Messy (18 page)

Brooke couldn’t find Zander or the other executive producer, Kyle, so she headed back toward the set. Brick’s deep voice carried toward her, echoing against the backdrops.

“… the forgotten subtext of the movie,” Brick was saying. “I’m impressed!”

As Brooke rounded the corner, she saw that he was
talking to Brady, who smiled at her shyly. Brooke allowed herself a moment to appreciate the effect she had on people. She
knew
this was a good hair day.

“Hi, Brady,” she said. “What did I miss?”

“I was just telling your dad about a UCLA Extension course I’m taking on action films,” Brady replied, his ears turning a tiny bit red. It was sort of sweet. “I’m doing a paper on themes of abandonment in the Dirk Venom movies, and I thought…”

Brick clapped a hand on Brady’s back so hard that Brady coughed. “I was beginning to think nobody saw all the work I put into Dirk’s backstory. I bet I have it all written down, still. Thirty pages of feelings. I actually called it
Thirty Pages of Feelings
. I should give it to you for your paper.” He pulled out his phone. “I will e-mail myself a note.”

“Thanks, sir. Um, so how are you doing, Brooke?” Brady asked, making brief eye contact and somewhat nervously picking at his pockets. “I saw Max had
The Hunger Games
in her bag the other day—are you guys reading that now?”

“Yes, of course,” Brooke said, hooking her arm through Brick’s. “Daddy and I make it a point to stay on top of the latest diet trends.”

Brady seemed confused. Brooke wondered if she had made a mistake. Then he chuckled.

“Very funny,” he said. “Can’t wait to hear your take on the whole trilogy. I thought the ending was—well, I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

“A reader, eh?” Brick crowed. “Very impressive!” He thumped Brady on the back again. “Actors
should
be soldiers of academia. Our greatest tools are our brains.”

Brooke could swear she heard another snort off in the distance.

Brady checked his watch. “Whoops, I’m due in wardrobe for a fitting,” he said. “Always great to see you, Brooke. And it was nice to meet you, sir.”

“Well, son, it was a pleasure to meet you,” Brick said, thumping him again. “Call me Brick.”

As Brady loped off toward the costumer’s room, Brooke gazed curiously up at her father. He was beaming at Brady’s back. “That is one impressive young man, Sunshine,” he said. “It takes a very bright mind to pick up on my subtle subtext in Dirk Venom. Especially the second one.” He winked at Brooke. “Nancy hooked a good one. Maybe life will imitate art, eh, Brookie? I’ve always wanted you to date someone as brilliant as you are.”

“Daddy, you’re so silly. I’m sure Brady doesn’t think twice about me,” Brooke twittered. She was mostly lying. She
was
Brooke Berlin, after all. Making guys think about her was in her DNA.

“Nonsense, Sunshine! He clearly appreciates your beautiful mind. A connection like that is too precious to waste,” Brick said fondly. “Plus, get some lifts for his shoes and you’d look perfect together! A love story would be such great PR for the movie!”

Well, that much was true.

“And just think of the screenings we could have at our house!” Brick continued. “I could talk him through the scenes where Dirk Venom cleans his gun, and what it means about his relationship with his parents. And I could show him my custom Bowflex!”

“Then
you
date him, Daddy,” Brooke said glibly.

“Don’t be silly, Sunshine, he’s not my type!” Brick chortled. “But just remember: An open mind leads to a full heart.”

Brooke could tell what was coming next. “Wait, that would make a great slogan for the rom-com Heather Graham wants to do with me,” Brick mused.

Brick’s face glowed as he punched merrily at his BlackBerry. Brooke studied him for a few seconds and then smiled. It was obvious what she had to do.

Max curled up and shifted in the armchair. The
Nancy Drew
soundstage also occasionally housed
Pretty Little Liars
, and she’d found a cozy chair from one of the girls’ rooms that hadn’t been put away yet. It made for a quiet place to read or do homework whenever she had nothing to do—which was frequently, since half the time Brooke dragged her out here for “research” and then just lay around on the meticulously made bed of trash bags, trying to absorb Nancy’s aura.

