At the mention of Cabe, my stomach flipped. I put down my fork.
“Sheyda’s a good student. She uses her time wisely.” Dad frowned at Mina. “If your grades weren’t teetering in English and geometry, you might have some ground to stand on.”
Mina shook her head. “Right. I forgot. My sister. Little Miss Perfect.”
I scowled at Mina. “I am not—”
“Nobody’s saying that,” Mom piped up. “But Sheyda’s never broken our rules, or skipped classes—”
“Twice!” Mina jabbed two fingers into the air. “I skipped class twice, and it was because Rehann was having major issues with her parents. I had to help.”
“Rehann is exactly why you’re not going skiing,” Mom said. “She’s always in some sort of trouble.” Mina rolled her eyes, but what Mom said was true. Last year, Rehann had gotten an in-school suspension for racking up ten unexcused tardies, and she’d spent half of last summer grounded for taking her mom’s credit card without permission and going on a serious shopping spree. Rehann’s defiance only seemed to make Mina like her more, though.
Dad cleared his throat, maybe as a not-so-subtle signal to Mom. She suddenly seemed to remember that I was still sitting at the table.
Mom gave me a pained smile. “Sheyda shared some good news, and we should celebrate. How about we go out for some gelato after we do the dishes?”
Mina stood up from the table. “I lost my appetite,” she said, then disappeared toward our bedroom.
“Me too,” I added quietly. “May I be excused?”
Mom and Dad looked at each other. Dad nodded, so I cleared my plate, surreptitiously grabbing a handful of sugary tuts from the kitchen. Then I went after Mina. I found her in our room lying across the bottom bunk, earbuds in, thumbs texting speedily on her phone.
“Hey,” I tried, but she didn’t even raise her head.
We didn’t used to be this way. We’d always had very different personalities, but before this year, that hadn’t seemed to matter much. Mina was stubborn and outspoken, challenging my parents at every turn, while I was the don’t-rock-the-boat people pleaser. Still, Mina had always willingly taken me under her wing, letting me tag along with her and her friends. That had changed last fall when she’d become best friends with Rehann. Everything Rehann did—from the way she dressed to the way she talked—made her seem older. Like, college older. All it took was Rehann to say that having me tag along was like “babysitting,” and Mina quit including me. Now when she went shopping in Williamsburg or to the movies in Union Square, I wasn’t beside her. I tried to be okay with it. I had Kiri and Doughlicious and my stage designs. But in some ways, it felt like Mina had chosen Rehann’s friendship over me, and that stung. More than that, I missed the closeness we’d had.
“I brought you some contraband,” I said now, a little louder, then held the handful of pink, sugar-coated tuts in front of her face. Her tight scowl loosened as she took one of the almond-and-pistachio candies.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, then scooted over a couple inches on the bed, making room for me.
My spirits lifted as I plunked down beside her. “What are you doing?” I popped a tut into my mouth, its nutty sweetness coating my tongue.
“Just bemoaning the existence of parents.” She gave a stony laugh, then put her phone facedown on the bedspread. She did it quickly, like she didn’t want me to catch a glimpse of the screen.
I nudged her with my elbow, grinning. “Were you texting Josh?” I asked teasingly.
In the old days, she would’ve responded with a grin of her own, but now she snapped, “None of your business!”
I flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it—”
Mina shook her head, frowning. “That’s just what I need. You saying something in front of Mom and Dad and them getting on my case about being too ‘boy crazy.’”
“I—I wouldn’t do that,” I said haltingly.
Mina blew out a puff of air and slouched against a throw pillow. “Sorry. I know you wouldn’t. I’m just so tired of them riding me about everything. And you—” Her phone dinged, and she instantly checked the screen.
“I what?” I pressed. What had she been about to say?
She waved a hand distractedly. “Never mind. That’s Rehann. She’s outside waiting. We have this school project we’re working on at the library tonight …” She was off the bed and heading for the door, refusing to meet my eyes. She pressed her lips into a flat line—something she’d done since she was little. I knew what it meant. She was lying.
