Not in the Script (44 page)

But will I ever be less sensitive to gossip? Can I learn to just shut it out?

Leaving
Coyote Hills
this way would probably end my career; I'd drop to the D-list overnight. It might make things easier with Jake, but he may not even want me back, so I have to take him out of the equation. What do I want for myself?

Still flat on my back after my shower, I stare at the textured ceiling as if the random shapes might somehow give me crystal-clear answers. And crazy enough, it works.

I grab my phone and call McGregor.

“I don't want to quit,” I say the instant he picks up. This is our third call since I stormed off set a week ago, in full costume. The first time we talked, I apologized for my behavior but suggested he kill off my character in a chemistry experiment gone bad, because I wasn't coming back. In our second call a few days later, I agreed to stay through the end of the season. But now, I decide to tell him, “I love acting.
So
much. I don't want to give it up just because a bunch of jerks think they own the rights to my life story.”

I hate that the smallest corners of my world can be invaded at any time, but no amount of lies can change who I really am. And not
every
personal moment is spoiled by the paparazzi.

Jake and I were the only ones at that campground when we kissed for the first time. No one ruined it by twisting the details.
And even with all the cameras that were there the night I found the courage to face Troy at Club 99, not a single photo told the actual story of me overcoming my fear of him.

My life, as public as it seems, is still only mine.

“I figured you'd come to your senses,” McGregor says, and I can almost see his crooked grin. “I'd hoped Brett would grow out of his shenanigans, but sometimes—only sometimes—I find my casting theory to be flawed. Not everyone has the hidden qualities I believe they have. I've given Brett until the end of the season to restore my faith, or his character will indeed be the victim of a sad accident. In the meantime, I've threatened to give him an exceptionally intimate scene with Kimmi if he doesn't behave. Have you spoken to Jake since last week?”

I swallow hard. “Not yet. But more than anything, Jake and I are good friends, so somehow … we'll be okay.” His friendship is the biggest loss I feel.

“Then I won't expect any more problems,” McGregor replies.

This isn't the only second chance I'm hoping for. I had wanted Jake to let me leave the studio in peace, but it now kills me that he let me go so easily. At the campground, though, he had said he couldn't give up on me even if I wanted him to, and I believed him.

I still do.

I wonder if he's seen any of those totally cliché chick flicks where the main character has an epiphany, a massive smile slides across her face, and then she dashes off to the airport to confess her love just in the nick of time. If so, Jake should know exactly what I'm about to do—race to my laptop and buy a ticket to Phoenix. But the next flight isn't until tomorrow.

Tomorrow?
Ugh!

If I hadn't sulked in my room all day, trying to wish away my problems, I could've already been on my way to Arizona. All I can do now is start the twenty-three-hour countdown.

When I open my e-mail inbox to double-check the flight itinerary, I do the usual scan to see if anything is from Jake. Nope. But there are two other e-mails that grab my attention—one from Rachel, and one from Kimmi. There are also the same five e-mails from Brett that have been there for six days—unopened—plus five new ones from him. The subject lines are all identical: READ THIS IF YOU WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING.

Everything?
What I already know is enough to make me obsess about prying Brett's toenails off with pliers. But Kimmi has never e-mailed me before, so I open hers first:

How Not to Be Pathetic, Lesson 305: Smart girls only get hurt once. Don't take this as a compliment, but it looks like you've finally learned something—Brett is a loser. You were stupid to think otherwise. But Jake is more like a wolf in a designer suit, so I'll cut you some slack this time. Just don't let him fool you with his apologies. Are you ready for my Lessons in Revenge?

Your best frenemy forever,
Kimmi

Our relationship is
so
weird. But after her well-placed slap last week, I'll admit that she's not a bad gal to have on my side. As for her Lessons in Revenge? I laugh out loud at the idea of Kimmi being my social mentor, then hit my reply button and write: How to
Make Your Own Decisions, Lesson 1: Thanks, but no thanks. (Nice slap, though. I owe you a new set of nails.)

