by Amy Finnegan
I have to agree with Rachel on one thing, though: The Bod, whoever he is, makes leather cowboy chaps look seriously hot.
Jake
Chill, Jake, this is temporary, I tell myself as I pace outside Steve McGregor’s production office in Tucson. If I get this job, I’ll be locked into a four-year contract, but most TV shows bomb before then, so I might get out of it early.
For now, it’s a perfect solution.
Coyote Hills will be filming less than two hours from my hometown of Phoenix, and the guilt has been killing me, being so far away all the time. If anything else happens at home—if things get worse—I can be there. And acting seems to be the quickest way I can ditch this pretty-boy modeling crap and keep making the money I need.
Still, I thought my agent was crazy when she said I should give it a try. “I got a B-minus in drama,” I warned her. “I couldn’t even memorize a one-minute monologue.”
“Trust me, Jake, you’ll be better than you think,” Liz had replied. “Acting isn’t just an ability to recite lines. It’s a talent for letting go of what your mind is telling you about reality and allowing the instincts of a character to take over. In that way, it’s exactly like modeling.”
I’d started to question that, but then I got her point. If standing around for eight hours in little more than leather chaps and a cowboy hat—and pretending you enjoy it—isn’t acting, I don’t know what is.
It’s been six months since Liz hooked me up with a world-famous acting coach. Then McGregor called my coach a few weeks ago to say he was still looking for another male lead, and I jumped at the chance to audition.
Today is my third callback. The casting director gave me the same poker face as she did during my previous screen tests, but in the end, she smiled and said, “Loved it. Follow me.”
She led me through a maze of halls covered with movie and TV memorabilia and told me to wait outside McGregor’s office while they watched my final audition tape.
After forty-five minutes, the office door finally opens. “Mr. McGregor would like to speak with you,” the casting director tells me. Then as she passes me on the way out, she pauses to whisper, “He’s a little eccentric, but trust me, he can make you a star.”
I’ve only taken my first step into the massive corner office when a man comes at me so fast that all I see is a blur of flaming red hair. “Here you are, in the flesh!” McGregor says. “And every bit as handsome.”
Liz warned me about his thick Scottish accent, so I was expecting it, but I’m still not sure I understood him right. “Uh, thanks,” I reply. “It’s good to meet you.”
At six-two I tower over McGregor by several inches. It doesn’t matter, though—the guy oozes confidence. And he’s probably held at least a dozen gold statues in the hand I now shake, so it’s deserved.
The walls of his office are plastered with promotional posters and photo after photo of stars he’s worked with. Oak shelves are stuffed with books and portfolios, and award statues are lined up in a glass case. It’s like being in a museum. I don’t dare touch anything.
McGregor motions for me to sit in a black armchair in front of his desk, then settles into his own chair opposite me. “Sorry for the wait,” he says. “I was on the phone with your agent.” This was their fourth call, which should mean I’m at least on the short list. “Mr. Elliott, it’s taken some snooping around to get the full picture of you, but I’ve gained the impression that you didn’t grow up hoping to be a model-slash-actor like so many others in this business.” I hesitate before nodding. “What were your original plans?” he goes on. “Say, ten years ago?”
“Like … when I was a kid?”
“Isn’t that when most dreams begin?” he asks. “As a child in Scotland, I wanted to run away to Spain and be a matador. But here I am in the US, red-inking a comfort list longer than the Great Wall of China.” He slides a legal-size sheet of paper across his desk so I can see what he’s crossed out: a steam shower and on-site massage therapist are just a few of the demands someone has made. “Bullfighting, indeed. How about you?”
“Well … I think I first wanted to be an astronaut, and then a baseball player,” I reply, loosening up. “But then I got this crazy idea when I was in the third grade and took like twenty pairs of my mom’s shoes, set up a store on the sidewalk in front of my house, and sold every last pair to the girls in my neighborhood. They didn’t even care that the shoes were too big.”
