Bounce (21 page)

“We have to play something else,” Shane echoes.

The manager's standing behind us. When we checked in two hours ago, he looked like every other jaded club manager. Now he's all smiles and compliments. “You hear that? That doesn't happen every night,” he says.

I look out to the bright lights onstage. Dust motes swirl around the mic stand. I think about what I felt while I was singing. I should go out there. I should do one more song and open up, give it everything. But I shake my head. “That's it for me tonight.”

  
Chapter 24
  

Skyler

S
ometimes, it feels like this movie is more real than my real life.

Or maybe it's that the movie feels like the life I wish I had—one where I feel witty, charming, and just perfectly delightful all day, every day. Of course, it helps to have someone else write your lines, tell you how to stand, where to be.

I watch the dailies every now and then, and I'm amazed. The lighting, the makeup, the clothing—all of it makes me look so different from how I see myself. Makeup makes my lips look full and glossy, inviting. My features contoured to perfection. My posture, mannerisms—all of it feels like some other girl. One with perfectly fitted clothes. With the right words for every moment.

And I have to admit, the yes-girl in me, the go-to girl, likes the attention, likes knowing I'm good at this, that I'm making people happy. I know music does that for me, too, but this is different. I feel like I'm carrying more here, like it's not just for me but for my mother and brother, for all the people gathered on set, and—eventually—for an audience much larger than any I've ever played to before.

Beth and I sit at a table in a fake coffee shop together, goofing around between takes while Kaitlin and Bernadette fuss over the jacket I'm wearing. It's pulling across my upper arms, which are not dainty LA arms, elegantly sculpted through a billion hours of yogalates, but super muscled from dragging my cellos around for years. And to make it all more frown-worthy, apparently my bow arm's a good inch larger, which makes me feel like some kind of freak. Half girl, half fiddler crab.

“On the plus side, we had to take in your skirt a little,” Bernadette says, peeling the toffee-colored jacket, which I really loved, off me and handing it to Kaitlin.

“Is that going to be weird?” I ask. “I mean for continuity. If I keep losing weight?”

She laughs. “That would be an awesome problem to have, right? It'll be okay. I doubt you can make a drastic enough change in the next six weeks to really screw up the visuals. But it'll help everything lay better. And definitely help when we're on to the beach stuff.”

Right. We're heading to Virgin Gorda in a few weeks to film the big finale. Which means bathing suits. Lots of skin.

“Just keep doing what you're doing,” Bernadette adds.

“Girl's hardly eating,” Beth mutters.

Bernadette heads off with Kaitlin to find me something different to wear.

“I'm eating.” Just not as much. Or as often. “I just want to look good, Bets.”

She doesn't have to worry about it, I think. She's model-tall and a perfect size four, top and bottom.
And
she's not the lead.

I take a couple more of Kaitlin's supplements, swallowing them down with black coffee, which is cold now and tastes like charred feet. My head feels a little buzzy, and my stomach growls to remind me I haven't actually had anything to eat yet today.

“Did you ever find out what's in those?”

I shrug. “Just, you know, herbs. Plant extracts. That kind of thing.”

She arches a brow. “Hemlock's a plant.”

“Ha ha.”

“I am serious as the heart attack you're gonna have if you keep living on coffee and mystery pills.”

“You see me eat all the time. Didn't we just destroy the buffet at Mayura?”

“Girl, you ate, like, a thimble-full of fish curry and two bites of tandoori chicken.”

I laugh. “I had more than that, and you know it.”

Didn't I? I mean, I passed up the fried bananas and the naan, which made me want to cry, but I ate plenty. I just don't feel as hungry lately.

Finally, they get everything reset, and we play out the scene. A short one where I clumsily attempt to set my best friend up on a date, and she rebuffs me because she's interested in another guy, though my character's also trying to set
that
guy up with a
different
girl, creating a hilarious chain reaction, which eventually leads to a set of scenes I can't wait to play. It's like an old-time farce or a Shakespearean comedy, with all the mismatched couples stuck together in a run-down resort in the Virgin Islands.

We get through it a few times, riffing a bit. Beth's an awesome improviser. I wish she had more scenes with Garrett, who I think would love to play against her. But they appear together just a handful of times and only interact directly once.

The scene ends, and Beth picks up the conversation like no time has passed at all.

“I'm making paella tonight. You going to be home?”

My stomach literally whines at the thought of Beth's paella, which is like the crack cocaine of foods. I can already taste the chorizo, the spices, the saffron rice that I imagine shoveling into my mouth by the spoonful until I expand into a giant Skyler ball, and they have to roll me to my room.

“Not sure. Brooks asked about getting together. What's the occasion?”

“No occasion. Grey's having the band over . . .”

“You mean he's having
Titus
over, don't you? Your
lover
?”

It's only been a week, so they haven't really gone there yet, but it's brewing. You can feel it between them like waves crashing up against a flimsy seawall. I do know they've made out like crazy, though, because every time I come across them, he's smeared with Beth's signature poppy lip stain and looks like he just saw God.

