Just One Wish (9 page)

I recognized Robin Hood’s feathered hat and tunic even from the back. He was already half the distance to the building ahead of me, but I hurried after him, hiking my long skirt up so I could run.

I crossed the distance to him, calling out, “Mr. Raleigh. Could I—”

He turned around and I stopped in my tracks. It wasn’t Steve Raleigh at all. It was only a man dressed to look like him. My mouth hung open and I stared at him.

He smiled back at me. “Fooled you, didn’t I?” When I didn’t answer, he lifted his hands as though he’d told a joke I didn’t get. “I’m the stunt double. I bet for a moment you thought: Wow, Steve Raleigh sure looks different in real life.”

No, actually, I thought the last remnants of my sanity had suddenly dissolved, but I didn’t tell him that. I only smiled weakly. “You just startled me.” After I’d caught my breath, the incongruity hit me. “I thought Steve Raleigh did his own stunts.”

“He does a lot of them. More than the studio suits would like him to, anyway. That’s the thing about teenagers. They think they’re immortal. Steve has a particularly bad case of believing his own press.”

Leather medieval boots don’t make a lot of sound on the ground, which is the only reason I didn’t hear anyone approaching until a voice near my shoulder said, “What’s not to believe?”

Then I jumped half a foot. When I turned, I stood face to face with Steve Raleigh. He looked like I’d seen him every night on TV, a blond-haired Robin Hood glowing with confidence and masculinity. His shoulders looked broader today. The tunic emphasized his muscular build, and his eyes had warmth that never accurately came across on TV.

I said, “Uh . . . uh . . . ,” which luckily he paid very little attention to because the stunt double spoke again.

“You’ll be glad to hear the horses all survived.”

Steve sent him one of his trademark smirks. “Hey, if you’re going to keep dropping out of trees onto them, you’d better cut back on the cheeseburgers. That’s all I’m saying.” Steve turned his attention to me, and the warmth stayed in his eyes. “You’re new here?”

I nodded.

“Let me be the first to warn you. You can’t believe anything this guy tells you.”

The two men started toward the building again, and I walked between them, keeping my eyes trained on Steve. How could I bring up the subject of Jeremy? I’d messed up so badly yesterday; I needed to think of the perfect way to ask him to help me.

When we came to the studio door, Steve held it open for me. He watched me with questioning eyes as I walked past him. “You look familiar. Have I worked with you before?”

My heartbeat sped up. “No, I just started as an extra.”

We continued down the hallway, but his eyebrows drew together. I knew he was trying to figure it out, and if he did, he would not be happy with me.

“My little brother idolizes you,” I said. “He’s six.”

This seemed to momentarily stop him from examining my face. “Well, he’s got taste for a six-year-old. I beat out Superman?”

“Oh, yeah. You beat out Santa Claus.”

He glanced over at the stunt double with a smile. “And who says today’s kids aren’t well educated?”

We approached a doorway; even from several feet away, I could hear the noise of machinery and people’s voices. In another minute our conversation would be over, but I couldn’t bring myself to blurt out my request. It would be too easy to say no to it that way. I needed to let Steve know more about Jeremy. “He wants to be a Merry Man when he grows up,” I said.

The stuntman tilted his head and chuckled. “Tell him to be a lawyer instead. They drive nicer cars.”

I looked into Steve’s eyes, trying to hold his attention with my gaze. “Last Halloween he dressed up as you.” I wanted to take the picture out of my sash, but wasn’t sure if Steve would understand if I suddenly started undressing in front of him. “He even carried his bow and arrows with him.” I was about to add, “He has cancer.” Only I never got that far.

An older woman stepped out of the doorway, and when she saw Steve, she motioned for him to come. “There you are. Dean wants to do some more close-ups before they run through the master shot.”

“I thought he was working with Esme.”

“And Esme is late. Again. So now she’ll do hers after the master shot, and you’re doing yours now.”

Steve let out a disgruntled breath. “I swear, one of these days I’m just going to let King John kill her.” He pushed ahead of me and walked through the door. I followed after him, but both he and the stunt man had lost any interest in talking to me. After a few more steps of watching two matching backs pull away from me, I stopped trying to catch up with them. To the air I said, “He’s very sick.”

