs, assuming a stern yet maternal pose she’d co-opted from one of her former rehab counselors. She gestured for Rocco to sit across from her. He did. “Look,” she said. “I know what this is about.” Rocco was about to give her his signature arrogant look that said you can’t possibly know. “And before you give me that look like you’re all alone in your little smarty-pants world, let me just say something.”
“What is it?” said Rocco respectfully, looking impressed by her tone.
“It’s about you being frustrated you can’t get your movie off the ground, right?” Rocco sighed a sigh that said it all. “You want to be a director, but no one is going to give some hunk with big pecs and no directing experience a shot—no matter what family he comes from.” Rocco gave a sad little nod. Anushka continued, leaning forward. “And so instead of fighting harder to get where you wanna go, you’ve taken the easy route again, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean?” said Rocco, looking afraid at what her answer might be.
“I mean ’roids,” Anushka said, looking him directly in the eye. “Don’t lie to me, Rocs. You feel totally sucky about yourself and you don’t want to. You want to feel all strong and Rocco-y—but even better. So you turn to the ’roids! You’re back on the stuff again, aren’t ya?”
Rocco turned away, his face darkened. “How—how did you know?”
“Puh-lease. Don’t tinkle on my bikini and tell me it’s a sun shower. It’s Anushka you’re talking to here! Your neck’s the size of a dumpster and your arms are as big as Rosie O’Donnell’s thighs. ”
Rocco put his head in his hands. “I’m so ashamed, Anushka . . . I’ve let myself and everyone down yet again. What shall I do?”
“Here’s what you shall do,” she said, placing her hand on his knee. “You’re gonna call this doctor I know who specializes in addiction. He ain’t cheap, but it’s your health you’re talking about here, right? Maybe even your stupid career, too.”
Rocco looked up. “A doctor? Like a psychiatrist? I don’t know, Anushka. I’ve always looked within for my strength . . .”
“Yeah, well maybe it’s time you looked without. Take it from me. Sometimes we all need a little help.” Then she gave him a big wink to show she was in his corner. “And if you ever mention this moment to anyone, Rocco DiTullio, do NOT say I was wearing a bald cap and looking fugly. Cause I will freakin’ kill you.”
“You can count on me, Anushka,” he said.
“That makes one DiTullio I can count on,” she said ruefully. “Your cousin totally played me! Total tonsil hockey the first night I met him, but then not one text message since! He even declined my Facebook invite, the creep. Ouch. Experiences like that can affect a girl’s self-esteem.”
Rocco looked embarrassed. “I love Patrizio because he’s family, but the truth is he’s a bit of a player. You know what, it’s his loss. You’re smart and funny and totally smokin’—he’s lucky you even breathed in his direction.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment. Though it’s hard to believe anyone could see me with this cap on and still think I’m smokin’.”
“Au contraire, mademoiselle, the bald hat just accentuates your beauty.”
“Ya think so?” Anushka asked, as she absentmindedly patted her head.
“I do. And I’m sorry about my cousin. I guess I should have warned you about him. ”
“Well, why didn’t ya?”
A grin crept across Rocco’s face. “I think I was too busy warning him about you.”
“Ugh, you are the worst!” said Anushka, laughing and pelting Rocco playfully.
“Ow, watch the hair!” he teased.
“Well, whaddya know?” said Anushka, standing back with her hands on her hips. “Rocco and Anushka are actually paying each other compliments and getting along.”
“Huh. I guess that’s never happened before . . .” he said thoughtfully.
“I guess hell is getting a little cold,” she responded. “But I likey. Why couldn’t we be friends?”
“I see no reason not to be,” he said. “Okay, then—friends.”
They even shook on it.
“Okay, now do me one more favor, Rocs.”
“Name it.”
“Let’s not tell anyone about this little Lifetime moment, either.”
“Deal.”
Malibu Beach—The ’Bu Set—2:38 P.M.
JB was on his hundredth push-up. His concave chest bulged and sweat poured from his brow, snaking in little rivulets into his eyes, making his contacts swim around like pinwheels.
He wanted to get to a hundred and fifty push-ups for two reasons. The first was he was supposed to be bare-chested in the next scene and partial nudity always filled him with a red-hot terror. The second was that he’d been feeling the urge again. The urge to go online and spend his paycheck investing in stocks. Bad stocks, probably. The kind he’d end up spending the next two years paying for. He thought if he could just keep pumping his twiggy little arms that dastardly urge would evaporate. “One hundred,” he huffed, “one hundred one . . .” he puffed.
