She makes a weird face and says, “I can’t ride with you. I’ll call you—”
I throw up my hands because I’m sick of this. I was trying to be cool, but I’m back to the prick technique when I bark, “You know what, save your minutes . . . because
my
mom won’t let me talk to
you
anymore.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she thinks that you’re a bitch . . . and I’m pretty sure she’s right.”
Her mouth drops, and I’m on my toes in case she decides to take a swing, but tears fill her eyes and she nods her head before muttering, “Perfect then, a typically immature reaction to a normal request.”
“Normal request?” I retort. “You were my girlfriend last week, and you’re about to get into a car with a guy I saw you flirting with and who thinks, because you told him, that you’re in college!”
I tried to say it loud enough for College Carter Dumbass to hear. She storms off, muttering something about “context” and “immature jerk.” He follows her out the door. I watch them drive off, and my stomach hurts because I know that I just missed an opportunity here, and I’ve got to get home and dig ten more postholes before filling them with concrete.
The next morning my dad and I are getting the tools out of the garage when he starts blathering, “Hopefully you’re learning the value of a dollar here and getting a taste of manual labor . . . and you’ll put a little more effort into your studies next year so you won’t have to dig postholes for the rest of your life.” He sips his coffee with parental satisfaction. It’s barely nine a.m., and he’s already annoying me.
At three o’clock my hands don’t work anymore, and I’ve got white dust in my hair, eyes, and mouth, but the footings are finally done, and my dad gives me another eighty bucks. I offered to pay him eighty-five dollars not to make me work tomorrow, but he just laughed like I was kidding. It actually wasn’t so terrible to hang out with him. We talked about my troubles with Abby, and he shared a story about a rough summer he went through, long before I was alive, when he dropped out of college and became a roofer. He was in love with some girl (I picture an eighties rocker chick with big hair who’s into roofers), and she broke his heart (not so into roofers after all). He wasn’t concentrating at work and fell off a twenty-foot ladder. His leg was broken, so he enrolled in summer school. He met my mom, who was a nerd that took summer school for fun. They hit it off, graduated, got married, moved to Merrian, and had two kids. . . .
I start snoring to make him think that his story is boring, but he shoots me with the water hose and sums up his point: “Some of the prettiest flowers grow in piles of crap.”
I give him a nod to let him know that I get his point, because sometimes he thinks I’m still five years old. Or an idiot.
I’m cleaning out the wheelbarrow when a black Ferrari pulls into the driveway.
VROOOOMMM!!!
The door rotates up and C. B. springs out, much happier than the last time I saw him. “Carter, you’re a mess!”
My dad comes around the house to see what’s going on and to check out the car. They make small talk for a while before C. B. asks my dad, “Do you think you could spare him for a few weeks so that he can star in a movie with Hilary Idaho?”
I hear my crusty eyelids open from shock. My dad is super excited (after we explain who Hilary Idaho is). And I’m so happy that I don’t have to build this damn deck anymore!
Dad asks him to stay for dinner, and we’re both shocked when he accepts the invitation. But not half as alarmed as my mom is when she sees this tattooed badass walk into her kitchen. I’m not sure if she’s worried about having enough food, or him killing us. C. B. seems so stoked to eat a home-cooked meal that my mom relaxes and can’t help but start to mother him.
In between bites of turkey tetrazzini he goes over all the details. How my part was offered to Zac-Michael, but his agent/mother wanted so much money that it pissed off Sport Coat Phil. Then they tried to get the kid from
The
Wiz Kidz Show
, but they couldn’t get him out of rehab in time. I assume there were a few more guys that fell through before I got the job, but C. B. spared us. And since they’re so close to shooting, they decided the best thing to do was just give the part to a “nobody” . . . ME! And I am going to get paid. When Phil said that he didn’t have to pay the locals, he meant, like, millions of dollars. I have to join some actors union, and after they take half of the money, I’ll get, like, six hundred bucks a day! But my folks immediately start yapping about a 529 college savings plan, and I know that I’d actually have seen more of the deck money. I don’t really care, because the word “jealous” doesn’t begin to describe the look on Lynn’s mug all through dinner. She’s in a state of confused, angry shock until C. B. tells her that she can be a wardrobe stylist’s assistant’s assistant . . . if she joins their union.
