Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

by Zoey Dean

  was just as handsome upside down.

  Holden laughed quietly so Ted wouldn't hear. "He did that to me too. I think it's a sign of

  affection. Or at least that's what I tell myself. And I try to believe it." He smiled at me, and I

  smiled back at him from my pose, and then there was nothing I could think of to say.

  I bit my lip and came down into child's pose with my forehead on my mat. Then it came to me.

  "Well it's like they say, 'I believe in believing,'" I said, praying he would recognize the quote.

  He leaned in closer to me. "What?"

  I blushed. "'I believe in believing.' You said that thing about Ted, and it just made me think. It's

  a line from--"

  " Journal Girl," Holden exclaimed.

  I rearranged my face into what I hoped looked like an expression of shock. "You recognized

  that?"

  He nodded vigorously. "It's one of my favorite movies."

  Bingo. I kept the shocked look. "Really? That's so weird. It's my favorite movie."

  Holden crossed his legs and bent over, grunting a little as he stretched. "Don't tell anyone I can

  quote it, though," he whispered conspiratorially.

  I raised my eyebrows and tried to put a flirty lilt into my voice. "Why, because it's girly?"

  Holden, still bent over, turned his head and grinned at me. "Well, it's not the most masculine

  movie out there, I'll give you that. But I love all Deming's movies, the independent ones

  especially. That guy's a genius."

  "I know. He's kind of the reason I got into development at Metronome." Nice segue, I thought

  to myself, even though at the mention of Metronome, Holden's eyes had gone a little glazed.

  Fake it till you make it, I told myself and crossed my fingers. "This is totally on the DL," I said,

  leaning toward him. "But we're already in talks with him on a script. And I think you'd be great

  for it."

  He sat up straight and stared at me.

  At the front of the room, Ted cleared his throat, and we turned forward like naughty

  schoolchildren. "All right, people," Ted said. "Let's get started. Silence, please. We begin in

  lotus, and we clear our psyches."

  Everyone sat up straight and prepared to listen to each other's sob stories. Shit, I thought, there

  goes my chance. But maybe I could bring it up while clearing my psyche: Gee, Ted, I'm just

  worried I won't be able to concentrate on my lateral adductors tonight because I'm thinking

  about this phenomenal project I've got in the works.... This little bit of play-acting was

  unnecessary, however, because Holden was not so easily distracted.

  "What's the project?" he whispered.

  I realized that I had no idea what to say--I had faked it about as much as I could. Then I thought

  about my purse, sitting there in the back of the room, with Dana's script inside it.

  "It's in my bag," I whispered back, nodding toward the rear of the classroom. "It's called The

  Evolution of Evan. It's by a young writer we just found who's fantastic. We think she's going to

  pop."

  Of course, none of this was true, but wasn't this what Brett had talked about all those weeks

  ago? Hype. One person thinks something is good, and the rest of the town wants to buy it.

  "Cool," he said. "Can I read it? I'm going to New York tomorrow, so, you know, it'd be good

  to read it on the plane."

  My stomach plummeted down toward my mat. I stammered for a second and then regained my

  cool. "Sure," I said. "I'll give it to you right after class. You can be in touch, let me know what

  you think."

  "Great," Holden said, looking pleased. "What's your name, by the way?"

  "Taylor," I said, reaching over to shake his hand and hoping Ted wouldn't notice. "Taylor

  Henning."

  Taylor Henning, who is also hoping against hope that that spastic little Dana McCafferty

  pulled off a decent revision, one might add. It was really too bad I'd never gotten around to

  reading it.

  "People, we're listening to Kelly talk about her body image," Ted scolded from the front of the

  room. "Can we tune in, please?"

  As I turned to listen to Kelly clear her psyche (she was feeling anxious about her eighteenounce weight gain and blamed it on a change in the Whole Foods yogurt formula), I wanted to

  jump up on my mat and do a spontaneous headstand. This was turning out to be the best day of

  my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  At eight the next evening, when the other Metronome assistants were probably prepping for a

  big Thursday night out (Cici donning Manolos for Socialista, Wyman polishing up his nerd

  glasses for a Godard festival downtown), I was in the Tennis Center parking lot, holding back

  a moan of pain as I stretched my legs and felt the result of the extra fifty lunges Ted had made

  me and Holden do for talking in class the night before.

  The pain, of course, was a small price to pay for what was possibly the most exciting thing to

  ever happen to me. I still couldn't believe how perfectly it had all gone. I'd been confident,

  persuasive, and spontaneous: a pitch-perfect performance, if I do say so myself. The only hard

  part--and really, it was excruciating--was waiting to get another copy of Dana's script. The

  stress practically gave me hives, and Magnolia finally had to calm me down by force-feeding

  me half a box of Samoas Girl Scout Cookies and half a bottle of cheap chardonnay. The minute

  I'd gotten to work, I'd called Dana and asked her to e-mail me another copy, and as it printed

  out, I chewed one thumbnail down to the quick. I read it with my heart in my mouth. And

  miracle of miracles, Dana's script was a massive improvement on the original. The story was

  more complex, the characters sharper, the stakes higher, and the dialogue more polished--all my

  suggestions, I noted with a certain pride. As I sipped my double Americano, I felt a swelling of

  happiness--there was every chance that Holden might actually like this script.

