Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  Kimmi emerges from a hallway, and even with all the noise, I can still hear her heels clicking on the concrete floor. “Good morning, Miss Weston,” says the PA who’s stationed at the entrance. She walks right past him, and he follows. “I just need to give you a name tag.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Kimmi says, as if he’s asked her to put on Mickey Mouse ears. She’s almost as hot as she thinks she is—shaped like a runway model, smoky brown eyes, flawless face—but the prima donna thing is always a deal killer for me. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder top, light pink with rhinestones, a tight black miniskirt, and stilettos, also with rhinestones. Also deal killers.

  Brett turns around in his chair for a better look. “I think I know her,” he says as Kimmi gets closer. When she finally stops in front of us and poses with a hand on her hip, Brett stands and opens his arms as though he’s inviting her into a hug. “Hey, it’s been a while!”

  Kimmi’s tight smile loosens, and she looks back at him, confused. “Sorry, but I—”

  “The Hard Rock Hotel. Vegas. Remember?” Brett prompts her, followed by a grin filled with mischief. “We met in the hot tub. Just the two of us … it was a great night.”

  Yeah, clearly unforgettable, judging by Kimmi’s narrowed eyes.

  “What?” Her scorching glare shifts from Brett to the crew members who have stopped in their tracks after his bold announcement. They practically trip over each other as they get back to work. “I’ve never met you before,” Kimmi tells Brett. “Let alone in a hot tub.”

  She seems not only humiliated by Brett’s suggestion, but insulted. Brett, however, just appears stumped. “Are you sure?” He pauses, giving her a completely shameless full-body scan. “Huh. Maybe I just recognize you from your headshot in McGregor’s office.”

  “Ya think?” Kimmi snaps. She glances around again like she’s hoping the previous crew members are still close enough to hear this part of their conversation. But they’re not.

  Brett throws his hands in the air. “Jeez! It was a simple mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “Great. Then stop looking me over like that. It will never happen, got it?”

  “Well, it’s not like I was hitting on you anyway. So … whatever.”

  Kimmi doesn’t reply. She just settles into her cast chair, to my right, then flips her highlighted hair to her other shoulder and starts digging through her Fendi handbag. “I hope you’re at least more civilized than Brett,” she tells me. “As in, not an ape.”

  I scratch my head, apelike. “Depends on who you ask.”

  Brett folds his arms. “Kimmi, Jake probably won’t be interested in you either—not when the only curve on your body is your turned-up nose. But there’s help for that, you know.”

  When Kimmi raises her head, she looks dangerous enough to pound Brett into dust. “Thanks for the suggestion,” she says. “But I don’t take advice from Hollywood has-beens.”

  Color seeps over Brett’s neck. “Just offering my professional opinion.”

  This guy is begging for a harassment charge.

  “Dude, are you on something,” I ask, “or are you just naturally this stupid?”

  He sits on the other side of Kimmi and grins at her. “Born this way. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s sad that you were born at all,” she replies, and I laugh.

  This girl can take care of herself.

  McGregor’s booming voice is behind us now. “Ah, Miss Taylor,” he says, causing everyone to look. “So sorry about the confusion this morning. It won’t happen again.”

  “It was actually my fault. My car got delayed in shipping, and I forgot to …,” Emma replies, and everything else is a blur. Whoa. Cameras don’t do her justice—I can see the color of her famous cobalt-blue eyes even from here. She’s in a white shirt, scoop-necked and kinda lacy, and tight jeans. Her dark wavy hair pours over her shoulders like hot fudge on a sundae.

  I think of my poor friends in Phoenix who would sell their souls to get within a hundred feet of Emma Taylor, and here I am, within ten … nine … eight …

  She stops dead still, stares right back at me, and then gasps.

  “Hi,” I say. At least I think I do.

  Emma keeps her eyes locked on mine and laughs. Laughs. “No. Freaking. WAY!” she says before coming around the row of chairs to sit to my left, her shoulders still shaking as she tries to calm down. “Sorry! I … you! … No … freaking …” She can’t even finish.

  “Way,” I add, wondering what I have on my face that’s so darn funny to look at. “You already said that.”

