Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (11 page)

Sometimes if you breathe in deep enough you can smell marijuana in the arts wing of Rivershore High. It has a pungent grassy scent and lingers around the boy’s room, just beyond a wall of abstract paintings created by emo kids. This is where I run now, along an empty hall where white origami birds hang on yarn from a low ceiling.

It’s an hour after school and I’m late for my first day of film rehearsal. A few paces ahead, two boys in girl-jeans (you can tell by the small pockets) slide forward on snail legs so I lighten my speed and trail them. They’re dishing about the ditzy cheerleader who’d bought a pill from Jenny earlier in the day. “Do you know her?” one boy asks the other.

“I know OF her.”

“Shit, everyone knows OF her now.”

The two boys laugh and one reenacts the scene. It appears Little Miss Pom Pom had a spill. She was eating lunch with her fabulous friends in the caf when she stood up without warning and promptly tit-flopped on the tile floor. There, dipping her bologna and cheese sandwich in what appeared to be an invisible bucket, she was on all fours when she began waxing the tile and singing. “She thought she was Little Orphan Annie,” the thinner of the two snickers. “It was a riot. There she was, a starfish in the middle of the caf floor, inquiring as to the whereabouts of her dear Daddy Warbucks.”

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” the other boy says.

“No. What’s fucked up was her sad rendition of ‘Tomorrow’.” The two boys crack up.

I think of Jenny – the havoc she wreaks, the lives she affects. They say high school is a microcosm of life. Well, if so, then who’s in control? Are the doctors crazier than the clients? How did each generation before ours make it without being medicated? This is what I wonder. Is the medication just a way of turning us into zombies so our parents can work two jobs and still keep us in line? This is what worries me when I refuse to worry about other things, like the fact that I’m late to rehearsal.

“Two minutes and six seconds late,” Kim states, checking her watch as I arrive at the green room. Pairing her brown heels with a beige-dotted mini-skirt, she looks like a giraffe.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m the assistant director,” Kim says, slapping a HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker on my shirt. “And my first direction for you is to be here on time.”

“I plan to be.”

“Good, then we won’t have a problem.” She jots a note on her clipboard.

This is my life. I’m two minutes and six seconds late, and I have Kim to answer to. This is not the kind of tension a flourishing actor needs.

“And just for the record,” Kim adds. “I should have been in this film. However, Mr. Dolby figured I would steal every scene and make people like you seem like unsightly props.”

Here I am, an unsightly prop — a turd in the toilet during the film’s bathroom scene. This is Kim: watch as she flushes me down. Then suddenly, I’m rinsed, I’m clean, and I’ve just reached Mr. Dolby’s office. The dolls are here too, but they’re dressed in green. The reason, Mr. Dolby later informs me, is to symbolize the simple nature in us all. This is how we discover our truth, by soaking in our immaturity, by accepting our lack of experience.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say.

“Tyler,” Mr. Dolby beams, flapping his wrist in the air. “Don’t be silly, dear boy. You’re right on time. Join us. We were just discussing the script.” Seated at an oval table, he pours tea from a kettle into a purple cup. He passes the cup to a resident thespian with long black curls and dimples named Ashley Hewitt. For some reason, Mr. Dolby seems more flamboyant than the day before. Maybe I bring it out in him. Maybe it’s because his pink scarf matches his chair. I take a seat as Mr. Dolby pours another cup of tea. “Sugar?” he asks me.

“Please.”

“One lump or two?”

Billy enters the room.

One lump....

One BIG lump, right in the pit of my throat.

“One,” I say.

Billy takes a seat beside me. He’s wearing a ratty black tee with holes in it, like he’s knows looking homeless is the new cool. Inside, I’m screaming, “He got a part! He got a part!” Outside, I feel awkward though. Should I say hello? Should I allow time for him to say hello first? I’m not sure where we stand. Our date had an awful finale and he might not want to talk to me. Still, I don’t want to be a prude. Oh, why does this have to be so hard? Just say hello. Say it!

“Hey,” I mutter.

Billy doesn’t acknowledge me, not at first. I have to say ‘hey’ another two times before he replies with an “I hear you!”

