Nick Brock burps, “S’up?” and Phil seems to realize that although my friends and I are pretty good actors, we shouldn’t be allowed at the craft service table unsupervised.
He pushes a button on his hip and says into the headset, “Uh, we need a couple of P.A.’s to fly in for a craft service run . . . Now . . . Everything . . . Yeah, they ate all of it.”
Matilda walks over and whispers into Phil’s ear, but she’s staring at EJ. Phil tells his assistant to take my boys over to the set right away. We’re following him through the back parking lot, and Bag asks, “Why was that lady staring so hard at EJ?”
I reply, “Oh, she may think he’s a drug dealer.”
EJ stops walking and asks, “Why the hell would she think that, Carter?”
Phil’s assistant subtly turns to listen when I say, “I don’t know, you just seem shady to some people.”
The art department guys have made the shop behind the auditorium look just like the trash-loading dock. Why the hell couldn’t we have used this to shoot my scene?
Matilda and Hilary walk onto the set, and I give them a wave. The lights are all set up, so C. B. tells Abby she can take a break. He explains to the crew where the Dumpsters would be and where he’s going to shoot. Hilary walks over and says hi to Nick before she grabs my hand. Matilda watches closely as my boys gawk with jealousy. I give them a wink and say, “Guys, you remember Hilary?”
They all introduce themselves again, and she’s super nice. She’s smiling, but she’s fidgeting a lot and her hand is trembling, so I whisper in her ear, “Are you okay?”
She nods, and Matilda stalks closer to us. It’s weird because most people see my boys and me as harmless teenagers, but this bodyguard obviously doesn’t. To her, we are a dangerous threat. EJ is just staring at Hilary’s chest, but Bag is trying to be charming and ask her questions. I guess Matilda’s concerns are valid because guys in our basic age range are responsible for most of the mayhem in the world, and some people are legitimately terrified of that. I’ve started to notice people tense up when we walk into a room, and I wonder what it is that I’m giving off to make them feel threatened. I certainly don’t mean to. Maybe I’m making it up, or I’m a little too in touch with my emotions right now. But when we walked into the Chipotle at the beginning of summer, I thought it was funny that the other patrons decided to eat on the patio. But now I think I may be bothered by it. Why do we try to seem so tough all the time? It’s really exhausting.
C. B. interrupts my musings by telling the guys to come onto the set. Hilary lets go of my hand and follows them toward the bright lights.
Am I supposed to intimidate other people? Is that part of being a man? C. B. has all of those tattoos, and so do most of the crew guys. He wears dreadlocks, a beard, and has muscles like armor. What don’t I know? What is so dangerous out there that I need to shield myself from? Am I supposed to be
more
Neanderthal or less? Lynn preaches respect and making a girl “feel special,” but her boyfriend is textbook alpha male. My dad doesn’t do CrossFit and isn’t all tatted up, but I don’t think anybody steals his lunch money. I guess part of being a man is choosing what kind you want to be. I’m not sure if you even have a choice, but at this point, I think I might.
I feel her staring at me before I turn and lock eyes with Abby. She’s standing with Jeremy off to the side of the camera. She chuckles to herself because I was probably making a dumb face when I was lost in thought. She quickly looks away and tries to split when I walk toward them, but Jeremy puts his arm around her waist to restrain the move.
I give him five and he says, “Carter, I want you to know that your performance in that Dumpster scene was fierce!”
“Thanks, dude. I’m sorry that you lost your part.”
He scoffs, “I’m already over it, and I’ve decided that I’m a theater actor anyway . . . or a costume designer. I’m preparing, as we speak, to make the outfits and star in the fall play.”
“You figured all that out in the last hour?”
“Uh-huh.”
Abby smiles again.
I give Jeremy a big ol’ drama department hug and say, “Thanks for being you, J.”
“Oh, you’re totally welcome,” he replies.
Being perceived as gay is one of my friends’ biggest fears, but Jeremy is crazy gay, and although I like to make fun of him, I totally respect him. He didn’t choose to be gay, and I’m sure it’s a pain in the ass (no pun intended), but he doesn’t apologize for it or try to hide from anyone. If I possessed half the confidence it must take to be openly gay in high school, man, my life would be a breeze.
