by Anne Pfeffer
Grudgingly, Blake and Becca fell silent.
“Look,” Ellen said. “For all our differences, we have one thing in common, okay? One thing that matters.”
She paused. “It’s the play. We love this play. It has heart, it has humanity. It deserves to be seen.” She looked beseechingly at her actors. “And you both know it’s solid gold for your careers.”
Blake fastened his eyes on Ellen, as if taking in everything about her. Becca gave a series of small nods.
Ellen spoke so earnestly that she seemed to grow in size with each word, like a preacher at his pulpit.
“Becca, this is the dramatic role you’ve always wanted. Agreed?” Becca sniffled but nodded again.
“And Blake, you’re about to skyrocket and you know it. You are Duncan. You were meant to play this role. You deserve this chance.”
“Okay, yeah,” he muttered.
“So what do you want to do? You wanna fight and throw it all away? Or shall we hold it together and create something beautiful and memorable?” Ellen’s voice rose. Her eyes gleamed like an evangelist’s. “You wanna pick each other apart and ruin it for all of us? Or shall we make theatrical history and launch both of you to stardom?”
Becca burst into sobs and threw her arms around Ellen. “I’m sorry, Ellen. I’m embarrassed. You know I’m usually so professional.”
“Of course I do, darling.” Ellen and Becca spoke for a moment or two in low voices, their arms around each other. “Why don’t you give me a minute with Blake?” Ellen ushered Becca off to the privacy of her bedroom, then shut the door behind her, heaving a big sigh of relief.
I remembered then that Blake and Becca had arrived together. They were going to have a fun ride home. I continued to eavesdrop from the kitchen.
Blake shifted from foot to foot, the unlit cigarette still in his hand, looking a strange combination of stubborn and sheepish. “Okay, chief,” he said. “You win. But I have one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I want Pru.”
“What the hell?” Adam shot up out of the sofa.
Blake paced back and forth in the small living room. “Pru runs lines with me and is available at all times for motivational coaching.”
“She’ll be available for reasonable amounts of time, as approved by me,” Ellen said.
“Wait just a minute!” Adam surged forward. “You haven’t even asked Pru.”
Ellen put up her hand to stop him, like a crossing guard. “I will. It’s for the play, Adam,” she said quietly.
He stopped, his face written in frustration.
“Good.” Blake apparently assumed it was a done deal. “Beck!” he called out. “Train’s leaving the station!”
“For God’s sake,” Ellen said.
Blake waited, tapping his foot impatiently.
Silence from within the bedroom.
Adam was looking at Blake as if he were some sort of fungus or jungle rot, something unpleasant that needed to be eradicated.
Ellen jabbed her finger at Blake. “You know what to do!”
“Alright, alright.” Blake slouched over to the door, raised his hand, and knocked.
At the first sound, I knew immediately he’d become a different person. The knock was polite, tentative, hopeful. “Becca, can I come in?” His low voice matched the knock exactly. This new Blake was deeply sorry for his behavior, eager to redeem himself. “C’mon, Beck, I need to talk to you.”
A muffled noise from inside and the sound of the door being unlocked. Blake turned the knob and slipped in, shutting the door behind him.
“That guy can really shovel it,” Adam growled.
Ellen made a wry smile, agreeing with him silently.
“What’s with him and Pru, though?”
“She helped him with a scene, and now he only wants her,” Ellen said.
“It’s like you’re feeding a goldfish to a barracuda.”
Ellen sat down wearily in the armchair. “This play’s an airplane held together with Scotch tape. And I’m the one who has to keep it in the air. The opening’s in a week!”
“Still…”
“I’ll watch out for Pru.”
The bedroom door opened, and Blake and Becca came out, two schoolchildren on their best behavior. They left, with promises for a great rehearsal tomorrow.
I was dangerously close to throwing up. But Ellen’s voice resonated in my head. This play’s an airplane held together with Scotch tape. She needed me.
If I could do this, she’d let me stay with her, for sure. I’d be safe for a while until I could figure something else out.
