Everybody Knows Your Name (6 page)

When we get back to the hotel at night, I think about where I can go. I can't go to the lobby because it's impossible to be alone there, plus the DJ is loudly playing what sounds like mermaids rapping. I can't be alone on the rooftop because the bar and the pool are open until much later. I can't stay here in the room because my mom is lying on her side on the other bed, wearing a new shell bracelet, saying to me, “Mag, maybe you should give Stacy a call and smooth over this song thing. I got her number for you. I've heard that this business is more about making friends than even being good.”

“I know, you're right,” I say. “I'm going to go down to the lobby to see if anyone's still hanging out.”

“You want me to come with?”

“You should go have a drink on the roof. Maybe that actress is there again.”

“Only if you're not just going to sit here by yourself. I'll stay with you if you're lonely.”

“No, I'm going downstairs.”

My mom starts taking out her ponytail holder, saying, “My hair is so crazy from the ocean air. I'd have to get ready. . . .”

While she sits on the floor to evaluate the nighttime tops in her suitcase, I grab the hotel pad and pen on the nightstand next to the bed.

“See you in a little while,” I say, and duck out the door. “Have fun, Mom.”

The door clicks shut after me, and I walk past the elevator and the stairwell, down to the room where there's a sign that says
ICE
. It's the best option I've got. How many people really go through the effort of getting themselves ice?

Once I'm in the ice room I sit down against the wall behind the door. I smell like the beach. They had me spend the afternoon walking along the shore in a bikini top and a leather skirt. I thought about birds tweeting around my head and hoped it would show on my face.

Now I give myself over to the hum of the ice machine, which is incredibly comforting, and I put the pen to the pad. I start writing the next episode of
Ships in the Night
. Seeing as how I don't yet have a vocab list from the on-set tutor, I just pick up with one of my favorite characters, Warren Gettysburg, the rebellious son, letting him do whatever he wants.

I scribble in really bad handwriting:
Warren puts out his cigarette on his dad's gymnastics trophy from college. It leaves a mark, and Warren likes the message that sends to his family about how little he cares about his own health
.

Someone coughs.

For a moment I think I've gotten so absorbed in
Ships
that I'm hearing sound effects from Warren in my head. Then I lean over to see around the other side of the machine. One of the baby-faced twins is sitting back there with her knees up and her arms draped over them. She looks kind of like Rihanna before Rihanna became herself.

“Mila,” she says.

I say, “Thanks,” because I had no idea which one she was, only that she obviously isn't the twin who bounces off the walls. It must be really strange to share a face with someone else.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of us seeming very motivated to say anything.

Finally I ask, “Did the story consultant tell you he thinks you're an introvert?”

“No.” Mila rolls her eyes. “He said he thinks I have an attitude problem.”

I nod and lean back against the wall, returning to my writing. Mila goes quiet except for occasionally kicking the ice machine, but it's clear she doesn't want to talk. We hang out like that for a couple of hours. I think we might be friends.

No one has picked out my clothes since I was probably about nine years old, and it only happened rarely back then. My mom would just toss me one of my brother's hand-me-downs when she noticed long sleeves were hitting at my elbows. That's why getting dressed by the wardrobe department makes me feel like a kid.

Still, it's a good thing they have stuff for me to wear, because I only brought two shirts, my black Led Zeppelin one and a plain white tee. I guess I figured I could wear the black shirt when I was rocking and the white shirt when I did one of those songs you sing from atop a stool in a lone spotlight.

Not saying the audience wouldn't notice that I was the guy who kept a rotating wardrobe of two shirts, but what's the big deal? The Beatles wore the same suits for, like, all of 1964. And they did all right.

I already met Robyn, who's the wardrobe department girl, earlier in the week by accident. On our first day on the lot, I was wandering around during the lunch break. She was trying to drag some racks, and it didn't seem to be going so hot because she was wearing some of the highest shoes I've ever seen in my life. The heels were so sharp, Sissy would consider using them as shivs. Robyn's one of those people who looks so cool that it's almost intimidating, but she seemed to need help, so I helped.

After that she told me, “I'm going to look out for you, kid.” And I took that to mean she wasn't going to put me in anything too terrible.

When I walk into wardrobe today, Robyn's in the middle of arguing with some tattooed-up guy. At least she's
trying
to argue with him, but the guy just leans back and grins at her, all confident like he knows she can't stay mad. He goes in for a hug, but she crosses her arms.

“You can't just show up here without calling first. This is my job, Spider.” Yeah, he does look like a guy who'd be named Spider. Not because he's skinny or anything, but because he looks like something you don't want to find in your house. When Robyn sees me, she gives an apologetic look and holds up a wait-one-second finger.

I amble over to the far side of the room to give them some space, stepping around what seems like hundreds of pairs of shoes. To seem like I'm busy, I start looking through some of the clothes. The outfits are complicated flashy-looking stuff. A lot of rivets. A lot of foil too—not the kind you use to cook, but thinner stuff. I can't imagine myself wearing half of it, but then I couldn't have imagined most of what's happened this past week.

