Messy (19 page)

“No way. No,” Max said, feeling a creeping sensation in her limbs. “It doesn’t seem fair to Brady. Do you even
like
him?”

Brooke looked thoughtful. “What’s not to like? He’s only short-
ish
, he’s totally cute, he doesn’t wear Drakkar Noir. And we’ll totally be the new Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson. I definitely like him enough for that.”

“So I should just sit by and let you trick him into thinking you’re into him?”

“No, you should write an awesome blog entry that will totally help convince him to make a move, and then we’ll just… play the roles.”

“And you don’t see anything morally wrong with this?” Max sputtered.

Brooke sniffled. “I just want Daddy… He was so thrilled at the idea, and… I just want him to…”

“No, you are not going to play the Poor Pitiful Princess Wants Daddy’s Love card,” Max groaned. “Not again.”

“Okay,
fine
,” Brooke pouted. “What if I promise not to date him for very long? Just enough so that Daddy can see me trying, and we maybe get a magazine cover?”

Max crossed her arms and frowned. Brooke narrowed her eyes.

“NYU will be awfully bummed if you get accepted and you can’t afford tuition,” she said softly.

Oh, God, so she played the trump card instead.

“Unless it’s something else,” Brooke mused, studying Max’s face. “I asked you a few weeks ago if you were into Brady and you said no. Change of heart?”

“Don’t be insane,” Max huffed.

“Are you
jealous
?”

“I don’t care who he hooks up with. He can do what he likes.”

“Great, then it’s a deal!” Brooke leaped up and hugged her. “Can’t wait to read the entry!”

And she disappeared before Max could say another word.

Max pulled into her gravel driveway—the best and loudest incentive against breaking curfew—and killed the car engine. The house was dark, except for two glowing porch lanterns, which illuminated her brother slumped in the swing and nursing a Dr Pepper.

“You look miserable,” she said. “Did Molly finally notice
your freakishly long second toe and dump your mutant ass?”

“We made it.” His voice was quiet.

“You… ew, Teddy, first of all, nobody says that outside a Judy Blume book, and second—”

“No, no, no,
the band
,” Teddy said, exasperated. “We made the finals of the contest. We’re playing the House of Blues.”

“That’s…” Max looked at her brother’s long face. “Great?” she queried.

“It should be,” he said. “But you know how I feel about Mental Hygienist. We’re having fun, but I am not sure we should ever play those songs outside of Colby-Randall parties.”

“Are you telling me you don’t want to be the face of ‘You (Rock)’?” Max quipped.

Teddy shook his head. “I tried to tell Bone that
righteous
doesn’t rhyme with
ficus
, but he ignored me.” He shifted in the swing so Max could sit down next to him. “Does this make me a dick?”

“Not when there are so many other things that make you a dick.”

Teddy punched her shoulder. “Come on, I’m serious. The band was always just sort of a goof to me, like something to do before I went off to college. Now it’s going to be on my permanent record.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Max asked. “I mean, Mark
Wahlberg rose above it. Bone isn’t nearly as embarrassing as the Funky Bunch.”

Teddy laughed grudgingly. “Point taken. It’s not really my kind of music, though,” he explained. “It’s not
me
. I always figured I’d do something a little more unplugged. More Bon Iver than Bon Jovi.”

“So what?” Max said. “Record execs know that people have more than one artist inside them. Remember when Molly showed us that Japanese
Vogue
where Lady Gaga pretended to be an Italian man named Jo? Just put on, like, a dirty tank top and grow a soul patch.”

“You are
so
the wrong person to talk to about this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can be serious,” Max promised. “And I seriously believe you are overthinking this.”

“Really?” Teddy stared out at the dark front lawn, on which a half-deconstructed wheelbarrow had been disintegrating for weeks. “I mean, did we even earn this? Our Facebook page got like twenty thousand more fans after you mentioned us on Brooke’s blog. The Berlin stamp of approval might be swaying things a little.”

“Probably,” Max said, “but who cares? Take the opportunity while it’s in front of you. Because who’s to say you’ll get another one? Maybe just do what it takes to get your foot in the door and
then
find a way to do your own thing. Maybe this is just the beginning.”

Teddy pondered this for a moment. “My stomach hurts. Is this what riding on a Berlin girl’s coattails feels like?”

“Hilarious,” Max said. “And maybe that
is
what I’m doing, a little bit. But you aren’t. You didn’t ask me to mention you on the blog, and neither did Molly. I just did it. Think of me as, like, your in-house PR.”

“Is it always going to be this weird?” Teddy mused. “You know, sitting around wondering if you’re only getting your moment because of who you’re dating, or who you know?”

“No idea—nobody sucks up to me,” Max said, though she thought briefly of Carla. “Can you imagine how much it sucks to be an actual famous person? This is why half of them go to rehab.”

“I know. I’ve been fame-adjacent for like five minutes, and it’s already messing with my head,” Teddy said. “Thank God Molly is so normal. I don’t know how she does it. And you seem pretty much the same as you were before you became Brooke’s new best friend.”

“Yeah, I was a hot mess before, and I still am,” Max joked. “And listen, for what it’s worth, I really do think you’re torturing yourself needlessly. You’re not getting anything you don’t deserve. It’s not like you’re the Kevin Federline in this situation.”

