Seeing Stars (24 page)

She stopped crying, and Ruth told her she loved her, and Bethany told her she loved her back, and then they got off the phone and Bethany found a piece of notebook paper and her best ballpoint pen, and she wrote a letter to Joel E. Sherman:

Dear Mr. Sherman,

I know I did a bad job at the audition for Carlyle today, and that you may never ever let me audition for you again, but I want you to know that I can be Carlyle. I don’t mean I can act like her. I mean I can be her. I know her really well. I just want you to know how I feel, and how I feel is that I can do this part better than anyone else, period. If you’d just give me another chance to audition, I promise I won’t let you down again.

Sincerely yours,
Bethany Rabinowitz

When she was done she found a Mimi Roberts Talent Management envelope, put her headshot and the letter into the envelope, wrote
Joel E. Sherman
on the front, and pretended to go to the restroom so she could drop the envelope into the courier box outside the studio unseen. When she got back inside she asked Allison if she needed any help with her vocabulary assignment, because Allison wasn’t very good at vocabulary, and, surprisingly, Allison said yes. They cuddled up on the greenroom sofa and did homework until nine o’clock, when Mimi was finally ready to drive them home.

I
N
H
OLLYWOOD THAT EVENING, AFTER THE LAST KID HAD
read, Joel E. Sherman sorted through his stack of headshots. What a fucking day. Kids who were unprepared, kids who were too prepared, kids who were too old or too young or too thick or too green or just too wrong. He was only pinch-hitting today for another casting director, Sharon Shue, an old fossil like him who was out on her ass with the flu, but this was going to be a good project. He wished he’d gotten in on it. He knew Van Sant—hell, everyone knew Gus Van Sant, he was that great: a good man who genuinely loved working with kids, and who had both excellent artistic judgment and an uncanny sense for what made a movie sell in Altoona. Joel would have to read the script again, but if he still liked it he might play a little game of poker, see if he could get himself attached. He’d done it before; he was a good player, though he prided himself on being a straight shooter when he could afford to be, which unfortunately wasn’t all that much of the time. You tasted the water, you chose the Kool-Aid.

He flipped through the headshots in his
Yes
pile. He liked to make a gut decision as the kids left the room, then go back and cull later. Carlyle was one of the movie’s two lead roles, so there’d be multiple callbacks, though probably no recruiting beyond LA. From what he’d heard, the timeline was too short for that. He’d heard that the executive producer—who, despite a reputation as a real hard-ass, had always been a pussycat to Joel—wanted to be in production within two months. Despite that, Sharon had told Joel that Gus Van Sant was willing to consider unknown actors for the leads, if the fit was just right. An unknown was usually someone who wasn’t from here, or was a recent immigrant. Look at Ellen Page. She was from goddamn Halifax. And she was brilliant. And how about the poor kid in
Bad Santa
? He was a Canuck, too, and he was gold at the box office. You never knew. Sometimes the LA kids were
too
Hollywood, too polished.

He kept about half of the headshots that had started out in his
Yes
pile, maybe six, and dumped the rest on top of the
No
s. One of the keepers was the kid Mimi Roberts pushed at him every time he talked to her, which was as seldom as possible. Allison Somebody; cocky kid, but there’d been something compelling about her today, something dangerous. You saw that in some of the great actors—Russell Crowe, Ralph Fiennes. He rooted through until he’d found her headshot: Allison Addison. Jesus. Mimi Roberts must be the master of stupid names. Of course, if you had a name like Mimi yourself, you were entitled to a certain amount of payback, especially if you were ugly, which Mimi Roberts most definitely was. That reminded him: Bethany Rabinowitz, her other client, had been a fucking mess today. He pawed through the
No
s until he found her headshot. He’d looked forward to seeing her again, but Jesus, what a disappointment. It happened all the time, though. Half these kids were held together with Ritalin and Red Bull. But he’d gotten good feedback about her from Peter Tillinghast, and if she could hold her own on a set with that dick, she had to have something going for her. He moved her headshot to the
Yes
pile. What the hell—he’d let Sharon take a look at her. The kid was way too green to hold down a movie, but there might be some bit part for her.

