Seeing Stars (18 page)

Chapter Eleven

T
HE
CW’
S
C
ALIFORNIA
D
REAMERS
,
STILL IN ITS FIRST SEASON
, was about groups of privileged teens in Malibu and under-privileged teens in Long Beach. The Malibu kids were snotty and the Long Beach kids were earnest and the early reviews had been mixed. Bethy’s episode was only the fifth one, and Joel Sherman had warned Holly Jensen, who’d warned Mimi, who’d warned Ruth, who’d mentioned to Bethy in a very upbeat way that they had to be very, very professional and reliable and pay extremely close attention at all times.

“How am I going to know what’s professional?” Bethy had asked Ruth, worried. “I’ve never been a professional before.”

Ruth allowed that she was right, so in lieu of more specific instructions she should behave the way she did at Nana’s house, which meant being hypervigilant, listening instead of talking, and leaving no messes behind. It was a code of behavior Ruth herself still followed when it came to visiting Hugh’s mother, and it had worked very well over the years, even though it was exhausting.

After a relatively sleepless night, Ruth pulled up to the guard shack outside Occidental’s Soundstage 5 in North Hollywood at six o’clock sharp on Monday morning. Given Ruth’s poor track record, she and Bethy had made a dry run yesterday to make sure they knew how to get there. From outside, the soundstage looked exactly like an industrial warehouse—plain brown with just one door and no windows. Six or seven propane barbecues were lined up outside, and a green tent was set up beyond that.

Was it Ruth’s imagination, or did the security guard in the guard shack look at them with respect when she gave him Bethy’s name and it matched one on his checklist? “It’s her first job,” Ruth couldn’t resist telling him. “We’re so proud.”

“Hey, congratulations,” the guard said, bending down and looking in at Bethany. He was Hispanic, young and handsome. He handed Ruth a square of green paper. “You need to put this pass on your windshield and only park here. Okay? Don’t go around back.” He gestured to a row of spaces, all but one of which was already taken. How early did these people start work? “You can go right on in, ladies.” And to Bethy, “You tell me when the episode’s going to run and I’ll watch for you.”

“Okay!” Bethany said, thrilled; and for all Ruth knew, he meant it.

Ruth swung into the last parking space and Bethany hopped out. “Mom, I’m
floating
. I’m serious. I’m not even touching the ground. I’m going to be acting on a TV show. Can you believe it?”

Like Bethany, Ruth was thrilled beyond words. She clutched a day planner, manila folder, sweater, water bottle,
USA Today
, the ubiquitous
Seabiscuit
, her cell phone, and cell phone charger. “We’re not going to the moon, Mom,” Bethy had said, watching Ruth pack, but Ruth felt the need to prepare for any eventuality, like her cell phone losing its charge around all the equipment that was bound to be in there. Actually, the fact was that she was nervous. It wasn’t that she doubted Bethy’s abilities; it was herself she was worried about. She was sure there were matters of protocol, things you were allowed to do and not allowed to do, and she only hoped someone would tell her what they were, so she didn’t do something wrong and blow the opportunity for Bethy. Mimi had told them very clearly that even once you’d booked a role, you could be released for the simplest things.

They entered a big area furnished with eight or nine picnic tables, at which were sitting a handful of sleepy kids and parents sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. Ruth was trying to figure out whether she was supposed to be sitting there, too, when she spotted a sturdy-looking young woman carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset, T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she had no makeup on and Ruth thought she hadn’t seen anyone so sensibly dressed since they’d left Seattle. The young woman approached them and said, “Lucy?”

“Bethany,” Ruth said. “Bethany Rabinowitz.”

The young woman frowned at her clipboard. “Okay, but what character is she? Is she Lucy?”

“Oh!” Ruth said, embarrassed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“No prob.” She made a note and then started walking. Ruth and Bethany hurried to keep up with her. “I’m Emily,” she said over her shoulder. “If you need anything, you find me, okay? Don’t go to anyone else. I’m going to put you in your dressing room, and Wardrobe should be back there in a couple of minutes. Why don’t you look this stuff over while you wait?” She handed Ruth a run sheet of the day’s scenes and which actors were in them, and a copy of the script printed on blue paper.

“We already have one of these,” Ruth said, handing the script back. It had been delivered to their apartment by a courier yesterday afternoon.

“Is yours yellow?”

