The second thing I notice is that the room is filled with delicious smells, salty and sweet, smoky and spicy. I don’t think there’s a single cheese-and-mustard sandwich in this entire room.
“Come on,” Milo says, a few paces ahead of me, so I follow him to the end of what turns out to be a buffet line. Rows and rows of silver chafing dishes are set up on folding conference tables laid end to end. Yummy-smelling steam is rising up from pans of barbecue, wild rice, baked beans, some kind of seasoned vegetable medley—and that’s just the first few trays. The tables go on and on, the entire length of the back wall. My stomach growls.
“I didn’t bring my wallet,” I say, wondering if I can find my way to props and back before I fall over from hunger.
Milo rolls his eyes, then gives me a look like maybe the air supply was cut off from my brain during my choking attack. “It’s craft services,” he says, with a don’t-you-know-anything shake of his head. “It’s free?”
“Seriously?” My voice squeaks a little, maybe because my mouth is spontaneously watering at the realization that I’m going to get to load up a plate.
Milo nods. “Yup. You work, they feed you. It’s part of the deal.”
“Crew too?”
“Crew too.”
“Wow,” I say. I follow his lead and pick up a heavy plate and some silverware. “I thought we worked, and they paid us. That seemed like a pretty good deal.”
He gives me a side eye, but I swear I see the hint of a smile, the tiniest glimmer in his eyes, just enough to make my breath catch in my throat. But it quickly disappears, his face rearranged back to the blank expression I’ve grown used to. He turns back to the food. He scoops some of the pork onto his plate, then moves down the line adding coleslaw and baked beans and a warm, fluffy roll.
I make my way down the line, which is long and impressive. There’s a makeshift salad bar filled with fresh, brightly colored vegetables and an array of dressings; an overflowing basket of warm, yeasty bread; and at the end, the pièce de résistance: an entire table of dessert. There are fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and tall slices of layer cake, chocolate and carrot and red velvet. There are brownies and lemon bars and some kind of granola-looking thing, and it all looks absolutely amazing. It takes all the restraint I can muster not to pile my plate with one of each. Instead, I take a plate with a piece of chocolate cake, and at the last second also take a lemon bar, which I attempt to hide underneath my napkin so I don’t look like a total glutton.
When I reach the end of the buffet, my plate perilously full and balanced on one hand, I look up, but Milo’s gone. A quick glance around the room tells me that he’s not at any of the tables, either. He just…left. I feel disappointed, and also embarrassed that I let myself think, even for a moment in the back of my mind, that he might be waiting for me. What, like, we were going to hold hands and skip to a table, sit down, and tell each other secrets over lunch? Please. Yes, he rescued me from sad cheese-product hell, but that was apparently just charity, and it wasn’t like he was falling all over himself to help me. He did a nice thing, but he certainly wasn’t very nice about it.
I shake off any lingering disappointment, aided by the memory of yesterday, when he treated me like something he’d stepped in, and make my way to an empty table near the front of the buffet line. As I take a seat, the only person in the room sitting alone, I can’t help feeling like the new kid on the first day of school, only I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall because I didn’t even know there was a cafeteria, much less where to find it. I probably could have gone to sit with Carly; I doubt she would have turned me away. But she and the other PAs are laughing and joking, loud and in the shorthand that comes from the kind of close quarters you find on a film set, even after just a few days. It feels impenetrable, and it makes me miss Naz like crazy. I unwrap my silverware and tuck into my plate of food. I choose to focus only on the fact that while I may still be eating alone, at least it’s not a disgusting homemade lunch.
But I’m not alone for long. A few minutes later, a guy sits down across from me. I recognize him from my whirlwind tour yesterday. He was hauling what looked like lighting equipment and rigging through the warehouse, but that wasn’t what made him stick out in my mind. Nor was it his bushy beard. It was his outfit: khaki cargo shorts, worn and frayed, and a purple T-shirt, with matching purple knee socks and a purple bandanna tied around his head. He’s wearing almost exactly the same outfit today, only everything is green instead of purple. While he digs into his own plate, a small smile playing around the fringes of his ample facial hair, I give myself a second to stare. Did he lose a bet or something?