Teddy drummed his thumbs against the wooden seat. “So I should just chill out, not care
why
we made the finals, and just support the band, and see where it takes me,” he finally said.

“Yep. You have plenty of time to do
you
later. Do this first.”

“That sounds sort of sensible, almost,” Teddy said, feigning amazement. Or at least Max liked to think he was faking.

“Well, I am incredibly smart,” she said. “Everyone who reads Brooke’s blog says so. Indirectly.”

Her brother ruffled her hair, probably because he knew she hated it. “Well, I will say it directly. You are smart,” he said. “I think it’s Brooke who’s riding
your
coattails.”

“I wear hoodies,” Max demurred.

“Thank you, Maxine.”

“You’re welcome, Theodore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy and important.”

Max trudged up the stairs to her room and kicked shut the door, flinging her purse onto the bed.
You have plenty of time to do
you
later
, she repeated to herself.
Do what it takes to get your foot in the door.
All it would take was a blog entry or two, and the rest wasn’t her responsibility. If Brady fell for it—for Brooke—then that wasn’t her fault. And if Brooke fell for Brady, that wasn’t her fault, either.

Take what’s in front of you now.

Grabbing her phone, she checked the time: 10:05
PM
. Jake would be up. She punched at his name on the screen.

“Hey, Jake, it’s Max,” she said, simultaneously waking up her computer and opening a blank blog window. “So, I’ve been thinking. Let’s make plans to hang out.” She paused. “Just the two of us, like you said.”

OPENBR
KE.COM

APRIL 13

Greetings from the set of
Nancy Drew
, where we started shooting before dawn today. People who win movie awards never thank the real hero: caffeine. I have never been this productive before dawn in my entire life, unless you include a few all-nighters to finish my homework and that one time I got stuck in the Valley at a party for… well, I can’t tell you, because her hit show won’t want anyone to know that the
reason
we all got stuck was because her
secret life
involves getting hammered on wine coolers and then slashing everyone’s tires. When are famous people going to realize that technology means there is a public record of just about everything? If you want to act like a college student, here’s a thought: Go to college.

But it was a productive morning—we did a very intense scene that involved a lot of smeared mascara (I looked like Courtney Love, twenty years ago—and actually maybe also twenty hours ago). It’s also Friday the 13th, so we spent all day walking around ladders and staying ten feet from any window and instituting a no-cat policy. Although when I went outside for a
breather, I almost got run over by a golf cart driven by none other than Moxie Stilts. She was wearing a dress that I’m pretty sure was made of potholders (the skirt seriously had a thumb) and she looked
pissed
. Someone’s either angling to get another shout-out here on Open Brooke (all press is good press?) or she’s
really mad
that I told everyone about her drunky-funky birthday party. Listen, honey, if you don’t want to get called out for taking off your pants in front of God and everyone, then
leave them on
. It’s not hard.

But it’s also not worth giving her that much attention, so let’s talk about what I’ve learned my first day on the job:

1) Always make friends with the camera crew. The more they like you, the better you photograph. Funny how that works. Also: They have the good doughnuts.

2) I know my teen readers won’t believe this, but on-set tutors might be worse than high school. Mine are nice, and there are some perks—no cafeteria food with suspicious hairs in it, no detention, no deputized but ultimately powerless student committees pretending they get to make decisions, when really the school board runs the show and the student “leaders” are stuck having to say things like “Please attend our
Dance-a-Thon benefiting Celebrities Climbing Mount Everest to Raise Awareness About Deadly Limb Sprains” with a straight face. But it turns out that being in class with other people is actually a plus: If you haven’t read chapters seventeen and eighteen of
Chemistry: The Molecular Nature of Matter and Change
, there are other people to take the heat off you. As it stands here, I would have to fake a seizure.

3) According to the schedule, in a few days I shoot my first kissing scene. Again, being paid to make out with somebody probably sounds like bliss to you guys. And I’m sure it will be the best perk of the job. But I’m nervous about it (and no, not just because Brady Swift is kind of—okay,
really—
cute). Everyone keeps giving me tips about finding my light and not letting my nose get in the way and knowing which side I look better on when I’m kissing someone, and suddenly I have so much more to worry about than whether or not my breath is minty fresh.

4) My wig rules. I wasn’t sure if I would work as a redhead. Would it be a gorgeous Amy Adams red, or more like the time Ashlee Simpson fried her hair crimson for
Melrose Place: Failed Reboot
? But I am loving it. When
I put it on, I can feel myself leaving behind Brooke Berlin and becoming somebody else. It’s refreshing. Usually everyone expects me to be a certain sort of person, like a bimbo, or a snob (although I don’t think I am either). This blog has been the best way to unleash the real parts of myself that people don’t see—whether they’re not looking or just don’t want to—so thank you for reading, everyone; yes, even you, Commenter Who Keeps Asking if I Will Show You My Boobs. But I’ll be honest, even with all this writing, it’s still hard sometimes to share this side of myself out loud. Slipping into someone else’s shoes and saying exactly the words everyone expects to hear can feel kind of like a vacation. I mean, it’s not an over-water bungalow in Bora Bora—Nancy, after all, lives in a hovel in Baltimore—but it will do.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I might have to ask Brady if we can rehearse after work. That must be how rumors get started. I wonder how many of them eventually turn out to be true.

Hugs,

B.