Reality Check

 

 

Stand-Alones
Uptown Dreams
The Break- Up Diaries, Vol. 1
(with Ni-Ni Simone)

 

 

 

 

 

CHARLY'S
EPIC
FIASCOS

Dafina KTeen Books
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

To my fantastic trio.

To the world's most loving mom (my mom)!

My family and friends: you know who you are and how much you mean.

Selena James: thanks for everything!

For my readers: As always, I truly and humbly thank you with all of my heart. You're incredible and appreciated.

And for you,
insert your name here
, I thank you for all your support, for reading
all
of my books, and for being the dedicated reader you are. You are truly the best and so amazing.

Take care. Be strong. Love yourself.

 

Your girl,

 

Kells
Kellilondon.com

W
hen life gives you lemons, throw them back. It's no law that you have to accept them and make lemonade like the dumb cliché says. Besides, who said that, anyway? Some spineless person who gave in under pressure? Probably. Not me though. I don't follow clichés and I don't accept less. I certainly don't follow rules. Who said that I have to? And who in the heck is
Who
anyway, that makes everyone follow what
Who
says? Truth is, I don't know who
Who
is, and I don't care. I'm Charly with a
y
, Charly St. James, and that makes me more important than any invisible
Who
. I make my own rules. I make my own way. I do
my
thing, and I do it well. At least, I always thought I did, but that day . . . Well, on that day something changed. I knew something was up. Something I wasn't so sure I'd like, but knew I'd deal with because that's my MO (short for
modus operandi
. . . look it up in the dictionary because it's a snazzy word to know). Anyway, I take trouble, then handle it, because really there's no such thing as a problem. The real definition of a problem is a solution that hasn't been born yet. That's my specialty: making a way out of no way. I just had
no
idea how I'd be forced to become a master of it, but I was up for it. I had no choice. I'd come too far and wasn't willing to travel backward. But I can say this: traveling by hook or by crook and the 'Hound (i.e., the bus) from just outside of Chicago, Illinois, to Nuevo York (New York) with barely a dollar and a dream was much easier . . . much.

T
here was no way she was staying in. She didn't care what her father said. He hadn't traveled cross-country to capture a dream. She had. And if she got her way today, if she got cast in more than the teensy two-line parts she'd been getting—roles he'd barred her from auditioning for until after she finished online classes for the Internet academy he'd enrolled her in—she'd start in a little over three weeks when school was out for the summer. She tried again to slide open the window in her bedroom. Like her father, the sill was heavy and solid and stubborn, refusing to budge.

“U-ugh!” she growled, backing away from it and swiping her caramel colored hands together as if she were wiping dust off them. “It won't move.” She flung her long black hair over her shoulder, then batted her long lashes.

“We told you,” her best friend, Lola, sang from the laptop monitor. Her face was too close to the camera, blocking most of Charly's little sister's unblemished face and the restaurant-goers who were blurred in the background. “You're going to have to find another way, Charly.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stormy agreed, pushing her face against Lola's, vying for camera time. “You can't wiggle open a window that's nailed shut. Try again to remove the nail first, before you break your nails.” Stormy laughed.

Lola laughed, then Charly and Stormy joined her. After Charly had moved in with her father, who lived way outside of Manhattan, she'd heard one too many deer or raccoons or whatever it was her father had blamed for the footsteps crunching against the ground. She'd been so scared she'd nailed all the bedroom windows shut. Even after coming to her senses, realizing the animals would stay outside, she was still locked inside because she'd pounded one of the nails too far into the heavy wood frame to remove it. It had become one with the sill.

“Okay. Okay, Charly,” Stormy calmed, raising her hand in the air. Her mouth spread into a huge smile. “You see Bathsheba waving behind me?” she asked, then adjusted the monitor so Charly could see.

Charly grinned, waving at Bathsheba, then Smax, her bosses from back home in Illinois. She'd worked for them for quite some time and had become more like family to them than an employee. “Hi, Smax and Bathsheba,” she greeted. She could see Smax's long finger waves and gold teeth brighten the screen and Bathsheba pushing him with manicured hands, but she couldn't hear them. By their demeanor, Charly could tell they were fussing with one another.

“They can't hear you,” Lola interrupted, “but these people can.”

The camera shifted again, and two longtime regular customers appeared on Charly's screen. “Good day, Dr. Deveraux El! Hey, Rudy-Rudy,” she greeted the two men. Dr. Deveraux El was a historian who also studied the stars and some other things Charly wasn't so sure of, but he'd been her teacher and friend since the day they'd met, and he seemed to know more about himself than anyone she'd ever met. Rudy-Rudy was a veteran of two wars, who always had a smile and a joke.