“Splendid, you’re already friends! That’ll add chemistry to the film,” Mr. Dolby says. With an exaggerated smile, he flicks his pink scarf over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m smitten as kittens with my cast, just smitten as kittens.”

Great, now move aside so I can mark my territory!

“Is everyone familiar with Ashley Hewitt?” Mr. Dolby asks. Billy nods, stating they’d met in a community theater production of
The Mousetrap
. I don’t utter a peep. I know Ashley but mainly for her offstage antics.

You see, Ashley is a crazy method actress and part of her method, or madness, is to dispel reality, immersing herself into the life of the character she’s been assigned to portray. Last year after receiving the title role in
The Diary of Anne Frank
she was later found nibbling on her ankle in a locked janitor’s closet where she’d slept for two days, because according to Ashley, the students of German descent were out to destroy her. Crazy or not, this is Ashley Hewitt. She makes no apologies for her behavior, and she brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘starving artist.’

I just hope Ashley isn’t starving for love.

This is what I think as Mr. Dolby announces that Billy’s been cast as the film’s lead and Ashley will be portraying his girlfriend. “Tyler, have you gone over the script?” Mr. Dolby asks.

“Yes,” I reply, trying to relax. It’s hard though. I’m lying and I’m not an experienced actor like everyone else in the room so I wonder if they can see through me. I find myself overheating.

“What are your thoughts on your character?” Mr. Dolby asks.

On my arms, beads of sweat form like islands, and I feel panicky. “I...I think he’s great. The dialogue moved me.”

“Can you be more specific?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, is the air on?” I rub my forehead. “I’m having a hard time concentrating.”

“It’s that air conditioner,” Mr. Dolby sighs. “Kimberly!” Immediately, the door opens, and Kim swoops in as if she’s been listening the entire time.

“Yes, Mr. Dolby,” she says.

“The air conditioner is broken again. Can you call the janitor?”

Kim’s brown eyes appear more vacant than when she’s taking a psych exam. “I don’t know the number.”

“Are you not my assistant director?”

“I am.”

“Then ASSIST!” He waves her off and she flees, though her muffled cries remain, just beyond the door.

“And here I thought she was devoid of emotion,” Mr. Dolby states. “I could barely get her to speak during her audition, let alone cry.” Chuckling, he sips his tea. “Oh, we’ll keep her, shall we? She does have industry ties.”

“Mr. Dolby!” Kim calls from the green room. “I can’t find the janitor’s number!”

Frustrated, Mr. Dolby stands with a huff. “I’ll handle this myself,” he says. Closing his script, he finishes his tea. “Ashley, my dear, please join me, will you? We need to discuss wardrobe. I have a dress design in mind for you, and I’d like to get your thoughts on the color green.”

“Awesome,” Ashley replies, in a kiss-ass manner. Black curls cover her back like licorice as she follows him out of the room.

“And you two,” Mr. Dolby says. He wiggles his stubby fingers at Billy and me. “Take time to study your lines. We’re shooting the bathroom scene tomorrow. Let the magic begin!”

Then (shriek!) Billy and I are alone.

Crickets, crickets, crickets.

Surprisingly, a tense eight seconds later, Billy speaks first. “So,” he begins. Then, he goes silent and I think, just this once, I wish he’d suffer a case of oral diarrhea. I mean, what does he want me to do with the word ‘so?’ How am I supposed to read into that? Does that mean he wants me to speak? Should I apologize for what happened on the playground? It wasn’t my fault! Harley set me up. I’m the victim!

“So,” I say, mimicking him.

“So,” he repeats.

“So we’re not going to talk about what happened yesterday, are we?”

“No.”

Well, this is going nowhere fast! What a jerk! How can he be so hot, yet so cold to me? And dear God, why do I find it so damn sexy? Look at him, my gallant redeemer of troubled children. My fair-haired film fox, how could he hold an ounce of hatred for me? I’m a messenger of love, totally worth the price of postage. Stamp me! Lick me! Package me! Just promise you’ll never ignore me. Promise you’ll handle me with care.

“Can we talk about anything else?” I ask.

“Harley lied. He told me,” Billy offers.

“Oh.”

“But that doesn’t excuse whatever else you were trying to pull.”

“What was I trying to pull?”

Billy leans in, and when he speaks, I smell peppermint on his breath. His green eyes, they glow like lanterns when he’s mad. “The flirting crap,” he says.

