Pinch Hit
Authors: Tim Green
TIM GREEN
For the Wolkoff boys
,
Judah, Jacob, and
Benjamin
1
TREVOR
The warrior raised his battered and bloody sword.
Trevor was just turning thirteen, but even though his chin trembled, he looked the bearded bandit in the eye and shouted, “You can kill me, but you'll never rule this land!”
He grasped the enormous ruby from the center of the golden dragon's breast. Before the swordsman could swing, Trevor threw the jewel into the pool of orange lava below.
“CUT!”
The camera rolled back on its tracks and the boom microphones flew up and away with the wave of nearly unseen poles. The stage quickly buzzed to life with people: gaffers, artists, best boys, interns, grips, production assistants, audio technicians, and costumers. Two assistants relieved the Mongol warrior of his helmet and sword, and he clanked off in the rest of his armor toward his dressing room.
“That's a wrap for the day!” Pierce Everette, the director, shouted before he slipped up alongside Trevor. “Beautiful. You were beautiful.”
Trevor didn't want to be beautiful, but he knew the director didn't mean it quite that way and he didn't stop to argue; it was his birthday, and his mother had promised him a big surprise. He thanked the director while the costume people buzzed around him, removing his armor, sword, and a small knife. Then he retreated to his own dressing room to get cleaned up and into some jeans and a T-shirt. Gabriel, Trevor's personal assistant, stood in the corner. Gabriel was tall and thin with short blond hair plastered to his head so that it looked the same no matter what the wind or weather. He wore a tailored gray suit and a face like he'd eaten a lemon. Trevor ignored him.
There was a knock, and McKenna Steele slipped inside. She had hair as black as a crow's wing. Her green eyes looked like glittering jewels in her pretty face and could only be outshone by her smile. She was tall for a girl, and thin, but she moved like a willow branch in a light breeze.
“I'm changing, McKenna, jeez,” Trevor said.
“Cut it out. You wanna play Halo Reach?”
Trevor liked McKenna, maybe not in the way she liked him, but he still liked her. His mom encouraged him to spend time with her, saying there weren't a lot of kids his age who understood what it was like to be a star. McKenna certainly understood that. Although her family wasn't in the business and they weren't as rich as Trevor's, she was on the cover of the teen magazines even more often than he was, and that was saying something.
“My mom's got some surprise for me,” Trevor said. “I've got to get home.”
“Oh yeah, happy birthday to you.”
“Don't sulk. Tomorrow.”
“You always say that, but you never play Halo,” McKenna teased. “I think you're afraid I'll beat you.”
“Of course you'll beat me.” Trevor glanced in the mirror to be sure all the makeup was gone. “I don't play it enough to beat you, but maybe tomorrow.”
“Well, happy birthday for real, then.” McKenna kissed his cheek, leaving.
Trevor blushed, but waited until she was gone before he brushed it off. Then he headed out himself, Gabriel following three steps behind until Trevor told him he had everything he needed and that he'd see him tomorrow.
A long limousine waited on the lot just outside the studio's airplane hangar door. The director's cousins from Cincinnati stood in a tight clusterâthe ten- and thirteen-year-old girls giggling and jumping up and down, asking if they could take a picture. Trevor forced a smile and let them crowd around him. He signed a slew of eight-by-ten glossy face shots, then slipped into the long, dark car for the seven-minute ride home, happy to be alone with Dolph, the silent driver, and the dog, Wolf.
Most people freaked out when they saw Wolf, a hundred-pound German shepherd. The dog was something his mother insisted on. While Wolf could be ferocious, Trevor knew the animal was highly trained and wouldn't hurt anyone unless Dolph told him to. But just the sight of the dog kept the crazy grown-ups with camerasâthe paparazziâfrom swarming too close to him.
At home, Thomas, the butler, opened the front door. Behind him stood a fourteen-foot white marble statue of some Greek god. A bird flew in through the front door with Trevor. The butler gasped and followed it with his eyes as it rose up toward the domed ceiling to chirp among the painted angels and clouds, dropping a mess directly onto the head of the Greek god with a soft spatter.
“Birds!” Thomas spoke through his teeth, and Trevor stifled a laugh.
He circled the statue, then plunged through the house looking for his mother. He found her sitting in the breakfast nook that overlooked the rose garden, texting someone on her phone. Her eyes scanned the message until she saw him and focused. “How was the shoot?”
“Good. He said âbeautiful.' I don't care.” Trevor spoke fast. If his mom said he'd love his birthday present, he knew he would. She wasn't given to overexaggerating. “What's my surprise?”
She fired off one more text, then cleared her throat.
SAM
The Ferrari fooled people.
No one would ever imagine that the people who rode in a car like that would live in an old trailer next to the dump.
The stink of the county landfill outdid any smell Sam could describe. It sat, like an unwanted guest, not in his nose, but in the back of his throat. It left a taste that stayed with Sam the entire long bus ride to school. In the summertime, though, with school out, Sam got no relief unless he went on his father's endless pitch meetings with film studios, production companies, and talent agencies. So, to escape the awful taste, Sam got up with his father, and the sun, leaving their broken trailer in a cloud of brown dust.
The fancy-looking car shone bright red and growled down the 110 Freeway as they passed Dodger Stadium. At a light on Wilshire, the engine began to clunk. Sam looked at his dad with disapproval.
“Not again,” Sam said.
“It's a delicate machine,” his father replied.
“Shouldn't you sell this thing, Dad? We could move into one of those condos by the design school. They have a pool.”
“A bed, a shower, a kitchen, a good pipe, and a desk,” his father said with a practiced smile, “that's all you need. A Ferrari makes an impression, Son, and I'm in the business of impressions.”
“You're a writer, Dad,” Sam said, “and a teacher. Writer first.”
His father patted the script that he'd inserted between his seat and the stick shift. Typed in big, bold letters were the words: “
Dark Cellar
by Randall Palomaki.”
“Writers in the business have to look the part, and when I sell
Dark Cellar
, we'll get a house in West Hollywood where you can see forever. And a pool. Son, when your mother died, I made myself a promise. I was going to go for the gold. You understand? You don't remember Sandusky, Ohioâyou were too youngâbut when we left, we left for good, and I will never look back.”
Sam said no more, but he couldn't help sneaking a look at his father as they lurched into Paramount Studios. The guard gave them instructions where to park. Sam felt embarrassed for his father when he saw the guard smirking at the Ferrari as it sputtered away trailing a plume of blue smoke.
Sam's father parked, got out, and patted the hood of the car. “Temperamental, but a timeless symbol of success. You want to be a player in this town? You gotta look like a player.”
He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the links and smoothing the sleeves of his only suit.