“Grey's having the
whole
band over,” she tells me. “And Titus is . . .” I can swear the girl blushes a bit, and Beth
never
blushes. “He's just unexpected.”

“You sure you want to make such a garlicky dish?” I tease her. “And all that food? I mean, you don't want to have a paella baby in you when you finally get down to business with Titus.”

“Well, you can help me out by actually eating something. Like a normal human amount of food.”

This again. I'm too tired and hungry to argue. “Fine. I'll eat a giant helping.”

“Great.” Beth sits back in her chair with a triumphant grin on her face. “I'll make extra.”

I get home later than everyone, which means I walk into a party already in progress. The Bleachers are playing. The conversation is loud. And the balcony door's wide open, bringing in the smell of car exhaust and the smoke from our neighbor's grill.

Just as I step into the living room, my phone chirps. My mom. I shoot her a quick text that I'll call her back later. I haven't had a chance to talk to her all week, and I feel awful. Apparently, my dad didn't pay any of their utilities before he left. I've sent a check overnight to her and tried to cover things by credit card from here, where I could. But she's coming apart a little, and I need time to really sit and talk to her. Someplace private and quiet, though I have no idea where that place might be.

“There she is!” says Beth, whose eyes are already a little glassy from the prominent jug of punch she's got on the pass-through between the kitchen and living room.

Before I know what's hit me, she's taken my purse and laptop bag, stripped off my coat, thrust a big glass of punch in my hands, and pointed me toward the sofa, where a space materializes between one of Grey's band members—Emilio, maybe?—and Shane, who I think dates Nora.

“Where's Grey?” I ask, squeezing between them. He doesn't seem to be talking to me—not much at least—since the night he came to live with us, but he's not exactly avoiding me, either. He just always seems to be on his way to somewhere else. And when he's not at Garrett's beck and call, he's holed up in some corner, listening to music and mumbling lyrics under his breath.

“I sent him to the store for some saffron,” Beth tells me.

“And some Dos Exes,” Titus calls from the kitchen, where apparently Beth has put him to work on the mussels.

She giggles like a twelve-year-old girl. Good Lord, what's happening here?

In the space of five minutes, my mom texts back asking when, exactly, we can talk. Then Brooks texts to ask if we can get together after all. Even if it's late. He's pumped and wants to share ideas. That's followed by a text from my brand-new agent, Parker, asking about a get-together with Jane, my brand-new publicist. And then Grey walks through the door, carrying a lot of beer and one tiny bag, presumably, of saffron.

“Hey,” he says to the general assemblage, including me more or less by default, but he doesn't look my way, just carries everything into the kitchen.

Parker texts more thoughts about meeting on set tomorrow. Better to get started early. Jane is rounding up “beaucoup opportunities” for me.

Then Brooks texts to reiterate that he is really okay with meeting late. Even 10 p.m., though he knows we have a super early call time so he understands if I can't make it.

Brooks:
But I hope you'll make it.

My head starts to throb. I put my phone on silent. I just want a minute. I wish I could put my life on silent, too.

“We've got about thirty minutes,” Beth says, and I want to cry because I'm so hungry.

The band and crew are loading up on beer and chips, but I go into the kitchen to grab an apple.

When I come back, Nora says, “I didn't know you play the cello.”

“Well, we just met three minutes ago,” I say, and it comes out about twenty notches bitchier than intended. I try a smile, but I feel how fake it is, like I'm some weird game show host, in the weirdest, most unfriendly game on earth. “But, yeah. Been playing since I was a kid.”

“Electric cello, too,” Beth calls from the kitchen. “Play something, Sky.”

“No, that's okay.” I just want to eat my apple and melt into a puddle on the couch. “You guys are—”

“Electric cello's totally rad,” Titus says, coming into the room with more chips.

He tosses Grey a beer and then settles onto the arm of my dad's old club chair, one of the few things I hauled across country for sentimental reasons. My brother and I used to all pile onto it with him, when he was home, and he'd read us stories or sing songs. Then he went away for a long summer, and when he came home, it felt weird, somehow, like my brother and I had gotten way too big in just a few months.

“I'd love to hear you play,” says Nora. She's a beautiful girl. Totally sporty, blond with an asymmetrical haircut, biker shorts, and a Plain White T's t-shirt, which is neither plain nor white.

“Just give us a quick mini concert while we wait,” Beth says, coming into the room. She pushes Titus onto the club chair and then flops onto his lap. Even though she's probably his equal in height, she doesn't care. She's so comfortable with him, and with her own body. “Please? I'll pay you in chorizo.”

I take another bite of my apple, which tastes dry and grainy, making me feel cheated. “Nah, I don't really feel like it.”

“Come on,” she says. “Grey, turn down the stereo.”

He gets up to do it, looking at me for the first time but not speaking. I can read the interest in his eyes, though, the excitement he's trying not to show. He wants to hear me.

Maybe it will help, I think. A little musical therapy to fight off my pissy mood.

“Okay,” I say, and everyone breaks into applause and cheers. I smile, a real one this time. Yeah, maybe a little concert's what I need. Just to connect to my music and let everything else drift away.