I stepped out into the living room again. “I’ll do it. Do you have an extra copy of the script?”
Ellen pointed wordlessly to a large box in the corner. It was full of scripts. I pulled one out and held it up. “I guess if I’m going to do this, I’d better start reading!”
I took the script with me as I ran to the bathroom.
Chapter Twelve
From Pru’s Journal:
It’s funny, but in my mind I’ve always called my parents Lloyd and Phyllis. Not that they would ever let me address them that way. It’s too “modern,” my mother would say. Since I can’t use their first names, and I choose not to call them Mom and Dad, I’m pretty much left with “you.” As in “When will you be home?” It makes it hard to get their attention when they’re in another room, but I usually don’t want to do that anyway.
**
The next day, I stood next to Ellen on the stage as she addressed the cast and crew. All I could think of was that, if I had to wear Carrie’s old jeans for the fourth day in a row, at least I had a brand new black It’s for the play tee-shirt of my very own. Ellen had given it to me.
I’ll go back to her closet tonight, I promised myself. I knew I really should buy some clothes, as well as the cell phone, but who had the time and money to take care of these things? I would just have to keep mooching for a while.
What time should I call home today? I decided I’d do it from the apartment as soon as I got back. It would be in the evening, meaning I’d get the double dose of both Mom and Dad, but there was no avoiding that.
“You may have seen Pru around the last day or so,” Ellen said. “She’s going to be joining the directing staff as my assistant and working with some of the actors. Let’s make her feel at home, okay?”
I wiggled a few fingers at the group as I simultaneously got cold all over, thinking Did she say Assistant? Directing staff? What was she talking about? I couldn’t do that; I didn’t know how.
I would be stupid. I’d make an idiot of myself. Blake would ridicule me openly, and everyone would despise me.
I looked longingly past the crew to the exit doors. Ellen would realize too late I was a failure. Her perfect dream play would be the laughingstock of the theatrical world. Ellen would be ruined, forced to live as a bag lady. And all because she made the one, terrible mistake of trusting me.
“There you are!” Blake bounded up to me after the meeting. His olive green shirt reflected in his eyes, making his gaze darker and smokier that usual. His smile sent tingles into places in my body that I didn’t think about that often. At least, not until recently. “You ready? You gotta help me prepare for this scene with Becca.”
“You don’t want to rehearse directly with her?” I felt bad for Becca.
“No.”
Then, suddenly, there was Becca, along with some other cast members, standing in front of Blake. “Pru’s working with you?” she said.
Nobody had told her? Blake put his arm around me. “Talk to Ellen about it.” He pulled me past them and out the exit door to the back stairs in the alley. I just had time to look back at their surprised faces, while Becca’s went red with mortification.
We sat on the top step together. Daylight had reached the alley, but the warmth of the morning sun had not. No rats or gangbangers came to view, although I heard and ignored a rustling from the dumpster.
; Blake pointed me to the scene in the binder. “Becca plays my attorney, Samantha Howe. Here, she tells me I have no further grounds for appeal. Duncan is doomed to a lifetime in prison.”
Becca’s unhappy face still floated in front of me. Why wouldn’t he work with her on this? I didn’t have the nerve to ask him.
Blake pulled out a cigarette. “You’ve got the first line.”
Duncan, I don’t know how to tell you this, I read.
Just spit it out, Samantha.
“That’s not what he says!” I couldn’t believe he didn’t even know the first line. “It’s Just tear the band-aid off fast,” I said.
“That’s a stupid line.” Blake took a big draw off his cigarette. “Want one?” he asked.
I shook my head impatiently. “It’s no more stupid than Just spit it out.”
He smirked and struck a match. “That’s a matter of opinion. So. Tell me about yourself.”
“No! You’re supposed to know this scene cold for today’s rehearsal, and you don’t even have the first line down!” Mild panic set in. How big was this job anyway? Did he know any part of his role?
