Page 26 of A Little Bit Extra

We have small performances with each other throughout the year, but we only do one big showcase a year. That’s the one coming up at the end of July.

We start every class with a warmup. Typically, we start with a call and response game called “Big Booty,” which is also Tom Hiddlestons’ favorite way to warm up. We sit in a circle and designate one person to be Big Booty, aka the leader of the game. We designate a number to other players. A player will respond when their number is called and call out another player, or Big Booty. The player you choose doesn’t matter, as long as you keep the 4/4 rhythm. It might sound ridiculous, but it’s a lot of fun and gets us laughing, which can be important after a long day of dealing with our daily lives and problems.

After warming up, there are a few things we might do. Trust exercises or improv might be on the agenda. We might perform a monologue if we receive scripts ahead of time. As a group, we typically collaborate to plan out the next few sessions. To prepare for the showcase, we're practicing short monologues and reading scripts.

It’s not my favorite. In fact, part of me wishes I could escape to the back of the room and just watch. When I was told I had to do romance for my scene, I thought I was being pranked. Honestly, I thought the teacher wouldn't give me a romance script. I knew I had to do a different genre, but romance? I like to read and watch romance, but romantic acting is not my cup of tea.

But that’s the point, right? To get me out of my comfort zone? Make me a better actor? After acting this morning with Emmett, I’m wondering if saying no to him as a rehearsal partner was a bad idea. Maybe he could help me? It felt natural… and had the chemistry I wish I had with someone else in my class. No matter who I practice lines with, it always feels forced, and I can't seem to move past it. But I don’t think I’m at the point where I need to look desperate for help. I’ll be fine. I've been alone for this long, I can certainly navigate my way through this.

8

Emmett

The knock, knock, knock on my front door wakes me up before my eyes open. I blink a few times, letting the sunlight bring life into my groggy body. I roll over onto my left side and reach onto my nightstand. I search through the mess, a chapstick and my water bottle topple over, until I finally uncover my phone. I look at the screen to check the time. It’s seven in the morning. There is only one person who shows up unannounced this early.

For that reason, I take my time getting out of bed. I swing my legs around, step into the pair of shorts on the floor, then walk to my closet and grab the first shirt I find, a very worn Foo Fighters shirt that has a faded logo and frayed edges. I stop in the bathroom to look in the mirror. To wake myself up, I turn on the water and splash cold water on my face.

The knock, knock, knock echoes through my apartment again.

“Coming!” I yell from the bathroom. I look back in the mirror one last time, taking a deep breath before I turn off the light and walk toward the front door.

I turn the lock, twist the knob, and open the door. On the other side, there's a man dressed in a full three-piece suit, holding a briefcase in his right hand and a cellphone in his left.

“Hi, Dad. How wonderful it is to see you on this bright and early morning. Please, do come in,” I say with added sass and wave my hand toward the living room.

He doesn’t even look at me. Typical. He strides into the room, his fingers furiously tapping on his phone as he sends off a final text before acknowledging my presence.

By the time he completes his task, I’ve already closed the door and begun my journey to the kitchen, my mind set on making a fresh cup of coffee. I’m going to need my largest mug filled to the brim to get through whatever he came here to talk to me about.

“Don’t you have someone clean this place?”

Of course that’s the first question he asks. I look behind my shoulder to see him snooping and looking around the living room.

“Why do I need someone when I’m the only one living here? I can clean just fine,” I mutter as I pour my coffee.

He scoffs, clearly unimpressed.

“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask. Taking a sip from my mug, I lean against the counter, my gaze fixed in his direction.

He walks toward me now, setting his briefcase down at one of the island chairs.

“What? A father can’t stop by and check in on his son?” he asks. Passing by me, he grabs a mug, fills it with coffee, and turns back around at the island, facing me.

“I haven’t seen you in months, so sorry if I seem taken aback by the sudden drop in,” I respond. I don't mean to be so short with my dad, but it's hard to argue against the truth. The only form of communication we have had lately is through random texts, and it has been a while since I last saw him. He hasn’t checked in.

For most of my childhood, I was close with my dad. I wanted to be just like him. He would come home after a job and tell me about his day. He’d tell me about the scenes he filmed, the people he met, and anything else that went on. I looked forward to it. Then, before bed, he’d act out my bedtime stories and do a voice for every character.

Everything changed when I got older. My dad wanted me to act, which I was excited to do at first. I looked up to him. Why wouldn’t I want to follow in his footsteps? My first job in a movie was a minor role. I played a little boy in a family on a summer road trip. It was a comedy and so much fun. Acting for that was great and all, but I fell in love with the script. I wanted to know who could write something so funny and intriguing. I was only 13, but I asked the director if I could see the writers’ room. He took me; I met the writers, and just like that, I had a new dream.

That dream was stifled when my dad found my first script shortly after. I don’t know if you could even call it a script. It was just some words on a paper that barely morphed into a story. It was more a shell of something that could have been a script. My dad told me to be realistic and pragmatic and sensible and all the synonyms to describe his disapproval.

That’s why I stopped talking to him when I got old enough. Once I turned 18, I moved out. I only saw my parents on holidays and sent texts on birthdays. Eventually holidays turned into once a year and that’s where we’re at now. Sometimes I see them more, depending on if my mom asks to see me. They only live to the west, in Malibu, but I do a good job to stay busy or just avoid them.

“What are you doing here, Dad?” I ask again. It’s too early to try to be nice and have a semi-friendly conversation.

“I thought we might get breakfast,” he says, like it’s a normal outing for us.

I suppress a groan. “Today?” Maybe he meant with my mom, on a different day, on a day that we plan ahead of time.

---