Not in the Script (12 page)

“How touching,” Kimmi says.

Brett glares at her—his pretense of playing nice obviously wearing thin—and I would rather not referee a catfight, so I turn to Kimmi and bring up our mutual acting coach. “McGregor told me you were handpicked by Anne Mabley to audition for him.”

Kimmi actually smiles, teeth and everything. “Of course. I've been her favorite student at MAPA from the day I started there. And since you studied with her too, you probably know that
five
of her students have gone on to win major film awards.”

“And she thinks
you
are a future A-lister,” Brett says.

My attention is still on Kimmi, waiting for her to reply, but then I realize where she and Brett are looking. “Anne said that about
me
?” I ask. “Why would she say
that
?”

“Good question,” Kimmi replies. “She told me the same thing, which makes me curious. Why is she so sure of your success—are you really talented enough to put butts in seats, or is it just your abs?”

“His abs?” Brett asks. “Have you seen his pecs? They're crazy.”

I've had my own doubts about my acting talent, but I give McGregor more credit than hiring me based on my … other assets. “Knock it off with the X-ray eyes,” I say, laughing, but in truth, I'm annoyed. They're both staring at my chest. “I did a lot more than strut around to get this job, okay? And when did Anne talk to
you
about me?” I ask Brett.

“A week or so ago?” he answers with a shrug. “I'm close with
about every big name in this industry—I know everything, about
everyone
.” Brett glances at Kimmi before he goes on. “Which is why people usually try to stay on my good side.”

“Is that your sorry attempt at a power play?” Kimmi asks.

“First you think I'm hitting on you, and now I'm making some sort of threat?” Brett leans forward and eases his grin. “And just so things are perfectly clear: With Emma Taylor in the mix, why would I go after
you
?”

It's great timing for the waitress to show up with our food because I act like the shock I get down my back is from seeing a plate of nachos—stacked to the ceiling—set in front of me. I play a watered-down version of my game, but Tara still walks off with a little sway.

Kimmi sips her soda, then says, “Emma isn't your type.”

“She's female, so she's my type,” Brett replies, ignoring his burrito that covers an entire plate. I dig into my nachos. “And I already know she likes me.”

A chip gets stuck in my throat.

“What girl her age
doesn't
have a crush on you?” Kimmi says, as if Emma still wears pigtails. And Kimmi is what? Maybe a year or so older? “But she probably got over you the moment you opened your mouth today.”

“Wrong,” Brett snaps. “Didn't you notice how nervous she was around me? She was all shy and couldn't make eye contact.” He points his knife at me. “How did she act with
you
?”

“She was fine. No problem.” Now that I think about it, the way she acted around Brett, he might be right. It's surprising that any girl at all—with a brain—could like Brett Crawford, but
Emma
? “So, Kimmi, back to you,” I say. “Where are you from?”

Both Kimmi and Brett seem shocked that I care. Maybe they aren't as dumb as I think.

“My family has homes on both coasts—Pacific Palisades and the Hamptons,” Kimmi says, explaining plenty right there. She goes on for another fifteen minutes about her jet-setter lifestyle, then finally gets back to her family. “My father is in real estate, like my grandfather—they're in Dubai right now working on a high-rise project. And my brother is at Harvard.”

“Like, where else would he be?” Brett pipes up with a mouthful of burrito. “And your mom is a tipsy socialite who shimmies her way from one Bloomingdale's to another.”

Kimmi goes rigid. “Yes, actually. But she's usually more than a bit tipsy. Did you get
that
scoop from your Hollywood connections too?”

“I was joking!” Brett spits out, along with his food. “Is she really an alcoholic?”

“Come on, man,” I say. “Do you chew on your feet all day, or what?”

Kimmi's eyes are stone. “Who cares? I hardly know her.” She holds up her hand and waves over the waitress. “Jake, you have a job to finish.”

It isn't easy to fake a smile with Tara this time. All the Emma stuff is blocking my mojo, and I'm stuck between feeling bad that Kimmi's mom has such a big problem and stumped because Kimmi doesn't care. Or does she?

The way I feel about my dad is just as cold. Or at least I treat him like that.

“So, how was your food?” Tara asks, handing us each a separate check.

Brett and I say it was great, but Kimmi just pushes aside her barely touched salad. Tara ignores her, wishes Brett good luck with his new show, and smiles at me as she leaves.

“Ha-ha, dude. You struck out!” Brett says with blasting laughter.

“I never strike out.” I slide my check across the table. It says:
Dinner is on me. I'm off in ten minutes
.

“And that,” Kimmi tells Brett, “is how a real man does it.”

Brett finally looks up from the check. “Whatever. Nice snag, but you didn't get her number and that was the deal.”

“Turn it over,” I say, and Brett flips the check to see where Tara has written her name and number. “You can keep that as your consolation prize.”

He crumples up the bill and chucks it at me.

My game ends here, so I leave a twenty-dollar tip and head to my car.

The hair and makeup room is my favorite place in the studio: spinning chairs, sinks, long countertops, cabinets for supplies, lighted mirrors forever, and carts filled with gels, sprays, brushes, accessories, and endless cosmetics—in all imaginable colors.

Sugar and spice and everything nice.