In the weeks since Brooke got the part, Max was
increasingly glad she’d turned down her mother’s offer of financial help. She’d started feeling less like an employee and more like a teammate. Brooke often pulled her aside for advice—granted, it was usually on something cosmetic and/or crazy, but she still
wanted
Max’s opinion. Countless nights Molly had wandered into Brooke’s room to find them with their heads together over the script or giggling over an idea for a blog entry.

“Max McCormack, are you actually starting to
like
my sister?” Molly had later wondered, amused. Max had just snorted and changed the subject, rather than admit that maybe this was a little bit true. She remembered Molly once noting that Brooke was entertaining when she wasn’t being a total pain, and finally Max had begun to see it.

Max had also gotten to know the other key players pretty well, beyond just Brady. Zander, the hipster producer, was desperate for a vinyl copy of an old Rolling Stones album and nearly passed out with joy when Max found one at Amoeba. The other big boss, Kyle, wore a rubber band around his wrist and snapped it every time he cussed. He got around this by abbreviating everything—“g.d.” this, “f’ing” that—but every so often he would let fly a four-letter pejorative and then thwack himself in the arm. He and Max had spent twenty minutes over sandwiches the other day, discussing whether
shiz
counted as a swear word (Max contended that no word with an artificially added
Z
counted as anything at
all). Carla Callahan started sucking up incessantly once she saw how much time Max spent hanging out with Brooke, tagging after the two of them—“Oi, mates, fancy a brewsky?” she would bleat in faltering British tones that were blending with the Boston accent she was using for
Nancy Drew
. And Germain on Camera A had shown Max how to work the equipment and then secretly let her frame one of Brady’s close-ups.

“Don’t tell,” he’d said, winking. “My union will kill me.”

All told, between that and the never-ending process of script tweaks and rewrites, Max was absorbing a ton—
so
much more than just bits and bobs for blog ideas. The only frustration was that the more time she spent on set, the weirder it got when people quoted Max’s own words at her, expecting her to agree that, yes, that paragraph she had slaved over
was
clever of Brooke. It was hard seeing Brooke praised for her blunt insights, while Max was being dispatched to get Brooke’s coffee, or grab Brooke a banana, or make sure Brooke’s trailer had toilet paper. When Max protested to Brooke that the movie had several PAs on staff whose sole job was to do these exact things, Brooke insisted that although she didn’t feel good about it, either, Max had to keep up appearances—and if appearances were that she was a personal assistant, well, then it really didn’t make sense for Max to refuse to make a Starbucks run for her.

“Channel your inner actress, Max,” Brooke had urged her. “Channel your inner
me
.”

“I thought I was already doing that,” Max had replied with a sweet smile.

But the schlepping seemed like a decent trade for watching a movie get made (well, at least whatever parts were made between when school ended and Max’s curfew). Despite her lifelong, self-proclaimed disdain for people who clamored to be in entertainment, Max had to admit it was fascinating. She could watch the director, Tad Cleary, all day. He was famous for directing
The Character Limit
, about the origins of Twitter, yet nobody knew much about Tad’s personal life because he himself rarely made small talk, even when
not
making small talk was rude. When he did speak, it was at a pace three times faster than most people could even process, and he never sat still. Max had never seen Tad without three of those tiny 5-Hour Energy bottles in his hand. He was so wired one day that Max saw him walk smack into a set wall.

“What are you smiling about?” Brady asked, passing behind her and thwacking her gently on the back of her head with some script pages.

“Oh, I’m just reading this hilarious book,” she said, waggling
Les Misérables
at him. “It’s all about sick prostitutes and young guys getting themselves killed. It’s a scream.”

Brady peered into Max’s bag. There were two other thick hardbacks in there. “Okay, I really think it’s time you tell me why you carry fifty pounds of books everywhere. And don’t say it’s a book club. Nobody can read that much in one week.”

