Not in the Script (14 page)

Take after take from different camera angles, I keep pushing
ABXXA
. My thumbs are stiff, my neck has a kink in it, and my eyes burn from concentrating on a blank video game screen. The funny thing is, I like it. All of it.

“Picture's up!” Tyler calls.

An assistant director repeats the command, and PAs echo it
throughout the set. A buzzer sounds to warn everyone within the entire studio that filming is about to take place.

“Here we go. Quiet down!”

“Rolling!” Tyler says.

“Sound speed!”

“Camera speeding.”

Camera A slate is held up, and an assistant cameraman says, “Scene five Echo, take four.”
Clap
. “A mark.”

Camera B slate is clapped. “B Mark.”

McGregor sits in front of his monitor. “And … action!”

I tap out
ABXXA
. No one cares what order I really hit the buttons—or that it usually only takes hitting
A
to make a game character jump—because at least from this camera angle, it doesn't matter.
Thud
… that's Kimmi dropping the box.

I just keep thinking,
Jump, Mario, jump
.

“Do you need some help?” Brett says, racing toward the set door. He exits for exactly three seconds, as McGregor has instructed him, then returns with the box in his arms. Kimmi shuffles in behind him, looking discouraged after a long hour on the front steps begging for school supplies—according to the script, anyway. I wouldn't know because I'm on the red planet trying to get to the green one. “You okay?” Brett asks Kimmi.

My cue. I switch my feet, left on top of right.
ABXXA …

“Yeah, but all I got was a used pencil,” Kimmi says. “Will you help me next time, Eden?”

Emma's
as if
laugh is my next cue.

“Jump, you midget, jump!” I shout at Mario.

Kimmi gasps. “Hey, don't be mean to Eden! It's not
her
fault that she's so short.”

I pretend to pause my game, then turn my head to glare at Kimmi as though she has “Politically Correct” stamped on her forehead. “Chill out, will ya?” I say. “My vertically challenged victim is also
reality
challenged, so he doesn't freaking care what I call him. And I don't think Eden looks short at all in those nice tall boots.”

Kimmi's eyes drift down Emma. “Guess not,” she says, scandalized. Or at least that's the expression the script tells her to have.

“Cut!” McGregor calls. It's actually the end of the scene, anyway, but he says it like Kimmi ruined the entire take. “Miss Weston, you've got that uppity curve to your lips again when you look her over, as though you're smelling something foul.”

Brett removes his shoe and sticks it under Kimmi's nose. “This, maybe?”

Kimmi shrieks, a totally new sound from her, and bats him away.

“And why is it that with two guys in this scene,” Brett asks McGregor, “
Kimmi
gets to be the one who checks out Emma? That's cruel, man.” He turns to me and adds, under his breath, “At least you get a view of her butt. I get nothing at all from this angle.”

“Except for my
face
,” Emma says, close enough to hear him. Then she shoots me a scowl over her shoulder and whispers, “I thought you promised to stop looking at my butt.”

Whoa. Is she … flirting?

“Well, once again,” I reply, still lounging on the couch, “it's the only view I have.”

Emma laughs. “Move over, these boots are killing me.”

I swing my feet off the couch and gladly make room for her.

“Don't get too comfortable,” McGregor tells us. “We're going
again. Three minutes.” He guides Kimmi over to his monitor and plays back the footage. “Ah,” he finally says. “I suppose it's not too bad.”

“Good, then let's call that the martini,” Kimmi replies, suggesting we should wrap for the day—I think. The set lingo is still a bit fuzzy. “I've gotta get out of here.”

McGregor waves Tyler over to the monitor and has him take a look too. And Brett leaves the set for who knows what reason.

Emma and I exchange glances.

“It's only four thirty,” she whispers. “Do you think he'll actually let us go?”

“Maybe. Isn't this the last scene on the schedule?”

She thinks for a sec. “Yeah, but McGregor could come up with a
ton
of things that need to be tweaked. We're just lucky he's so determined to keep his entire weekends free for his family, or we'd all be spending Fraturdays together. That's how my last show was.”

“Fraturdays?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. And they'll still be necessary once in a while—probably for night shoots,” Emma says. “We'll work for about sixteen hours straight, half of Friday and all through the night, until the sun rises on Saturday. So, you know,
Fraturday
. It's pretty much a big company pajama party because everyone is half-asleep and laughing at every tiny thing that wouldn't seem even remotely funny in the daylight.”

“That doesn't sound too bad,” I reply.

Emma smiles. “No, not usually. And it's definitely better than studying every Friday night, which is all I've been doing since I moved to Tucson. I'm not exactly looking forward to yet another quiet evening filled with textbooks.”

With any other girl, that would have been a hint. I jump all over it.

“I won't be having any fun tonight either,” I say. “I need to make a trip to Phoenix so I can start hauling all my stuff down here.” Not bad. Here I go. “It would be great to have someone come along for the drive—you know, keep me awake? Just talk?”

Emma holds very still. “Is your … waitress friend busy?”