After I send that message, I open Rachel's e-mail. This is the first time I've heard from her since we agreed to give each other space. The e-mail says:

Okay, so I HATE Hollywood!!!!! Kidding! I totally LOVE it!! There are four major hotties, and I'm not leaving this competition without at least one of them wrapped around my finger (even if I need to hog-tie him). There are super cool people here and everyone is asking me to take photos of them nonstop, cuz you know, I've got mad skillz! And guess what? I'm not the only freak who can name every winner for Best Picture, Actor, and Actress since the Academy Awards began! But I'm still gonna win this thing—no prob. I've found my happily ever after!! Speaking of, I know talking about The Bod is taboo, but if that big fight on set really happened (notice that I said IF!) I hope things are okay now. Anyway, I promise I'll just e-mail until … whenever. xoxoxoxoxo

I can't help but smile—an e-mail once in a while won't be so bad. When I write back, it's mostly about
Stars in Their Eyes
, and how to hog-tie a guy without hurting him
too
badly. I also say I'm not ready to talk about Jake yet, but maybe soon. Once that's off, I glance at the time … twenty-two hours and forty-five minutes until I land in Phoenix.

I need a new clock; time isn't going fast enough on this one.

So out of sheer boredom, I consider Brett's ten identical e-mails in my inbox. He'll never stop spamming me unless I reply, so I finally open one:

I doubt you'll even read this but here's the truth anyway. Yes, I did know something was going on between you and Jake. I just didn't think it was as serious as it obviously is—you've both seemed pretty messed up since the premiere. I'm sorry if things are still bad, but I really do like you, a lot, so this sucks for me too.

The problem is that you didn't just make me want to BE good, you made me LOOK good. People started thinking of me as a decent guy again. So when I saw the camera outside the atrium, I figured that could be my last chance to tell you how I felt, and at the same time make everyone believe you really liked me. And your friend had just told me you did, so I thought you might actually kiss me back. I know it doesn't matter now, but I really am tired of being a loser and of people saying I'm a washed-up child star. Acting is the one thing I KNOW I'm good at.

I hope you'll forgive me one day—maybe in twenty years when I'm fat and bald and flipping burgers at a fast food joint with the rest of the Hollywood has-beens.

I think all this through for a few minutes before I reply:

You're right, Brett. I lied to you about something I was desperate to keep secret, but I never would've betrayed you like this. So yeah, I might be on that 20-year plan you mentioned. Meanwhile, I think we're both good enough actors to at least pretend to get along, especially at work. We owe that to McGregor.

P.S. That dude who kicked Troy's butt for me at Club 99 is actually a pretty decent guy. I doubt I'll see
him
flipping burgers anytime soon.

Whoops and cheers are suddenly outside my bedroom. Levi and Logan burst through the door and are all over me before I can even stand up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wrap my bathrobe a bit tighter. “What are you so excited about?”

Mom finally catches up and scolds the boys for not knocking. “Dad just called,” she tells me. “He wants to go out as a family tonight—dinner and a movie. He'll be home at five.”

I toss the boys a look of panic. “Oh no! I only have six hours to do my hair!”

I decide to wait until after the movie to tell my family that I'm leaving the next morning. I've already been home for a week, so I hope they'll understand. I get ready, pack what I can, do a couple of hours of homework, and come downstairs to find my brothers beating each other with lightsabers. “We're gonna fight the greasy-haired vultures,” Levi says, referring to the name I've given the flock of paparazzi outside my parents' gates. They've been here for six days, and as far as I know, only left during the rainstorm that blew in yesterday. Going out with my family tonight will be crazy—
but
I can handle it.

Levi peeks through the living room curtains. “Why do they want so many pictures of you? Just give them one of those.” He points to our family photos on the wall.

I rough up his hair. “They don't want a picture of me smiling. They want to catch me crying or making ugly faces at them.”