“JB,” said Max, casting a shadow over him as he arrived, “please cease. We don’t want you breaking anything, even though we’re insured. We’re behind again b
ecause Rocco—of all people—refuses to come out of his trailer, and I need to shoot your big scene now.”
“Almost there, Max! One hundred seven, one hundred eight—uh-oh.”
Max knelt in the sand, putting his face against JB’s. “You pulled one of your scrawny little muscles, didn’t you?” he said. “I knew it . . . Where is the set nurse?” he called to his assistants, who promptly stirred up a sandstorm as they scampered off to find the set nurse.
“Hold the ambulance!” said JB, collapsing to the ground in a puddle of his own sweat. “I didn’t pull anything, I just lost a contact . . .”
“Thank God,” said Max, walking away immediately, leaving JB half-blind and facedown in the sand. “And if you see Corliss,” he said as he went, “please tell her to come to my trailer. She is once again missing in action. I swear, half the time directing is like herding kittens . . .”
“Righto,” said JB with a mouthful of sand. He pulled himself up and brushed himself off. He was going to need a quick shower before he shot his big scene. He started in the direction of his trailer, but he didn’t get far with only one functioning eye. That’s when he thought he saw her. Corliss. In the parking lot, about a half mile away. At least he thought it was Corliss. The afternoon sun was high in the sky and he struggled to focus on the figure in the lot.
Whoever it was, she was talking to someone. JB squinted hard with his one functioning eye. It was Corliss. And she was talking to . . . a guy. He couldn’t see who it was, but he didn’t like what he saw. In fact he so didn’t like what he saw that he staggered back, just like the time in junior high he was bodychecked behind the gym by the captain of the girls’ lacrosse team. All the air went out of him, and his blood tingled all over.
He’d never felt such a feeling before, but he had a hunch what it was. “Oh my God . . .” he said aloud. “I think I’m . . . jealous!” Which could only mean one thing: that he had a crush on Corliss. “Oh my God . . .” he muttered again as the truth finally hit him. “Oh my God!” he said again, unable to stop repeating himself. Then something occurred to him that was unlike anything that had ever occurred to him in the entirety of his eighteen years. “When I find out who she’s talking to, I’m gonna pulverize that dude!”
The Parking Lot—Continuous
Corliss shook her head and adjusted the lacy white halter Anushka had lent her. She knew it wasn’t an appropriate item to be wearing for the particular conversation she’d been having, but she felt sorta sexy in it. “Petey,” she said as gently as she could to the underage writer standing in front of her with a wad of coleslaw caught in his gums, “it’s just—the thing is—you and me—me and you—it’s not—it will never—”
“What you’re saying,” Petey droned, his raccoon eyes bloodshot, “is that Max can make all the rules he wants prohibiting dating among the staff, but that even if you and I weren’t on staff, it’s not happening between you and me, it’s never going to be happening between you and me, and I should pack up my pathetic little heart and store it away forever.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far . . . but yes.” Corliss felt terrible. She’d been putting off Petey for the last bunch of weeks, but she finally wanted to tell him the news he needed to hear. “Petey, I want you to know that aside from a little personal hygiene problem, and an attitude that would make Dracula seem cheerful in comparison, you’re a pretty cool guy. I’m sure you’ll meet a nice girl who will appreciate that!”
“But—but—what am I supposed to do until then?” said Petey, looking for the first time like the seventeen-year-old he really was. “I go to bed at night thinking of you, I get up in the morning thinking of you, I spend the all the minutes in between thinking about you . . .”
“Gee,” said Corliss, “that’s quite a round-the-clock tribute, Petey. But what I think you’re supposed to do is, well, set me free. Just like that bumper sticker says.”
“What bumper sticker?” said Petey.
“The one that says ‘If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you it’s yours, if it doesn’t, it never was.’” She batted her eyes to drive the point home.
Petey pouted. “I hate that bumper sticker. But I’ll try it, Corliss, if that’s what you want.”
“Thanks, Petey.” She linked her arm in his and gestured that they should head back to the set. “I happened to come across your file today when I was doing payroll—so I know your eighteenth birthday is just around the corner. You know what that means?” Petey shook his head. Corliss patted his arm maternally. “It means it’s time to let go of the stuff that’s not working for you and grow up and be a professional.”