He doesn’t say anything, so I don’t either. I try to act like it’s no big deal, like strangers in oddly color-coordinated outfits are just drawn to me, no bigs, but the word “what?” is hanging out on the tip of my tongue. After a moment, he drops his fork on his plate, where the clatter disappears in the buzz and chatter of the room. He pushes the plate back a bit, crosses his arms on the table, and leans forward, staring at me. Hard.
I glance over my left shoulder, then my right. Then I look down at my white tank top, a laundry-day choice, to see if maybe there’s a trail of barbecue sauce running all the way down to my jeans. It would not be unheard of for me. But no, miracle of miracles, I haven’t spilled on myself. Not yet, anyway. Something is definitely up.
“Uh, can I help you?” I ask, trying my best not to sound rude.
Beardy’s face remains serious, then a smirk creeps onto his lips. “You really don’t recognize me, huh?”
Wait, what? I study him. The buzzed hair and beard ring no bells, nor does the weird, color-coordinated outfit. But now that he’s said something, there is a glimmer of recognition. Just a flash. I squint and tilt my head, trying to look past the beard to find the familiar face.
When he realizes I’m totally stumped, he breaks into a smile, and then I see it. The tiny gap between his two front teeth. He used to scare Naz and me by spitting a white Tic Tac into his hand, ketchup smeared across his lip, pretending he’d knocked out his own front tooth.
“Benny?” I say, loud enough that the crew members at surrounding tables turn to gape.
He laughs, the same belly laugh I remember hearing from down the hall at Naz’s house. “It’s Ben now, but yeah.”
Benny Orazi was best friends with Tariq, Naz’s older brother. They were seniors when we were freshmen, and Benny was at the Parad house almost as much as I was. Back then he had shaggy hair that constantly fell over his eyes and curled behind his ears and absolutely no facial hair save for the patchy stubble that grew after a weekend sleepover. He was that sort of nerd who was so committed to his nerdery (supersmart, AP everything, and near-perfect SATs to boot) that he was actually kind of cool. Naz always said he was cute, but I never saw it. I think she was mostly attracted to the 5 he earned on the AP Physics exam. I hadn’t seen him since Tariq’s graduation party four years ago. His family moved away at the beginning of that summer, just before he started college somewhere north and east of here, and to be honest I’d completely forgotten about him.
“Holy crap, Benny Orazi! What are you doing here?”
“No, really, it’s Ben now,” he says, glancing around to be sure he’s not about to get a new on-set nickname. “It’s Dee, right?”
I nod. I wish I had realized he only barely remembered me before I barked his full name to a room full of people. Now I sound like a superstalker. “You’re working here?”
“Yup, just graduated. Film major, which made my parents crazy, but at least I managed to score a job right away.”
“You’re a PA?”
“Best boy.”
“And modest, too.”
He laughs. “No, best boy is a title. I’m Cole’s assistant.” He points across the cafeteria to a tall, lanky guy with shaggy blond hair held back by a pair of sporty sunglasses. “He’s the gaffer, and he works for Allen, who’s the director of photography.”
I blush a
t my novice mistake. “Oh, that’s great.”
“Yeah, he’s awesome. Supertalented and crazy connected. I’m hoping if I can impress him, maybe work with him on a couple projects, I can really get a leg up.”
“So that’s what you want to do? Lights?”
Benny shoots me some serious side eye. “Okay, don’t say it like that. Lights?” He mimics my wrinkled nose, which I hadn’t realized I’d done. Oops. “I want to be a director eventually, but I really want a good technical base. Lighting, cinematography, editing. I did tons of internships during school, which is how I got this gig in the first place. A lot of people make the mistake of diving right in, trying to direct shorts and indies and commercials and whatever else they can. I want to develop all the skills to make me well rounded and technically proficient before I try to take on a director role. I call it my secret strategy of success. I like the alliteration.”