He also plans to ask Abby to be Hilary Idaho’s stand-in, but she’ll have to join a union for stand-ins. Ms. McDougle is going to play the teacher who inspires my character and enters his writing in the scholarship contest.
Mom hesitantly asks, “Can you learn all the lines in a few days?”
“MOM!” I declare as maturely as I can.
C. B. explains, “It doesn’t matter, we just do little bits at a time. You get an idea of the scene, then we have to block it out for the camera and lighting guys, and I want Carter to improvise a lot. Keep it loose and work off of that great instinct. We can fix or add the little details in postproduction. Don’t sweat the filming at all.”
Man, does this not make sooo much sense?! I was born to be an actor. No homework, keep it loose? Use your instincts? I fail tests all the time because I don’t get the details right, but I always get the ideas! History: War is good. Social Studies: War is bad. Geography: Wars were fought here, here, and here. Science: No one really knows anything, but these are the “laws” we’ve pulled out of our asses. Stop wasting my time and let me use my instincts!
C. B. was saying something, but all I’m able to catch is,
“Just go over to her hotel around noon on Monday.”
“What? Who’s hotel?” I ask.
“Hilary Idaho’s,” he says, like it was obvious. My family’s shocked faces confirm my sentiment that it was anything but obvious. “Really?” I ask.
C. B. continues, “Yeah, you’ll try on costumes and get to know each other. It’s real informal. I’m hoping that you can maybe help her try to act like a regular kid. She’s got some issues. Anyway, just show her your world a little bit, but watch out for her bodyguard.”
I nod like all of that sounded pretty normal, but my brain is flipping around my skull trying to figure out what I’m going to say to an international superstar. And how incredibly lame “my world” is going to seem to her. I’m not very cool around regular people—how the hell am I going to be around Hilary friggin’ Idaho?
C. B. snaps his fingers in my face and says, “Stay focused, man.” Then he clenches his fists and threatens me with his tattooed knuckles.
I instantly pop out of my daydream, and everyone is super quiet, staring at C. B. For the first time my dad isn’t so sure he wants me hanging out with this guy. Either that or he’s thinking about getting some tats on his fists.
C. B. invites all of us out to Grey Goose Lake for a barbecue on Monday afternoon, but my parents have to work . . . Suckers! He tells my sister to invite as many people as she wants. The ’rents try to communicate to him how big of a mistake that would be, but he says he doesn’t care. “I’ve always dreamed of throwing a party here and having lots of friends around and really doing it up. But I was so poor when I lived here—”
Mom interrupts him. “Will
your
friends be there?”
She asked the question in a very Momma Bear kind of way, so C. B. gets a bit nervous. “Yeah, yeah, Ms. McDougle, and the production team will. We might shoot a party scene, so we need to research it.”
She’s giving him one of her judgmental looks and adds a sly, “Interesting.”
Being a film director might give you a free pass to do whatever you want in most situations, but he’s not feeling as good about being the cool adult throwing the high school party anymore. My mom is subtle, but vicious.
The weekend flies by, and I’m rudely awoken Monday morning at ten a.m. by the ringing phone. I was up late watching Hilary Idaho movies (for research!). I guess my dad had to go back to work today, thank God. You’d think because I’m a movie star now, he wouldn’t expect me to help him with the deck, but you would be wrong. Yesterday I spent four hours at Home Depot picking out wood, instead of thinking about my character! How annoying.
EJ is on the phone and he’s pissed. “Yo, your punk ass is really starring in a movie with Hilary Idaho?!”
“Yep.”
“And I gotta hear about it from Nicky?”