Where are you really going? I wanted to ask but stopped myself. I only hoped wherever she was going with Rehann, she wouldn’t get herself into trouble.
“I’ll see you later,” I called after her. Mina waved and was gone.
I sighed and sat at my desk. I began making a list of supplies I’d buy at Blick art supply store on Bond Street for my set model. More Styrofoam shapes and foam board, balsa wood, some texturing paint. Maybe Mom could take me tomorrow after school. An excited whirring began in my chest. Maybe buying some new supplies would give me the lightning bolt of inspiration I kept searching for.
My excitement, though, was quickly replaced by mild panic as the full realization about the night’s events struck me. Mom and Dad had agreed to let me be in the movie! What was I thinking? What were they thinking?
I remembered what Mina had said during dinner about Cabe and his flirting. Then, even though I hated myself for it, I grabbed my tablet and yes, I did it. I Googled Cabe Sadler.
No sooner had I hit SEARCH than hundreds of Cabe photos flooded my screen. There he was on the red carpet at last year’s Academy Awards. He was smiling suavely in his designer tux, his arm slung casually around the gorgeous tween star Isabel Martinez, who was costarring with him in Very Valentine. That was just the beginning. Movie premieres, the Tween Choice Awards, surfing at Zuma Beach … there was always a cute girl by his side.
It was ridiculous, really, and maybe even staged. I mean, he was my age. But the photos seemed to want to make him look older, as if having his arm around a girl fit his rom-com image. Or maybe that’s how he wanted the world to see him? Given the conceited way he’d acted around me, so far, that seemed very possible. And very annoying. How was I going to work with him on a movie set?
This was going to be a disaster.
* * *
When I rounded the corner onto Third Avenue Sunday morning, my heart jolted into my throat. A half dozen white trailers lined the street, blocking the view of Doughlicious. A group of people looking way too sun-kissed to be from the Northeast were unloading expensive-looking cameras and lights from a double-parked truck while others darted around the sidewalk hoisting cords, props, and wardrobe bags. There was an energy to the whole scene that, for a minute, almost made me feel better. Prepping everything for a stage production had always given me a thrill. It was like an unspoken countdown to showtime, when all the work I’d done on a set would finally be displayed. If I’d been one of the crew unloading the truck right now, or setting up props or the set, I would’ve felt right at home. This time, though, I wasn’t going to be behind the scenes.
I gulped. No one had seen me yet. I could backtrack, go home, make up some excuse about being sick—
“Sheyda!” Simeon was hurrying toward me. “To wardrobe and makeup. Pronto.” He scooped a hand under my elbow and, before I could protest (or run), he steered me into one of the trailers, then gave a blur of instructions to the two women waiting inside.
“Doughlicious uniform for her, au natural face, but make her eyes pop.” He gave me the briefest wave, adding, “See you inside in ten.”
“But—” I stammered. But I don’t want to do this! I tried to scream after him. I can’t do this!
It was too late. Before I knew it, the two women were pouncing on me with powders, blushes, and eye shadows. They were friendly, introducing themselves as the hair, makeup, and styling team. But there wasn’t time to talk, much less time for
any modesty. I was out of my own clothes and into a bubblegum-pink dress before I could blink. The women worked quickly and expertly, even as I winced and sneezed when talcum powder filled my nose. They twisted my hair into a French knot and added a vintage flower headband.
“Perfect,” one of them said as she pinned a MARIE nametag above the upper left pocket of my dress. “You’re good to go.”
She opened the trailer door and led me into Doughlicious. I stepped inside and stared. The shop’s interior was unrecognizable. Nearly every inch of the walls was covered in vintage donut signs and advertisements. A chandelier made from teacups and silverware hung from the ceiling, and the café tables had been replaced with pink booths.
“They’ve killed it with tackiness,” a voice whispered in my ear, and there was Mrs. Seng, shaking her head forlornly at her shop.
“Oh no.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I like it.” Honestly, I did.