McGregor raises his bushy ginger brows at me. “I can’t imagine why.”
I shift in my chair. “Anyway, from then on, all I wanted to be was a businessman—buying, selling, making deals. Whatever.”
That’s still the only thing I want to do, but as my buddy Devin once put it, I traded my college plans for bronzing powder.
“I assume your mother got her shoes back?” McGregor asks.
I smile when I recall all her spiky high heels, in every possible color, but then I imagine where they are now—useless in her closet. “Yep. And it just about killed me to return all those quarters.”
McGregor offers an amused nod. “So if your heart’s set on business, how’d you get here?” He motions to his colossal glass desktop, nearly hidden by piles of folders, screenplays, set sketches, headshots, you name it. If it belonged in Hollywood, it was in this dude’s office.
I’m the only thing out of place.
“My agent is my best friend’s sister, so she’s the one who … I guess you could say, scouted me.” That’s the uncomplicated answer.
For some reason, McGregor thinks this is funny. “Ah, yes, that’s right. Liz told me she went searching for new talent in Phoenix and found you posing like a chiseled work of art in her own parents’ driveway.”
“I wasn’t posing,” I say with an accidental smirk. “I was playing basketball and just happened to be shirtless, like the rest of my friends.”
It was a Saturday afternoon during my junior year of high school, and Devin’s much older sister was visiting from New York City. Liz watched me from the porch for over an hour, creeping me out a little, but I had no idea what I was really in for. She was a pretty smooth talker when she cornered me after we all went in for dinner, and the numbers she threw out for just a single day of modeling were more than a little tempting for a guy who couldn’t afford a car, let alone save for college.
And that was before I really needed the money.
McGregor scans me with appraising eyes. “All right, let’s get to the reason you’re here.” I like this guy. “Mr. Elliott, there are plenty of good actors out there, but too many of them need incessant direction, and I’m not a patient man. I want actors who don’t need to be constantly told how to portray their characters—it’s got to be second nature for them.”
Okay, this is it. I just want to hear yes or no.
“Your audition tapes certainly prove that you can pull off the look and arrogance of Justin,” McGregor goes on, “but deep down, can you connect with his darker side? Embrace him? Become him?”
“Well …” Is this a trick question? “To tell you the truth, Justin seems like an irresponsible mess.”
“Precisely. Which is why I believe you’re perfect for the job.”
Huh? How could he have such a bad impression of me? I’ve always been prepared and on time for the auditions. And Liz said she’d told him I was her favorite talent to work with.
McGregor slaps the desk. “Ah, blast! Got ahead of myself. What I meant to say, before I insulted you, is that I look for suppressed traits in my actors that are likely itching to be unleashed. So as I said, it’s their second nature I’m interested in.”
“Uh, right. Okay.” I’m still lost.
He leans forward. “Wouldn’t you like to listen to that devil on your shoulder every once in a while? Be a rebel, a menace, a villain who never thinks of anyone but himself?” He waits for my reply, so I nod. “If what I hear is true, Mr. Elliott, you might enjoy a break from the maturity you seem to have found too early in life.”<
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How much had Liz told him? “Sure. Who wouldn’t?”
“Then you’re about to get your chance,” he says. “You have a raw talent I haven’t seen in quite some time. Not only have I studied your audition tapes, I’ve also spent a great deal of time with your acting coach, discussing your potential and watching your impressive progression on hours of film. All I need now is to know if you’re willing to take in this ‘irresponsible mess’ as part of your soul.”
My soul would take in a nest of hornets if it meant I could ditch modeling, make more money, and live in Arizona. For over a year now, I’ve been constantly traveling between my mom’s new place in Phoenix and the hotel of the week—usually in New York—for modeling jobs. Here, there, everywhere. It’s corny and sentimental, but I miss having a home.
“Yes, definitely.” I have to be careful not to sound overeager or I’ll blow the upper hand in negotiations, which is always my favorite part of the process. “The details have to go through Liz, of course, but I’d love to work with you.” I laugh. “At the very least, it’ll be entertaining.”