I apologize for not telling him myself, but it doesn’t seem real. I feel more like a laborer than an actor, but hopefully that’s about to change. When I wasn’t slaving for my dad, I was staring at that script and trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with all of these lines. I just feel so unprepared that if I stop focusing for even a second, I’ll regret it. So I haven’t taken the time to brag about my success. But I’m sure I’ll get around to it.
He tells me how hard the CrossFit workout was today and how Bag puked into the water fountain and how it took an hour to get a custodian to mop it out. A bunch of dudes got drinks without knowing how close their faces were to Bag’s breakfast. EJ already knows about the party C. B. is throwing at Grey Goose Lake and asks if I want them to pick me up on their way, but I have to decline. He calls me a bitch, so I tell him that I’m meeting up with Hilary Idaho, like it’s no big deal, and that I’ll try to meet up with them later. He’s sooo jealous.
I ride down to the President Hotel for my meeting/fitting. The Kidz Channel has the whole thing rented out. Everyone from the costume department to Sport Coat Phil is staying here. Everyone except C. B., who’s renting a house, where, rumor (Jeremy) has it, both Ms. McDougle and Pam have been seen doing the walk of shame on alternate mornings.
I’m thinking that I’m not the only one here to see Hilary, because about twenty paparazzi guys are lurking around the lobby with cameras around their necks and cell phones to their ears. I lock up my bike in the parking garage and check in with a front-desk girl. She tells a massive security guy to “Escort this young man to the penthouse, please.”
I wonder if this is Hilary’s bodyguard, the one I’m supposed to watch out for. As the elevator doors close, I meet his eyes in the glass reflection. I’m really nervous, so I raise my eyebrows and say, “Penthouse, huh? Dirty, dirty.”
He either doesn’t know porn or doesn’t appreciate porn-related humor. He just glares at me, and I examine my Nikes until the doors open up, right into the suite. Wow, I’ve never been in a penthouse before. This joint is nice! I try not to look like I’m here to rob the place, as I gaze around the super-swanky apartment. Flowers and baskets of fancy crap are on every available surface. A gaggle of women are walking around the living room area, talking on phones, typing on laptops, and rolling rack after rack of designer clothing into one of the bedrooms.
A three-hundred-pound Victoria Beckham impersonator rushes toward me like my long-lost mother. “Darling! You must be Carter!” She kisses me on the lips and says, “You’re adorable, aren’t you?!”
After an awkward pause I hesitantly answer, “Yes?”
She laughs like I’ve told the funniest joke ever, which gets everyone looking at us. I believe this was her intention. The lady is Hilary’s mother/manager. She introduces me to her assistant and Hilary’s publicist and her assistant, Hilary’s wardrobe stylist and her assistant, her trainer, chef, agent, makeup artist, spiritual leader, choreographer, and all of their assistants. I guess it takes a village to raise a star.
Strangely enough, it all seems pretty normal as I talk with each person and her assistant. I’m thinking that in order to become a “somebody” you’ve got to have a “nobody” working for you. How great would I be if I had a flunky keeping me on track, reminding me to do my homework and put on deodorant in the morning? I’m gawking at the room, spacing off, when I feel someone watching me. The bedroom door is open, and I see a large eyeball peeking through the slit between the door and the wall, just above the middle hinge. If I had a personal assistant, I would ask him if he thinks that’s Hilary Idaho’s eyeball. If her belly button were showing through the crack, I’d know for sure. We stare at each other for a beat before the eye disappears.
The wardrobe stylist’s assistant tells me they are ready to start the fitting and asks if I’d like anything to drink, but tells me all they have is Diet Coke.
“Oh, I’ll just take some water, then.”
She replies, “
All
we have is Diet Coke.”
I tell her, “I’m good,” and explain that my sister is going to be her new assistant.
She makes a face and sighs, “Yeah, I’ve been informed.”
“I think you two will get along.”