  Kimmi’s hand moves to my knee, and she peeks around me to tell Emma, “I take it you guys already know each other. You hooked up in a hot tub too, huh?”

  Emma stops laughing instantly.

  “No!” she yelps, more to me than to Kimmi. Her face is bright red, and mine is probably the same color, because now I can’t help but imagine myself in a hot tub with her. “We just … have a mutual friend,” she goes on. “That’s all.”

  “We do?”

  Emma doesn’t answer. Instead, she asks Kimmi, “Who said I was in a hot tub with him?”

  Brett leans forward. “No, no, Emma. Don’t worry. Kimmi’s confused. I told her it was you and I who hooked up in a hot tub, but she’s jealous, so …”

  He appears to have noticed that Emma has gone from red to purple and is no longer breathing. Brett jumps up from his chair and in half a second, he’s on a knee in front of her. “I’m joking!” he says, grabbing both of her hands. “I just thought I’d have a little fun with you.”

  “Because he has a little fun with everyone,” Kimmi mutters.

  Brett whips his head to her. “By any chance, do you have an off button?”

  Emma slides her hands slowly out of Brett’s grip. Then she looks back to me. “What exactly is going on here?”

  “No clue,” I reply with a shrug. “But I think it’s safe to say that none of us have spent any time together in a hot tub.”

  She smiles. “Thank you! What a relief.”

  Brett notices that McGregor is heading back, then latches onto Emma’s shoulders and says, “I can’t believe we haven’t met before. We have a million of the same friends, so we’ve gotta talk. I started following you on Twitter last night—did you see that?”

  Emma just nods at him, looking a little shaken again. But why?

  McGregor is in front of us now, grinning like a kid in a toy store. “Splendid! You’ve all met. What do you think of your new castmates?”

  If Kimmi were a cartoon character, she’d have steam billowing from her ears, but she says nothing. Emma and I keep quiet too. Brett has plenty to say, though. “I can’t stand her,” he tells McGregor, pointing to Kimmi. “But the other two are cool. Can’t wait to work with them.”

  McGregor’s grin doesn’t budge. “All right then. Moving on!”

  Emma

  It would have been the best moment ever if Rachel had walked into the studio with me this morning to find Jake “The Bod” Elliott sitting in a cast chair, instead of being lovingly taped to her wall where he’s supposed to be.

  My mom had received the e-mail announcing the casting of the last male lead, but she’d said it was someone else who—like Kimmi—was new to major productions. I was still curious of course, but with everything I had to do to get ready to move here, and then unpacking, catching up on homework, and studying the first script for Coyote Hills, going online to search for the name Jake Elliott slipped my mind.

  It will probably be a while until I can call Rachel, but she’s gonna flip!

  I’m dying to talk to her about Brett too, who—despite my best efforts to desensitize myself over the past few weeks—still made me light-headed when we met. And he’s impossible to avoid. At the end of a studio tour, we enter a production room for our first table read, and McGregor instructs Brett to sit right next to me.

  I can’t put a complete sentence together.

  I’m learning quickly that sudde
n stupidity is a pretty crappy thing to happen to you in front of the producers, directors, network execs, department heads, writers, and the entire cast—almost all of whom have smaller paychecks than I do and are likely wondering how a tongue-twisted airhead like me even got hired.

  But it’s Brett’s fault that my brain is on vacation today. He won’t stop talking to me.

  It doesn’t help that he’s even more gorgeous in person: his eyes really are as blue as the Pacific Ocean, his hair is currently my favorite color of blond—as if the sun loves him so much that it decided to live in his hair—and his ever-changing facial expressions are beyond adorable. But why can’t he just jump back into my dreams and stay there?

  No more Hollywood guys, I remind myself. It always ends badly. Always.

  Four long tables are arranged in a square, with twenty or so people around the outsides and about that many more scattered throughout the room. The first table read for a new series is a big deal, and just about everyone who plays a major part in the production is here. This is a chance for the powers-that-be to get a feel for how the actors plan to approach their characters, as well as an opportunity to get to know one another.