“Ya think?” Petey didn’t look so sure.
“I’m a big believer in you, Petey,” she said. “Any high-school dropout who can pass himself off as a Harvard grad has to have something going for him.” Petey, basking in this praise, broke out in the biggest smile Corliss had ever seen on him.
“Okay, Corliss, thanks for your honesty,” he said, gazing at her like she was heaven in a halter, “whatever you say.” With that, Corliss gave him a nudge in the direction of the writers’ trailer and off he ran, a blur of black. “Phew,” she said, relieved that that was over.
But her relief didn’t last long.
“Hey, wait up!” It was JB. She had not spoken him to since their disastrous Jacuzzi encounter three days ago. She’d been waiting for him to call—or text or e-mail—an apology! But an apology hadn’t come.
“Oh, hello, JB,” she said in her coolest voice possible.
“Hiya and salutations!” he said, laughing like nothing was wrong. “So, I’ve been meaning to call you, Cor.”
“You have? That’s interesting,” she said nonchalantly.
“Yeah, but there was a big Star Wars convention in San Diego yesterday and since I wasn’t called to work I just, you know, zoomed on down.”
She couldn’t believe he was making excuses. It had been three days. Not to mention the fact that the evening of the disastrous Jacuzzi encounter was the second time he’d run away from her. He couldn’t pick up his phone and make one lousy call? She’d bawled her eyes out and now she simply had to toughen her heart. “JB, I’m in a bit of a rush, here. I’ve got something very important to do in Max’s trailer and, well, these are work hours.” It killed her to talk to him like this, but she had no choice.
“Oh, right. I understand, Cor. Maybe we should talk later?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be free to talk later.”
“Um, is something wrong? I know things between us were a little wonky the other night at Uncle Ross’s. Maybe I should explain.”
“No need to explain, JB. You probably had to run off to see your friend Jack Osbourne. Or talk to Rocco about his buttery biscuits.”
“Cor—”
“No, I get it,” she said, wanting to put an end to the conversation. “We’re all busy people. It’s just the way life is, right? So if you’ll excuse me, JB, I have to get back to work.” With that, she turned and headed for Max’s trailer, despondent. Turning back briefly, she could see JB walking in the other direction. The sight of his bony little body moving into the distance filled her with despair. In fact, she thought she felt something deep in her heart crack—and then split in two.
Ten
Somewhere Nobody Knows—3:42 P.M.
The Bu-Hoo
It’s too delish! With the T&T wedding off, the
dramz is through the roof. First of all, now
that Tanzilla is going to remain a revirginized
virgin, Virgin America is wicked mad! Follow
that trail of virgins???? As big sponsors of
The ’Bu, the airline is losing a mountain
of free publicity ‘cause of Trent Owen
Michaels’s cold feet.
So guess what, ’Bu bunnies? Virgin America
is pulling their ads from the show! That’s right,
Goth Roth and the UBC networks just lost one
of th
eir biggest sponsors! And all because
Trent thinks he saw the Baby Jesus in a salad.
DONTCHA LOVE IT????
And if that weren’t enough goody-goodness,
The ’Bu cast is at each other’s pretty little
throats again. Maybe that’s because when
you can’t kiss who you wanna kiss you get a
little cranky . . .
Sound familiar, Master Bader???? Turns out
the geek with the taste for ladies’ fashion
might just have a taste for the ladies
himself . . . one lady in particular.
GUESSES?
Let’s just say she wouldn’t look out of place
having a Super Combo pizza at Chuck E.
Cheese!
OH NO I DI’N’T!
And there’s more where dat come from!
The calamity! The conflict! The catastrophic
cataclysm!
Oh, MBK loves it when things go bad . . .
’cause it makes me feel so good!
Call me the devil, call me a demon—just don’t
call me late for the dirt!
Diabulically yours,
MBK
Malibu Beach—Max’s Trailer—3:53 P.M.
Corliss was in heaven. Her entire world had done a complete 180-degree turn in the span of ten minutes. Meteors were bursting open in her head—and life would never be the same.
She’d just read The ’Bu-hoo and saw the blind item about JB liking her! Could it possibly be true???? She was in a tizzy. She ran up and down the length of Max’s trailer trying to calm herself. How could MBK know JB’s true feelings? Who was MBK?? More important, who was JB?!? He’d been passing himself off as someone not so interested, but that Chuck E. Cheese reference was plain as the pepperoni on their Super Combo pizza.