  But just to help things along, I planted a seed on the tracking boards. All I had to write was the

  title, followed by Heard this script is great. Unrepped writer? By the end of the day, ten

  threads trailed it, and everyone was wondering where they could find this "hot new writer." On

  my speed dial, I thought giddily.

  And the even better part? I'd managed to get a breakfast meeting at the Four Seasons with

  Michael Deming's agent. It hadn't been easy to find him. For one thing, I had to make all the

  calls when Kylie wasn't around (luckily she was spending a lot of time in the ladies' room and

  the unprofessional nap room), and for another, no one I spoke to seemed to know. "Deming's

  been gone for years," one assistant had said snidely. "Who cares who his agent is?" But finally

  an assistant at William Morris told me what I wanted to hear. "Yeah, we have him," she'd

  whispered. "But please don't tell anyone."

  All I needed to say was that I had a possible project with Holden MacIntee, and in less time

  than it took to order a double Americano, I had a breakfast meeting with Arnie Brotman.

  "Shall I send over the script?" I asked.

  "Of course," the girl said and hung up.

  Victory was almost mine--I could taste it.

  I finished my stretches and walked toward the tennis complex, which was lit by humming

  fluorescent lights and was nearly empty. Apparently the rest of the world had something better

  to do. I spotted Luke on Court Three. He picked up a ball from
a basket by his feet, tossed it

  into the air, arched his body toward it, and with an explosive swing, sent it hurtling into the

  service box. I watched him do this a dozen more times. It looked more like stress relief than

  tennis practice.

  "Wow," I said brightly, stepping onto the court as another ace zipped by. "Just don't try that on

  me."

  Luke turned toward me, and his face brightened a little. "Hey. I thought you'd forgotten about

  me."

  I smiled and pulled the hem of my new little black tennis dress down (it was only Nike, but it

  was darling--more Audrey Hepburn than Billie Jean King, that's for sure). Luke was even cuter

  than I remembered, and even in the fading light, his eyes were so blue and intense that I

  blushed and had to turn away.

  "Forget about you?" I asked. I unzipped my sporty little jacket and tossed it on a bench.

  "Never."

  I gave my hips a little extra swish as I took my place on the court, just because I was feeling

  good and I could sense him watching me. Yes, the dress had been a smart investment. Not that

  I wanted something to come of our lesson, I told myself. Or I didn't think I did. After all,

  Quinn's advice had already worked.

  "You look nice," Luke said softly.

  I turned and smiled. He almost looked a little nervous, and there were faint dark circles under

  his eyes. Involuntarily I glanced down at his knuckles to see if I could tell where he'd punched

  Mark, but there was nothing.

  "Thanks," I said and touched my hair, which I'd pulled back into a shiny ponytail.

  He hit me a forehand, and I moved to slam it back to him. But then I pulled back midswing and

  dropped my arm so I'd miss. "Oops!" I said cheerfully.

  "Try another one," he said encouragingly. "Here you go."

  This one I allowed myself to hit, but I made sure it landed out of bounds. On the next one, I

  permitted myself to knock it into the deuce court, and he handily returned it.

  "Nice job," he said, following through on his swing. He kept the balls coming, and I still tried

  to miss a lot of them, but soon enough we had settled into a nice easy volley.

  The familiar exercise allowed my mind to drift to Kylie. Things were going downhill for her

  fast. This morning she'd arrived at work showered, wearing a silver and red wrap dress (nice,

  if a little schoolmarmish compared to her regular attire) and carrying what looked like a new

  bag. But her face was even puffier, and the way she guzzled down bottle after bottle of Evian, I

  realized that she was either profoundly hungover or possibly still somewhat drunk. Needless to

  say, she didn't acknowledge me at all. She just lit her candle and put her head down on her

  desk.

  When she got back from her big lunch meeting, it didn't take a genius to figure out that her

  signing meeting with Troy Vaughn hadn't gone well. This was only confirmed when Kylie

  tipped four Advil into her shaky palm and washed them down with regular--not sugar-free-Red Bull.

  "How'd it go?" I'd asked.

  "Great," Kylie had said thickly, without looking at me.

  Then Iris had walked in. "Kylie? In my office please. And can you shut the door?"

  Kylie emerged ten minutes later, looking smaller and paler than she had when she went in. Her

  delicate hands were trembling. She walked to her desk with as much dignity as she could

  display, grabbed her bag, and left.

  I blew out her candle for her. I felt bad, I really did. But I couldn't help but be relieved. There

  was no way that Iris was going to promote Kylie tomorrow anymore, which meant that a) she

  couldn't lord it over me and b) I had a better chance to make a play for it myself.

  A ball hurtled toward me down the center line of the court, and I was so wrapped up in

  thinking about Kylie that I let fly with my power swing on instinct. I whacked the ball straight

  down the line, past Luke's Nikes.

  "Hey!" he yelled. "And you say you haven't been practicing?"

  "Um, it's that beginner's luck again?" I called back. "And, of course, because you're a great

  teacher."