Ah, there’s the Benny I remember. And yet even as he’s saying what could possibly sound pompous or totally nerdy, his half smile, his easygoing demeanor, the lilt in his voice all serves to make him endearing. It’s exactly how he got away with talking about physics or chemistry or Brit lit at lunchtime in high school without getting a wedgie on the regular.
“How ’bout you? You haven’t graduated yet, right?”
I shake my head. “One more year.”
“And then?”
I laugh, but it comes out sort of squeaky and fake. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” I flash him a superfake, superforced smile, my eyebrows skyrocketing. I’m sure I look totally demented. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. I’m a PA. Working in props.”
“For Ruth?” Benny drops his voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure she’s not nearby. “Intense.”
All around us, people are starting to push their chairs back, gather up napkins and silverware, and make their way toward the doors. Apparently lunch is over.
“Yeah. Speaking of, I should probably go.” I wrap my lemon bar in a clean napkin and hold it gingerly in my palm before gathering the rest of my leftovers to toss. Next time I’ll try to remember that my stomach is about one-tenth the size of my eyes. My mom would kill me if she saw how much food I’m about to throw away.
I stand, my chair sliding back across the floor with an ear-piercing shriek.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seein’ ya,” he says with a lazy two-fingered salute.
“Yup, later, Benny!” I say. He raises his eyebrows at me. “I mean Ben. Later, Ben!”
On my way out of the cafeteria, I whip out my phone and fire off a text to Naz.
Benny’s back! He’s working on the movie
Shut up. Is he still hot?
I wrinkle my nose, but then take a moment. I mean, he’s not really my type, and the facial hair is a little much, but he’s definitely better-looking. From the way his shirt was stretched across his chest, the sleeves tight around his biceps, it looks like all that hauling equipment on film sets has filled him out a bit. I guess if you like quirky and smart and funny, then yeah. So I text back.
Maybe a 4 on the AP Hotness exam?
INT. THE WILKIE FAMILY KITCHEN.
MOM
What’s the movie about?
DEE
I don’t know.
DAD
Who else is in it?
DEE
I don’t know.
MOM
When does it come out?
DEE
I don’t know.
DAD
What do you know?
DEE
When someone is drinking wine on-screen, it’s grape juice in the glass.
And craft services is for everyone, and it’s free, and it’s awesome.
DAD
Well, as long as you’re learning something.
It’s Friday, the end of my first week working for Rialto Productions. The week has been all about preproduction, finalizing details and schedules so we can start shooting on Monday. In my little world of props, we’re packing items up by scene so they’ll be ready for our first shots. It’s been a week of packing and stacking. A week of amazing lunches and snacks from craft services. And a week of keeping my eye out for an ever-elusive Milo Ritter.
I haven’t seen him since our not-quite-lunch. I’m not sure if he’s been hiding in his trailer, brooding in his hotel, or if he’s left town altogether until production begins. Or maybe he’s hiding from me and my enduring awkwardness around him.
I hope it’s not that one.
“Have you read the script?” Ruth comes bursting into the room with such force the door slams into the wall. Her braid is loose, her headset is askew, and she’s got a stack of papers almost as big as her head balanced on one hand. On top is the sketchbook, looking decidedly more mangled than when she handed it over earlier in the week.
I shake my head, and she says, “Read it. I’m going to start having you do some more stuff with placement on set, and I’d like you to have a picture of the full story. Look for any place where there’s a camera instruction to focus on specific items. Those are our responsibility. If you have questions, ask.”
My power of speech is gone. Despite her hard edges, I must have impressed her somehow. Getting more responsibility from Ruth feels big. Huge. The sheer number of instructions she just gave me, at least twice as many as usual, tells me that.
