Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  “Gosh!” Emma says, but it comes out like gawsh. Talking about her home has brought out a hint of a drawl, and it makes me laugh. “That’s a serious clash of the Titans.”

  The recreation area of her community has a tennis court, a couple of pools under canopies of palm trees—one with a waterfall—and a fitness center. Next, we drive into the residential section, which has part of the river running through it. And …

  “Whoa,” I say. “Is that a running path?”

  “Yep. Nice, huh?”

  It’s more than nice. “How long is it, do you know?”

  “Two miles is what I’ve heard, but I haven’t tried it yet.” Emma shoots her hand out. “Right here. Number sixteen.”

  I pull in front of the Southwest-style town house she points to. “This is huge for just one person,” I say. I’ve spent the past few days looking for a place to live, so I’m getting good at guessing size from the outside. The sooner I get out of my stuffy hotel room, the better. “Does your family live here too?”

  “Nope. I’m on my own. And I love it.”

  I turn my engine off because I want to keep talking. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  Emma’s eyes are instantly brighter. “Seven-year-old twin brothers. My career is sort of on autopilot now, so my mom spends her days shuttling the boys between soccer, baseball, and basketball practices—whatever sport is in season. She has to keep them busy or they’ll destroy the house. They’re a hundred percent trouble, but still adorable.”

  “That’s exactly what my sister says about me.” How can Emma be so normal? Better than normal? “Do you need help with furniture, or boxes, or whatever? I could—”

  “Thanks, but everything’s pretty much done.” She’s already halfway out the door. “And I really appreciate the ride. Hope it didn’t take too much time.”

  “Not at all.”

  She doesn’t reply, just smiles and shuts the door. What am I thinking? Emma Taylor is way out of my league. But I like a challenge.

  She turns back to say good-bye, then stops waving when she notices my license plate. “YA I NO?” She laughs. “As in, ‘Yeah, I know I’m hot’?”

  My friends haunt me wherever I go.

  I lean out my window to say, “It was a stupid joke—a birthday present from my buddies.” My mom thought the idea was so hilarious, she helped them with the online application. “Getting a new plate is at the top of my priority list.”

  Emma walks back to my side of the car, looks down at me with a lingering glimmer of humor in her eyes, and pats my arm. “That’s your top priority, huh? Then what you actually need is a reality check.”

  Definitely a challenge. “I think I just met one.”

  Emma

  Oh, crap … how bad did I flirt with Jake? A lot? Only a little? I close my eyes tightly and pretend I don’t have to ask myself that question. Besides all of my own reasons to keep my distance, Rachel would never forgive me for even thinking about Jake.

  Not like this.

  I collapse onto my sofa and watch my ceiling fan go around and around and around. It was nothing, I finally tell myself. When two people first meet, they kind of joke around, that’s all. And Jake is easy to talk to.

  That’s another thing Rachel will be happy to hear.

  I grab my bag off the floor and fish out my phone. But while I’m thinking through exactly what I’ll say to Rachel, I also find myself zooming in on the details of Jake’s bio. His modeling credits began a little more than two years ago with lesser-known labels, and then designers like Versace and Armani discovered him. With such a red-hot start, why would Jake switch to acting so soon?

  And what was with all the questions? Hardly anyone, especially a guy, ever asks me about school or my family. Jake didn’t even seem superficial about it. He’s both an open book and an intriguing mystery. A mystery I sort of want to figure out.

  Wait … no.

  No. No. No.

  I don’t want to figure him out, because what if I like what I discover? What is wrong with me? Jake belongs in Rachel’s fantasies, not my reality. I send her a text: Are u at home or in public where you might break someone’s eardrums?

  Rachel replies with: Home. WHY?

  There’s no changing my mind now, so I send her the picture of Jake’s bio.

  While waiting for her reaction, I steal a few glances at Jake’s headshots and can’t decide if I should tell Rachel that I was wrong about his lips being digitally enhanced. I already know it would be a bad idea to describe the rest of him.