I can't remember having this much attention paid to me ever. After we all officially met each other for vocal coaching, we spent the afternoon filming our “video packages” down by the ocean. When they were fixing my hair, this guy Lucien introduced himself and started reading from his notepad the things he knew about me.

“Dad's been in jail before, mom's been in jail before, siblings been in jail before. . . .” He looked up at me. “Well, shit, it's like you came straight from
The
Outsiders
.”

“Something like that,” I said. He told me we'd have to have a discussion later about whether I wanted to come off as a Ponyboy or a Johnny.

Then it was time for my first interview on-camera, and I told the truth about myself, mostly. Except I might have misled them a little about my family. Like, I might have told them my family was all dead.

Maybe that was the wrong thing to do, but it's hard to explain the whole emancipation thing to people in a three-minute clip.
I love a good pizza and playing the guitar and oh yeah, I got myself legally emancipated from my family due to gross negligence. You know how that sort of thing goes.

After I finished the interview, Catherine called Lucien over and they huddled, talking in low voices, looking over at me every once in a while. I wanted them to just say whatever it was out loud.

Was Catherine disappointed with the interview? Did she know I was lying?

Skip, one of the cameramen, leaned out from behind his equipment. He was wearing an old Metallica concert shirt also owned by my dad. That just shows you how music can travel.

“Condolences,” he said.

When Catherine and Lucien broke up their whisper session, she had Skip film me riding my motorcycle down to the end of the pier. She was really excited about this, even though it didn't make any sense. I'm pretty sure piers are more for fishing off than cruising on. Then I was supposed to just idle there and stare out at the ocean, like I was thinking of riding straight across it. It's pretty hard not to start laughing when the director's yelling at you to gaze out over the water with a “dreamy expression.” I'd just try to look like I was concentrating on something far away. And then he'd yell, “Dreamier!”

It all made me wonder if Johnny Depp has trouble not laughing on set when he's supposed to be acting all serious about something. Probably not, though. He's probably real professional.

Right when the producers wanted me to pick up a dried starfish like I just happened to find it on the deck, I noticed Magnolia watching me from the side. I knew the starfish thing was corny. I felt real stupid holding it.

But Catherine said it was a metaphor, like I was pondering becoming a star. She told me to think hard about looking hopeful, but honestly, all I was thinking about was that I didn't want that girl watching me right then.

Earlier I had seen Magnolia getting ready for her shoot. She didn't seem as blown away by all of it. She has this sort of presence about her—maybe that's why they let her just walk naturally along the shore. They didn't need her to be standing on a pier, gawking like some white-trash kid who's never seen an ocean.

The important thing is, I'm trying to keep it professional like Johnny Depp, and I do everything they ask. I mean, if gazing at things dreamily is a part of a career path that doesn't include digging ditches or flipping burgers, then just point me at an ocean or a mountain or whatever, and I'll gaze at it like it's Keira Knightley.

What's harder to get used to are the production assistants, who I now know are on the bottom rung of TV jobs. They're always trying to fetch me bottled water, or following me around like store detectives who think I've just shoplifted. This one guy, Jesse, he's constantly hanging around about ten feet away from me, reporting my every move over his walkie-talkie.

“I've got a twenty on Ford. He's on the move, heading to the cooler. Over.”

Look, I know it's his job, but I feel a little embarrassed because these people are older than me, and college graduates shouldn't be wasting their day tracking my hydration.

I've been trying to give Robyn and Spider some room to yell at each other, but they just keep moving my way. When it finally becomes obvious to the guy that she isn't going to suddenly forgive him for whatever, his laid-back attitude turns ugly fast.

“You think I need you?” he asks. “Because I don't.” But instead of leaving, he starts trying on jackets, roughly, like it's the jackets he's mad at.

Spider moves to the rack next to me and looks me up and down. I guess he would be handsome except he has these really crazy, intense eyes—bright blue with a darker blue outline around them. Maybe that sounds nice, but trust me when I say that they make him look crazy, kind of dangerous really. There's something in them that reminds of my uncle Red, who's serving a fifteen-year sentence for armed robbery. Uncle Red is nuts.

“What are you doing? You can't treat this place like your personal closet!” Robyn says, but Spider pulls on a purple sports coat from the rack anyway.

“Chill out.” He doesn't look at her. “I'm just going to borrow it for the meeting with this designer. She needs someone to do her new look book.”

Robyn tries to take the jacket off him. “Property of the show. If you need something nice to wear, I can loan you money—”

It's pretty obvious that Spider doesn't like that idea because his face immediately twists up in anger. “I don't need your money!” he yells, and goes to slap away her hand. But he's a strong guy. He almost knocks her over.