Ruth looked at Bethany, who pulled it out of her messenger bag and held it aloft. It was yellow.

“Okay,” said Emily, “but the newest draft is blue. The writers made a couple of changes last night, so throw yours away and check your lines in this one, in case anything’s different.” She looked at her clipboard. “So, it looks like she’ll be working today, tomorrow, and Thursday, and she’s on hold for Friday, so don’t make any plans. And I still need your Coogan information.”

Ruth pulled out the manila folder and handed it to Emily, who opened it and flipped through.

“Okay, she needs to take the work permit to the classroom with her when she gets done with the first scene. But I’ll take the Coogan stuff.”

Ruth and Bethany trotted past a props depot holding two floor lamps, a janitor’s mop and bucket, a bicycle, a U.S. Postal Service street-corner mailbox, some garden trellises, and a store mannequin. Then they broke through into the interior of the soundstage, sweeping past a living room set and an office set; past several mobile cameras and a bunch of men wearing tool belts from which dangled rolls of electrician’s tape; and along a plywood wall that ended in midair and was punctuated by six or seven doors. Emily finally stopped at one on which had been taped a paper sign neatly labeled
LUCY
and
HUNGRY GIRL
. Hungry Girl, Ruth had noticed, not only had no name but just one line. Bethy had four lines and a name. Ruth was thrilled anew. Emily opened the door and showed them into a small, ceiling-less cubicle furnished with a cheap vinyl couch, a wooden cube, and two hard chairs. They took the couch.

“Okay, now don’t go anywhere,” Emily told them. “Wardrobe needs to see her, because she’s in the first scene. Don’t go find them; they’ll come to you. Copy that,” she said into her headset. “Lucy’s here, so let Wardrobe know, okay? Five minutes.” This last was to Ruth. “They’ll be here in five minutes, and then we’ll want her in Hair and Makeup. Wardrobe will tell you where to go. ’Kay?” And then she darted out before Ruth could say anything, closing the door behind her.

Ruth wished Emily had left the door open so they could watch whatever was going on out there, but she didn’t want to make a mistake, so she and Bethy sat on the hard couch side by side with their hands in their laps and their feet flat on the floor. “Look at the script,” Ruth whispered, “and make sure your lines are the same.”

They flipped through the pages, but nothing looked any different, either in Bethany’s lines or anyone else’s, at least as far as Ruth could see. Then they looked at the other paperwork in the pile Emily had thrust at them. One was a form saying Bethany’s earnings could be used to pay her AFTRA initiation fee; another was a contract saying she would be paid seven hundred dollars for her work this week.

“Mimi didn’t tell us anything about AFTRA,” Ruth whispered. “I have no idea what we’re supposed to do. I’ll have to call her.”

Another harried-looking young woman knocked on their door and came in. She had black hair with purple tips and a tattoo on the back of her hand that looked like a Japanese character, though she wasn’t Japanese. Ruth had read once that a lot of jewelry and T-shirts—and tattoos, probably—with Asian characters were supposed to say things like
Happiness
or
Joy
or
Prosperity
, when really they were just nonsense or, worse, swear words.

“Lucy?”

Bethany hopped up.

“I’m Candy from Wardrobe. We’ve got this”—she held out a skirt and matching T-shirt—“and these”—a pair of black boots and tights—“and this.” She handed Ruth two plastic Ziploc bags holding earrings and a necklace. “I need you to try these on right away and let me know if we have any problems, okay?”

“Okay,” Bethy said. She was so excited she stripped off her clothes without even remembering that she didn’t let Ruth see her anymore, not even in her underwear. Ruth tried to look without looking. Bethy’s breast buds were growing, and there was a hint of curve to her waist and hips that hadn’t been there even four months ago, which was the last time Ruth had seen her in a swimsuit. Bethany pulled on the skirt and T-shirt. They were heavily spangled and the shirt said,
LOOK AT ME, I’M HOT
in pink glitter on the front.

“Mom, did you remember the camera?” Bethy said. “Because you’ve got to take a picture of me so I can show Rianne. She’s not going to believe this.”

“Let’s wait till you’re through with Hair and Makeup,” Ruth suggested, thinking how experienced they already sounded.

A minute later, Emily poked her head into the room again. “How’s that stuff working for you? Good, I’ll let Candy know she can come check, and here comes Hair.” She darted out, and this time a young man came in wearing an elaborate apron full of brushes and wands and compacts and pots of every imaginable thing.