  Kimmi looks over the variety of breakfast drinks—milk, juice, teas, coffee, and water—along with the fruit and pastry platters on the tables. She wrinkles her nose before turning to the first person she sees without a chair. “I need a Diet Coke,” she says.

  The guy, who is wearing a first assistant director name tag that Kimmi should be able to see as clearly as the rest of us, just stares at her a moment before leaving the room. First ADs don’t typically go after Diet Cokes. On set, they’re second in command. But Tyler returns with a Diet Coke anyway, and when McGregor notices this, he appears to be gritting his teeth. “It’s time for official introductions,” he finally says.

  Once we’ve learned names and titles, McGregor asks everyone to open the binders in front of us and read the first two pages of the script for the first episode, just to ourselves. It’s been revised a bit from the version I’ve been studying, but that’s usually the case.

  FADE IN:

  INT. EDEN’S BEDROOM — DAY

  Music blasting, we see EDEN as she slowly zips a black leather boot past her knee. Her pleated skirt is still inches higher. She looks into a full-length mirror and likes what she sees. Her father, CAL, walks past her open bedroom door, backs up, and stops.

  CAL

  There’s still a dress code, Eden. Even for juniors.

  Eden smiles at the mirror again and unbuttons one more button on her shirt.

  EDEN

  Uh-huh.

  CAL

  It’s the first day of school, and you already don’t care if you’re sent home again?

  Eden stuffs her makeup, a brush, and a single notebook into a large Louis Vuitton bag. Then she plants a kiss on her father’s cheek as she passes him in the doorway.

  EDEN

  I’m counting on it. There’s a one-day sale at Saks.

  Cal’s troubled eyes follow his princess down the hall.

  INT. COYOTE HILLS HIGH — CHRONICLE OFFICE — DAY

  The new student editor of The Coyote Hills Chronicle, BRYCE, sits eagerly in a chair, organizing his desk. He lines up, perfectly, a row of No. 2 pencils, then spots a silver paper clip that is out of place. He moves it to the appropriate paper clip compartment, one of three, sorted according to size. The workspace is all but sterile. Bryce looks everything over and smiles. Both a butt and a backpack land on his desk.

  JUSTIN

  I hear you get to boss me around this year.

  Justin bites into a slice of buttered toast. Bryce brushes off the crumbs that fall on his desk.

  BRYCE

  You’re the only one who volunteered to write the sports section. So, yeah, I guess we’re stuck with each other.

  Noticing Bryce’s reaction to the crumbs, Justin laughs and takes another messy bite of toast.

  JUSTIN

  (while he chews)

  It’s gonna be great, man.

  EXT. COYOTE HILLS HIGH — FRONT STEPS — DAY

  We see the inside of a large cardboard box. It’s empty. ZOOM OUT: reveal KASSIDY standing above it, forcing a smile. In handwritten block letters, the front of the box says PLEASE DONATE YOUR EXTRA SCHOOL SUPPLIES TO NEEDY CHILDREN. STUDENTS walk by, ignoring her.

  KASSIDY

  Um . . . anything would help, guys.

  Kassidy hears a small thud below her. She looks down, excited, only to find a used, stubby pencil.

  KASSIDY

  All right. I guess that’s a start.

  The ripping of paper from a spiral notebook makes Kassidy look up again. A single sheet floats down into the box. Written in the center of the paper is a giant L.

  Kimmi is first to speak. “Kassidy should at least flip someone off as they walk away. Seriously, who will even relate to her? A noble do-gooder? People like that have been extinct since the Middle Ages.”

  “Interesting observation, Miss Weston,” says McGregor. “Can I hear some other opinions about Kassidy? I allow myself only two pages of a script to hook the audience and introduce them to the characters. So tell me, what have you already learned?”

  Brett leans forward in his chair. “As that paper pointed out, Kimmi—or, uh, Kassidy—is a loser with a capital L. At least that’s what everyone else thinks of her.”

  “Indeed,” McGregor replies. “Mr. Elliott?”

  At the mention of his name, Jake freezes and only his eyes move as he glances around the room. Yep, everyone is staring at him—just about every female in the studio, no matter her age, has been staring all morning. I’ve even caught myself doing it a few times.