He’s explaining the plot of the fall play and how there are great parts in it for all of us. Abby nods in agreement, but I haven’t even decided if I’m playing football next year. Hell, if you told me two months ago that I’d be at school on a Tuesday in late July, I’d have said you were crazy. Tack on the fact that my boys are here too, and we’re all shooting a movie with Hilary Idaho, and I’d have called the D.A.R.E. officer on your crack-smokin’ ass!
We watch Hilary and my boys walking out of the double doors for the third time. Matilda warns Bart, twice, not to touch Hilary, before she puts him in a headlock and he promises never to do it again.
Abby whispers, “So, is Hilary okay?”
“I don’t know. Some days she’s great, and others—”
“Have you smelled liquor on her breath?” she asks, really seriously.
I nod, and Jeremy gasps, “But she just got out of rehab!”
I reply, “Yeah, it doesn’t seem to have worked.”
Abby asks, “Is she doing anything else?”
I shrug and say, “Those pictures in
US Weekly
weren’t what they looked like.”
She laughs. “Yeah, we know, Starvados.”
I try so hard not to smile, but it rips across my dumb face before I can get a hold of it. She is so quick! “I was just trying to say that I don’t really know her that well . . . smart-ass.”
Abby clears her throat and tries to hide her laughter.
She tells me that she’s caught the aroma of booze on Hilary’s breath twice. I decide to tell them about the overdose. I’m not trying to gossip; I really need to talk about it. I have to know if I’m doing the right thing by staying quiet, or if I’m being a prick by not sounding the alarm.
I try to explain. “Sometimes I think I’m being a bitch about it and it’s not that big of a deal; you know, it’s just something she does to help her feel a certain way. But other times—”
Jeremy has started crying, so I stop talking. He’s not upset about Hilary as much as he is about a kid he knew that died from taking too many pills. He asks, “Why would someone like Hilary . . . someone who has it all—”
Abby doesn’t offer up any advice, she just asks me, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know . . . probably nothing. What can
I
really do? I mean, who the hell am I?”
She replies, “You’re her friend. It seems like you may be her only one. If you and I have smelled her breath, then her bodyguard and C. B. and the producers have, and they aren’t doing anything about it because they don’t care.” Tears well up in her eyes as she continues, “If you know your friend is doing something that will ruin her life, and you don’t do anything to stop her, you have just as much responsibility as they do, don’t you?”
Abby kind of breaks down, so I instinctively put my arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. This move has been off-limits for a while and I miss it. I ask her, “Are you okay?”
Jeremy jumps in to explain. “Carter, do you even know about Amber Lee?”
I shake my head as Abby leans some of her weight into me and sighs, “She and Rusty Dollingsworth are gonna have a baby.”
My jaw drops. “Nooo. So that’s why you’re—that wasn’t just a rumor on the last day of school, huh? That’s some real deal, life-changing gossip.”
Abby adds, “I knew she was hooking up with that greaseball. She told me that she wanted to get on the pill because
he
didn’t like to use condoms, and she’s so freaking insecure. But I didn’t say anything, and now I’m trying to plan a baby shower that doesn’t conflict with goddamn homecoming!”
I softly rub her back, and I may be enjoying it too much under the circumstances.
Jeremy tells me, “She was going to get an abortion, but her dad found out, so she and Rusty are getting hitched.”
I sadly close my eyes and imagine Amber’s Yosemite Sam–looking father ordering me to marry his daughter, and knowing that he’d kill me if I refused. I don’t understand anything—how the hell could I raise a kid? I don’t like Rusty Dollingsworth, but I feel sorry for his ass. I look over at my boys laughing with Hilary and goofing around. They’re acting in a movie and having the time of their lives. They can’t wait for the next party so they can brag to a drunk girl how they’re celebrities now, and hope that the chick will be impressed/intoxicated enough to get busy with them—while Rusty is somewhere crying his eyes out, realizing that his future is screwed; that his part-time job at Jiffy Lube is about to go full-time; and hoping they’ll make him an assistant manager soon so he can barely feed his fifteen-year-old wife and baby. Or the worst fate of all: he goes to work at Lee Auto Body, and Amber’s dad is now his boss. He has to have lunch and joke around with the guy responsible for wrecking his life. Ultimately, it was Rusty and his sensitive wiener who ruined their potential, but I doubt the cops will see it that way when Rusty inevitably snaps and comes after his father-in-law with a blowtorch in a few years.