He yawned as he tapped both piles into order. In the old days he could have put in another twelve or fifteen hours, and often had—hell, he’d gone without sleep for days on end when a movie or TV show came down to crunch time. A little blow, a little coffee, and he was good for another twenty-four hours. But at sixty-two, he was weary. The Business did that to you. It was like playing an endless game of chess. Sooner or later, you were going to make a stupid move—cast the wrong person, take on the wrong project, piss off the wrong producer. He sensed that he was approaching his use-by date, but he wasn’t ready yet. It wasn’t the money; he had plenty of money. What he wanted was to leave behind a legacy in the form of the next Dakota Fanning or Freddie Highmore. He wanted to find an actor who would have a long and brilliant career, during which he or she would tell James Lipton and Billy Bush and every other interviewer from every little burg and hamlet that Joel E. Sherman had given him or her that first break. If Joel could have that, he would retire a happy man.

He rubber-banded the two piles of headshots together. He’d have a courier deliver them to Sharon’s office in Century City overnight. Then he checked his cell for voice-and e-mail messages. There were the usual million from agents and managers, wanting feedback, pitching kids, generally busting his chops. He didn’t plan on returning a single one of them. Fuck ’em. Instead, en route to his car, he speed-dialed Sharon to fill her in on the day.

What happened next was nothing short of a gift from God.

Sharon Shue had not had the flu at all. She had had appendicitis. She had undergone emergency surgery at Cedars-Sinai at two o’clock that afternoon, but not before the appendix had burst. At her age, the recovery could take weeks. It was an incredible piece of luck.

One quick phone call, and
After
was his.

Chapter Fourteen

I
F
Q
UINN COULD HAVE ANYTHING OTHER THAN A CAR
for his upcoming seventeenth birthday, he might just choose a washer/dryer. At least he felt that way on laundry days, when he’d worn everything he owned—and there wasn’t that much—at least twice, and even he could detect a faint odor. He hated the Laundromat. Launderland on Santa Monica Boulevard was a long march with a duffle bag full of clothes and his el cheapo but machine-washable sleeping bag. He always swore he’d get up early the next time just to go and get it over with in relative solitude, but every time he slept in anyway.

As he approached the Laundromat he could see that the place was hopping. Men and women, but mostly men, were wheeling steel laundry carts back and forth between washers, dryers, and the folding tables. A lot of them seemed to know one another. It was probably a laundry club. He’d run into them before—groups of gay men who did their laundry at the same time and turned the whole thing into a social event. On one of the big folding tables someone had laid out a tablecloth and a spread of bagels and Danishes and cut fruit and croissants and condiments and coffee. Quinn heard his stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and then all he’d had was cereal, because it and a quart of about-to-turn milk were the only things in the apartment that belonged to him and Baby-Sue had been on a bitching jag about Jasper and Quinn eating all her food.

Quinn humped his duffle over to the single available washer, dumped in as much as he could, tamped it down, then dumped in the rest. He’d probably wind up with packed nuggets of laundry soap again when it was over, but he had only so many quarters, and the change-making machine was still broken.
ESTA MÁQUINA ESTÁ ROTA
.
The sign surprised him, not because it was there, but because he didn’t think there were that many Latinos in West Hollywood. There was the girl at Los Burritos, though. Maybe it was just that the Anglo population was so out there—41 percent were gay, bi, or lesbian—that you didn’t notice the Hispanics.

He turned his box of laundry detergent upside down and saw there wasn’t even enough left in the box to clump up. He’d just turn the water up to the hottest setting and hope that if the soap didn’t get the stuff clean—and with that little, it couldn’t possibly—the hot water would sterilize the dirt that was left.

“That machine walks when it’s on the spin cycle.”

Quinn turned around and saw the hair stylist from Hazlitt & Company watching him with a smile. “It gets out of balance, so keep an eye on it.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said. “Okay.”

The stylist was wearing jeans and an incandescently white T-shirt, and his hair was perfectly mussed. “You look like a lost soul,” he told Quinn. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you live near here?”

“On Norton.” Quinn pointed over his shoulder. “Near Havenhurst.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“Really? You seem a little young to be on your own.”

“I’m not that young,” Quinn said.

The stylist smiled. “I meant that in a good way.”