  I was wrong about his lips being airbrushed. Exactly as he is, Jake doesn’t need a single pixel of digital enhancement. In fact, the combination of his dark brown hair, perfectly tanned skin, and jewel-like green eyes is nothing short of astonishing. Rachel will hit her head on the ceiling when I tell her that the 3-D version of The Bod is somehow, impossibly, even better. I mean, he’s showing a lot less skin right now than usual, but still …

  “Are you giggling?” Brett asks me.

  I’m the one who freezes now. I guess I was giggling a little, thinking about delivering the news about Jake to Rachel.

  But “Er, what?” is how I reply to Brett, because that’s how girls who suddenly turn stupid talk. “Um, kinda?”

  Jake answers McGregor. “Well, even on her first day of school, which might make another girl self-conscious or whatever, Kassidy is actually thinking about other, less fortunate people. So she’s probably been into this peace, love, and happiness stuff for a while.”

  Huh. That’s a smart observation. Could our Adonis actually have a brain too? He shrugs, and I notice the muscles on his neck and shoulders tensing. Probably not.

  “You know, like she does charity work a lot,” Jake says.

  “Correct,” McGregor replies. “And Miss Taylor?”

  I realize I’m totally staring at Jake again, so I whip my head back to the producers’ table. “Me? Yeah, sure. I love charity work. In fact, I’m starting my own foundation.”

  Someone puts his hand on my back and breathes into my ear. “He’s still talking about Kimmi’s character, not about you.”

  I turn to find Brett so close that our noses almost touch. I jerk away from him, and everyone laughs.

  “Sorry!” Brett says. “I kinda have a problem with personal space. I ignore it.”

  My face feels like it must be fluorescent red—as in, glow in the dark. So much for making a grand announcement about the charity foundation I’ve been working on. The only problem is, I haven’t come up with any unique ideas for what the foundation will support. There are plenty of worthy causes, but I want to do something that matters to me personally.

  The most obvious choice, of course, is opening up a place called The Emma Taylor Center for Chronic Crush Detox. I can’t possibly be the only girl in the world who keeps fall
ing for guys who are just short of lethal, can I?

  “Save the butterfly kisses for after work,” Kimmi says, making me want to throw something at her. She’s across the room, next to Jake, but I’ve been told I have a pretty good arm. “We need to fix my character,” she goes on. “As I’ve expressed before, Kassidy needs more dimension. I’ll be typecast for life if I play a friendless dweeb destined for the Peace Corps.”

  Everyone at the writing team table looks at one another, and McGregor chuckles. “That’s one plotline we had yet to think of, Miss Weston. Thank you. I believe we’ll have Kassidy try to save the dolphins as well. And while she’s at it, a few gorillas.”

  “Oh yes, please do,” Kimmi replies. “And don’t forget to give me at least a dozen scenes where I can wrap my body around a tree.”

  “I hope she keeps talking,” Brett whispers, motioning to the writers’ table where pens are now dancing like happy little muses, taking notes. I just nod and gulp, because Brett keeps touching me—and his lips are, like, an inch away. “She’s only digging a hole for herself.”

  His breath is warm and smells like peppermint Altoids.

  “But Kassidy was forcing that smile, right?” I blurt out, trying to distract myself. “Which could mean she isn’t entirely comfortable standing there with that donation box, but she’s doing it anyway. That could say more about her than anything else.”

  “Because she has a higher purpose than the rest of the high school scum,” Kimmi adds.

  “Perhaps she does,” McGregor says. “She might even be the most important character on the show. Only time will tell.”

  Brett holds up a hand as if he’s thought of something brilliant. “Or, Kassidy could turn out to be just as cliché as the actress who plays her. Resident diva, mean girl, ex-cheerleader who’s stuck in her long-lost glory days. You name it.”

  “I was never a cheerleader!” Kimmi snaps.

  She draws a sharp breath, poised to continue, but McGregor clears his throat and turns to Brett. “Mr. Crawford, cliché is the arsenic of television. Certainly you aren’t meaning to imply that I’ve hired dull, predictable actors. If that were the case, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”