  My cell rings and I brace myself for hysterical squealing, but all I hear is quick, heavy breaths. “Model ID Hotline,” I answer. “Can I help you?”

  “Em … ma,” Rachel says, still panting. “It’s hiiiimmmm!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How did you get this? I’ve looked everywhere, for anything. This has his name, his height, his weight!” There’s a pause. “Oh my gosh, both of our birthdays are in December! And he’s only one year older than I am! I never would’ve guessed that from his photos.”

  Me either. But Jake has a younger quality about him in person. He lacks the sharp edge of arrogance that’s so common in his magazine ads, which makes him even more attractive.

  “Dang, they didn’t list his e-mail or phone number on here,” Rachel says, instantly devastated. “I wonder if he’s on Facebook. Do you think he tweets?”

  I laugh. “No idea. But … he’s in the cast of Coyote Hills, so I can ask him.”

  That’s when I should’ve known to throw the phone away from my ear.

  “Shut up! Shut up! No way!” Rachel goes on and on until she says she’s dizzy. “What’s he like? Tell me evvverything!”

  It doesn’t matter what I say. I could tell Rachel that Jake has the personality of a boiled potato and smells like sardines, and it wouldn’t change anything. “Well, you were right,” I admit. “He’s actually pretty cool, and he even gave me a stack of headshots for you.”

  Another shriek. “Did he sign them?”

  “Um—” Crap! We got talking and I forgot to have him sign the photos. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted him to write,” I say, already spinning lies. “You know, just your name, or To my favorite fangirl. What do you think?”

  “Oh … that’s a tough one,” Rachel says. “I don’t want The Bod—I mean, Jake—to think I’m psychotic. So I guess you could just have him write Can’t wait to meet you, or whatever. How many did he give you?”

  “Let me see.” I thumb through the photos, and as I count out loud, Rachel’s vocal pitch increases with each number. “Seven,” I finish.

  I slip my favorite headshot inside a side table drawer.

  “Seven? I can’t believe this!”

  Neither can I. Naughty, Emma. I yank open the drawer. “Wait, there’s one more.”

  The jubilation just keeps on coming. For probably fifteen more minutes, Rachel asks questions about Jake, and I try to answer them in the most complete way I can without revealing that I learned most of the information from a private conversation with him in his car.

  I’m desperate to change the subject. “I met Brett today,” I eventually throw in.

  “Who?” Rachel asks. “Oh! Brett Crawford! Did you faint, or what?”

  “Close. I couldn’t even look at him for a while. But he followed me when we had a break, so I had to talk to him. Then things were okay. And after all these years of being gaga over him, it’s nice to know once and for all that the real Brett is totally not my type.”

  “Whatever! He’s like every other guy you’ve ever dated.”

  “Um, duh. That’s my point.”

  “Don’t duh me. Tell me about him.”

  I skip the part when Brett wowed the room during our table read, and instead talk about his immature comments to Kimmi.

  “Okay, so he’s stupid. No shocker,” Rachel says. “But he wasn’t a jerk to you, right?”

  “No. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Of cou
rse it matters, because you already know you’ll eventually date him. How could you not? So you’ve gotta make it clear, right from the start, that you won’t put up with the same crap your other boyfriends gave you.”

  I almost laugh. As if telling a guy not to break your heart—or embarrass you in front of the entire world—would actually make him think twice about it. “Brett doesn’t date his costars, anyway,” I reply. “He straight out told me that today.”

  “But, Emma,” Rachel says, her tone sweeter now, “if anyone can change his mind, it’s you. And Brett’s gotta be interested if he followed you around. So I honestly think if you just turn on your charm, he’ll become whoever you want him to be.”

  She reads too many trashy romance novels. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, my friend, but I’m not interested in a makeover project.”

  Rachel sighs. “Fine. Then just promise that you’ll find another date for when I come out for the premiere. Don’t you think it would be so much fun to double?”

  “To … what?”