I start trying on a bunch of old Levi’s and T-shirts. They refer to them as “vintage.” It’s pretty much the exact thing I wear every day and have a closet full of, but when I suggest that I could bring some of my own stuff, they completely ignore me. They seem totally stressed like this is the hardest job ever. I must be missing something about it. They rip the clothes off the hangers as if someone’s life was on the line. I ask where I should change, and the stylist looks at her assistant for a translation. I could swear she spoke English a second ago. The assistant yells, “We don’t have time for this! You change right here.”
“In front of you guys?”
The stylist barks, “Yes!” without a hint of an accent.
I mutter, “Okay” as I drop my drawers. I’m putting on the first pair of jeans when the assistant squats down and points at my package. She asks, “Would his character wear whitey tighties?”
The stylist glares at my BVDs for an answer. She shakes her head and screams, “I have no idea! It’s not in my notes! Get C. B. on the phone! We have to figure this out!”
I stand around and they snap photos of me in my underwear. It’s pretty freaky until the stylist gets a text and yells, “Whitey tighties are a go! Get me three different kinds in three different sizes!”
Thank God my sister is coming tomorrow to lessen their workload. I try on the jeans, and they snap more photos. At one point, the assistant thought I was moving too slow, so she reaches around my waist and unbuttons the top button before unzipping the fly. She’s about to pull the jeans down when I grab the waistband and yell, “Wait!”
I’m not used to women removing my pants yet. Maybe someday I’ll be able to handle it, but today is not that day. I’m a bit too “excited” to be seen in my undies for a while. I ask to use the restroom, and they sigh with frustration.
I try on a hundred T-shirts and jeans before they tell me we’re done. They’re running around trying to find the perfect shoes for my character. I’ve tried about ten pair when the assistant notices my old Nikes on the ground. She squeals with delight, “Oh my God, who pulled these?!”
The costume designer looks at my stinky-ass running shoes like they were sent from heaven, and orders me to try them on with the rest of my costume.
I try to explain, “They’re my shoes.”
But she thinks I’m some kind of Method actor who only speaks for his character. She replies, “YES! They’re perfect, aren’t they? We’ve done it again, girls!”
The assistant adds, “It’s like they’re molded to his feet!” as she’s putting them into a plastic bag.
I decide not to waste my breath with more explanations, so I ask, “Can I borrow those shoes . . . to help me get into character?”
The costume designer seems nervous about allowing the precious grass-stained sneakers out of her sight, but eventually says, “Yeah, C. B. told me you were a serious actor. . . . Be careful with them.”
I tell her I’ll try, and they furiously get to work, tailoring the clothes they’ve chosen. I’m putting my Levi’s back on—the ones that already fit—when I notice Hilary Idaho sitting by the window reading the book version of
Down Gets Out
. My boys would crap themselves, and I’m surprised that I haven’t. The light is hitting her just right, and she’s kind of glowing. She’s scary skinny but very pretty. She’s rocking a short Japanese robe. Her manicured feet are propped up in the window, so I can see most of her long tan legs. She’s smiling as she reads.
I slip on my (vintage) T-shirt before walking over. I’m not as nervous as I should be, because I’ve got the perfect question: “Where are you at in the story?”
She looks up at me and smiles. “Ohhh, it’s my second time through; they’re at that point where things are starting to go well for Chris, and they’re falling in love and pretending to be lord and lady of the manor.”
I know exactly the part she’s referring to, so I put on a goofy British accent and say, “Madame, did you pay the light bill?”
She giggles and does a similar accent, but hers sounds totally authentic when she bellows, “We really must get a new cleaning lady!”
We both laugh, and I say, “You obviously like the book.”
She softly corrects me. “I love it; it’s the best book I’ve ever read.”
“Me, too!” I say, offering up a high five, which she slaps like a pro. “I have to confess, I haven’t read a ton of books, though.”
She whisper/laughs, “I haven’t either. I don’t attend the most challenging school.”
I should be freaking out about how well this is going and how nice she’s being to me and how much of her upper thigh is visible, but I’m not because I’m a trained player/ journalist/warrior, and I fire out another question. “Where do you go to school?”
She motions around the room and says, “You’re looking at it; I’ve never been to a real school. I’ve always just had set teachers and tutors.”
