Not in the Script (2 page)

Totally
may be pushing it. I might still watch his movies, a lot, and rewind certain parts that I think he's especially amazing in. But is it so wrong that I think he's the best actor of my generation? Isn't it natural that I would be attracted to someone with so much talent?

Mom gives me a thin, cynical smile. “I noticed just this
morning that your laptop wallpaper is yet another picture of Brett Crawford.”

Yeah, well, about that … I also just like to
look
at him.

“The only time it's been otherwise in the last six years,” Mom goes on, “is when you've been dating some other Hollywood hotshot who thought nothing of dragging your name through the mud.”

Why did she have to bring
them
into this? “It isn't my fault that they all cheated on me.
I
didn't do anything wrong.”

Mom's icy expression melts a little, and I realize I rarely see this softer look on her face anymore. She has brown eyes, mine are blue, but we share the same dark hair and small-framed bodies. I've never felt like she's forced me into a life I don't want—I'm the one who got the lead in a first-grade play and begged her to let me become a real actress—but it feels as if she sometimes forgets that I'm not just a client.

It's all business, all the time.

“I know that,” Mom says. “And your dad and your closest friends know that. But the majority of the world sees a girl who dates this same type of guy over and over, as someone who has very poor judgment. It just can't happen again.”

How could she possibly think I pick losers on purpose?

When I first met Troy, who was my costar during the last season of
The First Family
, he was always smiling, laughing, joking around with me, surprising me with flowers or a dinner overlooking the ocean. But it isn't exactly easy dating professional actors—boys who can fake their way through anything.

I look my mom square in the eyes and say, “I get it, okay? I'm totally done with Hollywood guys. Can we move on now?”

Someone sneezes. Rachel and Trina are just outside the door
and have probably been there this entire time, listening. Mom breathes a familiar sigh of irritation. “We'll talk more when you get home,” she says. “And perhaps you can find a new wallpaper for your laptop?”

I nod and return her phone. “Don't worry. I'll be …” Fine is what I'd intended to say, but a vision of Brett Crawford sitting next to me in a cast chair—with his perfect surfer tan, blond hair that always falls in front of his eyes, and a smile that puts a hummingbird in my stomach—enters my mind, and I can't speak.

“You'll be
amazing
,” Mom says with a squeeze of my shoulder. “Steve McGregor didn't even consider another actress for this part, and he always knows what he's doing. You just need to focus on your career, not boys.”

Mom leaves the room, and Rachel soon takes her place. She shuts the door again and says, “Are you freaking out or what?
Brett Crawford?
This is fate!”

“It's
ill
-fated, you mean.” I collapse into her bed pillows and throw one over my face. I've had several chances to meet Brett. A few times, I've even been in the same room as him. But besides the fact that he's more than two years older and would have only thought of me as a silly little girl before now, I've intentionally avoided Brett because I don't want to know the real him. “I have a perfectly happy relationship with my laptop wallpaper version of Brett Crawford, thank you very much.”

As things are, we never fight, he never cheats on me, and he doesn't … scare me.

“Brett was in television for the first several years of his career, so why would he want to come back?” I add. “He's been doing
great
in big-budget movies. He should stay where he is.”

Rachel plops into her desk chair. “Don't you keep up with anything? It's amazing how much more I know about your world than you do.”

It's not such a bad thing that Rachel always knows more gossip than I do; Hollywood is practically her religion. When we met, Rachel had already been doing commercials since she was a baby in a Downy-soft blanket, so she was quick to make herself my mentor. But a few years later, when we were twelve, we both went to an open audition for what turned out to be an Oscar-winning film, and I got the part.

It was a lucky break. Right time, right place, right look.

Since then, I've done whatever I could to get Rachel auditions for other major projects, but nothing has worked out. And tension builds with every failed attempt. A couple of months ago she straight out told me, “How did this even happen? You have
everything
I want.”

Why doesn't she get that I wish she had it all too?

No matter how different things sometimes feel between us, though, one thing stays the same: Rachel is the only friend I have who's been with me all along—the only friend who keeps my feet planted firmly in the dark, rich soil of Arkansas. Even when I'm dressed from head to toe in Prada, with red carpet beneath me and cameras flashing from every other direction, Rachel is a constant reminder of where I came from. Who I really am.

I blow the silver fringe from her pillow off my face. “Are you talking about Brett's girl issues?” I ask. “Because, crazy enough, being a player only seems to
help
a guy's career.”

“But it's more than just that,” Rachel says. “According to insiders, Brett's been a pain to work with on his last few films. He
misses call times and keeps the cast and crew waiting for hours.” Rachel sounds like a newscaster as she presents a tattered tabloid as evidence. “Critics say he's lost his passion for acting, that he'll be nothing but a washed-up child star if he doesn't do something quick to redeem himself. So his management team must think television is his best bet. It's worked for a ton of other actors.”