“You look great, honey,” he said to Bethany. “I’m Elliot, by the way.” Over his shoulder he said to Ruth, “Don’t you wish you still had skin like this?”

“I’d just take the hips.”

“I hear you, sister,” The young man looked Bethy over closely. “You know, I think all we’ll do is pull your hair up and give you a little powder and lip gloss.” He stood back for a minute, considering. “Maybe not even lip gloss. Are you already wearing anything?
No
—that’s your natural color? Oh my God.” He flipped Bethany’s hair around and tucked a little here and bound a little there and in no time flat she had two ponytails stacked vertically and twisted into little buns. “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s take a little of that shine away and you’re set.” He plucked a big soft brush from his apron, twirled it expertly in a pot of loose power, dusted Bethy’s face, and stood back to regard her. “There. You’re
radiant
.”

“This is her first time,” Ruth confided.

“For real?” He put his arm around Bethy’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “Well, welcome to the funhouse, girlfriend. You, too,” he said to Ruth. “Craft services is just across the way if you want coffee or a bagel or anything, by the way. In case they didn’t tell you.”

“I’m allowed?” Ruth asked. “Or is it just for Bethy?”

“Of
course
you’re allowed, honey. You’re not a prisoner here, despite what you might have heard.” He laughed. “
We
are, but you’re not.” He leaned into her and stage-whispered, “And whatever you’ve heard about Peter, he’s ten times worse. You didn’t hear that from me, but gird thy loins, honey. You, too,” he told Bethany. “Bye, girls.”

T
HE FIRST SCENE OF THE FIRST DAY’S SHOOT—ONE OF
the two scenes Bethany was in—took place in the Malibu beach house living room set. Bethy trotted brightly after Emily. When they got to the living room set, which she and Ruth had passed on their way in, it was filled with cameras and actors and ladders and gear of all kinds. Nearby, a clutch of men and women were huddled around a bank of television monitors. Emily put a hand on Bethy’s back, pushing her gently toward an extremely tall man wearing a baseball cap. “Peter, here’s Lucy,” she said. To Bethany she said, “Lucy, this is Peter Tillinghast. He’s the director.”

“Yeah,” said the man without looking away from the monitors. “Okay.”

Emily took off, talking into her headset. Bethy stood where she was, unsure of what she should do. “Hey, kid,” said a man she recognized as Stuart, one of the Malibu teens. In real life he looked about thirty, but she guessed you could get away with that on television. “You’re my girlfriend’s little sister, right?”

Bethy was confused, and then realized he was referring to her character. “Oh! Yup, I’m Lucy.”

“
Stop talking
,” said the director.

Crestfallen, Bethany looked at her feet. The Stuart actor nudged her gently in the ribs with his elbow, and when she looked up he gave her a wink and a rueful smile and mouthed, “Sorry.”

She mouthed back, “That’s okay.”

She was sure she hadn’t made a sound, but the director snapped, “What did I just tell you?”

“Hey, look, I’m sorry,” the Stuart actor said. “My bad.”

“Yeah, okay. Lucy? Over there,” the director said, gesturing vaguely. “No,
there
. Behind the sofa. You’re going to be watching Stuart and Tina.”

Bethy went, and so did Stuart. There was no actress, though.

“Where the fuck’s Tina?” said the director.

“In Makeup,” said Emily, who’d materialized out of thin air.

“Well, get her.”

“I’m going,” called Emily, already gone.

“Honey, do your lines for me,” Peter Tillinghast said.

“Me?” Bethany asked.

“Aren’t you Lucy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So go.”

“
I think you’re a bad person with a bad attitude,
” Bethy said.

“Yeah, but you’re not just confused, you’re ticked off. I mean, this is your sister they’re fu—screwing with.”

“
I think you’re a bad person with a bad attitude,
” Bethy said again, but angrier.

“Yeah, okay. Do we have Tina yet?”

An actress hurried up with tissue paper from Hair and Makeup still flapping around her shoulders. “God. Sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the director said. “All right, let’s run this, people!” A flock of grips and sound guys and lighting techs and wardrobe people with pins in their mouths scattered like starlings, and the actors started to run the scene. The Tina actress strode in the door and went to the Stuart actor’s side and Bethany got goose bumps of amazement that she was here at all, and then Peter yelled, “
No!
” before they ever got to her line, and they took it again from the top.