“Really?” Mrs. Seng wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a tourist trap now. And we’ll have to do business like this until the filming’s done.”
“I bet it will bring in more customers,” I offered optimistically just as I spotted Kiri coming out of the kitchen carrying a beautiful tower of donuts. She wove through the crew members and didn’t seem to see me until I reached out, touching her arm.
“Oh, hey!” she said distractedly, then surveyed me up and down. “Wow. Look at you!”
“Is that a bad ‘wow’ or good ‘wow’?” I asked, tugging on my pink dress self-consciously.
“Well, that pink looks great on you, but it reminds me of my costumes from Grease.”
“Omigod, you’re right!” We both giggled, remembering Kiri’s poodle skirts.
“I’m kind of glad now that I didn’t get the part. I’m so over that Sandra Dee wardrobe.” But the way she looked longingly at the camera equipment told me she was still nursing disappointment. “So … are you ready for this?”
“I’ll never be ready.” I blew out a breath.
“You’ll do great.” She smiled encouragingly.
“Thanks,” I said.
A crew member squeezed past with some lighting silks: large, white fabric panels used to soften harsh lighting on set. Then Jillian stepped through the door, looking every bit the director in a cap and a Donut Go Breaking My Heart film logo jacket. Cabe was with her, wearing his costume: a pink short-sleeved shirt and khakis. The uniform made his eyes even bluer, his tousled hair even cuter. I blushed, knowing I must look completely ridiculous in my own getup. Then I scolded my cheeks for embarrassing themselves. Didn’t they get that he was still a jerk? Apparently not.
“Hey, Cabe!” Kiri began, but Jillian interrupted her.
“Mrs. Seng, Kiri, we’re ready to start filming.” Jillian motioned to the door. “Please, would you …?” It was clear she wanted everyone out of the shop except cast and crew.
I gave Kiri a pleading look, feeling a desperate need for moral support.
“I’ve got to get these donuts out to the catering table,” Kiri said über-cheerily to Cabe. She leaned into me, whispering, “Mom’s put me on donut duty all day, so I get to cater to the actors instead of being one. Joy.” She rolled her eyes and then added, “You better tell me every single detail later!”
I nodded, feeling equal parts guilty and panicked that she couldn’t stay with me. But then she was gone, and Jillian and Simeon were motioning for me and Cabe to join them at the back of the shop. I sucked in a breath and headed straight for certain humiliation.
* * *
“Cut!”
I cringed. I was starting to hate that word. I’d heard it at least a dozen times since we started filming what was supposedly a “quick” scene. One thing I’d learned in the last few hours: There was nothing quick about moviemaking. Especially when one of the actresses kept messing up. Namely … me!
Jillian sank back in her director’s chair, rubbing her forehead and looking like she might cry, scream, or both. Who could blame her? She’d told me the scene was simple.
“So in this scene, it’s Prince Dalton’s first day working at Doughlicious,” she’d explained. “He’s in charge of mixing some fresh dough, but he keeps botching it. You—Marie—will walk him through how to do it, but all the while you’re wondering why he’s acting like he’s never seen a kitchen before.”
I’d said I’d understood. I’d read through the few lines I had. It had seemed simple. Until the cameras started rolling. First, the gaffer, who was in charge of the lighting, couldn’t get the shadows to fall in the right places around the kitchen. Then the boom microphone, which was supposed to hover between my head and Cabe’s, didn’t work and had to be replaced. Finally, after Cabe and I had had our faces re-powdered so many times that I was convinced I looked more clown than person, we tried the scene. That was when things went from bad to worse. I forgot where the on/off switch was on the electric mixer. I spilled a container of sprinkles on the floor. And every time my line came up (“You’d think you’d never held a spatula before in your life”), I froze.
It didn’t help that Cabe always seemed to be staring at me. By now he must be fed up with my bloopers. Outside of his scripted lines, he hadn’t spoken a word to me, and I felt the tension between us growing.