I've read some of this, but not all. “Everyone knows what a great actor Brett is—he's been nominated for major awards since he was
five
,” I say. “He's probably just burned out, and McGregor is smart enough to realize he'll push through it.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see that. But back to the girl issues,” Rachel replies and tacks on a sly smile. “You know what Brett's problem is? He just hasn't dated the
right
girl yet.”

I toss a pillow at her. “The last thing I want to be is Brett Crawford's next ‘throwaway party favor,' so don't look at
me
,” I say. Then I make a silent promise to put soap in my mouth for quoting a tabloid. Reporters tell plenty of lies about my own life, so I question everything I read, but I've seen enough myself to know that every once in a while they're surprisingly dead-on. In their pursuit of a quick, juicy story to sell, however, gossipmongers often miss the details that could
really
damage someone. “It's just that this is all sort of sad,” I go on. “Brett has always been someone safe for me to crush on, but now—”

Rachel cuts me off with laughter. “Oh please! You
know
what's gonna happen. Brett will fall head over heels in love and change his whole life to be with you. So just flirt a little and see where things go.”

“No way,” I reply. She might understand if I told her how bad things got with Troy, but I can't take the chance of Rachel telling
Trina, who would go straight to my mom. Then Mom would freak out even more about me living on my own in Arizona, which is something I've had to fight for every day for the past few months. “I just need to get over Brett before we start working together. That's all. Or he'll be … well, a bit of a distraction.”

“More like a tall, beautiful problem with a killer smile.” Rachel turns back to her wall to swoon over The Bod in a western-themed cologne ad for Armani. “I can only imagine how distracted I'd be if I ever worked with
my
dream guy. Distracted by his perfectly toned arms, and his amazing green eyes, and his luscious mocha hair, and … gosh, I better not talk him up
too
much, or you'll want to start a collection of your own. But The Bod is all mine, got it?”

I probably sound just as ridiculous as Rachel does when I talk about Brett—I mean, when I
used
to talk about Brett—but I laugh anyway. “Yep, he's all yours,” I reply. “Down to his last curly eyelash.”

I have to agree with Rachel on one thing, though: The Bod, whoever he is, makes leather cowboy chaps look seriously hot.

Chill, Jake, this is temporary
, I tell myself as I pace outside Steve McGregor's production office in Tucson. If I get this job, I'll be locked into a four-year contract, but most TV shows bomb before then, so I might get out of it early.

For now, it's a perfect solution.

Coyote Hills
will be filming less than two hours from my hometown of Phoenix, and the guilt has been killing me, being so far away all the time. If anything else happens at home—if things get worse—I can be there. And acting seems to be the quickest way I can ditch this pretty-boy modeling crap and keep making the money I need.

Still, I thought my agent was crazy when she said I should give it a try. “I got a B-minus in drama,” I warned her. “I couldn't even memorize a one-minute monologue.”

“Trust me, Jake, you'll be better than you think,” Liz had
replied. “Acting isn't just an ability to recite lines. It's a talent for letting go of what your mind is telling you about reality and allowing the instincts of a character to take over. In that way, it's exactly like modeling.”

I'd started to question that, but then I got her point. If standing around for eight hours in little more than leather chaps and a cowboy hat—and pretending you enjoy it—isn't acting, I don't know what is.

It's been six months since Liz hooked me up with a world-famous acting coach. Then McGregor called my coach a few weeks ago to say he was still looking for another male lead, and I jumped at the chance to audition.

Today is my third callback. The casting director gave me the same poker face as she did during my previous screen tests, but in the end, she smiled and said, “Loved it. Follow me.”

She led me through a maze of halls covered with movie and TV memorabilia and told me to wait outside McGregor's office while they watched my final audition tape.

After forty-five minutes, the office door finally opens. “Mr. McGregor would like to speak with you,” the casting director tells me. Then as she passes me on the way out, she pauses to whisper, “He's a little eccentric, but trust me, he can make you a star.”

I've only taken my first step into the massive corner office when a man comes at me so fast that all I see is a blur of flaming red hair. “Here you are, in the flesh!” McGregor says. “And every bit as handsome.”

Liz warned me about his thick Scottish accent, so I was expecting it, but I'm still not sure I understood him right. “Uh, thanks,” I reply. “It's good to meet you.”

At six-two I tower over McGregor by several inches. It doesn't matter, though—the guy oozes confidence. And he's probably held at least a dozen gold statues in the hand I now shake, so it's deserved.

The walls of his office are plastered with promotional posters and photo after photo of stars he's worked with. Oak shelves are stuffed with books and portfolios, and award statues are lined up in a glass case. It's like being in a museum. I don't dare touch anything.

McGregor motions for me to sit in a black armchair in front of his desk, then settles into his own chair opposite me. “Sorry for the wait,” he says. “I was on the phone with your agent.” This was their fourth call, which should mean I'm at least on the short list. “Mr. Elliott, it's taken some snooping around to get the full picture of you, but I've gained the impression that you didn't grow up hoping to be a model-slash-actor like so many others in this business.” I hesitate before nodding. “What were your original plans?” he goes on. “Say, ten years ago?”