I worry for a sec that I’ve insulted him, but McGregor starts laughing too.
“And don’t forget exhausting,” he says. “Depending on your screen time in each episode, you’ll be on set between eight and sixteen hours, three to five days a week. This leaves room for little else. But rather than dancing on tabletops for paparazzi, some young stars pursue more respectable interests in their personal time—college, for example.”
Yep, he really has snooped around. “Good to know. But I’m cool with putting a business degree on the back burner.” That part may be a lie, but I want him to know that once I sign my contract, I’ll commit myself like I always do. I’ll have to. “I should probably focus on not embarrassing myself on national television. Or you.”
McGregor chuckles, his face turning splotchy. “That would be appreciated. However, if you’re curious, perhaps you can ask”—he rummages through a pile of folders and sets a headshot in front of me—“this pretty girl right here how she managed to complete two years of college credit before the rest of her high school class even graduated.”
I glance at the photo, then look up, stunned. “Emma Taylor did that?” Liz already told me that Emma is in the cast, but I figured a superstar like her would be too busy shopping on her days off to care about school. “I mean, she doesn’t just do TV stuff, she’s in a lot of movies too. How can she keep up?”
“Not sure, honestly. You’ll have to ask her.” McGregor brings out two more headshots. “Here are your other costars.”
“Brett Crawford,” I say. According to Liz, McGregor struggled with the decision to hire him, and Liz agrees that he’s a gamble. “He’ll definitely draw the women.”
“Aye, and I’m counting on more than that,” McGregor says. “He’s phenomenal, that kid. I’m expecting Emmy buzz on Brett by episode three—five at the latest. If he shows up to work, that is.” McGregor winks at me as if I’m in on some sort of joke. “I’ve got my fingers crossed.”
I smile back and take a look at the caramel blonde in the other headshot. “Who’s this?”
“Kimmi Weston, an impressive new actress I also found through Anne,” he says, referring to my acting coach. “She’s been a star student for several years at the Manhattan Academy for the Performing Arts, and far too talented to pass up. But she’s perhaps been praised and applauded a tad more than was good for her.”
He turns his attention back to the “comfort list” he previously pointed out, picks up a red pen, and crosses off personal chef.
I laugh, but I’m only half kidding when I tell McGregor, “Now I’m wondering what you’ll say about me after I leave here.”
“Whatever I want to,” he replies and offers his hand across the desk. “Welcome to Hollywood.”
Emma
My mom stands by the front door of my new town house in Tucson, surveys the living room, and says, “I still don’t like this.”
She didn’t exactly have a great time helping me shop for the furniture that was just delivered, but Rachel and I had a blast. Mom tried talking me into a boring cream-colored love seat and sofa set that looked like it belonged in my grandmother’s house.
“I love it!” I reply and plop down on the cranberry-red sofa that I’d bought instead. It’s a huge sectional with oversize pillows, and so soft and cozy that I think I might sleep here. “I can’t wait to snuggle up with a big bowl of popcorn.”
There’s a giant TV mounted on my wall, and I just finished stuffing a black entertainment center with my movie collection—mostly romantic comedies because everyone is always happy in the end—while Rachel unpacked my kitchen stuff and my mom hung pictures. I finally gave in to Mom on those: poppies and tulips, in simple black frames. I’m going shopping again as soon as she leaves anyway. I’m out-of-my-mind excited to have all this space to myself, most of it begging me to fill it up with things I don’t really need. I might even get a lava lamp.
Hot pink. No, orange. Maybe both.
Rachel lands beside me and kicks up her feet. “This will be the best couch ever for having tons of friends over.”
Maybe that’s what my mom doesn’t like about it. She eyes us like she’s imagining the room filled with kegs and shirtless frat guys. Not really my thing, but I don’t remind my mom because it’s kind of funny watching her face turn green.