Now, Jillian and even Simeon were beginning to look like they’d regretted ever giving me the role of Marie in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” I said to them. Perspiration beaded my forehead from the heat of the countless lights around the room. “I’m not cut out for this role. Gabe should be working with someone else.” A tidal wave of awkward silence crashed over the room, and I wondered what I’d just said that was wrong.
“I think you mean Cabe?” Simeon offered gently.
I slapped my hands to my mouth. “Omigod, yes.” I turned to Cabe, who was shaking his head at the floor. “Cabe.” Great. Nothing like botching the name of a celebrity to his face.
Cabe didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken. “I’m taking a break,” he announced. “It’s like a sauna underneath these lights.” He nodded toward me. “She’ll never get it right if we’re melting. Then we’ll be here forever.”
My cheeks burned. I already knew I was messing up everything. He didn’t need to rub it in.
“Apologies, Mr. Sadler.” One of the grip assistants hurriedly began rearranging the lights.
“It’s not the lights,” I said gently to the assistant. “It’s me. Sorry.”
“Do you always apologize so much?” Cabe asked gruffly.
I hesitated. I’d never thought about it before, but … “Maybe,” I admitted reluctantly.
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
“Well, what should I do?” I said, feeling a surge of bravery. “Be rude to everyone?” Like you, I almost added. Still, he heard the accusation in my tone and met my eyes. I held my breath, preparing to be told off. Then, suddenly, his face softened. I blinked. Huh?
Cabe walked over to Jillian and Simeon. After whispering with them for a few minutes, no doubt about what a huge mistake they’d made in hiring me, he grabbed two sodas from a cooler by the back door and held one out to me. I didn’t want to accept it from him, but I was parched, so I took it.
I plunked down on the cooler in defeat, and Cabe surprised me by sitting down beside me. “What I meant was, you shouldn’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” he said. “Especially when it’s me who should be apologizing. The first day I met you, when you gave me that donut bath?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “I know! I know!” he said. “It was an accident.” He sighed. “You made that clear at the auditions. But the thing is, I’ve had fans do some really uncool stuff in the past.”
I shook my head. “I had no idea who you were, actually.”
He laughed. “That’s ironic. Around Hollywood, it’s pretty impossible for me to go anywhere without people following me with cameras.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And … you don’
t like that?” I asked skeptically.
He grimaced. “Hate it. And being in a new place has put me on edge. I don’t know New York or what might happen here.”
“You’re staying in the city until the shooting’s finished?” I opened my can of soda and took a sip.
“That’s the plan, but depending on what my parents decide, it could end up being longer.” Cabe sipped his own soda. “We’ve been thinking about leaving Hollywood for a while, so they want to scope out some apartments while we’re here. I was excited about it at first. But …” He shook his head. “I can’t get my head around this city. It’s another universe.”
“You don’t like New York?” I asked.
“It’s so loud. I hate the cold. And in LA, there’s traffic, but not like here. Here it’s insane—”
I stifled a laugh. “That’s why so many people walk or take the subway …”
He stiffened. “Yeah. Walking’s not my thing.”
I frowned. Of course it wasn’t. Why walk when you had a limo at your beck and call? I felt myself bristling again, annoyed that he was insulting the city I’d been born in and loved.
“Anyway,” he added, “I think I gave you the wrong idea about me. So … can we start over?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Okay.”
“Good.”
“But getting your name wrong isn’t exactly getting things off on the right foot, is it?”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about that.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Between you and me, Cabe’s not even my real name.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He nodded. “It’s true. It’s Caleb, but my manager thought ‘Cabe’ sounded cooler, so … here I am. I’ve gotten used to it, but it’ll never be the real deal.”
“I like Caleb,” I said quietly.
“Thanks.” Cabe was silent for a moment. “So why do you?” he asked. “Apologize all the time?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never noticed that I do.” I hesitated, thinking. “I don’t like people being unhappy with me. Or, unhappy with anything, really. I guess I feel like apologizing fixes it.”
Donut Go Breaking My Heart Page 4
