Not in the Script (8 page)

I'm freaking out a little. My cell shows three missed calls from my mom.

A year ago that wouldn't have bugged me. Moms do that kind of thing—call you over and over again until you pick up—but my mom must know I panic now. The last time I missed three straight calls from her number, I was on a catwalk in Paris.

When I called back later that day, her cell phone was answered by a neighbor who said he'd been trying to reach me because he had found my mom on the sidewalk, unconscious. It was the first time my mom ever really needed me, and I was halfway across the world.

While racing through the terminal to catch the next flight home, I was still shaking gold glitter out of my hair. That's when I decided that I truly,
passionately
hated modeling.

During our break from the table read, I head for somewhere
quiet. The best place I can find is a corner on the far side of the studio, away from the actual sets. It takes Mom five rings to pick up. “Good morning,” she says. “I wanted to catch you before work to wish you luck, but you must've started early. Sorry if I interrupted.”

I breathe easier. “Nah. I had to be here at seven. Everything okay?”

“Of course I'm okay.” She says that, but her words sound more slurred than usual. She's probably just tired. “You're the one we need to worry about,” Mom adds. “All this fame go to your head yet?”

That's one thing that hasn't changed a bit: Mom is just as sarcastic as ever. The fact that her stroke didn't affect her personality is all that should matter to me, but when her voice is different, and her face is different, and she can't move her arms all over the place when she talks, like she used to, I'm reminded every day that things will never be the same.

And I can only do so much to fix it.

“I'm just chillin' in a private cabana right now, surrounded by my entourage,” I tell her. “And after work, I'm buying a high-rise penthouse so I can host parties every weekend. Which reminds me, I need parental supervision. When are you moving down here?”

I doubt either one of our opinions will budge on the matter of her living in Tucson now, rather than two hours away in Phoenix, but it's worth a try.

She laughs. “Jake, the only thing more pathetic than a young bachelor living with his mother is a mother clinging to her son. I'm happy here, and I'm also happy to be rid of you and your early morning trips to the kitchen in your boxers. So leave me alone about it.”

I groan. “Fine. But you're missing out on my mad cooking skills.”

“Thank heaven,” she says.

We talk a bit longer, then I reply to a series of texts from my friends. It's still early, but they're probably already together, hanging out around the pool at Devin's house. When it's a hundred and ten degrees before noon on most days, swimming is one of your few choices for summer entertainment. It's either that or go to the mall, and we outgrew the mall years ago. Devin texts me first, but Mark and Sophie soon join what appears to be a coordinated attack:

I look up from my phone when a PA calls everyone back to the table read. The info dump this morning has been a bit overwhelming, but there's been plenty to hold my attention—one thing in particular.

Yeah, I might've promised Devin and Mark that I'd check out Emma for them and eventually talk them up or whatever. But that was before I met her.

McGregor wraps at four, way earlier than we'll usually get to go home, which is great because I have a crazy anthropology paper due at the end of the week and I haven't so much as found a topic for it yet. I've been too busy moving and trying to get over my crush on a guy I hadn't even met—pretty lame, considering that all I really needed to do was meet him.

Brett's jabs at Kimmi throughout the day became seriously ridiculous, but when it came time to read lines … wow. He plays his part like Bryce truly is another side of him. In fact, for a first read,
everyone
was amazing. McGregor's smile was ear to ear by the end of it.

My ability to talk was at least kicked up a notch after my chat with Brett in the hall. But apparently my brain cells are still popping like soap bubbles because now I can't find my call sheet—an actor's daily bible—so I have no idea what time I'm supposed to be
here tomorrow. And this only adds to the long list of idiotic things I've done today.

Every PA in sight already looks swamped, so I stop by the production office on my way out. A girl with spiky strawberry hair stands behind a desk. She looks like she's only a few years older than I am, but I can't tell for sure because she is hidden by stacks of folders. “Sorry to bother you,” I say.

The girl straightens in a hurry, and I catch a glimpse of her badge—her name is Mandy. “Um, hi … Miss Taylor,” she says with a wobble in her voice.

“Call me Emma,” I reply, using an overly cheery tone. As Kimmi just proved in our table read, film crews put up with as much crap as zookeepers, so it's easy to understand why Mandy feels the need to be cautious. The majority of people in this industry are actually pretty cool, though; it's just that those who are the most obnoxious usually get the most attention. “I stopped by to give you my new cell number. And can I also have another call sheet?”

“Sure!” Mandy says, more at ease. There must be a method to the madness on her desk because just a few moments later, she pulls out a folder labeled
CAST INFO
. “Let's start with your number.” She flips over the first set of papers, Kimmi's stuff. Jake's info is next, then mine. She writes down my new number and puts everything back into the folder. “Okay, a call sheet. Where, where, where …” After a minute or so of looking, she says, “Sorry, I'll be right back.”

The second Mandy leaves, I snatch up the contact info.

Cast files contain private information like addresses and phone numbers, so they're completely off limits to all but a few crew members. But bios are part of each actor's set of papers, and I now know exactly how to tell Rachel about Jake.

She'll love me forever.

My heart races as I dig through my bag for my cell. Then I find just the main page of Jake's bio—I'm not stupid enough to give Rachel his address—and snap a picture of it with my phone. It turns out blurry. And so does the next shot. And the next.

What's the point if Rachel can't actually see the small photo of Jake in the corner of the bio, and read the details below it—his name, birthday, height, weight, eye and hair color, work history?
Crap!
I'm too set on the idea to give up, so I take a calming breath, hold really, really still, and try one last picture. It's perfect!

“Um … is that my bio?”

I whirl around to find Jake standing only inches from me. “Uh …
no
,” I reply, blindly stuffing his bio back into its folder. “It's mine. I was curious about what my agent sent over.”

He's giving me one of those smiles that suggests he's flattered by my
interest
. “That's weird,” he says. “Because I was just walking by the door here and saw you holding a sheet of paper with my name and face on it.”

How immature would it be to kick him in the shin and then run?

Okay, Emma Taylor, are you an actress or what? Start acting!

“All right, you caught me,” I say with a shrug. “I took pictures of everyone's cast bios so I can check them out when I get home. But now I feel totally stupid about it.”

“Don't. That's actually a good idea,” Jake replies, reaching for the folder that I've hidden behind my back. But I twist around so he can't get it. I have to return the folder to its pile before Mandy sees me with it. “What's wrong? Did your agent send a bad photo of you or something?”

“No! It's just that … you know, I'm a
girl
.” Jake is still reaching
and I'm still twisting—one side then the other—and I'm now on the verge of giggling, which has already happened way too many times today. “So I don't want you to see how much I weigh.
Duh
.”

This causes him to step back, and I take the opportunity to slip the folder into a stack of identical files. “Seriously?” he says. “You're about the same size as Tinker Bell.”