Unscripted Joss Byrd (13 page)

“No, Terrance. No!” It's the first time I've ever said no to a director. But he's wrong, too, and Rodney is still so, so, so scary. I don't want to play scenes about getting molested.

“It's not a physical scene, Joss. Rodney isn't even
in
it. It's only dialogue between Norah and TJ. I promise.”

“But you already promised months ago.” I don't hold back because I'm right. And if my mother said no to something it must be terrible. “You were going to shoot that stuff around me. Chris was going to have lines about it, not me. You
know
it, Terrance. My mother said I'm not allowed.”

“I've already spoken with Viva,” Terrance says as if it's as good as done. “She understands and said it's okay. Hey, how about when we're done, we'll go to the lighthouse? Just the three of us.”

I back away. There's no way to make this up to me.

“You already spoke to her?” I ask. He spoke to my mother first because she's screwing him, so he knew she'd take his side. And then she asked Terrance to tell me so that I wouldn't have a choice.

If Viva isn't on my side, who is?

“I can't do the scene, Terrance.” I reach for the most professional argument I have. “My agent called Peter Bustamante. My contract
says
—”

“I know. I'm so sorry.” Terrance stares at the floor.

There aren't enough sorrys for this.

Don't you dare cry. Don't you dare.
He'll have to call action before he ever sees a tear from me.

“It's the film, Joss. I've been over it and over it, and it's not the story I need it to be yet. Norah has to at least tell TJ about the abuse. It has to come from her. She has to … she has to be that strong.”

But why should
I
have to?

“I really need you for this, kiddo. Please.” He pulls the rolled-up scene out of his back pocket and uncurls it—the paper is blue.

The blue script was four revisions ago.

“You've had that scene from the
beginning
.” I point at the pages. “You've just been keeping it from me.”

It's Terrance's life story. Of course the scene was there from the start like the crow's nest and the fight. That scene's been there for thirty years.

“No, no. It's brand-new,” he lies straight to my face. “I called you right in to talk to you about it. The copies aren't even done yet.”

I push as far back from him as I can. I don't want him talking to me anymore, not ever again. When I look down at myself, I'm in white shorts and a yellow T-shirt I don't recognize. And I smell funny, too, like a toilet brush.

I'm disappearing little by little …

On the end table, with papers and maps and receipts, there's a small envelope sealed with a seashell sticker. It's the letter I wrote to Norah. I remember the address Terrance gave me and the note Damon helped me write. Norah Rivenbach, 47 Skipped Rock Rd., Montauk, NY.

Dear Norah,

I would love to meet you. Please visit our set soon!

Love,

Joss Byrd

“You're my muse, you know that, don't you, kid?” Terrance says, as if that still means something special. “I would've done anything, anything to have you be my Norah.”

Including lie to me.

Norah said
, “You don't want to be his sister. You don't even want to know him.”

“You have today to work on it. We'll shoot it tomorrow night after the drive-thru deli. That way you can get it over with. The winds will be low. It'll be a nice night out on the beach.”

You can't put a night shoot together in one day. He had to reserve the beach and check the winds ahead of time.

“She hates a lot of things,”
Terrance said.

When Terrance came up behind me, she narrowed her eyes at him—her eyes were sad from being the real Norah.

Norah doesn't hate
me
. She hates
Terrance.
That's what's in Norah's heart.

“I think that once you read it,” Terrance says, “you'll see that it's not a big deal, really. It's nothing at all.”

Thinking back to Terrance's big, warm hug on that first day, I agree. “Nothing at all.”

He gives me the script. It rolls up again in my hands as if it's ashamed of itself. And it should be.

“That's my girl.” Terrance pats me like I'm a dog. But really, he should be patting himself on the back for getting away with this.

 

12

As fast as I can, I'm running past wardrobe racks that are packed with faded jeans; the hair and makeup trailer blasting dance music; the old, graying dog that's sitting in the truck driver's passenger seat; and Rodney stepping out of Peter Bustamante's trailer.

“Hey, Norah!” Rodney yells after me. “Where are you going? Did you talk to TJ?”

I whip around, fists clenched. “My name is
Joss
! And you can stay away from me!” I scream because I can't believe anything Terrance says anymore.

My dressing room door swings open behind me. “What is going on out here? Joss?” Viva says.

I take off again, even faster. My mother is the last person I want to see, and basecamp is the last place I want to be.

“Ray?” I call, spotting him and his friends at the far end of the parking lot on their dirt bikes.

“Hi!” he says as he rolls his bicycle toward me.

“Do you know where Skipped Rock Road is?” Until that came out of my mouth I didn't know what I was going to say. But Norah's the only one who might understand. Maybe she'll be on my side. “I need to get to 47 Skipped Rock Road.”

“Sure, I know where it is,” Ray says as his friends stare at me. “Get on.” He taps his handlebars. “I can take you.”

I shove my script in my back pocket and hop on. The handlebar digs into my butt as I balance my toes on the bolts of Ray's front wheel.

“Are you on a secret mission? Like research for your character or something?” Ray steers and presses his flip-flopped feet over the pedals.

“Something like that.”

“I knew it! So cool.”

“Joss! Where are you going?” I hear Benji yell from the parking lot. “You're still in school! You already owe two hours! You're about to owe three!”

“Montauk's a small town,” Ray says as we speed through the streets. “But we have a real good time here. That's probably why they film so many movies here.”

The breeze hits my face when we turn the corner, and we're coasting downhill. I almost forget why I'm riding away. If I were a regular kid, just one of the locals, I'd be woo-hooing from on top of Ray's bike. A part of me is having a grand time, the same part of me that can't remember the last time I had real fun.

“Which number again?” Ray asks when we get to Skipped Rock Road, but I can't think of it. I can only think of Norah and Terrance and Rodney. Suddenly I'm the dirt driveway kid who's pretending to be an actor.