OH HELLS NO! I think. He should be thankful I added some spark to the equation. “Please! That’s what people do when they’re on a date,” I scoff.

“Yeah, but we weren’t on a date.”

“Yes, we were on a date!”

“Keep your voice down,” he urges. “And no. We were not.”

“Yes. We were.”

“No.”

“Well, I was on a date. I don’t know what you were on.”

“I was on planet earth, grounded in reality.”

Sharp, I think. But not sharp enough!

“I was grounded in reality,” I say, mimicking him. “Well, my my, how very boring of you!”

At a loss, Billy resorts to the silent treatment. Looking off to space, he finds no planets but dolls along the wall. Porcelain dolls dressed in green to represent the simple nature in us all. Immaturity! Yes, that’s the best part of falling in love with hard-to-get. I lack the experience to know when to stop and the pain associated with digging a hole too deep.

China, I may never reach.

But Billy, I can’t let slip through my fingers.

“I’m sorry, that was mean,” I apologize. Unresponsive, Billy shakes his head, biting at his lip. Then crossing his arms over his chest, he tells me through body language that this conversation is over, at least the part regarding our date (and it was a date). “So what do you think about the script?” I ask, keeping it professional. Billy hesitates. “Oh, get over it. I’m sorry. I just want to talk about the script. Seriously, what do you think?”

“It’s ok,” Bill replies, still simmering.

“Have you memorized any lines yet?”

“Some.”

“Cool,” I say. Then I open the script and begin reading the first page aloud in a business-like manner.

“You know, Mr. Dolby thinks the film is going to make him the next Coppola,” Billy interrupts. I try not to burst with laughter, but I can’t help it; the thought makes me snort like a pig. “Yeah, he’s nuts,” Billy says.

Then, blame it on karma, anxiety, or the gods poking fun at me, I flip to the second page and accidentally knock over my tea. “Oh no!” I cry. The tea spreads across the table, dripping on Billy’s jeans.

“HOT!” Billy yells. Standing up, he uses his hands to fan his jeans like he thinks that will work. He’s so cute.

“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim.

“Will it stain?”

Yes. Trust me.

You must remove your pants at once.

They need to be washed right away!

“No, it’ll come out,” I assure him.

“You think?”

“Totally, for sure,” I say. Great, I think. Now I sound like Sally from the Valley. Like totally, for sure, I left my vacant brain at the door.

Locating tissue paper on the bottom of my book bag, I frantically dry up the spill. Focus on your art, I tell myself. Focus on your art. “Getting back to the bathroom scene,” I say.

Dad interrupts, calling on my cell phone.

“Hello,” I answer, in a don’t-bother-me tone.

“I need you home,” he says. Using his gruff cop voice, he sounds like he has a mouth full of apples. It must be serious, damn it.

“But I’m in rehearsal.”

“I’ve sent James to pick you up.”

“NO!”

He hangs up, and my inside voice SCREAMS!

“Is everything ok?” Billy asks. The sweet thing, he’s concerned about me even as he’s fanning the stain on his jeans.

“I have to go,” I tell him, packing my script. “Something’s kicking at my house.”

“What about rehearsal?”

“Well,” I begin, as he scrutinizes me with serious eyes. “Maybe we can rehearse at my house tonight. How about 8 o’clock?”

Twisting his face into a pretzel, he stalls. I should have predicted as much. He’s a thespian – an expert in the art of manipulation. Let’s be honest. What is this rehearsal for really? Are we prepping for a student film shoot or shooting ourselves in the foot with cupid’s arrow of love? Isn’t love the only true motivator anyway, the end result of what we hope to achieve during this rocky existence? Who are we kidding? Even when we feign ignorance, deep down, we tuck our heads into tortoise shells, dig, reach China, and there it is: love. So if Billy doesn’t realize where the tunnel leads, where the light is found, I don’t alert him because he already knows that I want love! Therefore, a white lie isn’t too awful when he inquires, “It’s just to rehearse, right?”

“Sure,” I reply. But remember Billy, life is a stage, and love is in the blocking. So tonight, if my hand should slip and graze the tip of your knee, I urge you to do what any professional actor would – improvise. Tee hee!