Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  “Oh, who cares?” Dad says. “Trina is a loon. The last time I saw that woman, she was wearing a rhinestone-studded tank top. With matching boots.”

  I wait through another minute or so of my mom explaining to my dad all the problems I’ve just created. Then Dad tells Mom something about Jake being very polite and sounding smart when they talked a couple of months ago, and Mom says she has to leave and pick up the boys. “Okay, thanks for calling!” I half laugh to her because I think she’s forgotten that I’m still on the phone.

  At least Dad is on my side … which makes me think he might understand about something else too. I wait until I hear my mom close the office door, then say, “Hey, Dad, I need your advice.”

  I picture his ears perking up. He takes the phone off speaker. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Well, I … need to hire a new manager.”

  Silence. “To replace your mother?”

  “No. To replace my manager,” I say. “Mom and I rarely talk about anything but business anymore—you saw what just happened. Jake is a personal matter, and the type of guy any mother would want her daughter to date, but Mom immediately turned him into a PR disaster. And this sort of stuff is pretty much a daily issue.”

  “Right. I’ve definitely noticed the tension and have been thinking this through for a while now,” Dad replies. “I’m just not sure you understand your mother’s viewpoint. Or mine, for that matter. We allowed you to enter a very grown-up world at just twelve years old. There was a lot we felt we had to protect you from early on, and we knew your mom was the only one who could do that. And yes, she’s been rather aggressive. But in our eyes, Emma, you’re still our little girl. We haven’t been around to witness you growing into the young woman we only get to see every once in a while. So continuing to have control over your career might just be your mother’s way of holding on to that small bit of your childhood we still have left.”

  Is he really telling me to keep her as my manager? “But—”

  “But,” Dad interrupts, “you’re right. It’s time for her to let you go. Let you take charge of your career, and your life. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  I’m not so sure about that. “Thanks. I think I should be the one to do it, though. I guess I just wanted … your blessing?”

  “You have it. And I like this Jake guy too.”

  “He’ll be happy to hear that!” We say good-bye, and I return to my town house.

  Rachel is wrapped in her robe and sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in. She’s flipping through a binder and looks up with a huge grin.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she says, and lifts the binder so I can see the cover. There’s a photo of the orange-sorbet sunset I remember from when she helped me move into my town house, and The Emma Taylor Foundation is printed in beautiful scrolling letters across it. “I know the foundation doesn’t have an official name yet, so I just put that. But here you go!”

  I open the thick binder to find page after page of material from at least fifty fund-raising events. “This is amazing!” I say. “It must’ve taken you forever!”

  Rachel shrugs. “Three or four days. I wanted to make up for putting it off for so long. There are some really great ideas, though.”

  “I’m sure there is! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I set the binder down and hug her so tightly she’s afraid I’ll squeeze her guts out.

  While Donna and Madelyn primp us for the premiere, we tell them about the fun we had growing up together, and how we once turned the sidewalk in front of Rachel’s house into the Hollywood Walk of Fame. We spray painted silver stars on thirty or so sections of concrete, then wrote our names with black permanent marker on each one of them.

  We had to scrub that sidewalk for weeks.

  Once our hair and makeup is done, we change into our dresses. Rachel’s golden hair is long and curly, which goes perfectly with the elegant gown she’s wearing—flowing layers of indigo-blue chiffon. I’m glad she chose this dress after all. I wore it to a New Year’s gala and felt like a princess. Tonight, I don’t feel like a princess at all; I feel unusually grown-up in a crimson sheath by Valentino.

  Except for the knee-high slit in the front, my dress clings to every curve of my body. The back is open all the way down to my waist, joined by only a pair of thin laces. The front covers quite a bit more, thank heaven, but with my hair off my bare shoulders, there’s a lot more exposed skin than I’m typically comfortable with. Still, I feel pretty.