Abby seems shocked by how sad the news has made me. She lightly touches my back and says, “Really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
I finally open my eyes and say, “Yeah . . . she should’ve just given him blow jobs.”
It was a joke, but she won’t find it funny until she gains some “perspective” of her own. They say timing is everything in comedy, and what works for one audience is not guaranteed to work with another. My boys will love that joke, but Abby pushes me in disgust before she marches away muttering something. I look at Jeremy and shrug. “What?”
He holds up his thumb and pointer finger before saying, “You were this close, Carter.”
Toward the end of the day, I guess I fell asleep in my trailer, because my boys come in and wake me up. EJ says, “Yo, nap time is over. C. B. is throwing another rager. Let’s go!”
Still in a nap fog, I yawn and mutter, “No, I can’t ride that far, I’m too tired. I have to be back here at six a.m.”
Hormone adds, “Suck it up, we’re riding out there in the Escalades.”
“What?” I ask. I can’t believe Matilda would allow Hilary to go to a party.
Nutt barks, “Come on, pussy! We’re in Hollywood now!”
I jump up and say, “Still in Merrian, dude,” and walk out into the evening air, headed for Hilary’s trailer.
EJ yells at me, “Are you kidding? You’re not going with us?”
I keep walking and say, “I gotta take care of something.”
EJ grabs my elbow and spins me around before he barks, “Yo man, we haven’t seen you all summer and we show up here to bail you out . . . You’re seriously going to ditch us again?”
“I’m sorry.”
EJ shakes his head with frustration. “Whatever, dude. Do you know I broke up with Nicky two weeks ago?
And I haven’t even been able to talk to my best friend about it.”
That news causes Bag and Doc to high-five, and Hormone adds, “Thank God, the front seat of the CRX still stinks like Abercrombie and Ass.” I have to fight off a smile. I apologize one more time and promise to call EJ as soon as I can.
I approach Matilda head-on. She’s standing guard outside of Hilary’s trailer. With disappointment I ask, “Are you really gonna allow her to go to a party?”
She seems deflated when she explains, “It’s not my call anymore. I work for her parents and Phil Coates, and they don’t want to me to restrict her anymore. The film wraps in four days; they’ve asked me to let her do whatever she wants and keep her happy.”
“She doesn’t need
happy
, she needs help.”
Matilda shrugs as Hilary opens the door and bounds out onto the grass. “CARTER! Did you hear? I talked Phil into calling my manager.” She gives Matilda a snarky smile and continues, “He informed my mom that my performance was suffering because of this police state/house arrest I’m dealing with. SOOO, we’re going back to the lake house and we aren’t drinking Gatorade this time!” She offers up a high five, but I leave her hanging.
Phil emerges from her RV and gives me a cold stare before walking off toward the production trailer. Matilda glares at him as he passes.
I try to ask, “Can we just hang out at my house? Or see a movie—”
But Hilary isn’t listening. She’s bouncing around and yammering away. “You’re riding with me, okay? Ohhh, can we take your bike? Oh, I want to go off of that rope swing again and—”
I ask, “Aren’t you tired?”
She shakes her head a bunch of times like a little kid, and says, “God no, we just had the best day; I’m totally flying! Are you ready to go?”
“No, I’m not. I can’t.”
Matilda looks at me for the first time with less than hate.
“Why?” Hilary demands.
I try to explain. “I’m just exhausted. And I really want to do a good job tomorrow and these last few days.”
She shoots me a nasty look and asks, “What, and I don’t?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I know that you’re a professional, and I’m just a nobody . . . and I’m not trying to be cheesy or preachy, but I don’t think you should go to this party.”
She’s not listening to me at all. She needs to go get drunk or high or whatever it is she needs to feel good about herself for however long the drug can trick her brain. You can see it on her face that she’s going to keep pushing this agenda until she gets her way, and nothing I say is going to make a difference. She leans into my ear and passionately whispers, “If you’re really tired, just go talk to Phil. He’ll give you something, and you’ll feel great and we can freaking go!”