Rachel seems to have caught on to Mom’s crazy thoughts too, because she leans toward me—obviously fighting a smile—and adds, “Do you think Brett will like it?”
I should hit her, but I laugh instead.
Mom groans and closes the window blinds. “I’m not talking about your furniture. I still don’t like the idea of you living alone. And in the desert, no less.”
“But I’ll be one entire state closer to home than California is,” I say, which is where I lived while filming The First Family. My living arrangements are always a touchy subject. I haven’t lived with my parents for more than a few weeks at a time for over three years. My dad was a professor at the University of Arkansas when I signed on to do The First Family, and since that meant I had to live in Southern California, Dad applied for a job at UCLA. He got what he called an “adequate” offer, but the University of Arkansas didn’t want to lose him, so they counteroffered. A short time later he became a dean.
I ended up living with my aunt and her husband—both architects in Santa Monica—only fifteen minutes from where The First Family filmed. My aunt was protective of me too, but in a less intrusive way than my mom is. I also had an on-set chaperone. But my mom still traveled between Fayetteville and Los Angeles every week or so for the first year, usually with my wild little brothers, Levi and Logan. Then the twins started kindergarten and things got even more complicated for my mom.
It was at about this time that I overheard my parents arguing, my dad telling my mom something like, “We also have two young sons who need our attention. We can’t keep rearranging their lives just so their big sister can be a famous movie star.”
That stung a little.
Dad has a more traditional idea of what a real career should be, so it wasn’t until he looked over the numbers on my new Coyote Hills contract that he started taking his little girl’s dreams a bit more seriously. And because I’m no longer a minor, the paychecks now go directly to me rather than a trust for when I’m older. Still, Dad’s parting words when I left for Arizona were, “Spend wisely, Emma. This business is fickle.”
My first big purchase was this town house, and even Dad agreed that it was a good investment. It smells like wet paint, new carpet, and an apple-cinnamon candle, which Rachel brought along as a housewarming gift. I’d asked her to help me move because I knew three days of shopping and organizing with my mom would likely lead to all sorts of stupid arguments, and Rachel is always a good buffer between us.
Mom has to be here because, according to her, I have no idea what kind of stuff I need to “set up an actual household.
” She also doesn’t want me living out of boxes for the next several months, so we’re trying to get everything put away in its proper place—wherever that is—before the weekend is over. And Mom was the one who got the utilities up and running, like the water, electric, city services, and the security system. She was actually right about me having no clue how to do any of that. But I probably could’ve handled the rest of it.
I jump off the sofa and reopen the blinds to let the sunshine back in.
Immediately out my window is a patch of prickly pear cacti. The plants have round padded leaves with needles that I wouldn’t want to mess with, but they aren’t nearly as impressive as the gigantic arms of the saguaro cactus. Saguaros are everywhere and as big as trees. The landscape here is seriously cool, except for the rocks that are used in place of grass. I’ll miss the smell of a freshly mown lawn.
“I wouldn’t call this place a desert,” I tell my mom. “With all the trees they’ve planted on this property—and the waterfall at the pool—it’s more like an oasis.”
“I suppose,” she replies. “But just so you’re aware, there’s an eight-inch lizard on your front porch.” Mom says this as if it will send me running back to Arkansas. “And look, there’s another one.”
“Then you see? I’ll be fine. I already have friends.”
Rachel joins us at the window, and we all watch the brown gangly creatures scurry over the concrete, going no place in particular.
“Great,” Rachel says. “I’m being replaced by two lizards who eat bugs, can’t talk, and lose a limb whenever you frighten them.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I reply. “But I bet I can teach them to play fetch.”
Rachel puts on a pout. “Then they will become your new best friends, because you know how bad I am at sports.”
“Says the girl who almost won the hula hoop contest in the third grade!” I remind her.
She sighs and leans her head against my shoulder. “Darn that Jenny Perkins and her supernatural hips.”