“I’m a fast learner. C’mon, talk to me.” Blake ran his eyes openly up and down my body. His gaze was warm and admiring.
I pushed my thick, curly hair behind my shoulder. Ellen was counting on me. I tried again. “Blake. We promised Ellen we’d work on the scene.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, alright. I’ll make you a deal. Tell me three things about yourself, and I’ll learn it.”
“The whole scene.”
He sighed again. “Yes, the whole scene.”
“Okay.”
He sat, looking at me expectantly. “So go ahead.”
I had no intention of sharing anything truly private. “My favorite food is ice cream. My favorite color is brown.” I stopped to think.
“Brown! Why?”
“Brown’s underrated. Someone needs to stick up for it.”
He grabbed my hand. “What’s the third thing?”
I drew a blank. “Um… I dunno.”
He ran his thumb over the back of my hand. “Sure you do.”
A thought floated through my head, and I went with it. “When I was a kid, I used to wish I was a latchkey child.”
Blake’s thumb stopped moving on my hand. “A what?”
“You know, a kid with two working parents. So they’d both be gone from home during the day.”
“Why’d you wish for that?”
I had no intention of telling him. “Sorry. I kept my end of the bargain. Now you keep yours.”
“I’m interested in why you felt that way.”
I didn’t move or say a thing.
He groaned. “Okay, okay. Heartless wench!”
We spent an hour running his lines. Blake had been right about one thing. He learned really fast. So this was his MO. He procrastinated, then relied on his good memory to learn it all at the last minute.
We finished up the scene; Blake had delivered every line word for word.
“That was good!” A weight slipped off my shoulders. I’d done my job today, at least, assuming Blake got through the upcoming rehearsal okay. We slipped into the theater, where I took a chair near Ellen’s. Exuberant as a little boy, Blake bounded up to join Becca on the stage.
“Hey, beautiful!” he called out to her. “You ready for me?” He took her in a dance hold, waltzed her through a few steps, then spun her around, grinning devilishly while her face bloomed in happy surprise.
“Let’s start,” Ellen said.
Becca vanished while Blake sat alone at a table, lost in thought. After a moment, Becca entered. She had slipped on a professional-looking skirt and jacket. Her hair back in a knot, she looked pinched and tired. Duncan, I don’t know how to tell you this.
Blake sat back in his chair. Just tear the bandaid off fast.
I’ve been through every fact, every case, every legal argument…
I watched, fascinated to see Becca as the attorney who had to tell her client that she’d failed, her client who she was obviously completely in love with. And to see Blake as the devoted, heartbroken husband with nothing left to live for.
An upcoming court decision may help your case, if it comes out as we hope. But it’s a long shot…
Duncan slammed his fist onto the table. Dammit, Samantha, it’s all over for me!
I’ll do anything to help you. Just tell me…
Fascinated, I watched Becca, as Samantha, slowly disintegrate, struggling but failing to maintain her professional demeanor. As the sad woman inside appeared, I was caught up in the story. Sympathy filled me.
She was terrific. I could see why Ellen had cast her.
I’ll do anything for you, Duncan.
Before my eyes, invisible walls sprang up around Blake. Duncan was an empty shell. Julia had been his one true love.
Go. Get out.
A broken Samantha exited, leaving Duncan alone.
Fade to black.
Ellen leaned over to me. “How much of that did he know?”
“None. He learned it all this morning.”
“Really? He was great just now. Good job, Pru.”
I hadn’t done anything, really, but I was thrilled we’d gotten through it. Elated, I ran up the steps to the stage, wanting to congratulate Blake, and dashed past the side curtain into the wings.
It was just as I caught sight of Blake passionately kissing Becca, his hands pulling her skirt up around her hips, that I tripped over an electrical cable and fell, sprawling at their feet.
“Hi,” I said, looking up at them from the floor.
“What’re you doing down there?” Blake nudged me with his toe, leaving his hands where they were, wrapped around Becca’s bottom.
Mortified, I leapt up. “I fell. I just wanted to say Good job. To both of you. The scene was great.”