No one heard me.

My gaze momentarily left Steve and took in the set. The room was huge. Seriously, if it hadn’t been for all of the stuff inside, you could have had several NBA teams playing full-court basketball in here. Off to my left a knee-high miniature replica of a medieval village lay across the floor. I recognized it as one of the villages from the series. It had little cottages, thatched roofs, farms, and haystacks.

I didn’t stare at it long. In front of me, and far more impressive, was a life-size reproduction of a medieval courtyard complete with a wall of ragged gray stones, large fishpond, and rustic benches. The bushes surrounding the pond looked real, as did the vines that grew up the wall of the building.

But the gardens beyond the fishpond were just a painted backdrop, and the tree trunks didn’t belong to actual trees at all. The branches that hung down were attached to wooden scaffolding from the ceiling. The stone wall only went up about thirty feet and then stopped. There was no building, no other connecting walls or a roof.

It all felt surreal, as though this place were caught between two different worlds.

A man handed Steve a sword, gave him some last-minute instruction, and then left the set. Steve walked in front of the wall where a large camera on wheels scooted toward him.

Someone called, “Quiet on the set!” I looked toward the voice and recognized Dean Powell from the picture I’d seen on the internet. He sat in front of a video monitor, held a bullhorn to his mouth, and yelled, “Action!”

Steve swung his sword, fighting with the air in front of him. He did this for nearly a half an hour straight, lunging forward and backward with a self-assured expression. I stood there watching, waiting.

The hands of the clock had passed twelve-thirty and were creeping toward one. A security guard walked by, scanning the crowd. He spoke into his earpiece as he surveyed the room. “I don’t see anyone matching that description, but I’ll keep looking.”

I went and stood by the other girls in medieval dresses to look less conspicuous.

After the cameraman finished filming close-ups of Steve sword fighting, they brought in another swords-man to film over-the-shoulder shots. It wasn’t the actor who played Sir Guy of Gisborne, but a man dressed to look like him from behind.

Every minute of the fight had been choreographed. When the sword slipped out of Steve’s hand during the first take, they repeated the performance step for step, swing for swing, during the second. The director had them redo it for a third time because he wanted Steve to look more determined.

One of the girls who stood near me watched him with hungry eyes. “I wonder if he ever gets tired.”

The other said, “I never get tired of watching him.”

Which is when I realized I’d been staring at him rather earnestly myself.

When the scene ended, one of the crew members brought Steve a bottled water. While he drank it, the director went over to talk to him. They spoke for a few moments, then walked in my general direction. I took a few steps to my left to make sure they’d have to walk by me, then I willed Mr. Powell to go away so I could have two minutes alone with Steve.

He didn’t. Which perhaps didn’t matter, since Steve didn’t notice me at all. His attention did focus on something behind me, though. When I turned, I saw Esme strolling toward us, trailed by the hairdresser, who was still making adjustments to the curls in Esme’s hair.

Although I seemed to be invisible to Steve, Esme’s gaze came to a halt on my face. My first thought was that she recognized me—she’d seen me carrying the snake by her trailer and now she wondered why I was dressed in a medieval gown on the set.

Without a word in my direction, and while the hairdresser still shoved bobby pins into her hair, Esme turned to Mr. Powell with pursed lips. “I thought I made it clear that none of my ladies-in-waiting were to be pretty girls. The audience is supposed to look at me, not check out the extras behind me.”

Both Steve and Mr. Powell turned and appraised me. I felt my cheeks growing bright red, and I fingered the fabric of my dress nervously.

Steve’s gaze left me, and he sent an easy grin in Esme’s direction. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one is as pretty as you are. I’ve heard you say so yourself.”

“Shut up,” she told him, and turned to Mr. Powell with arched eyebrows.

He waved a hand in my direction. “Go change into one of the nun’s costumes.”

“How is that better?” Esme asked. “Do you want the audience to watch the fight or to wonder who the hot nun is?”

Steve looked up at the ceiling, then back at Esme. “I’ll tell you a secret. Guys don’t usually check out girls dressed as nuns. It would be creepy.”

