Unscripted Joss Byrd (11 page)

At the foot of 204 is a note with a rock still on top of it:

Joss is in my room.—Chris

My mother and Terrance could still be inside, so I stand here watching the family next door checking out of their room. The mom and the kids are pushing their luggage outside the door while the dad is pulling the plugs on their inflatable tubes and pressing the air out. I bet if I asked really sweetly, they'd take me home with them. We could play I Spy in the car. When we got home they could officially adopt me. I'd be a good older sister. I'd teach stuff like not to wrestle too loudly in a hotel with thin walls. Our next trip to Montauk would be a real vacation. I wouldn't have to work a single day. I'd just float around the pool on an inflatable sea horse.

I wait for their tubes to deflate before leaving the note right where it is and dragging my feet back to Chris's room. I want to lie to Chris's grandma and say that Viva is back and everything's fine. But where will I go then? The crew's already at basecamp; I don't want them to see me looking like yesterday's leftovers.

“She's not back,” I say. There's no way around it.

Grandma Lorna shakes her head and tsk-tsk-tsks, which must be the universal language for “what a terrible mother.” Chris's own parents are so busy with their restaurant that they don't come to the set at all, so I don't know what makes Grandma Lorna so high and mighty. “Has she done this kind of thing before?” she asks.

What does she mean by “this kind of thing”? Does my mother sleep around? Does she pick guys over me? That's none of this lady's business. I don't like anybody judging my mother no matter what she does or doesn't do. That's my job. Viva has brought dates home before, but never on location. But this is for me to know and nobody else.

Grandma Lorna pulls her sweater tight around her body as if the thought of my mother gives her the chills. “Do you think we should call somebody?”

“No. It's okay,” I say, like it's no biggie. I'd rather eat undercooked barbecue chicken every meal for the rest of my life than show her how upset I am. “She'll be at the trailer by ten.”

“Well … if you're sure,” she says.

My mother might leave me hanging, but she'd never miss a call time. She knows I have a fitting; she's required to supervise. “I'm sure. She'll be there.”

“All right, then. Let's get you ready for the day.” She passes her eyes over me as if I'm trash with trash for a mother. “Would you like to take a shower?”

I would, but not here, and not without a change of clothes. “No. Terrance wants my hair dirty. It's got carrot oil in it from hair and make-up.” This is true but not true. He does want my hair dirty, and they did put carrot oil in it. But if I want to wash my hair, I'm allowed. My hairstylist would redo it.

“Well, if you say so,” says Grandma Lorna, not convinced. “But I think I have an extra toothbrush around somewhere.”

I want so bad to say no to anything more she has to offer. But because of that nasty barbecue, what else can I do but take her charity?

*   *   *

When I get to
The Locals
basecamp, Viva is at the breakfast truck ordering an omelet. She's had a shower and washed her hair. She's downright shiny and rosy-cheeked, which is a lot more than I can say for myself.

“Good mornin', daughter of mine,” Viva says, full of sunshine and rainbows. With her arm around my shoulders, she glances at the line of hungry crew behind her. “Can you throw on the usual for Joss?” she calls up to the cook, and runs her hand over my head. “Did you guys have a fun sleepover?”

Sleepover? What does she think? We made popcorn and watched
Frozen
?

I answer under my breath, “No. Did
you
?”

“Joss, not now.” She presses her shampooed head against my greasy scalp. It's a phony hug to show to the crew.

“How could you?” I mumble.

She pulls me roughly out of the line. “Get in the trailer.”

“Ow!” I say, wriggling in her grip. “You're acting like Oscar Coombs!”

“Shush!” Viva digs her fingers into me while she smiles at Peter Bustamante, Benji, Jericho, and his father. “Good morning,” she says as she shoves me forward across the lot.

“Don't ever say the name Oscar Coombs to me! Get inside.” Viva pushes me up the steps of the school trailer.