“Script’s in the red binder on the worktable. It doesn’t leave this room, you got me? I see that red binder anywhere out there, it’s your ass.” She narrows her eyes at me like an executioner just waiting to drop the ax, if only I’d give her a reason. I nod, careful not to “yes, ma’am” her.
I expect it to take me all day to read the script. It’s for a whole movie, after all, but it takes me only the better part of an hour. Movie scripts, it turns out, aren’t that long and are mostly filled with white space, the dialogue squished into a column running down the middle of each page. Directions for lights and cameras and props and costumes run across the entire page, but even those are fairly brief. There’s so much left unsaid, so much up for grabs. It’s like a puzzle made up entirely of edge pieces, and the director gets to fill in the middle. I can see why Benny wants to do it. It seems fun and exciting to be able to make all that up and shape the story.
The movie is called Just One Color, and it’s about a poor young graffiti artist named Jonas (played by Milo) who finds himself thrust into the elite art world when a photo of one of his murals goes viral. There’s a romance plot line, where Jonas falls for the daughter of an art dealer who subsequently screws him out of his newest piece. I flip back to the cast list at the front of the binder to see who’s playing Kass, the art dealer’s daughter, but the space is blank. The other two principal cast members are Paul Anderson and Gillian Forsyth. They’re both indie actors, famous enough that if you saw one of them in the grocery store you’d probably whisper to your friend, Hey, isn’t that the actor from that movie? But you might not be able to produce his or her name. Still, I can’t help getting excited. Paul was in that movie where he played an aide to the president of France, and he’s pretty smokin’ if you’re into middle-aged hipster dudes with salt-and-pepper hair. Gillian has mostly done movies about women having various midlife crises. There was the one where she was a single mom, and one where she was a federal judge, and one where she hunted space aliens and fell in love with her boss. The rest of the cast is listed there, though, mostly older indie actors whose names I recognize but whose faces I can’t come up with. I make a mental note to do some Internet searching so I don’t embarrass myself should I run into them around set.
Ruth appears in the prop room, a stack of eight-by-twelve blank canvases in her arms. She dumps them on the work table next to the red binder and the sketchbook.
“I need you to fill these in. Scene seventeen.” She nods at the script binder.
“Fill them in with what?”
Ruth whips out a small spiral-bound notebook from her back pocket and flips through
until she finds what she’s looking for. She reads from her notes. “Abstract,” she says. That’s all. Just abstract. Gee, and I was worried she’d be vague about it. “Paint and supplies in the back. Let me know if you need something that’s not there.”
I place one of the blank canvases on the easel and stare at it, but I stall out right away. My brain is devoid of all thought. I don’t think I could even spell “abstract” if I had to, much less produce it. Suddenly the enormity of where I am and what I’m doing comes crashing over me. In the last five days I’ve been catapulted into an entirely different world with its own customs and language. I was flying completely by the seat of my pants, assigned to pack boxes…and now I’m apparently a professional artist. At my job. On set. What is life?
I can feel my heart beating hard and my palms starting to sweat, so I quickly close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I channel Naz and her calm voice from that time she made me do sun salutations with her out on our front lawn. My muscles were screaming and sweat was pouring down my face, but if I just focused on her voice, I found myself sinking into downward dog. So I try to recapture that now.
I breathe in deep, filling my diaphragm like a balloon, then release and relax. Breathe in, fill up, release, relax. I run through it a few times until I feel my heart slow from a sprint to something more like a fast jog. I let my thoughts wander back to my first day on the job. It was only a few days ago, but it feels like a few weeks. Already my life is so different from what it was when Rob’s car pulled up in front of the Coffee Cup. I feel the weight of the lanyard on the back of my neck. I smell the sawdust floating around the empty warehouse. I hear the muted sound of a buzz saw working away in the next room. I see the man hanging the broken chandelier inside the giant dollhouse that first day.
My Unscripted Life Page 5