“Charly, where ya been all my life?” Rudy-Rudy asked.

“Good evening, Queen Charly,” Dr. Deveraux El said. “I'm sending you some study materials. If you haven't learned about the planets in school, I want you to memorize them and know them from the stars. Especially the sun. It's not a planet like everyone thinks, and it doesn't rise and set. The earth does,” he said.

Charly just nodded and pasted a huge smile on her face. She was trying to get out of the house, not have a lesson with the good doctor. “Okay.” She whispered, “Lola . . . Stormy . . . Come on. I don't have all day. I gotta get out of here.”

“Gotcha,” Lola said, then turned the monitor back on her and Stormy. “Your dad's gone, right?” she inquired. Charly and her younger sister shared only the same mother, Brigette.

Charly nodded. “Yes. He's out in the shed or something. Somewhere being or playing commando,” she said, her expression serious. Her father was supposedly retired military, but Charly knew better. Her dad hadn't really retired, or the government didn't know the meaning of the word, because they wouldn't fully let him go. They were always calling him for something—something that told Charly he was not to be tricked or toyed with, because he refused to talk about whatever he specialized in.

Lola fingered her naturally blond porcupine hairdo and rolled her authentic ocean-blue eyes. “Did you hear what you just said, Charly?”

Charly snapped her fingers. She'd been so paranoid about her father finding out that she had planned to audition without his knowledge or permission, she hadn't given enough thought to sneaking out. “So why not just walk out the front door?” she said, asking the question aloud instead of in her head, which would've been cooler. She nodded. “He just knows there'll be an audition
some
day. He doesn't know on what day,” she explained to everyone, smiling at the face that'd popped up next to Lola's on her computer monitor. “And it's not a real audition, is it? So it doesn't count.”

“Go 'head, baby. You can do it,” said the only voice she needed to make her move.
Mason
. Her boo. He was ultra fine and sweet, and had roped her in with his swag, then they'd hooked up—well, almost hooked up, right before she'd headed East to pursue her acting career, but distance didn't keep him out of her dreams. “Remember what you told me, Charly. You didn't go all the way to New York for nothing. You said your dream wouldn't wait.”

“And it won't,” she assured herself more than anyone else, then picked up Marlow, her caramel and white Shih Tzu, from the floor. “I'm taking Marlow for a walk. That's what I'll tell my dad if I run into him. I'll hit you guys up by cell—especially you, Mason,” she said, then closed the video chat, powered off her computer, and headed out to audition for her dream role. It may not have been the reality television show she'd moved to New York to get, the one that had been cancelled after they'd shot the pilot, but it would have to do. Television was television, and no matter how it was spelled, the opportunity to be on it spelled D-R-E-A-M to Charly.

 

Her nerves were a mess. A pure, blown-out-of-proportion, rattling battle of right versus wrong had ping-ponged in her head since she'd snuck through the backdoor of the studio. She knew better than to sneak on the sitcom set and pretend to be one of the actors, but she couldn't help it. She'd come for a reason, and backing out of her fake-it-and-hopefully-you'll-make-it plan wasn't it. So when the production assistant called for the cast to ready themselves, she moved with the group. Now Charly sat facing the front of the set, on the bright orange, hard plastic bus seat with her legs crossed and Marlow on her lap. She looked forward where the staged bus driver's seat was located, then averted her eyes to her lap and thumbed through a magazine as if she'd belonged there. She popped the gum in her mouth. A couple of transit riders moved to and fro and up and down the makeshift bus aisle, grabbing an available seat and swaying from side to side as if they were trying to prevent themselves from falling. One person stood, grabbing the long cord, then pulled it until it made a dinging noise, signaling they wanted off. Charly, while pretending to read the magazine, managed to glance at the no-names. They were dressed awful and their acting was worse.

The “bus” stopped and the passengers got off.

“No more local stops after this,” the driver yelled. “The last stop is the end of the line.”

Charly huffed, folding the magazine and getting a grip on Marlow. “Midge,” she called to the driver, “I know you said no more local stops, but I need to get off at the next corner. You hear me, Midge?” she asked, waiting to be recognized.

The driver turned and stared directly in Charly's face, giving her no acknowledgment.

Charly grabbed Marlow and the folded magazine, jumped up from her seat, then made her way to the front where Midge sat. “Midge, didn't you hear me? I said I gotta get off. I gotta save Bobby,” Charly urged.