Damon is sitting at the table with his breakfast and juice, his eyes wide.

The closing door rattles the entire trailer. “How dare you speak to me like that in front of everybody.”

“How
could
you?” I ask again, crossing my arms.
He's my director! You got tsked by an old lady three times, and I had to use a plastic-wrapped emergency toothbrush from a Ramada Inn!

“I don't answer to you, missy.
You
answer to
me
.” She points an angry finger. “I don't care who you are when you're on set. There are no movie stars in this family. I'm still the parent, and you're the kid.”

Could've fooled me
.

I've heard this before. A zillion times before, actually. In
Paper Moon
. Tatum's dad says, “Don't you go makin' the decisions. I make the decisions. All you gotta do is look like a pretty little girl.”

“Wipe that look off your face.” Viva swipes her hand in front of my eyes. “Know your place.”

I shouldn't say anything. I know I shouldn't, but I've got so much building up inside me, I just can't help myself. “Why do I have to be perfect, but you can do whatever you want?” I yell.

I brace myself for I don't know what—a smack, a thunderbolt, a natural disaster? She's yanked me and shaken me before, but she's never slapped me. Yet. At the table, Damon is eating Tater Tots as if they're popcorn, and he's watching me and my mother like we're entertainment.

In a second, Viva's laughing like a crazy person; her eyes are about to pop out of her head. “
Perfect?
What makes you think you're perfect?” She laughs even harder and pulls at her hair. “Get over yourself. And you better watch it, because you're getting mouthier and mouthier with every passing day.” She looks in the mirror and adjusts herself. “You're not the only one who deserves a little bit of attention from this world.”

But I never wanted attention from the world. I only wanted attention from her.

“Don't forget that you're just one zit and a training bra away from being unemployable.” She slams the door behind her.

That's one line I can't ever forget.

“Who's Oscar Coombs?” Damon asks. I almost forgot he was here. I should probably be embarrassed, but I'm not because he already knows all our business, and none of it has shocked him so far. Someday he'll be one of those people who's interviewed about my life story. I wonder what he'll decide to keep to himself for “life or longer.”

“Cameron Coombs, the kid actor's father. He had a tantrum on set. He broke a camera and got arrested.”

“Oh, right. I read about that.” Damon scratches his head. “What ever happened to Cameron Coombs? I never see him anymore.”

I stare blankly. “Exactly.”

“Ah…” Damon holds his breakfast burrito and pushes a bowl of pistachios and melon across the table. “Nuts?”

Plunking into a chair, I pick up a pistachio but trade it back for a slice of melon.

“You weren't at the bonfire last night,” I say.

“It was a school night,” Damon answers, unfolding a napkin.

Of course. Our one responsible adult was in bed by nine.

Through the screen door I see Benji crossing the parking lot with my breakfast. I open the door and crouch down for the handoff.

“Breakfast! Your usual.” Benji reaches up to pass me my foil-covered plate of French toast and scrambled eggs. It's warm in my palm, and I smell the sweet maple syrup.

“You all right, Joss?” Benji asks softly.

What is there to say but “A-okay”?

“Good.” Benji winks.

Before the audition for Tallulah Leigh, me and Viva daydreamed a lot about being served drinks beside a swimming pool where there's live music and a buffet table with crab legs. I always pictured a cruise ship or that Sandals resort on the commercial. But now we've got even more, so I'm not about to complain.

“Your fitting will be sometime after lunch. I'll swing by and bring you and Viva over,” Benji says. “Can I get you anything else while you start tutoring?” I can tell he's not just asking because it's his job.

“Uh … yeah, one thing.” I lean over my food to whisper. “Can you ask Monique in wardrobe if she's got something I can wear for now? Nothing special—just a regular top and shorts? Because it's getting hot, and I'm in
these
.” I pull on my thick gray sweatpants, which I wore to last night's bonfire.

“Done,” he answers, no questions asked.

