Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (15 page)

16
HALF A BOY AND HALF A MAN

Aaron

Apparently Flannery did some intensive work with Edgar on the whole Dogberry thing right after lunch, and apparently it didn’t go well. As we pass him coming off the stage, he’s muttering something about “pint-sized tin-pot tyrant wouldn’t understand this role if Will Kemp himself …” He’s too angry to even sneer at us.

We begin by simply blocking out the scene. It’s a relief, because if there’s one thing that even the worst actor on any two-camera sitcom can do, it’s hit a mark. Charlie and I have spent the last four years crossing to X’s both visible and invisible on the floor, so this is a breeze. We’ve both got our scripts appropriately marked, which hopefully impresses the other cast members, who keep casting sly glances over our shoulders to see if we know what we’re doing.

Once the rough blocking is done, we run through the scene, which serves as a basic introduction to most of the characters and also to the “merry war” between Beatrice and Benedick.

“Now remember, you two,” Flannery says. “You both think you can’t stand each other, but there’s not a single other person on earth who gets you the way the other one does. Why does Benedick not even cast an eye on Hero? He’s a better match for her than Claudio. It’s because nobody else will be able to banter with him the way Beatrice does. And Beatrice shows no interest in Don Pedro or any other man because she knows they would all be baffled by her. And yet, for all that, you drive each other crazy. Got it?”

My face is hot after this speech, and Charlie’s tan face has turned pink. “Got it,” I say, and Charlie just nods.

And we nail the scene.

“Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.” Charlie sneers at me.

And after she swears she’ll never marry, I find “God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face” a pretty easy line to deliver.

We spend the scene squinting at each other in disdain, but this is the most fun I’ve had acting with Charlie, or acting at all, really, since—well, I guess, ever.

The scene ends, and our fellow cast members are all staring at us, mouths essentially agape.

“Yeah, surprise surprise,” Flannery barks. “Professional actors can actually act. Close your mouths, everybody, we’re not done for the day yet.”

I really wish Edgar were here for this, but I have to settle for the newfound respect on the face of pretty much everyone in the room. “Aaron, Charlie. You’re still doing TV acting—you’re relying on these facial expressions that people in the cheap seats won’t see anyway and not getting your body involved enough. Remember—no close-ups in the theater, so you can’t sell a line with an arched eyebrow.”

Well, she certainly doesn’t give us an opportunity to get cocky.

After another two hours of rehearsal, I’m exhausted and I still need to go study my lines. I understand why they don’t have TVs in the cabins.

Charlie is heading toward me when Kyanna bounds up to me and says, “Hey, a bunch of us are going to hang out later—just chill, maybe—” She makes the universal “smoke some weed” hand-to-mouth signal. “You wanna come?”

“Uh, well, I— Yes, I do. Where and when?”

“Just show up at Steph’s cabin anytime after nine.”

“I’m totally in.” Well, I’m in for hanging out with the hotties. The pot smoking, not so much. The morals clause of our Family Network contract was pretty explicit about drugs (it actually listed the substances we were not allowed to consume, in both their technical and street names, along with “any illegal intoxicants or controlled substances that may be developed or discovered in the future, throughout the universe”). I admit that when I first got to LA, I thought it was a pretty big rip-off that I didn’t get to party like the rest of young Hollywood. And then I started seeing at close range what partying like that does to people. How they get really old really fast, and before they know it their mug shot is on the front page of The Smoking Gun and that’s the last time anybody hears of them. The hell with that.

I guess I was a little surprised at Kyanna’s hand signal, but then again, we are in Oregon. It would probably be more surprising if people weren’t smoking.

I stare as Kyanna bounds off, and apparently I spend too long watching her butt, because Charlie punches me in the arm.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“You know, for a master thespian, you really suck at pretending you’re not interested in someone. You can’t just
devour
a girl with your eyes like that. They don’t respond to that!”

“Surely it’s different when it’s someone young like me and not the geriatric types who typically hit on you.”

“Geria— Listen. I’ll have you know—”

“I know, some of your stalkers are as young as forty, and aren’t
technically
geriatric, but—”

“The first guy was twenty-seven!” she spits out, her cheeks reddening just a bit. Her lips curl into a sneer as she says, “And it’s not like— Geez, since you came out of the closet, I’ve gotten more fan mail from hot guys probably than even you have!”

“I am not getting tons of mail from hot guys.”

“Wow, so your gay fans aren’t hot? I am totally calling Perez Hilton with that little nugget. That’ll kill whatever tiny bit of popularity you have left.” Charlie’s eyes are alight and her hands are clenched into fists.