“Oh.” Quinn didn’t know what else to say. It was one thing to see the stylist in the salon. Out here, in the world, it felt weird, part good and part bad. Good because he seemed like a nice guy and Quinn was more or less on the outs with Baby-Sue and Jasper—he seemed to be getting on their nerves, though he had no idea why—and it was Saturday, so there’d be no auditions or classes until Monday and he was lonely. Bad because he kept thinking of how the stylist’s hands had felt, moving through his hair, rubbing his head, and he didn’t think he should be remembering those things in front of the washers and dryers at Launderland.

A black man in a canary yellow button-down shirt with the sleeves turned back called to the stylist, “Hey, Quatro! Paulie wants to know what you did last night. He says you never showed up.”

The stylist smiled a little apologetic smile at Quinn and shook his head. “Yeah, yeah,” he called back, but he was still looking at Quinn.

“Quatro?” Quinn said. “That’s your name?”

“Yeah,” said the stylist. “Technically it’s John Robertson the Fourth. So, Quatro.” He shrugged.

“Awesome.”

The men in the laundry club were elbowing one another. “Leave that child alone and come get a mimosa!” someone said, and the others laughed.

Quinn bridled.

The stylist said, “Don’t listen to them. Look, are you hungry at all?”

“No,” Quinn lied.

“Okay. If you change your mind, though, come on over. There’s plenty of food.”

Quinn nodded. The stylist went back to the group at the folding table. A few of the men elbowed him, but he shook it off. “He’s a kid. Leave it alone,” Quinn could hear him snap.

Quinn wanted him to come back and talk, but the stylist had been absorbed by the group at the folding-table buffet, so Quinn pulled a batch of papers from his back pocket. It was the sides for a scene he was auditioning for on Monday. He jumped up to sit on the washing machine. You weren’t supposed to sit on the machines, but screw it; the machine was walking, just the way the stylist had warned.

He straightened out the pages. First he read the breakdown Mimi had given him at the showcase.

Friday, November 2, 2006, 6:30
P.M
. Pacific

AFTER

Miramax Films

UNION

Producer

Writer-Director: Gus Van Sant

Casting Director: Sharon Shue

Shoot/Start Date: TBD

Location: Portland, OR / LA

8899 Beverly Blvd.

LOS ANGELES, CA 90048

SUBMIT ELECTRONICALLY

SUBMISSIONS BY 11
P.M
. FRI Nov. 9

SEEKING:

[BUDDY DONNER]

Lead / MALE / 15 / Caucasian

A tall, skinny kid with anger issues. He is, by turns, defiant, sullen, fiercely protective of his little sister, and almost always on the brink of rage. Actor must have an extremely wide spoken and nonspoken emotional range.

STORY LINE: Buddy Donner and his 13-year-old sister Carlyle are living with their mother’s younger brother Wayne, who is almost never home. Their mother has just died. Buddy, Carlyle, and Wayne are doing as well as possible, considering that they’re in almost unsustainable pain. When a run-down motel goes up for sale, Buddy and Carlyle decide to buy it with their mother’s life insurance money. With Wayne to help, they find themselves surrounded by eccentric long-term guests with whom they slowly forge relationships and begin a new life.

Quinn knew—every actor knew—that Gus Van Sant was one of
the
most respected directors in the movie industry. Almost as important, to Quinn, was the fact that he was known for working with unknown actors, sometimes even pulling kids off the street and casting them. Mimi had told Quinn that Van Sant wasn’t auditioning for
After
anywhere outside LA. The production schedule was tight, and word on the street was that he would open the call beyond Hollywood only as a last resort. The part of Buddy—one of the leads—had just been released, and Mimi wanted Quinn to be ready, even though he didn’t have an audition scheduled yet. Quinn knew as well as anyone what a break this role could be. He frowned and turned to the sides.

BUDDY
and
CARLYLE
are sitting in the living room.

BUDDY

I’m not buyin’ it.

CARLYLE

What do you mean, you’re not buying it? It’s the truth!

BUDDY

Yeah? So where’s your wand?

CARLYLE

(with infinite weariness)

Buddy. That’s only in Harry Potter. Harry Potter is a book.