  “Double date, of course!” she says. “ ’Cause you’ve gotta set me up with The Bod, right? Please, please, please! You have to!” I am dead silent, but Rachel doesn’t wait for my answer before she continues. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be a date to the premiere—I don’t want him to feel weird about introducing me on the red carpet and stuff. But sometime that weekend would be perfect!” She squeals. “Oh my gosh! What if we, like, totally fall in love?”

  Yeah, seriously. What if …

  “Um, don’t be mad at me, okay?” I finally reply. “But I just barely met Jake, so I should probably get to know him a little better before I ask him if he’ll take you out.”

  Rachel is the one who’s quiet now. Then, “Please don’t put it that way. Say something more like, ‘My best friend is coming out for the premiere and I know you’ll love her.’ ”

  “But he could have a girlfriend. I have no idea.” Maybe he does. Jake sort of dropped a hint that he was interested in me, but … now that I think of it, he could’ve been curious about dating any castmate, not me in particular. “Or worse, maybe he’s a player,” I tell Rachel. “Don’t you want me to figure that out first?”

  “He didn’t say he has a girlfriend, did he?” There’s panic in her voice. “And you said that he’s way cool, so why would you think he’s a player?”

  There’s no possible way to talk her out of this. “Just give me enough time to scratch ‘serial killer’ off the list, okay?”

  Rachel laughs … kind of. It’s the nervous giggle she does when something isn’t quite right. “I guess so. Just don’t get to know Jake too well,” she says. “You’ve always had that wicked little way of stealing a guy’s attention from me.”

  “Oh, ha-ha-ha.” A rock grows in my throat and drops to the pit of my stomach. “That hasn’t happened since junior high.”

  “Maybe,” she replies. “But only because we haven’t hung out with the same guys since then. And remember, The Bod is all mine, so don’t you dare forget it.”

  I couldn’t if I wanted to.

  Jake

  “Well, that was quick,” the manager of Sabino Haven says as he hands over the key to my new condo. He probably thinks I’m leasing it on a whim, but I’ve already checked out plenty of other options, so this was an easy decision. “I don’t get a lot of young kids looking for two-bedroom, wheelchair-accessible units,” the guy adds with a smile. “But that’s real thoughtful of you to consider visits from your mom. When are you moving in?”

  “Soon, I hope.” Most of my days away from the studio are already booked for the next few months because I’m still contracted for ten or so modeling jobs in New York. But I’m trying to free up a weekend to move my stuff down from Phoenix. “I’ll at least have some furniture delivered this week.”

  “Sounds good,” the manager says as he files away my lease papers. “And for marketing purposes, we’d like to know how you found us.”

  I gesture out the window. “I was dropping off a friend at Paraiso del Rio when the running path caught my attention.” Living right down the road from Emma might make her question my motives, but Sabino Canyon feels like a private island, and I need somewhere to run. Treadmills do nothing for me. “I have to keep in shape for my job.”

  The manager pats his round belly. “A lot of good the path’s done me, but you’ll enjoy it. It follows the river through several attached communities, all secure.” He joins me at the window where the setting sun paints the sandstone courtyard with orange and gold, and a giant saguaro cactus stands like a bouncer at the entrance. “Not bad, huh?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Brett calls after I leave my new place to make sure I’ll be at the dinner. He says McGregor tore into him for harassing Kimmi today—making her even harder to deal with—so Brett asked for all of our numbers, and this is his attempt at playing nice.

  McGregor also told Brett that El Loro Feliz has the best Mexican food around. That’s really saying something in Tucson, where a cantina can be found on just about every city block. And it’s a good thing the place came with such a high recommendation because the inside looks more like a cheap tie-dyed T-shirt—red, yellow, and green—than a restaurant. The scattered plastic flowers don’t help much, and the stuffed animal parrots are as cheesy as it gets. But the combined aromas of hot, handmade tortillas, sizzling fajitas, and fresh salsa …

  They have me at hola.