“Must be nice?” That’s more of a statement, but I try to say it like a question.
She shrugs. “I don’t know if it is or it isn’t, but it’s all I know. I usually have trouble talking to regular kids.”
“Me, too! I’m Carter, by the way.”
We shake hands, and she replies, “I know, I’ve heard all about you.”
“You have? Cool . . . So, what’s your name?”
She releases my hand and looks confused, so I say, “I’m kidding, I know who you are, Hilary.” She looks really embarrassed to have missed the joke, so I sit down next to her and explain, “Sorry. Sarcasm is taught heavily in
my
school.”
“Well, you’ll have to catch me up. I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to humor.”
“You do a great British accent.”
As if she’s Mary Poppins herself, she says, “Yes I do! Don’t I?”
“See? That’s funny.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, trust me, I’m a regular kid,” I say, and bust a perfect wink!
The wink may have been too much, because she looks away and the conversation dies. So I bust out another question. “Did you learn that accent for the Princess Journal movies?”
She replies, “Yeah, I got pretty good by the third one.”
“Oh, I’ve only seen two of them. My sister has, I mean . . . so I’ve only watched bits and pieces of them.”
She laughs. “Carter, you can tell me you’ve seen the Princess Journals . . . I was in them . . . I won’t judge.”
I confess, “Yeah, I’ve seen them both, like, five times.”
She pushes me and says, “Gay-wad.”
She starts laughing hysterically, and I say, “Dude, you don’t need any help. You’re a total smart-ass!”
She giggles. “I’m not usually.”
“Unless you really think I’m gay . . . then that would make you a total bitch for saying that.”
She laughs for about five more minutes and then tells me that the third Princess Journal movie never actually came out. When I ask her what happened, she kind of dodges the question and explains how movies get made all the time and never get distributed. “They run out of money, or they don’t test well.”
I think “test” loosely translates to “it sucks.”
She explains that it wasn’t even released on DVD because it was worth more to the producers as a tax write-off than as a flop.
I quietly ask, “How did C. B.’s first movie,
Genoa Eyes
, get distribution?”
She tells me that it didn’t until it won the Cannes Film Festival, and art films don’t have to make as much money as regular movies. She obviously loved
Genoa Eyes,
like Abby did, so I don’t bag on it.
She sighs, “C. B. is such a brilliant director. I hope I don’t let him down.”
I nod and say, “Me, too.”
She laughs. “You don’t have anything to worry about.
C. B. loves you, Carter. I’ve only had one meeting with him, and all he talked about was you. He really thinks you’re special. A lot of my guy friends wanted this part.”
I add, “I’m probably a lot cheaper.”
“That’s why Phil likes you, but C. B. believes you have ‘raw talent.’ He wants me to hang out with you as much as I can, so I can learn from you.”
I gasp, “Learn from me? You’ve done a hundred movies!”
“He wants me to forget everything I know about acting, and just ‘be normal,’ but I’m not sure what that means. You know, I shot my first commercial when I was two months old? I’ve sold ten million records, been in thirty-seven national commercials, and I’ve actually only done twelve movies, but ninety-eight episodes of
The Get Up Gang
.”
“What are you, thirty-five years old?”
“Sixteen.”
“I guess I can try to help you be normal, but you’ve got to help me with the movie stuff.”
“It’s a deal,” she says.
We high-five like longtime friends. I know that I should ask her another question, but I’m feeling like such a badass because someone has finally noticed my “raw talent” that I try for a joke. “Okay, Hilary, first thing we’ve got to do is get rid of this kimono.”
She squints her eyes and asks, “Naked? That’s how I become a regular girl?”
“Dude, are you sassin’ me on the first day of training?”
She comes in close and whispers, “Be careful what you ask an actress to do, because we’re usually up for anything.”
“And I will stop you right there, because it seems like you’re flirting with me. And normal girls do
not
flirt with me.”
She nods. “Got it. No flirting. Should I write this down, Mr. Carter?”