BUDDY

So show me something. If you were a real witch you’d be making something happen!

CARLYLE

(sweetly)

I am. I’m making us argue.

Raucous laughter broke out across the Laundromat. Quinn told himself he wouldn’t look over—he didn’t want the stylist to think he was paying attention to anything going on over there—but at the last minute he couldn’t stop himself. He was hungry and his ass was getting sore from sitting on the hard metal of the washing machine, which had just finished its final spin cycle. He couldn’t concentrate anyway, so he folded the pages, hopped off the washing machine, and stuck the sides back in his pocket. The laundry club was done, apparently: food was being wrapped and put back into coolers and sacks, and everyone had neatly folded baskets and hampers and duffel bags full of freshly clean clothes. Quinn saw Quatro bending over a wicker basket, tucking in a stack of blue towels. So he’d be leaving now, too. Quinn told himself it didn’t matter, that they didn’t even know each other except in a professional way.

Anyway, he’d need a haircut in a month. A month was nothing.

A
CROSS TOWN AT
200 L
A
B
REA
, L
AUREL
B
UEHL WAS CONFIDING
to the camera as though to a close girlfriend why she wouldn’t be able to play in the final and most important water polo game of the season: her “friend” was visiting, and she didn’t feel she could rely on her tampons.

Then she and three other girls who were auditioning for the same commercial were asked to tell one another, on camera, about their greatest personal hygiene fears: leakage, bloating, cramping, or moodiness. They were to talk about these problems as though they were monsters in the room, and the girls were defending themselves against them as if their lives depended on it.
Over the top, girls,
said the dweeby casting director.
Waaay over the top, now. Good. Excellent. Thank you.

Angie was waiting for Laurel outside in the bull-pen waiting room, sitting on the gray carpeted benches. Across from her a young woman held a baby on her lap and bounced her, trying to keep her quiet while they waited for the baby’s big sister, who was evidently auditioning for a soup commercial. The baby was fidgety—it was three o’clock in the afternoon, which Angie well remembered as Laurel’s worst time of day when she’d been tiny—and Angie watched the mom fishing, with growing desperation, object after object out of a string bag inside her enormous tote: a set of plastic keys, her set of real keys, a pen flashlight, a travel-pack of tissues, a set of plastic teething rings that made a nice clattering sound, a binky; and one after another, the baby threw the objects down in growing agitation.

“Will she let me hold her, do you think?” Angie asked the mom. “You look like you could use a break.”

The woman looked at Angie with tears welling up in her eyes. “God, would you mind? She’s got a double ear infection, we got about two hours of sleep last night, she hasn’t napped at all, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

Angie took the baby gently under the arms and lifted her onto her lap. The baby was astonished into silence. “Boo!” Angie said softly. “Who’s a pretty girl? Who’s a beautiful girl?”

The baby blew a spit bubble, farted into her diaper. Angie laughed.

The mom stood up, wiped her eyes, did a side bend or two as though she were warming up for a marathon. “I’ve
told
my husband this is too much,” she said, “but Lily—that’s this one’s big sister—had a second callback, and it’s a national commercial, which could help us get her a better agent, so here we are.”

“How old is Lily?”

“Three.”

“Oh, a
big
girl,” Angie said, smiling. The baby began to fidget in Angie’s arms. Angie turned her around, holding her under her armpits, and murmured, “See? Mama’s right there. Is that better? Yes, that’s better.”

“You’re great with her.”

“She’s just being good because she’s startled,” Angie said. “Her diaper feels pretty heavy. Do you have a clean one? We can change her right here, if you do.”

“Oh, God, you’re wonderful,” the woman said. “I’ll change her, but if you can watch her so she doesn’t wriggle off the bench—”

“Oh, sure,” said Angie, gently laying the baby down on her back. “Let’s just get these snaps undone. You are
such
a good girl!”

By the time the baby was changed and back in her clothes, a small girl came dawdling out of the casting room. “All done, pumpkin?” said the mom. The little girl was one of the most beautiful children Angie had ever seen, of mixed race, with truly green eyes, a cleft chin, and wild curls dancing around her face. No wonder she was here.

“See?” said the woman to the baby. “Here’s Big Sister. Okay? What did they say, honey?”