“Who?” I ask, then finally catch on. “Jeez. I can only guess what you heard about the waitress. But Brett and Kimmi just wanted to see if I could get her number without asking for it, which also led to her telling me when she got off work. But I went straight to my hotel—
alone
, by the way.”

Emma raises a brow at me. “I definitely heard a different version of that story.”

I shrug. “At least that explains … well, a lot.”

“Like what?”

“You acting like I have rabies. Or at least cooties.”

Emma laughs. “Subtlety isn't one of my gifts. But still, I better pass.”

“Oh, c'mon,” I say. “You've made it clear enough that you don't want to date me. So as long as we're both good with those terms, what's wrong with hanging out?”

I just keep smiling at her while she thinks it over. Her face is the color of Atomic Fireballs, as hot as the rest of her.

“You're not very good at taking no for an answer,” she finally says.

“I haven't had much practice,” I reply, which is true. “Besides, I need to ask you a few more questions about online classes. I want to start school.”

“Really?”

“That last take looks great, folks. We can wrap!” McGregor calls, and everyone cheers. “Scripts for episode two are in your dressing rooms.”

I glance back at Emma. “So … I'll pick you up at six?”

What is it about me that makes her so hesitant? “Okay. I'll go.”

Sweet
. I want to reply, but Brett is headed back our way. “Guess who's getting a girlfriend?” he says, and waves a script at Emma. “You might want to take a look at this.”

That can only mean one thing.

It isn't a date
, I tell myself as Jake walks off the set. I used to hang out with guy friends all the time in Los Angeles. And I'm desperate for some fun right now.

Oh, please, who am I trying to fool? That little vixen in me tempted my better half into trouble, and I know it. But … Jake only wants to talk about school. That's all.

It isn't a date
.

Brett flips through the script in his hands. “Guess who gets to kiss—”

“Shh!” It's obvious what the script says. “No spoilers.”

“Okay, okay,” Brett replies. “You ready for tomorrow?”

I've already heard Jake can't go to the motocross because he's moving into his condo this weekend, but Brett still swears that no one will think our group is in couples because Kimmi and I will be the only girls with four guys. “If I get there, Brett, and it's just the four of us—”

“Seriously, Taylor! How many times do I have to turn you down?”

“I just don't want it to
look
like a date.”

“It doesn't matter what it looks like—McGregor jumped through the roof when I told him we were all going to L.A. to promote
Coyote Hills
.” Brett is backing away from me, off the set. “And he's counting on you getting tons of attention with your big, pretty smile. We're supposed to tell everyone we see about the show.”

I should've known he would get McGregor all hyped up. “Fine, I'll go on your fake publicity trip,” I call as he moves farther away. “And I'll get
tons
of attention, 'cause I'm gonna wear a flashing billboard on my head that says:
I GOT TRICKED INTO THIS!
”

“Perfect!” he shouts back, and several crew members turn around. “Write this on your billboard too: Watch me make out with Brett Crawford!
Coyote Hills
, Tuesday nights, eight o'clock!”

I throw both hands over my face.
Great
. Brett is about to become my on-screen boyfriend. That shouldn't complicate things much.

While driving home from the studio in my finally delivered car, passing more sagebrush than I ever knew existed, I try to avoid thoughts of kissing—or strangling—Brett Crawford. I turn my air-conditioning on as high as it can go, but I still feel like I'm a turkey cooking in a hot oven.

The locals have assured me that if I can just make it through the scorching summers, Tucson's weather during the rest of the year is perfect. Meanwhile, I'll try to enjoy the random fluctuations between one-hundred-and-ten-degree weather and hammering downpours. The monsoon storms have been hitting every few days, and the lightning is insane—fifty bolts striking all at once.

Beautiful, but truly dangerous. Sort of like Jake.

When I finally remembered to have him sign his headshots for Rachel, three days after we met, Jake mentioned that he had leased a condo in my neighboring community. And when I was on the running path a few nights ago, I saw him get out of his car and walk into it. So now I know exactly where he lives, about four minutes away. Half that if I run.

This probably isn't something I should tell Rachel. Not yet, at least.

As I'm thinking about all of this on my way home, my mom calls to say, “Trina won't stop pestering me about making sure her daughter gets an audition for
Stars in Their Eyes
. Has Rachel been trying to talk you into making some calls?”

“Yes, and I told her I'd do whatever I could,” I say. “What's wrong with that?”

There's a sigh of exasperation, as if Mom can't believe I still don't understand how things work. “Emma. It's one thing to talk to a few friends—once in a while—who happen to be working on a project you feel Rachel would be good in, but quite another matter to call people you don't even know and use your name as though it can buy you the Taj Mahal.”

“Gosh, Mom. I don't take my celebrity status as lightly as you think.” I'm not sure my plan to get Rachel an audition will work, but can't I at least try? This is the first year she's old enough for
Stars in Their Eyes
—a reality show that gives aspiring actors a shot at stardom. “Rachel is one-hundred-percent perfect for that show, and the casting director will know it the minute she auditions.”

“Then let her stand in line like everyone else,” Mom says.

“I just want to make sure she gets a
place
in line, okay?” A lot
of people don't, only because they wear a scarf one of the screeners doesn't like, or something petty like that.