  Rachel has taken photos of us at every stage and has live tweeted all day, so #CoyoteHills is trending big time. McGregor will be so proud. But I momentarily freak out when Rachel posts a picture of me in my dress, and within minutes, this tweet shows up that tags both of us:

  Kimmi Weston @SoooooOverIt

  Excited to wear matching dresses with my #BFF

  @EmmaTayAllDay! #twinners #psych

  (@Crazy4Hollywood—she freaked for a sec, didn’t she? lol)

  I laugh and tell Rachel, “Who would’ve guessed? Kimmi has a sense of humor!”

  Rachel turns from my full-length mirror, her eyes wild with panic. “That’s great, but I need you to focus now. I only have one chance to make this first impression, and I look awful.”

  “No you don’t!” I reply. “You’re gorgeous. And you’re a natural star, Rachel, so just enjoy tonight. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Tears are pooling in the corners of her eyes, but she nods. “I’m just so nervous.”

  I’ve forbidden myself from feeling guilt this weekend, but I’m consumed by it right now. What could I have done differently? Been honest from the first day I met Jake? Said, “Hey, Rach, you know that Bod guy? You’re right, he’s amazing. Can I have him?”

  Rachel gets excited again as a limo takes us to The Sonoran Events Center, but the moment we pull up to the red carpet, she digs her nails into my arm. “Emma! He’s standing right by your door! I can’t …” She starts hyperventilating, gathering only enough air to tell the limo driver, “Hit the locks!” And the doors click.

  But Jake already knows it’s us—our limo is scheduled to arrive last—so he tries to open my door. I take Rachel’s hand. “You’ll be fine,” I say, attempting a soothing voice. “Jake is just a regular guy.” Her face is as white as the teeth she’s now gritting. I search for anything to prove my point and stop her panic attack. “In fact, he’s absolutely disgusting sometimes. Just last week he had a belching contest with Brett, and Jake burped the entire alphabet.”

  Rachel recoils like she’s swallowed a slug. “Eww!”

  Yep, that does the trick. But she’ll likely stop breathing again once she gets a better look at Jake in his Armani suit. I can hardly breathe myself.

  I give Rachel’s hand a squeeze. “He won’t have much time to talk, but don’t take it personally. He has to do all the red carpet stuff. So just say hi, then come find me.”

  I unlock my door, and Jake opens it. We’re surrounded by throngs of fans, reporters, and photographers lining the red carpet—flashes everywhere. But once I step out, his eyes sweep down my dress anyway, and he whispers, “A new and improved way to torture me?”

  My mouth smiles on its own. “Would you please help Rachel out too?”

  He only nods.

  I want to peek when he meets Rachel, but a StarTV reporter—who I happen to dislike quite a lot—approaches me, and I have to turn on my publicity personality. “Oh, hi!” I say, adding an air-kiss as she swoops in for a hug. “It’s so nice to see you.”

  Her StarTV cameraman is also someone I don’t trust. He’s known for getting his video footage as unethically as he can get away with, and the only reason he isn’t considered to be as scummy as regular paparazzi is because he works for a legitimate network.

  Rachel joins me a few minutes later, and I introduce her as my best friend, as well as the one to watch on the upcoming season of Stars in Their Eyes. After a while, she catches another glimpse of Jake across the red carpet. “You said The Bod lo
oks the same in real life as he does in photos, but he doesn’t,” she whispers. “I mean, is that shirt and jacket really necessary?”

  We both laugh. Forgive me, Rachel. Please.

  Walking the red carpet is always awesome. I’m used to the work itself, on set, but the glamour side of stardom never feels even close to normal.

  Six years of this, and I still can’t believe it’s happening to me.

  Hundreds of people are crowded along the red velvet ropes, many screaming, waving, holding out objects, or even arms, for autographs. Others just smile, happy to be here like I am.

  The first episode is thrilling to watch—as usual, it seems like a miracle that all of those bits and pieces we filmed came together to create not only a cohesive story, but compelling entertainment—and the audience is totally into it. Jake looks so unbelievably gorgeous on the big screen that, once again, I find myself wondering if he escaped from Mount Olympus to play this part. And his acting is equal to anyone else’s on the show. His comedic timing is perfect, and Jake’s more serious moments make me wish he was sitting next to me so I could lean over and whisper, “You’re brilliant. You amaze me.”