But I don't have to remember the house number because Norah is on her front lawn throwing weeds into a paper bag.

“That's her,” I say. “I can get off here.”

Ray plants his feet on the ground. “I'll wait right here for you.”

I hop down but hold the handlebar for a second before letting go.

Norah leaves the paper bag on the grass. She walks up to me wearing her gardening gloves. She doesn't seem surprised in the least to see me. As she gets closer, I see little lines at the corners of her eyes, and the freckles on her nose are the same as mine when I get too much sun. But it's our chins that are most alike, with a slight dent in the middle.

“Hello, Joss. What is it?” She takes her gloves off. “Are you okay?”

“You were right. I don't even want to know him.” I go to pull the script from my pocket but decide not to. I'm not sure why. “He promised I wouldn't have to do something, but he lied.”

“Well.” Norah takes a deep breath. “Considering everything else he's done, I'm not surprised.”

“What did he do?”

“He's making this movie in the first place,” she says, almost laughing. “Isn't that enough?”

I remember sweaty Rodney. I didn't want anyone but Chris to know he came into my schoolroom. Of course Norah doesn't want the whole world to know that horrible stuff happened to her. That's why I don't want to show her the script. Norah's not just a character I have to play. She was once a girl who got abused by her stepdad. Norah's a living person with feelings.

How can Terrance do this to her?

How can I?

“He says that we each have to deal with our lives in our own way and that I have my way and he has his.” She smacks her gloves against her thigh. “But that just means he doesn't care how it affects me.”

I don't want to be in this movie anymore. I was so blind. I thought it was better to be anyone but me and that it would actually be fun to play Norah Rivenbach. I couldn't wait to be Chris's sister and Terrance's star. I've got guilt so thick right now that I can barely see through it.

“Five years ago when he started writing the screenplay, I thought, fine. It'll be therapeutic for him. He'll get it all out of his system. But as soon as he told me he was actually going to make the movie? That was it for me. That's not the brother I know. He's had tunnel vision ever since.” Norah drops her gloves and leads me to the stoop where we have a seat. It feels good to sit. I'm tired, but I didn't know it. “
The Locals
has been all he can think about: casting the perfect kids, searching for the same kind of crappy boat, even finding a place with the perfect
tree
. Hell, he's even had the nerve to call me in the middle of the night, on several occasions, to make sure he had the dialogue exactly right.” She wipes her forehead. “I told him that since he's the one who likes remembering, he could figure it out himself.”

“I'm sorry, Norah.” It's not enough, but I don't know what else to say.

“Don't be. None of this is about you.”

But it is about me. I've been acting out her secrets for a lobster dinner.

I watch Norah roll her sleeves over her elbows. “If he has to make the movie, I'm glad that he cast you and not someone else.”

“Why?” I can't think of a single reason.

She reaches over, pulls one yellow daisy from the flower bed, and offers it to me. “Because you are sorry. And if you don't do it someone else will, probably some shallow Hollywood kid whose face is on lunch boxes and sleeping bags. At least TJ got one thing right.”

I don't want to accept the flower. I wanted her to like me so bad, but now, playing Norah isn't right. And I don't want to feel her emotions anymore; there's too much of them to feel. But I take the daisy from her anyway—how can I say no?

Over my shoulder, I can see through Norah's front door, straight through her tidy living room, and all the way through her sliding glass doors. In the backyard, there's a tall, wide tree in the exact center of—

I can't believe it. This must be the house—the one Norah and Terrance grew up in. I can picture them here when they were young, screaming and fighting with their stepdad. This place is its own kind of haunted house. Why would she still want to live here?

*   *   *

As we turn into the Beverly Hills neighborhood, my mother slows the rental car and turns the radio down. She doesn't care to visit Disneyland or Universal Studios or the beach. For our first time in LA, she wants to see rich-people houses. Now I know why. The Disney castle can't beat this.

I don't know which house to look at first. One has got bushes that look like giant Q-tips leading all the way up the driveway. Another has rounded balconies outside every bedroom. Across the way there's a shiny, old-fashioned black car; the wheel spokes sparkle like jewelry.

“Holy moly,” my mother whispers.

I fold my arms over the car window and rest my chin on my hands. We pass a bright blue door with a thick brass knocker. If I run up there and knock, would they let me in or would they laugh me away?

Viva gasps at the house with the vines up the side. “Look at all the ivy. Old Hollywood.” She tucks her hair into her floppy sun hat and checks her lipstick in the mirror. “I could fit in here, couldn't I?”

We'd both get laughed away. But it'd be mean to tell her so.

“You see? Now this is where I'm meant to live. Right here. In the 9-0-2-1-0.” She stops the car to take a picture of herself in front of a house with a fountain. “We're on our way, Joss. Can you feel it?” She drives slowly, watching her dream house roll by. “We're on our way.”

My mother says
we.
But I know that it's all up to me.

*   *   *

“Norah, is this … the house?” I ask, afraid of my own question. “The one you lived in as a kid?”

“Yes. It is.” She smiles as she turns to look through the door.

“Oh…” I keep imagining the hitting and crying and worse that happened inside years ago when the house was shabby. “Well, you fixed it up nice,” I say. It's not my business to tell her she's crazy for living with those bad memories, but one thing I've learned for sure is that there's always someplace better.

“It's not much different than when we were young.” Norah brushes the hair off her face. “I just keep up with it, that's all.”

“You mean…” The clean windows are opened up to the breeze, and neat bricks line the flower bed. There's even a real driveway, solid and everything. “You weren't
poor
?” I ask, shocked.

Norah looks at the houses across the street. One is very narrow but it's been built up to three stories. “We weren't living it up like some families here, but no. We weren't
poor.
”