Sport Coat Phil is as frantic as I’ve ever seen an adult. “We are so far behind!” he shouts as Matilda forcibly removes the limp noodle from his arms. He cries, “The investors are going to shut us down; we have to shoot at least twelve scenes today or we’re through!”
C. B. has made eye contact with Ms. McDougle and drops his head in disappointment. We’ve never shot more than five scenes in one day, and that’s a really good day. He covers his face with tattooed hands. He seems to have “lost focu” and thrown one too many parties. I thought he was so cool, but now I think I feel sorry for him. McDougle has been mad at me before, but the look she gave him was on a whole new level—vicious. I probably should have always felt some pity for him, though, because he missed out on a big chunk of his childhood and he’s constantly trying to get it back. I know that a Ferrari is a cool ride and writing a book and winning the Cannes Film Festival is a big deal, but it doesn’t turn back the clock. I’m sorry his awesome book will never be made into a film, but it didn’t seem like Phil was going to allow it to be as great as it could have been.
I feel bad for Hilary because her life, as she knows it, is probably over. It may be the best thing for her, but she’ll need a healthy dose of perspective before she’ll see it that way. She’s not even old enough to vote, but she was entrusted with millions of dollars and the reins of this movie. She’s got everything and nothing. I feel bad for her family because they depend on her for their survival, and their meal ticket just punched out. I feel bad for the makeup ladies and crew guys and all of their assistants (not my sister—she’s stoked and never wants to see an ironing board as long as she lives). I feel bad for Sport Coat Phil because he’s the Artful Dodger and Fagin (bad guys who abuse kids in Dickens novels) all wrapped up into one super villain, and there’s a special place in hell waiting for his ass. . . . But I’m selfishly crying for myself.
I cover my face with my untattooed hands, but I’m kind of blubbering, so I doubt I’m hiding anything. My sister gives me a hug, probably to shut me up, but it feels like she cares, and it only serves to make me cry harder. I start laughing for a second when I think back to how worried I’ve been about this day . . . the day I’d be required to cry. I start sobbing again when I think about what a dick I’ve been to my family and friends. I just yelled at Hilary for not understanding friendship, but I’m the a-hole whose best friend since kindergarten wanted to hang out yesterday, and I told him, “I’ll call you as soon as I can.” What a dick! EJ needed to talk to me about his breakup with Nicky; I should have dropped everything and begged him to tell me every gory detail . . . not because I have any advice or even remotely care. I should have listened just because he’s my boy and he needed to get some pain off his chest. I start giggling again, thinking about how hard I’ve been trying to shed tears and how they’re shooting out of my eyes like a fire hydrant now. Lynn keeps hugging me because I’m obviously a lunatic and I should not be released. I look up when I hear the door to the Escalade open and Matilda carefully loads Hilary into the back, possibly bound for the hospital, hotel, or airport. I have no idea. I’m sure I’ll be able to read a version of what happened in next week’s
US Weekly
, but I don’t think I’ll pick up a copy.
I think I’ll be too busy apologizing to everyone for being such a dick and then doing stuff that
they
want to do (and not bitching about it). I’ll have to mow with my dad, go shopping with Mom, do aerobics with my sister, play Halo with Doc, work on the CRX with Hormone, be Bag’s skank wingman at the mall, watch pornography with Nutt (it seems like a solitary activity, but he’s always loading up some donkey porn for us to watch, and even though I know it’s bad for me psychologically, I will watch, because I am a good friend!). I will even listen to EJ whine about Bitchy Nicky . . . doing exactly what we all knew she would do. I will nod my head and say things like “unbelievable!” even though it’s not only “believable” but entirely “predictable.” And a
polite friend
would never say, “I told you so.” But EJ and I are
real
friends, so I’ll say that phrase until I’m blue in the face. I’ll call him a dumbass so many times that it’ll still be echoing in his head in two years . . . about the time he’ll try to forget what a hose-beast evil bitch Nicky is and attempt to hook up with her drunk ass at a field party. But he just might not go through with it because of me and the rest of his boys looking out for him. Because we matter. We may not be that important in the grand scheme of things, but we are positively “somebodies” to each other. I’m also going to take the longest, hottest shower of all time and sleep in a freakin’ bed!
