Unscripted Joss Byrd (12 page)

Damon holds a hand up. “Wait a second. What did you just say?”

“I said the best part is when—”

“No, no. I meant, how did you do that?” Damon asks, very interested. “How did you memorize every single word by heart?”

I rub my thumbs across the DVD picture of Tatum sitting on a cardboard cutout of a moon. “I just did. I've seen it a zillion times, so—”

“Bull's-eye!” Damon points at me. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but let's forget about reading altogether.”

“What?”

He chucks the goldenrod script aside. “For now, I mean, to help you with this scene. We can do your schoolwork a little later, all right?” He opens his computer and starts typing. “This is what we'll do. We'll record the dialogue on my computer so you can listen to it a zillion times. Now, what scene do you have tomorrow?”

“Scene twenty-two,” I say, trying to catch up to Damon in my head. “Me and the boys are hungry. But we don't want to go home, so we break into the drive-thru deli.”

“Okay. Good. We'll record scene twenty-two. I'll do the boys' lines. Then I'll pause the recording and coach you before your lines. Good idea?”

“Maybe…” I try to think of reasons it won't work, but I can't come up with any.

“When we're done recording, you can listen to it over and over until you have it memorized. Then we'll practice Vern LaVeque's listening and reacting, and we'll be golden.” Damon smiles. “You'll know your lines inside and out just as well as you know
Paper Moon
. You'll be a wizard! What do you think?”

I actually think I can do this. “Let's try it!” I say, slapping the table. I feel like Helen Keller at the pump.
Water! Water! Water!
Doris took me to that play in Manhattan last year. Now
that's
a dream role—no lines.

“And if you like this method you can use it for school, too. You can download audio books and record vocabulary definitions or history and science facts that you need to memorize.”

I can't think that far ahead. I just want to record my dialogue so that I can start memorizing.

Damon clicks a few keys and swivels the laptop for me to see better. “This is a program called Live Studio. It's supposed to be awesome. I got it to record some keyboard stuff, but I haven't used it yet.” The screen shows a control panel with switches and knobs and meters. “I've been composing this one piece for years, and I'm hoping Live Studio might help me to finally finish it.” A second tab pops up where Damon adjusts black and gray buttons. “I've written a couple of songs for my friends' band. But this one I'm stuck on is different, more jazzy.”

“Okay, okay, Live Studio,” I say. “Whatever. Let's start!”

“Just a second, Speedy McSpeederson. I'm still setting it up.” He types and clicks. “I haven't initialized the program yet.” He looks at me. “And why is it that when I tell you one thing about me, all you can say is ‘Hurry up already, Damon. Whatever, Damon'?” He holds up a palm that means “talk to the hand.” “Meanwhile, I know that you live in Pennsylvania. I know your favorite movie. I know that you eat French toast and eggs with syrup on the side every morning. I even know that you wear a”—he points to a shoe box from my wardrobe sneakers— “size four.”

“Sorry.” I bite my lip. “I'm just excited to do this.”

“That's okay. I'm glad you're excited. But even so. It's a big world, Joss. And this whole movie business is not all there is. It's good to learn about other people.”

“Hey, I know about people. I know enough about them to pretend to be them. And I know plenty about the rest of the world,” I argue. “Why do you think I try so hard to be in this one?”

“You're right. I apologize.” He nods. “You have seen a lot. But I still think you should learn about others on a personal level rather than just an observational level.”

I'm rolling my eyes, but I guess it's true that I hardly know anything about Damon. I didn't even think he wanted me to know about him. “Okay,” I say. “I'll ask about you, then.”

“Go ahead,” he says as he clicks some more keys. “What would you like to know? Ask me anything.”

I think for a second. “Do you want to be a musician more than a teacher, like be in the band with your friends?”

“Yes. And no. I wanted to study music in college, but my father wouldn't let me. He wanted to make sure that I'd always have a stable job, so I had to pick something more practical. Your mother and my father would get along great,” he laughs.