“That sounds fun!” Logan joins Levi at the window and parts the curtains enough to show his whole face and stick out his tongue. Soon, all three of us are laughing and blowing raspberries on the glass.
Jake would love this
.

“Let's throw eggs at them!” Levi says.

“Great idea!” I reply, only half joking. And of course, that's when my mom walks in, shocked that I'd encourage such behavior. She's been vacuuming the entryway and dining room, which is strange because her cleaners usually do that.

“Why don't you pick up the living room instead?” Mom tells the boys, pointing out the mess of potato chip bags and scattered popcorn kernels on the rug. We've been getting along pretty well while I've been here—not perfectly, but much better. “Emma and I need to work on her foundation.”

“You have a
federation
?” Logan shouts. The boys grab their lightsabers.

“Not quite,” I say. “It's a
foundation
. But if you want to help people—like Luke Skywalker does—you can join it.”

I pick up the living room with the boys and vacuum it while my mom cleans the kitchen. When she returns, we're all sitting on the sofa with angelic smiles.

To keep my mind off other things since leaving Tucson, I've plowed through a stack of homework and read through several early foundation applications I gathered from Mrs. Elliott's physical therapist. Arizona will be a great starting point because I can meet
some of the participants myself to determine if the various benefits are working and if improvements need to be made. But it's difficult to choose which candidates to help first, so my mom and I have decided to organize the applications into priority levels, according to immediate needs.

She's also been keeping up managerial duties until my agent and I choose a new manager. I haven't been too into it this past week, but I finally feel some hope again.

As Mom and I sit together and go through the candidate profiles, we read about children as young as two and adults in their eighties—all capable of improving their circumstances and abilities if given a chance. I become particularly interested in a twelve-year-old girl who was injured in a car accident. She's recovered from her internal injuries, but needs extended therapy to help her walk and speak again. This girl is the same age I was when my dreams of becoming an actress came true, so I wonder what
her
dreams had been. Will she still get to live them?

Somehow, I want to make sure she can.

I suppose there's at least one good thing that's come from my face being slapped all over the tabloids: millions of people know who I am, and I have a chance with this foundation to take advantage of that.

As my brothers run in and out of the living room, my mom and I answer their questions about joining my
federation
. They now have fistfuls of change and dump everything into my lap. “Here's our money,” Levi says. “Is that enough?”

“Plenty,” I reply, and also tell them about the twelve-year-old girl whose face they've just piled their donation onto. “You can be the first ones to help her.”

We work on the profiles for another hour or so, and when it's
nearly five, Mom jolts and says, “The sheets! I forgot to …” She trails off when I look at her, and scurries toward the laundry room. What's up with her?

My dad will be home any minute, so I take the applications to Mom's office, freshen up, and peek outside to see that another beautiful rainstorm is pounding the paparazzi. They're all in their cars now and some are even pulling away. Looking up at the dark-gray sky, I pray for lightning—lots of it. My family will have a much better time tonight if we don't have a dozen strangers tagging along.

“Will you please make sure the boys stay on the sofa?” Mom asks as she goes upstairs. “I want to keep the house tidy.”

I turn on the TV for them and fish my phone out of my bag. What if I get to Phoenix tomorrow and Jake doesn't want to talk to me? Should I at least give him a hint that I've been rethinking things?

I type and erase several text messages—lines I've rehearsed over and over again for when I see him—but they all say about the same thing:
I miss you
. So that's what I finally gather the courage to send. Then as I just stare at my phone screen, waiting for a reply, my brothers think I'm playing the quiet game, so they turn off the TV and join in. Mom appreciates the silence, but I'm drowning in it. One little chime could save my life right now, and … I get it. The message on my phone says,
I miss u 2.

In a stupor of disbelief, I whisper, “Jake misses me.”

The boys have heard enough to figure out that Jake is—or at least had been—my boyfriend, so they laugh and tease me while I try to decide what to text back. Or should I call?