“Thanks.” Blake sounded as remote and impersonal as if he’d just met me on the street.
Becca didn’t even try to hide her gloating. “Thanks for filling in for me earlier. Blake was just saying to me, sometimes you don’t realize what you’ve got until it’s gone.”
The cable had wrapped itself around my ankle like a sidewinder, or the tentacle of an octopus. As I tried to remove it, Ellen’s voice floated in. “Blake! Would you come here for a sec?”
“I’ll leave you two,” he said, sarcasm dripping.
Having finally untangled myself, I straightened up. Becca looked amused, superior. “You don’t stand a chance with him.”
I was starting to think that Blake, as handsome as he was, might not be a very nice person. I didn’t understand why a girl as pretty as Becca felt she had to put up with him. But then I remembered Stacy, the head cheerleader in Palm Beach High, that new reality show. Equal parts beautiful, insecure, and mean. Maybe Becca was insecure, too.
I told her the truth. “I just help Blake memorize things. You’re the one he likes. Really.”
Becca visibly relaxed, although it surprised me that she needed my reassurance. “Well, okay then.” In a friendlier tone, she added, “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I left her, thanking my lucky stars that I’d learned all these valuable life lessons from television. The last couple of days, I don’t know what I would have done without them.
Chapter Thirteen
From Pru’s Journal:
So it turns out there’s something I’m good at! Talking to Blake.
**
When Ellen and I got home that evening there was a note on the door from Adam. Call me.
I handed it to Ellen. “It’s for you.”
“How do you know?” Ellen gave me a mischievous look. “You call him back. I’m going to sleep.”
Adam answered on the first ring. “How did things go with Blake today?”
“Fine. Did you want to talk to Ellen?”
“Does she want to talk to me?”
Making a questioning face, I held out the phone to Ell
en, who shook her head no, looking alarmed.
“She’s already gone to bed,” I told him.
“Okay. Anyway, I wanted to know how things went with you and that tool.”
A little warm spot grew in my chest. “Aww,” I teased, “were you worried about me?”
“No. Well, maybe a little.” Adam’s voice got gruff.
The warm spot expanded. “It went fine today,” I said. “Now I have to go raid Carrie’s closet, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“If you want help, I used to buy clothes for Melinda sometimes. Like for her birthday. I have a good eye.”
“Really?” I didn’t think guys did that sort of thing, but then I remembered how, in Fashionably Late, Jennifer’s friend Rob taught her how to dress for men, even though he was heterosexual. “You’d go with me?”
“Sure. Meet me in the hallway.”
Would it be terribly awkward having him along? I would, of course, go into the bathroom to try things on. I checked my hair and face in the mirror—I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but it was what girls did. Both face and hair were present and accounted for.
A minute later Adam padded out of his apartment, his feet in old loafers, wearing sweatpants and a Dartmouth tee-shirt with a hole at the neck.
I pointed to the shirt. “Did you go there?’’
He nodded.
Great. I wondered what Mr. Dartmouth would think of my online B.A. from Valley Virtual University.
He was really cute tonight. His two-day beard, along with a few curls sticking up, emphasized his cuddly bear cub look. I couldn’t decide which version of him I liked better, this one or the handsome, clean-shaven papa bear in his expensive professional clothes.
Speaking of papa bear, I owed my parents a call. This evening. I had to do it as soon as I got back to the apartment.
To Mom and Dad, my not calling for twenty-four hours could mean only one of two things. One, I was dead or dying. Two, I’d been abducted.
My folks didn’t joke around about stuff like this. Mom kept the Instructions for Filing a Missing Persons Report posted on our refrigerator door, just in case, alongside her instructions for performing CPR and the Heimlich maneuver.
I would call them, I told myself, but I would lay down some boundaries. I would tell them I would not be leaving Los Angeles, and I would no longer report in to them every twenty-four hours. I would not tell them about the fire. I would be strong. I would believe in myself and my abilities.