Midge let go of the wheel and turned her whole body to face Charly. She got up and put her hands on her hips. “Who in the world is
Bobby
? Who are
you
?” she asked.

“Cut. Cut!” a producer yelled. “Somebody tell me who this actor is,” he said, flipping through the script he held. “What did I miss? The driver has a name now? And what about the dog? There's a dog? I don't see that scene written in anywhere. And I certainly don't see a Bobby either! Who's she again? And what is she uh . . . doing? Her acting is . . . ugh.” He turned his hand side to side as if saying
so-so
. “What is it, method?” he asked Charly.

“Improv,” Charly yelled, then gulped when she saw who walked onto the set from a door in the back. She locked eyes with an outraged Mr. Day, the man who'd discovered her after she'd snuck into the audition he'd held months ago that had prompted her to move to the city, then shrugged her shoulders. She twisted her expression into a look that said she was sorry, then averted her eyes. The big studio seemed smaller now. The open ceilings with exposed metal beams and expanse of space with cameras and lights and people surrounding it in a horseshoe fashion now seemed claustrophobic. The vastness and crowdedness that had made it easy for her to sneak in and blend with the real actors was now turning on her, and so was everyone's attention. Charly inhaled.

“Charly! Charly?” Mr. Day yelled, walking toward the set and adjusting his fitted baseball hat over his electric grayish-white hair. He shook his head in disbelief. “I step out for just a few minutes, then walk back in and see you here. Do you realize that you just tried to audition for a sitcom? That's impossible. This is a sitcom—a casted sitcom—not an audition—but you know that, don't you?”

Charly nodded, then began petting Marlow. “Life is an audition, Mr. Day.”

His eyes pierced hers, making her quiet. “How many times do I have to tell you that I have another project in the works? One I think may be good for you, if it pans out?”

Charly walked off the set and over to him. “But I can't wait for
if
, Mr. Day. You know that. The other show you'd planned was good on paper, but the pilot was even better than I'd imagined—so was the commercial. I don't know why the studio cancelled it. I didn't come to New York—”

“For nothing . . . I know. How can I forget your words:
for nothing
?” Mr. Day finished for her, rubbing his hand along his jawline. “And
cancel
isn't the right word for the last show—the attempted show. They didn't pick it up, Charly. They didn't pick it up because it wasn't time.” He paused. “One second, Charly,” he said, turning to a production assistant who'd called out to him.

Just as Mr. Day turned away from her, Charly noticed a hush come over the set before loud whispers started. That could only mean one thing—a star was on the scene. But who? That's when she spotted the entourage of well-dressed helpers, and in their midst was Miss A herself.

“No way . . .” she said, zeroing in on one of the biggest actresses to ever hit the small screen. Annison. She'd been a rising star for Disney, then all of the sudden she'd disappeared after her sister had hit the big-time in a big way thanks to their hot shot television network dad, who had a way of making sure his kids reached their dreams. Even Annison's brother, who barely had talent, had snatched the limelight. Charly sighed. If only her father headed up a movie studio the way Annison's father did—she'd have people whispering and cameras flashing her photo too. As Charly took in the star's outfit, she wondered where the girl shopped. Her clothes didn't look like they'd come off a rack. She thought about asking her, but she couldn't just run over and talk Annison, could she? No. That would be too cheesy, too stalker-like. Just as Charly started to turn away, Annison waved in her direction. Or at least she thought it was her direction. Charly nodded her head in return, not wanting to look silly by returning a wave meant for someone else.

Mr. Day turned back to her. “Okay, Charly. It's time for you to go home. Do you have a ride or do you need to call your dad?”

She cradled Marlow. “I have a ride,” she lied.

Mr. Day rubbed his hand across the top of her head, purposely messing up her hair. He nodded, then shook his head. “No, Charly, you don't have a ride. And we both know it. You don't have to lie to me. When are you finally going to get it through this thick skull of yours that I'm on your side?”

“When you give me a role,” Charly admitted.

“I can't give you a role just yet, but you can stay on the set. You know, see what it's like—”

Charly cut him off. “So let me earn a role. I'm at the set now.” She wasn't trying to be smart, she just felt he needed reminding.

Mr. Day grimaced, then rolled his eyes in a masculine, you're-getting-on-my-nerves way. “That's it. I'm calling your father. You need a ride home. Didn't he say no acting until school's out, anyway? Summer break is right around the corner, Charly. Have some patience.” He walked away, whipping out his BlackBerry.

Charly turned on her heels, strutting away with her head held high. “Patience doesn't cut it. Persistence does,” she mumbled.