She’s trying to rush me, but time is kind of shifting into slow motion for me. I look over at my boys, standing next to the Ferrari, gawking. C. B. is entertaining them with a story and they’re laughing. Lynn has jumped into Nick’s truck and they’re making out as the Skeleton and Bart chill in the back. Hilary snaps her fingers in my face and a lightbulb goes off in my mind. What the hell would Sport Coat Phil “give” me to make me “feel great”?
Hilary demands, “Go get your bike!”
“No—I told you how I feel, and I can’t stop you from doing anything, but I won’t be your wingman,” I say as I back away.
She asks, “What the hell are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna stay here for a little while. . . . I’m still tryin’ to work something out.”
She scoffs, “Are you still trying to work on your character? We’re almost finished!”
Hilary takes a deep breath to try to think of another way to sell me on her idea, but I cut her off. “You’re a girl of quality. Do you know that?”
She seems confused by the statement, so I continue. “You’re not a skank, you are not a product, you are not a brand, you are a girl—of quality.”
The CRX starts up and my boys drive away. She watches them go and her eyes fill with tears as she mutters, “I need to go.”
I throw up my hands and say, “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope,” and walk toward the production trailer.
She yells at Matilda, “Get your fat ass in the car! We’re out!”
I knock on the production trailer door, and Phil’s assistant ushers me into the office on wheels. I hear the Escalades rumble out of the driveway as we walk to the back of the RV. Phil is trying to look busy filling out stacks of paperwork. I ask him, “You got a sec?”
He says, “Uhhhh,” like he doesn’t, but then asks, “What’s up?”
My heart is pounding, but I’m looking around the office like I’ve got all the time in the world. He tells me, “I’m a busy man, Carter. What do you want?”
I slyly ask, “Do you have any more of that ADD medication?”
He looks up from his papers in shock. His assistant backs out of the room, and Phil chuckles. “I can’t believe you’re not on it already.”
I shrug. “My mom won’t let me.”
“Did Hilary tell you about this?” he asks, digging into his desk. “She’s not supposed to do that.” He looks at the bottle’s label before he tosses it to me. I just stare at him and let the container hit my chest before it drops to the ground. His eyes slowly raise up to meet mine. Annoyed, he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Tryin’ to figure out what kind of man I want to be.”
He slyly smiles. He knows I’m here to have a serious conversation, but he tries to keep it light. “You think you want to be a producer?”
I ignore his question and say, “I think part of figuring out who you want to be is deciding who you
don’t
wanna be.”
He closes the drawer of his desk and clears his throat before saying, “Okay, so you got it all figured out? I’m the bad guy, that’s what you think?” I shrug like I don’t care. He adds, “You don’t know shit, kid.”
I nod because I’m aware of that one. He continues. “This is all fun and games to you, but it’s a business. A competitive business that has very little to do with performances or character. I’ve got a time line and a budget, and I have to deliver a product . . . whether Hilary Idaho feels good or not. If one of my actors feels tired or anxious, it’s my job to try to fix that. If they need to feel happy, sad, pleasure, or pain, and they can’t get there on their own, I have to try to get them there. I don’t do this for everyone, but I sure as hell don’t need to justify myself to you. I think about little cute actor kids like you the same way a broker thinks about stocks. Some perform on their own and some need to be actively managed.”
“That just sounds wrong, dude.”
“I’m sorry,
dude
,” he says condescendingly. “You think your friend Nick Brock isn’t going to be asked to take steroids when he plays college ball? It’s just performance enhancement, and it is everywhere. Everything is harder than you think, and everybody is looking for an edge. People who make things look effortless are just working harder and making greater sacrifices. C. B. works out like a UFC fighter, I drank ten shots of espresso today, and Hilary needs to go blow off some steam to keep her head in the game . . . because the first day we slip . . . is our last. We’re professionals.”
Tears are screwing up my vision, but I’m still looking at him when I say, “She’s just a girl.”
He doesn’t respond to that because he obviously doesn’t see her that way. Instead, he asks, “You know I’ve got three kids at home?”
I don’t say anything, so he continues. “And I love them more than anything. I’d rather they made sneakers for a dollar a day then work on one of my movies or TV shows.”