I stare at Damon's hair as he talks. The spikes make good sense now. He does look like a musician. And he's really pale, even here at the beach; he's almost see-through. Paleness is very musician-like. I think he has a hole in his earlobe, too. There's no earring, but there's a definite hole.

“So, I was pretty bitter about it at first, like my dad wasn't allowing me to fulfill my life's passion or something melodramatic like that, but I see his point now. And I can still do music on the side and be a teacher, so it all works out in the end.”

That sounds logical—to choose something practical
and
follow a passion. My problem is I don't know how to do anything besides act. “That's good that it works out,” I say. I want to know if he has a mother, but I don't want to be too pushy. “Did you know that you can make more money by writing and selling your songs than by performing them?”

“Really?”

“It's true. I learned that when I did
Hit the Road
. You can tell that to your dad.”

“Well, that's good to know. Maybe I will.” Damon turns back to the program and types SCENE 22 into a blank box. “You know, you're pretty knowledgeable about a lot of different things, Joss. You can tell that to your mother.”

“Thank you.” Finally, my total intelligence is starting to show. “Is that what you do after we wrap at night? Work on your music?”

“Yes, most nights. I'm also hooked on a music documentary series online. It started with fifties rock 'n' roll. I'm up to the early eighties.”

“Fifties was doo-wop and jukeboxes, right? I love that time. It was so squeaky. We used to have an old man neighbor who played ‘Yakety-Yak' when he cut his lawn.
Take out the papers and the trash! Or you don't get no spendin' cash!
” I sing.

“What do you mean the fifties was squeaky? Their voices? As in a mouse?”

“No. As in squeaky clean and fresh,” I say. “I love poodle skirts and buttoned sweaters, and the boys slicked their hair and carried combs in their pockets … Hey, did you used to wear an earring?”

Damon laughs and touches his earlobe. “Yes. It got infected. I thought the post was real gold, but it wasn't, clearly. It was bad news all around.” He clicks a few more keys. “Here we go. It's all set. We can get started now.”

“Damon? Are you sorry you came on this adventure?” I ask.

“No way,” he says, lifting my script. “I'm never sorry about an adventure.”

“Me neither. I mean, I'm not sorry you came.” I say. “But I have one last question.”

“What's that?”

“This Live Studio thing is cool and all, but wouldn't it be easier to record the lines on my phone?” I pick up my phone off the couch and hold it up. “Plus, I can listen on my headphones and carry it around, and it'll look like I'm just listening to music.”

Damon looks stunned for a second. “Uh … Yes. Yes, I suppose we can do that.” He laughs at himself as he closes his laptop. “I mean, if you want to be simplistic about it, sure, that'd be a different way to go.”

We crack up together. We could've finished recording the scene on my phone by now.

Just then, I see Benji at our screen door holding a yellow T-shirt and some white shorts. “Sorry to interrupt, but…”

Our laughter ends.

Benji's very serious face tells us that my lines will have to wait. “Joss,” he says, “Terrance would like to see you in his trailer.”

 

11

Terrance has never asked me to his trailer before. As far as I know, no one else has been invited there, either.

“Why does he want to see me?” I ask Benji.

He's not looking me in the eyes. “He didn't say.”

Damon gives me a tight smile. “I guess we'll just have to do this later.” He takes my phone and sets it on top of the script.

“Here.” Benji hands me the outfit. “You can get dressed first.”

In the bathroom, I peel off last night's sweats and I think of all the reasons Terrance might need to talk to me. None of the reasons are good.

I look in the mirror and see that my hair is a wreck, not just because it's supposed to be. No wonder Chris's grandma pitied me—I look like a hobo. I've got no business walking into the director's trailer like this. But what can I do? I spray the Lysol that's meant for the toilet into the air, and I walk through its mist the way Viva does with her Bath and Body Works. Hobos can't be choosers.