  I’m hoping I can sneak away to say hello to Mark, Devin, and Sophie, and especially Jake’s mom. I want to ask her how it went when she delivered the quilt we finished to her rehabilitation center.

  As we walk into the ballroom for the after party, Rachel asks me, “Why is Jake’s mom in a wheelchair? Do you know what happened?”

  I’m searching for a way to answer when Sophie notices us, comes running, and throws her arms around me. I almost tip over in my heels. “I hope it’s okay if we’re on a hugging basis now,” she says. “I have a big surprise for you: Devin and Mark and I want to be your first foundation volunteers! We’ve even talked about starting a campaign for it on campus—I bet we can get a ton of students to sign up. What do you think?”

  I pull back from her, stunned. “Really? Yes, definitely. Thank you!”

  “No problem!” she says. “We can’t wait. We’re starting this week, by the way, with Jake’s mom. We do things here and there for her, anyway, whenever Jake asks us to run over. But we’re getting more organized about it now. Like, Mark is going to take her trash out Wednesday mornings, then Devin will bring it in that night. And they’re both in charge of keeping her yard in good shape. And I’m going to quilt with her every Tuesday afternoon.”

  I can’t even speak because I’m so choked up with gratitude. I just keep smiling, nodding, and hugging her. And then I come to my senses again and recall that Rachel is standing next to me, and now giving me a very strange look.

  “Oh, you’re one of Jake’s friends?” she turns to ask Sophie. “And he told you about Emma’s foundation?”

  Sophie starts to speak, but then her eyes widen and she looks to me instead. I can almost hear the question she’s holding back: Why doesn’t your best friend know that you hung out with us in Phoenix? And then it seems to hit her—Rachel is Jake’s date for tomorrow.

  “Uh, yeah,” Sophie tells her. “Exactly. I guess the whole cast is getting in on it. Everyone wants to help out as much as they can.”

  “Of course they do. Everyone always wants to help Emma.” For some reason, the way Rachel says this doesn’t sound like a compliment. “But I didn’t know that Jake was—”

  “This is my best friend, Rachel!” I barge in, with all the grace of a socially challenged hippo. “She made an entire binder for me filled with ideas for fund-raising events. And she’ll also be on the new season of Stars in Their Eyes!”

  This changes both the topic and energy quickly, and Sophie and Rachel talk for at least fifteen minutes while I pretty much just stand there, smiling and holding my breath.

  The live band is on the other side of the ballroom, drawing most of the crowd. Kimmi is here with a few of her friends, but I haven’t noticed any of her family members. She seems perfectly happy tonight though, and was full-out grinning when the press junket material made it to the public a few days back, using words such as “charming” and “easygoing” to describe Kimmi during interviews.

  Jake isn’t too far from me, and it’s hard to resist running over. I want to dance with him, and sappy or not, I wish we could just hold hands and walk around together.

  Sophie nudges my arm. “You’ve got to introduce me to Brett!” she says. “He’s coming over here! And … whoa! That’s Payton Wilson! And …” As Brett and his wolf pack approach—some of them more notorious than anyone we’ve hung out with in L.A.—Sophie and Rachel take turns naming each one.

  Hardly knowing each other, but neither seeming to mind, Rachel and Sophie grip hands and jump behind me, all giggles, like little girls standing in line for cotton candy. I’m tempted to ask Rachel if she’s forgotten entirely about Jake, but would rather not remind her.

  “Fair warning—they’re wrecked,” Brett says, reaching us a few steps ahead of his buddies. The lights are just bright enough to see that his friends have obviously had their own party before they joined this one. I’d noticed about a dozen empty seats around Brett during the premiere and figured they must’ve been saved for the friends he invited, who never came. His parents were with him then—he introduced us on the red carpet—but they hurried off after the screening to catch a flight to Rome. And then these guys finally decided to show up.

  It takes forever to introduce everyone, mostly because the boys are drunk and the girls are unbearably starstruck. I want to pour buckets of ice over everyone’s heads. Never mind that the guys are slurring half of their words, can’t Rachel and Sophie smell the alcohol that’s practically seeping through their pores?