“No, I meant that the people who choose to reach out to me are typically—”

“Ugly gay men. I get it.” She’s smiling triumphantly.

“Girls!”

“Yeah, not in the last few weeks, they’re not. Call Jo. Ask her. She’s probably the only straight woman still interested in talking to you.”

“Kyanna just invited me to”—I do the joint-smoking pantomime—“hang out!”

“She probably just wants you to help her figure out if Craig is gay. She’s not interested. I can tell you exactly how this plays out. She gets all close and chummy with you, and probably kind of touchy-feely, too, because it’s safe, and then you make a move and she goes, ‘Whoa, sorry, I thought you were gay. I didn’t think it was possible to lead you on!’ ”

Okay. Charlie pisses me off at least three times a day, but never more than when she’s right. She’s got me on the conversational ropes here, and I need to strike back.

“Well, maybe she just thinks I haven’t met the right girl yet and she can be the one to change me. After all, I’ve only been seen in public with
you
.”

Gotcha
. Charlie’s cheeks go from pink to crimson. “I am … Dammit, I was number six on the Hot 25 Under 25 list! If anybody could turn you straight, it would be me!”

“And yet, sadly, it didn’t work. I’m just going to have to look elsewhere.” I’m smiling now, and so is Charlie. “Good luck with Al.”

“Al’s mentoring me, dickhead.”

“Yeeeah. Mentoring. Is that what they call it in Oregon?”

“Rrrgh!” Charlie storms off in the direction of her cabin.

“You wanna run lines?” I call after her.

“Yes! Give me half an hour to shower and stop being sick of you!” she barks back.

I arrive at Charlie’s cabin. She’s wearing a little tank top, and there are beads of water from her wet hair glistening on her bare and perfectly tanned shoulders. I’m not immune to this—she’s right; she was number six on the Hot 25 Under 25 for a reason.

“It didn’t work,” Charlie says as soon as I walk in.

“The shower? You certainly don’t reek anymore.”

She glares at me. “No, the half hour. I’m still sick of you.”

How can she be sick of me? She’s the annoying one! “Well, I was sick of you for four years, and we managed to work together anyway, so let’s do this.”

“This” is our section of Act 2, Scene 1. It’s a masquerade ball where Benedick dances with Beatrice, pretending he’s somebody else. I don’t really care for this scene, because Beatrice totally gets the best of Benedick—she talks about what an ass he is, and since he’s pretending to be someone else who doesn’t know Benedick, he can’t even get her back. It’s definitely the round that goes to Beatrice.

I slide my hands around Charlie’s waist. It does occur to me to slide a hand down to her butt, eighth-grade-dance style, as a joke, but since she’s still pissed at me anyway, I decide not to. We waltz around her cabin. “This was Signior Benedick that said so … ,” Charlie says.

“What’s he?”

“I am sure you know him well enough. Hey,” Charlie says, breaking character, “does she know she’s really dancing with Benedick even though he’s disguised? I think she knows it’s him.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Of course she knows it’s him! That’s why she’s able to dis him so effectively!”

“Okay, okay!” She pulls out of my embrace and storms to the other side of the cabin. “You know what your problem is?”

“Everybody thinks I’m gay?”

“No, you love the attention. That’s not a problem for you. Your problem is— Well, you know what
my
problem is?”

“They don’t have the correct brand of mineral water stocked in your fridge?”

“Rrrgh!”

That was a pretty cheap shot. If it weren’t for me and my alleged gayness, she’d be comfortably in her dressing room at the studio with all the mineral water she could drink. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then says, through gritted teeth, “No. My problem is I don’t really know how to act. I know how to memorize lines and blocking, but I don’t know shit about how to really find a character and become that person for two hours.”

That’s a stunning act of verbal jujitsu. She’s just taken my best ammunition away, turning her weakness into a strength.

“But I’m still better off than you,” she continues. “You know why? Because I
know
I suck. And I’m working on it. But you’re so high on yourself that you don’t even see that you’re still doing Jonah. Benedick is a war hero! He’s seen some horrible stuff! He’s not some wide-eyed teen with a smart mouth like Jonah! But you know what? I know why you can’t find this character. You can’t find this character because Benedick, for all his flaws, is a
man
. And you just don’t have that in you.”

I turn to leave. The hell with this. “Well, I guess it’s true that I’m not as much of a man as you, but few people are,” I say as I turn to leave.

“Wow, that was mature,” she calls after me as I walk down the path away from her. “You’re proving my point, little boy!”

I raise a middle finger without looking back.