On the morning of the second day, I walk in at seven thirty sharp and find myself alone with Brett. “Dang,” he says. “Why do they bother putting makeup on you? You're even drop-dead gorgeous without it.”

Brett Crawford just called you gorgeous
, I tell myself, and my pulse stays the same. That's almost as freaky as realizing, just now, that I haven't thought of him once since my phone call with Rachel. But wouldn't that have been better than having Jake stuck in my head?

“Thanks,” I tell Brett. “I'm kind of nervous after my visit to costumes.”

Today will be filled with camera tests so McGregor can see if the styles for each character look right to him. Personally, I hope he makes a few changes, or I'll be wearing this same outfit for the entire first episode, which will take about eight days to shoot.

“Nice boots,” Brett says. “I usually just see those on the Sunset Strip.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I reply. It's hard for me to dislike
any
pair of footwear, but somehow these black leather boots that go all the way past my knees make me feel like I'm not wearing anything at all. And there are still at least four inches of skin between the boots and my plaid schoolgirl skirt. “But it's this skirt I have the real problem with.”

“I don't see a problem,” Brett says with an even bigger grin.

I roll my eyes. “I guess I'm just grumpy this morning. Didn't sleep well and my call time was six thirty.”

He roughs up his bangs. “I could've slept for another hour, but McGregor wants my hair shorter and re-highlighted. He thinks I look too much like a surfer.”

“You California boys just can't help that, can you?”

Our hairstylist, Donna, walks in and says, “Forget California. I'm gonna turn you into a sun-kissed Arizona hottie.”

“Is there a difference?” Brett asks.

“Is there ever!” Donna replies as she throws a cape around him. I already decided during hair and makeup tests that I like Donna a lot, but our makeup artist, who steps in behind her, frightens me a little. Madelyn is twice my size, in every direction, and crabby. Not exactly someone I want poking around my eyes. I've barely greeted her when she nearly chokes me with a cape, then yanks my hair into a ponytail. “Gentle with the locks,” Donna tells Madelyn. “I've got something sassy planned today.”

“You should do Emma's hair exactly like it was for that British movie last summer,” Brett suggests. “All tossed and curly. She looked
good
.”

Donna starts whipping up a color concoction for Brett and agrees that she liked my hair that way, but she's doing something different. Madelyn just grunts—who knows what that means? And I'm also unsure of how to reply to Brett, so instead, I bring up the director of the movie. “You've worked with Hugh Kramer before, right?”

“Yep. Can't stand the guy,” Brett replies. I don't like Kramer much either, but he had talked as if he and Brett were as tight as Tupperware. “All Kramer cares about is box office draws. If he happens to snag a star who's also a good actor—like you—it's just luck.”

I squint my eyes, making Madelyn huff. “Hold still,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Sorry.” I open my eyes wide again so she can blot off the liquid eyeliner mess I just made. “Thanks, Brett. I guess. And you're probably right. The horses did a better job than some of the actors in that movie, but I'm glad it did well anyway.”

“Yeah, there's nothing like having your name attached to a box office flop. I mean, you can read a script and think it's gonna be a colossal hit, and then …” As Brett's hair is being wrapped in foil, we talk about the occasional disasters we've been involved in, and it's refreshing to speak so openly about the unpredictable, frustrating side of the business.

When Brett isn't being a spastic, potty-mouthed womanizer, he's not too bad.

“So when you're not working, what does a good girl like you do besides paint your toenails?” he asks. “Have you ever been to a motocross race?”

Wait … how had he gone from movies to toenails to motorcycles
in a single breath? “Never even thought of going,” I say with a laugh. Racing is one of Brett's hobbies that is supposedly—according to gossip—distracting him from being a serious actor.

“No way! You'd love it!” Brett looks hysterical now with his tinfoil-topped head, and we switch chairs so Donna can work on me while the color sets. “I've been racing for five years,” Brett says, “but McGregor made me swear I wouldn't touch a motorcycle until we wrapped the season in April. He even put it in my contract.”

McGregor's contracts are a bit intense. I can barely brush my own teeth without written approval. “Did you have to swear off anything else?”

“A whole list of stuff, which is sorta good for me right now, but it doesn't mean I can't watch someone else have fun. In fact, I'm going to a big race in L.A a couple of weeks from now. You wanna come?”

“Um—”

“Hey, don't get excited or anything. I already told you I stopped dating my costars,” Brett says, all snarky. “We'll be with a big group—not in couples—so it'll be a blast.”

The Los Angeles factor makes this easy. “Thanks, but I can't.”

Brett glares at me. “You don't want to be seen with me, do you?”

Donna and Madelyn exchange interested looks, and I want to beg Brett to end this conversation. Studio employees sign strict confidentiality agreements, but
somehow
on-set gossip finds its way to the tabloids anyway. All I can do now is be honest.

“Okay, yeah, that's definitely part of it,” I tell Brett. “It's nothing personal, but if we happened to be photographed together—with a big group, or not—we could still be labeled as a couple. That's just what happens if you work together
and
hang out.”

“Sometimes, I guess.” Brett falls quiet after this, so I let him
stay that way. But after just thirty seconds or so, he looks back and says, “You won't believe what an idiot I was last night—I feel
so
bad. When we were at dinner, Jake asked Kimmi about her family, and I accidentally made fun of her alcoholic mom.”