Some people like to boss around production assistants because they're the fetchers around here. Directors and actors and producers are always telling them: fetch me some coffee, fetch me the paper, fetch me the copies. Worst of all, I've seen actors make them hold an umbrella for them in the rain. I would never do that. I'd feel bad letting someone get wet just so I could stay dry.

“Thank you. You're all the rage, Benji,” I say.

He walks away toward the wardrobe truck and calls, “And Joss Byrd, you are the latest craze!”

After I step back inside the trailer, I notice a fat envelope on the counter. I freeze. “What is that?” I ask Damon. It's the kind of envelope with a metal clasp—the kind that usually holds contracts or headshots to autograph … or scripts.

Damon opens the clasp. He peeks inside as if what's in there might bite him.

“It's another one, isn't it?”

“Sorry.”

“I give up.” I lay my head on the table. “What color is it
now
?” I ask, as if it makes any difference.

He pulls the entire script out. The color reminds me of stale Halloween candy.

“Ew. Orange,” I say.

“Actually”—Damon reads the cover page—“it's called … goldenrod. It's the ‘goldenrod revision.'”

“What about the lines?” I ask. “Is the order different or are the words different?”

He flips pages and pauses. “The words are different.”

Goldenrod is the most hideous color I've ever seen.

 

10

“Hiya, cutie,” the lady in the very clean, white shirt says. “Can you stand on that piece of tape for me and tell the camera your name and your age and where you're from and a little bit about yourself?”

“Uh-huh.” I put my toes behind the pink tape. “Here?”

“That's perfect. Go ahead. Your name, please.”

“I'm Joss. Byrd. I'm six.”

“And where are you from?”

“Maryland. Our backyard is water.”

“How fun,” she says. “Now, can you turn and face left for me?”

I turn in one direction. I hope it's left.

“Good. And now turn and face right?”

I turn in the other direction.

“Great. You can face forward,” she says. “Did you drive all the way from Maryland to meet us?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That's impressive. And how'd you like traveling all those miles?”

“Our air conditioning busted.”

I don't know why she's laughing. It was so hot; I could've fainted. Sometimes kids die in cars. I saw it twice on the news.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Well, I hope you have a better ride home.”

“We're gonna stay in a hotel. An air-conditioned one. With room service.”

“Ooh, swanky!” She writes something down on her notepad. That must've been the right answer. “Well, this movie is about a country music singer and his daughter. He's trying to make it big, and she's keeping him company on the road. Do you know anything about country music, Joss?”

“Um … I like duets?” I say, like a question even though it's not.

“Oh, nice. Me too. What do you like about them?”

“Me and my mom sing them in the car—like ‘Fallin' Away Again'?”

“How sweet.” She steps back and lifts a regular camera, not the video kind. “You didn't happen to bring a head shot with you, did you? A picture?”

I want to cry now. “No.”

“That's all right. It's not a problem. I'm going to take your picture now, then. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Before I think to smile she's already done clicking. I won't tell my mother; she'll be mad.

“It was nice meeting you, Joss. Byrd.”

*   *   *

“Did you know I didn't have to read at my first audition? I didn't even have to smile. I only answered some questions, and that was it,” I say. “That's how come I became an actor. After that first job, I just kept getting hired over and over again. It was just luck. That's all. If they'd made me read first off, I never would've been here.”

“Did your mother tell you that?” Damon asks.

“She didn't have to. If my first job was, like,
Paper Moon
, with all those lines, I would've completely…” I screw up my mouth and give a thumbs-down. “Have you seen
Paper Moon
? It's black and white but on purpose.”

“Years ago. I don't remember it much.”

“Tatum O'Neal and her dad are con artists.” I reach into my book bag and show him the DVD cover. “They pull scams to trick people into giving them money. You should watch it again. Some people don't appreciate it the first time. I know every single word by heart. The best is when she's yelling at him because he owes her money. He keeps saying that he doesn't have it. And she says—”