  Luke grinned. It was kind of a lame answer, but he seemed to buy it. "How about a water

  break?" he said.

  Side by side we walked toward the vending machine. I swung my racquet back and forth to

  hide my sudden case of nerves. Something about Luke made me want to turn cartwheels down

  the walkway. Of course, cartwheels were something I shouldn't do for many reasons, not least

  of which was my little black dress. Its short length and formfitting cut left little to the

  imagination. Thank heaven for the little built-in shorts. Not to mention the Clinique self-tanner

  I'd used--an upgrade from the Neutrogena--which had given my legs a natural-looking glow.

  Even Zena, my porn star friend from Buddha Ball, would be proud.

  "Admit it, you're not a beginner," he said.

  A sudden wave of panic rolled through me. Was there any way he'd figured out who I was?

  Had he described me to Kylie before their breakup, or had she said something to him about

  me? I swallowed and tried to keep my face blank and innocent. "What makes you say that?"

  "Beginners are just plain bad. You're bad most of the time, but then you turn around and swing

  like Venus Williams."

  I laughed, relieved. "Oh, so I'm sending you mixed signals," I said. Ugh, terrible pun.

  Luke smiled and ducked his head. "Maybe." He slid a dollar's worth of quarters into the

  vending machine. A bottle of Poland Spring tumbled out, and he grabbed it and handed it to

  me; then he bought one for himself.

  "Actually I have a confession," I said, taking a drink. "I went to tennis camp in seventh grade.

  But I thought I'd lie and pass off any good shots as natural ability. It's more dramatic that way,

  don't you think?"

  He laughed. "When you said you had a confession to make, I thought you were going to give

  me a heart attack."

  "A heart attack!" I exclaimed. "You must be much older than I thought you were."

  We turned and walked back toward the courts. I took the sport cap off my water bottle--I can't

  drink from one without getting it all over myself--and tossed it into the trash.

  "I'm not that much older than you," he said. "I don't think."

  "Okay, quick," I said. Feeling bold, I put my hand on his tanned forearm. "First crush. First

  movie star crush."

  Luke thought about this. "That girl from Say Anything..., when she was in that white dress." He

  smiled. "I have a thing for brunettes."

  My hand dropped from his arm in surprise. "Ah. So your girlfriend must be one," I said.

  Luke's face darkened. "No, she wasn't. I mean, she's not." He paused as he kicked a loose

  pebble by the court fence. "She's not really my girlfriend anymore."

  "Oh!" I said, sounding startled. "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah," he said quietly, twisting the cap off his water bottle. He shrugged. "Me too."

  We kept walking, and there was a long pause that was sort of uncomfortable. But I didn't feel

  like we were strangers--we were people who just hadn't quite figured out how to be friends yet.

  I ran my racquet along the chain-link fence of one of the courts, just to break the silence.

  "She was cheating on me," Luke finally said. He kept his eyes on his bottle.

  "Oh no," I whispered. I thought about putting my hand on his arm again but stopped myself. I

  didn't want him to think I was h
itting on him--right then I just wanted to comfort him.

  "With some slick agent type." When he looked up, his eyes had gone glassy, as if he were

  replaying the scene of Kylie with Mark Lyder in his mind. "I guess she was more into the

  Hollywood scene than I thought."

  "I'm so sorry," I said. "Do you want to talk about it?" Instead of going back to the court, I led

  us to a wooden bench overlooking the grounds. I sat down and patted the seat beside me.

  Down on hole nine of the golf course, a gardener was mowing the already-perfect green.

  He shrugged and collapsed onto the bench. "At least I know now who she really is. So that's a

  good thing," he said. He was trying to sound optimistic but was not doing a very good job of

  it. He took a long drink of water.

  I set my bottle on the bench between us and turned to him. "I hope you don't mind," I blurted,

  "but it sounds to me like she just wasn't good enough for you."

  Luke looked up at me, surprised.

  I knocked my racquet against my knee because I was nervous and because I wanted him to

  believe what I was saying. "You need to be with someone who doesn't care about that stuff," I

  said. "Someone who's real. Someone who knows a good thing when she sees it." I stopped

  myself. How obvious was I? I'd meant only to make him feel better, but then I'd basically just

  told him that I thought he should be with me. "Sorry, that's just what I think," I whispered.

  He continued to study me, as if I knew some secret that he could decipher by staring at me with

  those blue laser beams of his. I found it hard to look at him, and so I looked down at my legs. I

  picked at the hem of my cute dress. What did I want? I closed my eyes for a second. I had to

  admit it. I wanted Luke.

  Beside me, he cleared his throat. "Look, I hope this isn't weird or inappropriate or anything.

  But would you want to have dinner sometime? Like tomorrow maybe?"

  I felt all the blood in my body rise up to the surface of my skin. I was glad it was getting dark,

  because I could tell that my cheeks were scarlet. I took a sip of water to calm myself. "I'd love

  to," I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Just make sure you know what you're getting into," warned Arnie Brotman, as he neatly folded

  a slice of bacon into his mouth. "Deming's a genius, but he's also a little nuts." Brotman made