  Rachel finally asks why Brett’s friends missed the premiere. “Happy hour at Crazy Pete’s!” Payton says, and both Rachel and Sophie continue to be mesmerized by his every word. Hollywood’s Hottest Bachelor is barely standing, but hey, he’s still talking to them. “There are some seriously wild girls in Tucson! And after we showed up, they all called their friends, and things got awesome!”

  “They tried to get everyone in here,” Brett tells me. “But go figure, not one of the thirty girls was on the guest list.” He seems truly embarrassed by the state of his friends. Or maybe Brett is just bummed that he missed the real party. “Unfortunately, these guys were.”

  I laugh. “I wonder who invited them.”

  They’re lucky that only studio photographers are allowed into the party, for better control over which photos make it to the press. This behavior isn’t all that unusual for most of them, I suppose, but it surprises me to see Payton like this. He’s a pretty solid guy on most occasions.

  Brett’s friends dance like lunatics and hang all over us, and more than a few grab my butt, so ten minutes into it, I want to shower. Rachel is having a blast, though, and still forgetting about Jake. After Sophie and Brett dance for a while, Rachel ends up with Brett. I’m just a few feet away, trying to provide a buffer between Sophie and a couple of creeps who could be big trouble if she isn’t careful.

  Rachel turns from Brett to tell me, “No wonder you’re in love! He’s so cute.”

  “Rachel!” I say, loud and rude, but she had been even louder.

  Brett is still just on the other side of her, so I crane my neck to see if he heard what she said, but he’s facing away from me, so I can’t tell. “What’s wrong with you?” Rachel snaps.

  “I’m not in love with Brett,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “You know that.”

  “Jeez, get a grip,” she says. “I was joking.”

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Brett’s face is suddenly between us. “What’s the deal with Jake? He just swept in, grabbed Sophie, and took off.”

  Had Jake heard what Rachel said? I hadn’t even noticed him.

  Rachel whirls around and screeches, “Emma, he’s dancing with Sophie!” She spins back. “And I was being nice to her. What a wench!”

  “Ouch!” Brett says. “You must be the friend who Emma’s setting up with Jake
.”

  “Do you see any other friends with me?” I ask.

  Brett shrugs. “Guess not. Let’s dance.”

  “I can’t,” I reply, and catch Rachel by the hand as she tries to storm off. “Jake doesn’t like Sophie, okay? They’re just good friends.”

  “But he asked her to dance when I was standing right here!” she whines.

  Then Brett lets loose a string of curse words, and says, “Payton is so wasted, he’s hitting on Kimmi again.” He then runs after Payton, who is chasing after Kimmi, who is leaving the ballroom with her arm outstretched and a talk-to-the-hand signal firmly in place.

  I want to scream until I pass out. Why do I feel like I’m babysitting toddlers?

  Rachel and I stay where we are, and as she pouts and I inwardly groan, everyone else laughs and twirls around us. We’re wallflowers planted in the middle of a room.

  When Jake finishes dancing with Sophie, Devin dances with her, and Jake goes back to standing by his mom. But he keeps glancing over at us, looking like he would rather be at a dentist appointment. He finally walks our way, and Rachel begins to hyperventilate again.

  Jake makes brief eye contact with me before smiling at Rachel and asking her to dance. I turn away, not wanting to watch them walk off together, even knowing how much Jake would rather dance with me. This whole thing is beyond agonizing, and it’s my turn to pout.

  Here I am—Emma Taylor, big-time movie star—and I’m big-time alone at my own premiere. Where are the paparazzi when they could really catch me having a meltdown?

  I fan myself as if I’ve been dancing and laughing with everyone else and make a beeline to the main foyer. Brett is walking into the ballroom as I’m walking out. He spins back around. “Killer party, huh?” he says. Sarcasm isn’t usually his thing.

  “It’s okay,” I reply. There are only a few stragglers in the hall, so I don’t have to put up too much of a front as I go straight for the dessert table.

  “Oh, come on, Taylor. You’re just as miserable as I am,” Brett says, following after me. “But at least your friends didn’t show up smelling like a frat house.”