Usually Max would’ve replied sarcastically, but after so many easy conversations, she had no trouble being herself with Brady. “This is grossly nerdy, but I’m kind of phobic about getting stuck somewhere without enough reading material,” she said. “The last flight I took, I brought four books and seven magazines, and I still didn’t let myself touch them until I’d read the Sky Mall catalog front to back.”

“That’s not nerdy, that’s just common sense,” Brady said. “Besides, the Sky Mall is full of useful things. Like that tiny-doughnut machine.” He pursed his lips. “Actually, the first thing I buy with my
Nancy Drew
money might be the tiny-doughnut machine. Way better than a car.”

“Oh, my God, speaking of, did you see somebody wants to remake
Back to the Future
, but with Zac Efron and a Mini Cooper?” Max said with a groan.

Brady winced. “Why do they ruin all the classics?” he asked. “Although it’d be nice if they shot it here, so we could have some kind of time travel–themed hot lunch at the commissary.”

“I heard tomorrow’s theme is
One Tree Hill
, and since a dog ate a guy’s heart one time on that show, I am dying to find out what they’re serving,” Max said. “Are you going to be here? We have to go.”

“I’ll be here,” he confirmed, brandishing a green-tinted call sheet. “Brooke and I are shooting Nancy’s first visit to Ned’s house.” He fished around in his pocket. “According
to the schedule, I have about two weeks to get comfortable standing next to her on an apple box before we have to make out.”

Max’s nostrils flared a little. “Congratulations,” she said, her voice a bit testy. Brady appeared not to notice. “It’s weird,” he said, rubbing his hair absently. “I feel like I know more about her from reading her website than from when we’ve talked in person.” He shrugged. “Some people are just more comfortable in print than out loud. I was always that way.”

“So of course you became an actor.”

“By accident, remember?” he said. “And not a very successful one.”

“Until now,” Max pointed out.

“Jury’s still out,” Brady retorted. “My Razzie campaign for Worst Actor might still have some life.”

“Max!” a voice called out. They looked up to see Brooke heading their way.

“Shoot, I told her I was due in wardrobe.” Brady grinned sheepishly. “Brick is cool, but if he’d hit my back one more time, I think my spine would’ve come out my mouth. The guy is
strong
.” He smacked her with the script again as he headed away. “We’ll have to talk later about how I saw
Snakeacuda
on cable this weekend. You are going to love it.”

As he walked away, Max tried to imagine him and Brooke making out for the cameras. It made her shudder. Brooke and Brady went together like peanut butter and herpes.

“Max!” Brooke hissed.

Max looked up to see Brooke standing right in front of her, hand on hip. “You really need to listen when I call you. What if it had been urgent?”

“There is no such thing as a blog emergency.”

“You don’t know that. And besides, it
is
vitally important.” Brooke looked around the dusty area behind the set, seemingly trying not to breathe through her nose. “Stand up for a second,” she said.

Max obliged, wondering if there was a bug on her chair or something. Brooke beamed. “Thank you,” she said, sweeping into Max’s seat.

“Hey!” Max protested.

“Max, I can’t sit on the floor. This is a Phillip Lim,” Brooke said, presumably as an apology. “Besides, with me sitting and you standing, we’re more like eye-to-eye, right?” Brooke lowered her voice. “And I have a very, very big job for you.”

“Please tell me it involves getting you another latte, so I can spit in it.”

“Maxine, be serious. And hygienic.” Brooke folded her hands in her lap and beckoned Max closer.

“I need you,” Brooke began with a flourish, “to blog me a date.”

Max blinked. “Those words don’t make sense in that order.”

“Look, Daddy just met Brady, and he, like, loved him.
Loved
him,” Brooke said, a flush of excitement on her
cheeks. “You should have seen it. You have to help me date him.”

“Wait a minute,” Max said, holding up her palms. “You said you wouldn’t date short, bespectacled actors.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Brooke said, waving her hands dismissively. “A precious connection is too smart to… wait, what was it he said? Anyway, whatever. The point is, Brady totally digs Internet Me, and he’s all shy around Real Me, so I want you to use the blog to seal the deal.”