“Whoa, take it easy, man,” I say, putting a hand on his upper arm.

“Who the hell are you?” Spider turns on me like he's only just noticed I'm in the room, even though he looked straight at me before. I drop my hand pretty fast.

“I'm Ford.”

For a second I think he's gonna take a swing at me. It's hard to tell what a guy with eyes like that is thinking.

“Ford? Why don't you mind your own business?”

“I will,” I say in a real measured way. “Just take it easy, okay?”

He shakes his head like he can't believe anyone would want him to calm down. “What are you, a contestant? You think you're a celebrity or something because of this ridiculous show? Another kid who thinks he
deserves
to be famous. I got bad news for you: you don't deserve shit. You thought you were gonna hop off the bus and everyone in Hollywood would be just waiting for you to arrive?”

“I didn't take a bus.” I shrug. This just seems to make him angrier.

He takes a step toward me, and I think,
Here we go
. Story of my life. I tense up my hands. Either I find the trouble, or the trouble finds me.

But then Robyn pulls me back gently by the shoulders. “Stop it, Spider. Just take the coat and go before you get me fired.”

“Oh, that's right, you're afraid I'm going to mess up your minicareer. You get a job dressing Justin Bieber wannabes, and now you're too good for me? You wouldn't be anything if I hadn't booked you on that first job. Don't forget that.”

“How could I? You bring it up every five minutes.”

Spider looks at me like this whole thing is my fault. “Good luck with the singing. You know no one's going to remember you in two months, right?” Then he backs out the door, giving Robyn a betrayed look as he exits.

“Oh, man,” Robyn says, and sighs. “Sorry about him. Embarrassing.” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “I probably look like a serious idiot now.”

“Nah, you just look like someone who's too good for whoever that guy was,” I say.

“Ex-boyfriend.” She glances around and grabs a measuring tape off a table. “I mean, he's supposed to be my ex-boyfriend, but our breakups never stick. Somehow he always ends up back in my life.” She wraps the measuring tape around my waist.

“How long have you been together?”

“Forever. He's a photographer, and we met when he pulled me from the boutique I was working in to style a spread.” She writes down some measurements on a card.

“Photographer, huh? Hard to imagine him working the Sears portrait studio.”

Robyn laughs, measuring my neck. “Not that kind of photographer. He wasn't always a jerk. He used to be really fun. When we first got together we did all these celebrity shoots, like this big one in London with Vin Diesel right before
The Fast and the Furious
. Then Spider pissed Vin Diesel off—he was using his name to get into restaurants—and that was that. He's been booked a lot less since. It's no good anymore, but we just keep getting back together anyway. Pretty lame, right?”

I shake my head. “I know what it's like with people who are bad for you. Everyone thinks you can just walk away, but the bigger the mess, the harder it is to get untangled.”

“Yes!” She holds her hands out like I just gave her a trophy. “It's such a mess, but every time I end it, somehow he guilts me right back into the relationship.”

“He's probably just angry at you for succeeding where he failed. Back home, some people I was close to, they didn't like it so much when I tried to go in my own direction. I guess they thought that I was somehow judging them just by existing a different way. With some people, you being happy makes them miserable.”

She stops measuring and gives me a serious look. “Ford, don't take this the wrong way, but you're smarter than you look. I mean, good-looking guys, not always so bright, y'know.”

“Well, as long as you think I'm good-looking.” I grin.

“A little young for me, though. You have a girlfriend?”

“The last one was a few months back, but her parents wouldn't let her see me anymore. Her dad's the ‘Mattress King of Northeast Arkansas.' I guess I wasn't up to the standards required to become the Mattress Prince.” I shrug. “But I don't blame him. If I was her father, I wouldn't have let her date me either.”

I almost explain to Robyn about my family's reputation back home. Then I remember I'm not supposed to have a family who's alive to cause trouble.

Robyn looks angry again, like she did when I walked in on her and Spider. “Well, she's going to feel like a total idiot because you are gonna be world famous in a couple of weeks. Then she's going to be begging you to take her back. Her stupid Mattress King dad too.”

“It's okay, I wasn't in love with her anyway.” I tip my head back. “But you think so? About being famous?”

“Yep. And I'm gonna do everything I can to help you win this thing by making you look uh-mazing. Don't tell the others, because there's not supposed to be favoritism among the crew. But the truth is—” She drops to a whisper. “I always play favorites. I have a favorite parent. I have a favorite sister. I bet when I have kids, I'll even love one more than the rest.”

I let that one sink in. “So . . . what do you think of the other contestants? Have you met Magnolia?”

“The girls don't come in until this evening. Why, who's Magnolia?”

“Just another contestant.”

Robyn gets an excited, intrigued look on her face. “The one contestant you're asking me about . . .”

“She's just the one whose name I remember best,” I say, playing it down. “Unusual name.”

“Uh-huh.” Robyn nods, but her eyes aren't buying it.