The Escalade rumbles out of the driveway, and I think Hilary may have sat up for a second and waved to me, but I didn’t return it if she did. I’m so lucky Lynn is here. I’m so lucky my family is going to listen to me talk about these feelings until I don’t want to talk about them anymore, and then they’ll make me talk about them some more until they’re satisfied that I’m good (or they can’t figure out how to be any more annoying). I really do want to talk about this emptiness in my chest and the loss of direction I feel right now. I really thought that being an actor made so much sense, and now nothing does. I don’t want to wake up every morning and go work at some job I hate. I don’t want to live a boring life. And I thought I’d found this perfect loophole, but now that I’ve seen what it does to people and what the requirements are . . . I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m not even sure I want to do theater anymore, if this is the endgame. I guess I could play football again, but that’s depressing. If somebody is going to ask Nick Brock, the biggest, strongest dude I know, to get even bigger and stronger, what hope is there for a guy like me?
The crew watches as the Escalade turns out of the driveway. They seem concerned, but not like friends; more like their paycheck just made a left on Merrian Lane and is driving away.
An ambulance flew past the mansion a few minutes later, and that was that. My sister gave Abby a ride home, and I stole as much from the craft service table as my pockets would hold. I overheard Phil and C. B. talking through their options. I was chomping on macadamia nuts the whole time, but I’m pretty sure C. B. asked if he could reshoot the movie with me and Abby in the lead parts. Phil shot the idea down immediately and explained that
Down Gets Out
was now worth more to him as a tax write-off than as an art film. He told C. B. to try to write something else, because the only way this movie would see the light of day was if Hilary Idaho were found dead in the next few months. I don’t think C. B. is as upset by this idea as he should be, but I know he poured his life into this sucker, and it’s hard to let go.
C. B. even asked what would happen if
he
were to die, but Phil didn’t think he was famous enough for it to do any good.
Anybody need a used Ferrari?
I’ve been back in school for about a month, and I’m already failing two classes. The summer was a blur, and nothing went the way I expected it to, but what does? I sure as hell didn’t think I’d star in a movie on the last day of freshman year. I made almost forty grand. The government and union took more than half, and what’s left over will have to sit in a savings account for a few years. There should be more than enough money in it for me to go to college for a couple of years . . . before flunking out and moving back in with my folks.
One night, I’m supposed to be studying my geometry junk when the phone rings. I don’t usually answer because it’s rarely for me, but for some reason I pick up. Even though caller ID says that the number is “Unavailable CA,” and I’m sure it’s just some sales call, I push the button anyway and say, “Cheellooo?”
Whoever’s on the line doesn’t say anything, but they don’t hang up, so I decide to flap my lips for a while (anything to avoid geometry homework). I tell ’em what I had for dinner and ask if they know what the hell a “hippopotonoose” is. I hear a woman breathing or possibly laughing, so I add, “Is this one of those phone-sex hotlines . . . How does this work? I thought I was supposed to call
you
.”
I definitely heard a laugh on that one, but then the line went silent, like they pushed a mute button. The breathing starts again, and I only have twenty equations waiting for me, so I keep going. “Ohhh yeah, baby . . . what are you wearing? Oh yeah, you’re just wearing a Snuggie, aren’t you? With high heels? You’re filthy!”
I hear the laughter again, and it sounds really familiar, like my sister’s or Abby’s, but not quite. Who the hell is this? A lightbulb finally goes off when Hilary says, “Carter, you are such a dork!”
I haven’t seen Hilary since she left Merrian, unless you count that time on
Access Hollywood
. She was talking about her new album,
Hard Timez
. She wasn’t as dolled up as she usually is on TV, and she held an acoustic guitar the whole time, but she never played it. My heart started pounding when the interviewer guy asked her about
Down Gets Out
, but she dodged the question the same way she ducked the inquiries about her parents and her love life.
“Hey, kid! What’re you doin’?” I say.
She replies, “I’m just chillin’ out in Palm Springs. Doing the rehab thing. Again.”
“Cool . . . You sound good.”
“Thanks, I am good. How are you and, um, Abby?”
“Good, yeah, I think, I thought . . . but who knows? You know how crazy girls can be.”
She sighs. “Yeah.”
“I know that we’re not officially back together, but we did make out at a party last weekend, and now it’s kind of weird. Neither of us likes parties ’cause there’s nothing really to do if you’re not getting drunk, so we just, you know, started making out, and I don’t know if she was just bored or if she’s into me again or what.”
