Page 5 of Take It Till You Make It
Glory: Gotta go. The extra found the bag of sugar and is drawing pictures in it on the kitchen floor.
Me: Good luck!
I pocket my phone and stare out at the ocean while dispatching my sandwich. Moving is hard, hungry work! Texting with Glory always helps lighten my mood. Now, when I look at the ocean, it’s a relentless wonder. Instead of adding to my anxiety, it fills me with awe. I breathe in the salt air and tune into the gulls. The sounds of the beach are like a music genre of its own. At this moment, it feels like I could sit and listen all day. That I might want to sing along. That maybe this choice to move wasn’t all horrible.
Chapter Three
My alarm rousesme at an hour I’m previously unfamiliar with. The only thing that gets me out of bed is the need to be presentable at the table read. It’s the first time I’m meeting everybody, and I want to make a good impression. Jenny, a production assistant, has been assigned as my handler. That’s what I call it, at least. I’m a minor, so I need someone who promises to look after me. There’s no way Mom would have done it. She claimed she couldn’t because she would need to get a full-time job. Cough. Cough. Anyway, Jenny told me people show up to this thing looking like death warmed over and that I really don’t need to put in much effort, but because I am making a first impression, and because I will be playing a thirteen year old thanks to my slight size and non-developed body, I feel like this might be the only opportunity I get to let people know I’m nearly an adult. So, I take the time to style my hair and apply makeup, and I choose an outfit that might be categorized as business casual.
Still, when I look in the mirror, I look like an Olympic gymnast trying – and failing - to appear more grown up. Assessing myself, I could pass as a fifteen-year-old headed to a spelling bee, maybe. I sigh. It doesn’t matter how old they think I am. I just have to play my part well. Then they’ll think I’m some thirteen-year-old acting savant. Nothing wrong with that.
Before I dash out the door, I quietly set a protein drink on the bedside table for Mom. I’ve taped a note to it, reminding her where I am and encouraging her to text if she needs anything. I leave her bedroom door open and look around for Queen Brie on my way out. She’s used the litterbox, so I know she’s just being obstinate. Maybe I’ll search for her hiding place in earnest tonight.
Halfway to the studio, the map app updates the estimated arrival time because there is an accident somewhere between me and my destination. It says I will now be fifteen minutes late. When traffic grinds to a halt, I dash off a text to Jenny letting her know the circumstances. Her response assures me that at least one executive producer and the director are both caught in the same traffic, so I’ll be fine. Still, I’m sweating bullets by the time I pull up to the gate.
I show my identification to the gate guard, and he welcomes me to the studio and slaps a parking pass to the inside of my window. “Next time you come, you can be as cool as them.” He points to the lane next to me where a sexy little sports car has just pulled in. The gate opens automatically, and I’m guessing my new sticker will provide me with the same access.
I take a double-take at the driver. He glances over, but nothing about me or the beater of a car I’m driving holds his attention. Good thing, because then he doesn’t see me wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth. Is that…?
“Good morning, Mr. Moore.” The guard gives teen heartthrob Crispin Moore a friendly wave.
Oh my gosh, it is! He must be filming around here, too.
Crispin nods and salutes as he drives forward.
“You’ll want to follow him. You’re going to the same table read.”
My eyes grow wide. Seriously? Crispin Moore is in my movie? I thought it was that other guy. The almost funny-looking star that all the girls swoon over. Hamlin? Harland? Something like that. I do exactly as guard guy suggests and follow Crispin Moore to the correct parking lot. I don’t want to look like a creeper, so I don’t park near him, but I keep my eye on him so that I can follow him to the right building.
This place is huge. The instructions Jenny sent me sounded so clear, but now that I’m here and there are so many other places I could be going, I’m extra thankful to stalk after one of America’s sexiest hunks. I think Crispin is like twenty-one or two. The only reason he’s still considered a teen heartthrob is because that is the main audience he still appeals to. He also still mostly plays teenage roles. He must be playing my sister’s boyfriend.
The gal who’s playing my sister is some no-name like me. Well, she has a name, I just don’t remember it. She’s been in one other movie but only had a one-line walk-on. She got this part because she’s related to the star who is playing her mother. I’m beyond excited to be working with Chandra Miracle. She’s such a role model. I hope she’s as kind and genuine as she seems. It would really blow if she was a diva.
I pull myself back to reality when I see Crispin Moore talking to another guard who’s checking his identification at the door. Jeez. Talk about security. I dig into my bag as I approach to pull my ID back out again. Once again, Crispin glances at me, but it’s like the air I occupy is empty. He’s taken his sunglasses off, so I know beyond a doubt his gaze doesn’t connect with mine. He doesn’t look me over from head to toe. I couldn’t interest him any less if I didn’t exist. Fighting the urge to lunge and say, “Boo,” I come to a stop next to him. He’s standing in the doorway, with the door propped against his backside.
And, man, what a backside. Okay, I can’t actually see it, but he’s tall and lean with floppy sandy-brown hair. Or is it dirty blond? I’ve never been able to tell if he’s a blond or a brunette. What I can see is perfection, so I imagine his backside will fall in line too.
“It’ll be great to have you around, Crispin,” the guard says as they perform a complicated handshake.
“If I had to shove another project into my overbooked year, I’m happy you’ll be here to keep me entertained, T.”
Hmmm. Crispin makes friends with old, pudgy security guards. That’s cool.
He turns to me. “The internships are in building D over off lot 2.”
“The..the what?”
His gaze scans my outfit. “You’re here for an internship, right? To shadow one of the production assistants for a couple of weeks so you can decide if you want to go in that direction in college.” He looks at the guard. “Impressive that she’s looking so far ahead.” He returns his attention to me. “Are you just going into high school? Hoping to get a foot in the door early, maybe?”
Okay, so the outfit is a big, fat miss. And his tone is completely patronizing, or at least that’s how I hear it. Without breaking eye contact with him, I hand my ID to the guard. “I’m here for the table read.”
The guard brightens. “Oh, my goodness. You’re BellyLaughs. My nephew and I have started rewriting scenes because yours are so funny.”
I smile at him, pleased that he’s giving me some kind of street cred in front of Crispin Moore. “I love that you two do that together. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed my channel.”
He sobers up fast. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
It’s like a wall of emotion hits me. I think I even feel my hair blow back, which is impossible, since it’s pulled tight to my head in my ridiculous bun. I draw breath through my nose while I struggle to control myself. Finally, I’m able to bend the corners of my mouth into a contrite smile and nod. “It’s been difficult. Thank you.”