…

I grab a portobello and goat cheese sandwich and head back to my cabin. I don’t know what the hell to do. I’m too angry to be good company to the hotties getting together to smoke—people getting intoxicated are amusing when I’m in a good mood and infuriating when I’m in a bad mood. Great. So Charlie has, in the space of just a couple of minutes, a) sabotaged my performance by planting these seeds of self-doubt that might well undo me and b) sabotaged my chances with Kyanna by pissing me off so thoroughly that I’ll be sure to snap at the next human being I encounter just to have an outlet for my anger.

At home I would take a night walk on the beach, but out here there are mosquitoes the size of my head, not to mention the kind of complete darkness at night that you never see in LA, as well as God knows what kind of animals and Blair Witches lurking in the woods.

I have nothing to distract me. So I have to do something I hate—ask myself if Charlie might actually be right.

17
BRILLIANT DISGUISE

Charlie

Nothing prepares me for the fall. Like those dreams in which I start out being able to fly, only to look and see that I’m on a set of some kind with cue cards I can’t read and an audience that looks bored, and suddenly I’m plummeting.

Only this time it’s real.

The morning started fine. I slept decently after a line read with Aaron, even though it’s exhausting having Benedick insult my looks, my personality, and my intelligence. Anyway, I am trying to hold my own.

But right now, I’m not living up to the task.

“Are you sure I’m not going to fall?” I ask the harness guy. He gives me a look that I try to memorize since it sums up the stupidity of my question. Of course I’m going to fall.

“Okay!” Flannery yells into a megaphone. “Beatrice on platform two, Benedick on three!” Yards and yards away, I see Aaron give his ready signal—sort of a glorified salute that informs the circus crew he’s ready. Other cast members, our director, Al—everyone—waits for me. I look down. How many feet from the ground, exactly? My feet are bare, perched on a napkin-sized platform. I can ignore the heat even though sun and a bodysuit are not happy companions, but I just can’t commit to the fall.

“I say again,” Flannery echoes into the megaphone. “Are we ready?” Already Hero shakes her head; Claudio seems to be laughing, but it’s difficult to tell from here.

“What’s the point of this again?” I ask, forgetting I have a microphone clipped to my harness.

“The point,” Flannery announces to everyone, “is that the director is telling you to do something.”

“The point,” Aaron pipes in, “is to let go.”

But I don’t want to let go. Isn’t that my survival instinct? To hold on to life? Where is it written that I have to willingly bound into the air when, last I looked, I am not a bird?

I see some scurrying and Al speaks into the megaphone, his voice calm. “You aren’t a bird, Beatrice. You know that.” Al would know—he’s told me tales of his rise from unknown sandwich maker to the stars to small film roles to the television role of a lifetime, the one that made him the cop we all thought we knew. He knows about dives, like when his show fizzled, how bad the response was when they tried to make it move from small screen to large. So I trust him.

I take a deep breath, happy that at least Al recognizes what I’m feeling, even if he went against his doctor’s waiver and nearly flew across the air, jousting and jabbing and running his lines perfectly, making even his lumpy bodysuit seem regal.

“One emotion can cover up another,” I say into the mic.

Flannery flaps her arms, frustrated.

“Just go, Charlie!” Aaron whines. If he were closer, I’d slap him. Now that’s a gesture of frustration. Only, who am I frustrated at: him or me?

The cabins are way off to the right, the stages cloaked by tall trees and foliage. All that exists here are these tiny platforms, safety netting that looks worryingly flimsy, and us. Actors.

Al intones, “Yes. One emotion can cover another. Disguise it.”

“Surface emotion versus hidden emotions,” I think, remembering the reading I did last night. How it made me think about laughter covering fear, or haughtiness masking insecurity. How I used to demand silly things on the
Jenna & Jonah
set—water iced to a certain degree before I’d drink it, or certain skin creams even though they were just props—and how maybe that wasn’t about what I thought. That maybe some of the power trips stars pull are just to get control over something. You can’t demand people watch your show or control the opening weekend gross for your movie or what part you’ll get next, but you can damn well insist that the crew not look you directly in the eye or that you wear new shoes every morning or that sugar is banned from the set.

I stare out at the emptiness that separates me from Aaron. From Fielding. From Benedick. Who, as far as I can tell, is no closer to becoming a man than he was before.

I yell, “Fear,” and jump into the air, falling nearly twenty feet before I’m yanked up by my safety harness. Giddy with the rush of adrenaline and bravery, I keep going. Aaron says his line, calling me a parrot-teacher.

I continue the metaphor with, “A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”

Aaron swings toward me, hair flying, his trapeze tucked under him. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue.”