Hilary laughs. “She’s into you, Carter. I’m sure you heard that Starvados and I broke up.”
I gasp. “I did not!”
“It’s true—it was all in the tabloids. But don’t worry about me. I guess I’m hooking up with Tony Romo, whoever that is.”
“Good for you. He’s a football player, and he seems really cool. But be careful—I’ve heard he’s a player.”
“Like you!” She laughs. She may be joking, but I like being compared to Romo.
“I am actually playing football again.”
“I thought you hated it.”
“Yeah, I did . . . I do, but I forgot at the wrong time and signed up. I just knew that I missed hanging out with my boys—”
The phone makes a crackling noise and numbers are being punched into the keypad really fast. I yell up to my sister’s room, “I’M ON THE PHONE!”
Lynn’s voice pops on the line. “Hello?”
I say, “Hang up.”
“Who is this?” she asks.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Get off the phone, idiot. Who are you talking to? You better not be calling Abby after I specifically told you—”
Hilary interrupts, “It’s not Abby.”
Lynn demands, “Who is this?”
In a sultry voice she says, “It’s Hilary Idaho. Carter and I were just having phone sex. Can you give us a minute, please?”
Lynn mumbles, “Oh my God,” and hangs up quick, and I let out a high-pitched cackle that I’ve never heard before. Dang it.
Hilary says, “You were telling me about your friends and why you’re playing football.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry about that . . . I guess I just missed hanging out after practice and talkin’ trash and punching and getting punched. I missed the tackling and farting for the reactions and callin’ someone an idiot and not seeing tears afterward. It made sense at the time, but I’m covered with bruises and I can’t lift my left arm over my head anymore.”
She’s giggling, so I add, “I’m glad my life is so entertaining.”
She says, “It really is. I miss talking to you. . . .”
There’s a pause because I think I’m supposed to tell her that I miss her too, but I really don’t, so I just stay quiet. Eventually she says, “Um, I was just calling to thank you for being my friend and trying to help me.”
I nod as if to say, “Don’t mention it,” but she must not get it because she continues. “You were great, and I’m just working through my stuff here, and they want me to try to communicate with the people I care about.”
I want to say something about that and try to capitalize on how much she “cares” about me. Maybe phone sex is on the menu after all. How do you have phone sex? Is the phone actually involved or do you just moan a lot and do your own thing—?
Hilary asks, “You know what I mean?”
I pry my thoughts out of the gutter, where they spend so much of their time, and say, “Uh-huh.”
“My parents were just out here, and we talked a whole bunch and I feel really good, but part of this process requires me to reach out to the people that I may have hurt, and I think I hurt you, Carter.”
We talk for a good long while about how I’m not mad at her and I’m glad that she came to Merrian and so stoked that I got to act in a movie (even if no one will ever see it). I try to relate to her. “You’re not the only one who lost sight of what was important this summer, but I think we gained a pretty unique perspective.”
Hilary agrees with me and tells me she’s putting more emphasis on her music and has written a few songs that are really personal and “very Dickens.” She likes the writing process and says, “It’s really fun to reflect. You should try it. A sensitive guy like you would—”
“Easy . . .”
She giggles and says, “Sometimes things can seem insignificant when they’re going down, but when you look back, you see how great it was.”
I add, “Yeah, sometimes the opposite is true.”
She’s quiet again, and I’m worried that that may have sounded rude, so I tell her, “You can call me anytime . . . if you want.”
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
“Have you ever had phone sex?”
She laughs like I was joking.
I must acknowledge:
My parents, Chuck and Charlotte Crawford, for their unending support and faith. They’re painfully aware that they raised a complete dumbass, but they seem really proud. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My sister, Lindsey (Lynn), who suggested/ordered me to write for teen guys.
My editor, Christian Trimmer (if you’ve read my stuff, you should thank him too, because without him, it’s pretty much unreadible).
My pimp/agent, Jenny Bent, and her former assistant Victoria Horn, who took me off the streets (unsolicited submission) and made me the semi-respectable high-class hooker/author I am today.
The Arts Incubator of Kansas City for letting me have a studio and leftover food.
All the girls I’ve loved before.
And finally, a special thanks to all the directors, casting directors, producers, studio executives, and their assistants for so rarely hiring me and allowing me to remain a starving actor long enough to realize my true calling: starving writer!
Thanks y’all! For realz!