  I can’t see Brett from where I stand at the entrance, but with a crowd in one corner it isn’t hard to guess where he is. I hang back until all but one girl clears out. Her mom is taking pictures of her sitting next to Brett in a semicircular booth. His arm is around the girl.

  “Hannah will be a senior this year,” the mom says. Brett’s grin grows even wider when the stick-skinny redhead leans closer. Her mom snaps another shot with her phone. “And she just dumped her boyfriend because he needs to grow up. Hannah is very mature for her age.”

  I sit on the opposite side of the table, watching for signs that this lady’s shameless marketing of her daughter comes off as disgusting to Brett as it does to me. But he just smiles and takes it all in; Brett is probably the president of his own fan club. “Okay, gotta do some guy talk now,” he finally says, dropping the hint like an anvil. “It was cool to meet you, Heidi.”

  “Hannah,” both the mom and daughter correct him, giggling. They compare autographed napkins as they walk off.

  “Dude,” I tell Brett, “you need help.”

  “You volunteering?” His hand shoots up. “Kimmi!”

  The whole place turns to see who Brett yelled at, and most keep watching as Kimmi slinks toward us. She’s wearing an even shorter skirt now, with a silver sequined top and a different pair of stilettos. Strings of diamonds hang from her ears. “I told you it was casual!” Brett says when she reaches our table. “You look … sparkly! Great, I mean.”

  “Save it.” Kimmi motions for Brett to move so she can sit between us in the booth. I need to remember to stand first when Emma shows up, so she’ll sit next to me instead of Brett.

  Did I just come up with a plan to get a girl to sit by me? What am I, twelve years old? I grab a plastic pitcher from the table and pour myself a tall glass of water.

  “I’m sorry about today, all right,” Brett tells Kimmi. “You just … made me look stupid. In front of the entire crew.”

  “You made me look like trash!” Kimmi snarls. “Everyone knows you only hook up with bimbos. You couldn’t get another type of girl if your life depended on it.”

  Brett appears genuinely offended and is dumb enough to turn to me for backup. I shrug at him. “Sorry, man. I’ve only known you for a day and you’ve already convinced me that you’re all charm and no finesse. And cheap swagger gets you cheap girls.”

  “Exactly,” Kimmi says, flipping her menu open. A waitress had dropped off menus and water during Brett’s fan frenzy, but since then she’s been huddled with three other waitresses, doing
little more than glancing over their shoulders at our table. “And sorry to disappoint, but there are a few females left in this world who have some self-respect.”

  Brett’s eyes flicker between us. “You guys are seriously messed up if you think I have a problem picking up women. Or even …” He thinks for a sec. “Or even good girls, okay? Whenever I want to.”

  Kimmi’s attention turns to the waitress heading for our table with bowls of chips and salsa. “Jake,” she says, “show Brett what you mean by finesse. Get her number, without asking.”

  “No way,” I reply. “I don’t flirt on demand.”

  Brett laughs. “C’mon, dude. Let’s see whatcha got.”

  I don’t have time to answer before the waitress, different from the one who brought us menus, is at our table. “I need a Diet Coke,” Kimmi tells her. “Light on the ice. With a straw.”

  “Sure.” The girl looks at Brett and gives him a starstruck smile, but then she gives me a double take. I feel a little smug about that. Just a little. “How are you guys doing tonight?”

  “You already asked me that,” Brett says, attaching his famous laugh. “I’m still doing great—as always.”

  The waitress points to her name tag. “I’m Tara. Nikki was the waitress you met earlier.”

  “Oops! My bad,” Brett says. The other waitress is about six inches taller than Tara, and her hair is six inches shorter. But both are in the blond category, so I guess that can be kinda confusing for a guy who goes through girls like breath mints. “I should’ve taken a closer look at your name tag,” Brett adds, his attention obviously drifting lower than where Tara had pointed.

  This guy needs serious intervention. Maybe I should show him a thing or two.

  The waitress takes half a step back, her expression clearly saying, Slow down, perv. “Anyway … I’m a big fan,” Tara says. “We all are, so we drew straws for your table.”