Esme put her hands on her hips, but Mr. Powell just shrugged. “The camera won’t be close enough to see her features.” He waved his hand in my direction again. “Go. You don’t have much time before we start the master shot.” ter shot.”

I went. As I left, I heard Esme still protesting that her contract guaranteed her certain things. I was so close, so close to speaking to Steve. And so close to being caught.

I walked back to the wardrobe trailer. I was going to be late heading back to Nevada, but how could I leave now? I’d think of some excuse and call my parents later.

This time a middle-aged woman stood among the costumes, taking several versions of the same Maid Marion dress out of dry-cleaning bags and hanging them up. She didn’t question me about needing a nun’s outfit, just produced one from the rack, held it up to me for size, and then handed me a matching wimple.

I changed while taking nervous glances at the box I’d put Herman in. I had put a pair of boots on top of that box, hadn’t I? Maybe the wardrobe lady had seen them sitting there and put them away. I didn’t see Herman crawling around anywhere, so maybe he’d curled up inside and taken a nap. At least I hoped so. All I needed was for the wardrobe lady to find a five-foot python in her trailer and call the security guards.

Thankfully, the nun’s outfit had pockets. At least this way I’d be able to show Jeremy’s picture to Steve without it looking like I was undressing to do it. And I needed to talk to Steve soon or it seemed likely I would be drafted into the master shot, whatever that was. I hoped it didn’t require that I actually know anything about acting.

When I went back to the set, I saw Steve, but before I could walk in his direction, the director’s assistant herded me over to a corner of the set where four other nuns stood waiting. Apparently, we were about to make some sort of nun procession. While the crew members adjusted the lights and fluffed up the foliage by the fishpond, the other nuns filled me in on what we were supposed to do. Which was the only benefit I could see from my recent demotion from lady-in-waiting to nun. I had a reason to be clueless.

We were about to do the OFS—obligatory fight scene—and in this particular episode, Maid Marion was stuck at a nunnery. Sir Guy had captured Robin Hood earlier in the show, imprisoned him in a dungeon, and had told Maid Marion that Robin would be executed if she didn’t agree to be Sir Guy’s bride.

When Sir Guy came onto the set demanding Maid Marion’s answer, the mother superior and some of the nuns would try to keep him from seeing her, as we were not only holy sisters, but apparently also not big fans of Sir Guy.

His men would overpower us, then Sir Guy would yank Marion to her feet and say, “You have made a fool of me long enough. What is your answer?”

Robin Hood—who has, not surprisingly, escaped from the dungeon with the help of his Merry Men—was going to gallantly appear on yonder tree limb and say, “My answer is that you are a fool and will always be one.”

Robin Hood would then use his bow and arrow to take out a couple of Sir Guy’s men. Robin Hood, by the way, never shoots Sir Guy, even though Sir Guy is frequently standing right in front of him. This is one of the things that bothers me about the
Teen Robin Hood
show, but I was not about to bring that up. I just kept nodding as the other nuns filled me in on the story line.

Anyway, Robin Hood was going to swing down the tree from a rope—cynical viewers might wonder when he had time to set that up—and have a sword fight with Sir Guy. The result of which would be Sir Guy falling in the fishpond and Robin Hood yelling out, “You play the fool very well indeed!” before he rides off with Maid Marion.

Even though the whole sequence would only take a few minutes of TV time, the cast had been shooting it all day. Close-ups, three-quarter and over-the-shoulder shots. We were about to run through the scene from beginning to end.

“Ninety percent of anything we do will be left on the editing room floor,” the mother superior told me. “But that doesn’t mean Mr. Powell won’t hang us by our wimples if we mess up.”

She showed me our marks—where we were to stand when the scene began and where we would stagger to when Sir Guy’s men shoved us out of the way. I nodded at her and tried to remember everything she told me, but other things kept distracting me. Like the security guards prowling the edges of the set and the horse the handlers brought in. I also noticed Steve Raleigh climb up a ladder to a platform and try out the rope.

“Remember,” the mother superior told me, “don’t
act
the part.
Be
the part.”