Our insults bite, dig into each other as we careen toward each other, speeding into verbal danger and then away from it. My body feels free, and soon I’m able to gesture while flying, sweeping my arms at him like I’m trying to shoo him away, which is what Beatrice wants. Then, just as quickly, Aaron reaches out for me and I fall for it, allowing him to take my hand only to be reminded that he wants to “die a bachelor.” It stings, especially because Beatrice has been down this road before—she and Benedick had been involved romantically but he left her. So she masks her hurt with wit.

“What say you, Beatrice?” Benedick asks, flying toward me, arms outstretched.

Suddenly, he’s not Benedick; he’s Aaron, and we’re in the little cottage back in Carpinteria and he’s sleeping. I remember the look he gave me when I woke him. In my legs I feel the weight of his hand on my thigh. How I thought it was real then. Then the cold shock of swimming with him and the camera crews and the first real kiss that never was.

I snap back, flinging myself away from him so Aaron’s left dangling, alone in his bodysuit, between the two platforms, while I’m out of danger, safe on my little perch.

Act 2. Scene 1. Thunder drones overhead while inside Kyanna and I discuss our ideal guys. Of course this is not something I’d choose to do. I’ve never been one of those girls who takes quizzes about relationships—are you a traditional romantic or up for flirty fun? But while I was jumping around in the air, Flannery had Kyanna come up with a ridiculous list of questions meant to inspire our scene.

Kyanna drags her chair so it faces mine. Her ice cream sundae is beginning to melt, so she scoops the soupy stuff into her mouth while she talks. “Would you rather a guy a) bring you flowers for no reason or b) surprise you at work with plane tickets or c) leave you a love note on your pillow?”

I eye her ice cream and tap my foot. This is what it’s come to? Telling a stranger my romantic fantasies? I stall. I want to act, just jump into my scenes, but Flannery insists we follow her roundabout routines—trapezes, quizzes, a group hike, all while thinking of our characters and working on lines.

“Come on,” she says. “These kinds of things happen all the time with stage actors. You just do it. Some directors want to keep you away from each other, to build tension; some want you to share an apartment so you maybe end up really in love and then act it out onstage. You’ve heard of Sven Svenson?”

Normally, I’d nod and pretend I do, but I have nothing to lose, so I admit, “No. Never heard of him.”

She raises her eyebrows, eats a cherry from the bowl, and tosses her braids behind her shoulders. “He’s like the … Martin Scorsese of theater—respected, old guard, but always pushing it. Anyway, when I was fourteen, he had me do two weeks of boot camp. With guys. In Alabama.”

“For a role?” I look at her, shocked. She nods. “Talk about devotion.”

Kyanna grins, licking her lips. “It’s what you do, right? Get absorbed by the role. Taken by the lines.”

“You’ve been doing this a long time, too?”

“Since I was six. Started off in
Annie
—yep, I can sing. Played that little orphan Molly. Then went to school in New York and … one thing led to another, and now I’m between Broadway and West End shows, so here I am in Shakespeare land. Only, playing a supporting role because it’s better for the long term, you know, the slow build?”

But I don’t know the slow build, because my career was jump in, all or nothing. And I don’t usually fawn, but I can’t help it. “So you just do this all the time?” Kyanna nods. “All the lines, the … soul-baring … the intensity?”

“I could say the same to you—I mean, I know everyone downplays it, but it’s got to be tough pretending to be the same character all the time.” She sets the bowl of ice cream on the floor and picks up her script from her lap, paging through. “Don’t you ever forget who you are in all that Jenna-Jonah world?”

I don’t answer. If I’m truthful, I didn’t forget who I was in Jenna so much as sort of blur the lines of who was who. She was me. I was her. We started off so low, with no expectations on a small channel with no viewers, and I did whatever I wanted with the character without much effort. Now I’m in exactly the opposite situation. I wonder if Aaron feels the same.

I pick up my script. I read the lines to myself about Beatrice not wanting a husband with a beard. Leonato then tells her she could find a husband without a beard. But Beatrice always finds a way around a solution—she’s like a lawyer finding loopholes. “Check it out,” I say to Kyanna. “William Shakespeare is so cool.” I keep reading. “He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man: and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him …”

Kyanna nods. “It’s like Beatrice just doesn’t want to admit to it.”

I stand up, stretching. “To what?”

Kyanna looks up at me. “To wanting anything.”

“And why is that, do you think?” I ask, taking the stupid romance quiz from Kyanna’s hands as she taunts me with it.

“Because,” Kyanna says, snagging the quiz back and knocking me into my chair so we can get back to filling it out. “She might not get it.”