*   *   *

“Hey, kiddo,” Terrance says slowly in a bad-news way.
Hey, kiddo, I know you're trying, but it's not good enough anymore …
“Come in and sit.” …
I've noticed that you're having some trouble keeping up with the revisions. In fact, everybody's noticed …

Papers are everywhere: scripts in every color, call sheets, and yellow memo pads in messy piles. I make out some random words on Post-it notes:
SAFETY BOAT
??!!
SUNSET
!
FOG
?? Styrofoam cups in the garbage can are mixed with banana peels and PowerBar wrappers.

“Sit down, if you can find an empty spot.”

I push a space for myself on the sofa between two file boxes then sit with my hands under my thighs.

Terrance sits on the coffee table in front of me. “First off, let's clear the air, okay? Rodney told me that there might have been a little misunderstanding between you?”

I slouch deep into my seat.
Rodney told?

“He's terribly upset about it.”

Rodney told!
I lift the neck hole of my T-shirt and sink my face inside it.

“He feels awful. Don't hide. You don't have to be embarrassed.”

I let go of my shirt and hide behind my hand instead.

“Are you all right? Joss?”

Terrance must think I'm such a drama queen. Doris would say that being a drama queen is definitely not pleasing on set. “I don't know what you're talking about,” I mumble.

“He didn't mean to scare you. He's been wanting to apologize to you himself but felt that he might upset you even more.”

Is that what Rodney was trying to do at the bonfire and also when I ran away from the schoolroom? I don't know. What if Rodney only told because he
is
a perv and was afraid I would tell first?

“He's a completely good guy. But it's important for Rodney to stay in character. I encourage it. So, this is partly my fault. I'm afraid we didn't consider that it might be a bit much for you kids. These scenes aren't easy for him, either.”

Everything Terrance asks me to try, I try. Chris, too. Rodney would only do the same.

“Have you seen
Home Alone
?”

“Yes.” I love
Home Alone
. I search channels for it every Christmas. It usually shows at least twice.

“Well, do you know Joe Pesci, who played the burglar? He barely talked to Macaulay Culkin the whole shoot because he wanted him to think he was really mean. And we all know how great that turned out, right?”

I did react believably in scene 15 because I was scared of Rodney in real life. I was listening to my heart, not Norah's. I understand how the whole thing works, but I still don't feel right.

“Would you like to talk with Rodney?”

“No! Nuh-uh.” I squirm. I
know
how I felt with Rodney. It didn't feel like he was pretending. And I'm supposed to follow my feelings; it's what I'm best at. But even if I'm wrong, I'm too embarrassed to face him.

“All right, then.” Terrance taps my leg. “Everything's sorted.”

My cheeks are burning. I just want to forget this talk ever happened. “Can I go now?”

“Not yet. Listen, Joss, there's actually another reason I called you in.” He inhales and makes a teepee with his hands. I've never seen him this serious before. I knew it. He is disappointed in me.

“I know Norah doesn't like me. But I'm focused now. Really, I am,” I say. “And I won't ask you about her again. I'm way too nosy. I know it's none of my business.”

“No, Joss, that's not why I'm—”

“And I'm sorry I ruined the rehearsal yesterday. I won't fight anymore, I promise. I'll know all my dialogue from now on. Plus I'm getting along really good with the boys now. We were all at the bonfire. There was chicken.”

“Joss, no. You're doin' great, kid. You're everything I've wanted you to be.”

It must be Viva. She's pissed him off already. After all her worrying about me ruining this shoot, she's the one who's ruined it for the both of us. Or I bet his wife found out, and now we have to leave.

Terrance leans his elbows on his knees. I notice the gray hair in his sideburns. “I know that I promised you and your mother that we would keep you from doing certain scenes,” he says very slowly.

This is even worse than I thought. Much worse. It's the worst.

“But I need just a little something more. So, last night I rewrote scene twenty. It's exactly what's been missing. If you do this for me, the film will be perfect.”

Don't you dare freak out,
I hear Viva's voice saying in my head. But I shut her out because this time she's wrong. She's so, so, so wrong.