Unscripted Joss Byrd (10 page)

“Hey, Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't tell Jericho, okay?”

He scrunches his eyebrows. “What?”

“I met the real Norah, and she hates me.” I frown. “She thinks I'm the worst actress ever.”

Chris sucks in his breath.

“And … there's something else. It's bad.”

Doris would say it's unpleasing to talk about a costar. But the way Chris is looking at me makes me sort of proud to have something major to tell him. “It's about Rodney. He might be a perv for real.”

“What? Why?” He looks at me with wild eyes. “What'd he do?”

“He came into my schoolroom and skeeved me out. He went like this.” I grab my shoulders and cringe. “I wasn't sure it was anything. But just now he was trying to come over here, except you came.”

Chris's mouth drops open. “Oh, shit.”

Telling Chris makes Rodney more real. But I'm not afraid. I'm relieved. Across the beach everyone else is still eating and drinking and talking nonsense, which is so strange when we've got serious stuff going on here. There's even a song playing, “Lifting me up, baby, higher and higher…” I'm glad there's music, though. This way no one can hear us.

“And Chris?” If I confess one last thing, maybe I'll feel relieved about it, too. “Remember that day when I kicked you guys out of my schoolroom?”

“Yeah,” he says. The bonfire is blazing in his eyes.

Viva would say it's a mistake to tell him. It's too big a risk. But I lean closer now because it's also too big a secret to hide any longer. “Well, the truth is…” I rub my thumb against my sea glass for a moment. “I'm not a ‘big deal,'” I whisper. “I'm not
Joss Byrd
. I'm an unofficial dyslexic.”

 

8

So what if I'm not the only girl who shared tonight with Christopher Tate? I might not be hot stuff like Arianne. But for now, I'm deciding that it's more special to swap secrets than to swap spit. I didn't even feel so left out when he went off to eat corn on the cob with Jericho. They can have their boy-talk because my time with Chris can be measured better by bonding than by minutes.

Chris said there's different types of intelligences, like logical intelligence and visual intelligence. He saw a video about it in school. He explained that since I'm a natural actress, I've got extra interpersonal intelligence. If we added up my total smartness, I might possibly be more intelligent than most people.

He also told me I couldn't argue about it because it's not based on his opinion. It's science. So I have to believe him.

After all that today has thrown my way, I'm going to sleep like a rock; it's felt like ten days in one. At least I have thoughts of Chris to think about now—that beats falling asleep to thoughts of Norah or Rodney. Sliding my key card in the door is nearly as good as laying my head on my pillow.

But something's different about our room.

The sliding door is wide open.

The TV is blaring.

I recheck the room number.

204.

The sheets are moving.

My mother is giggling.

There's a man's voice.

And then his arm.

And shoulder.

He's moving on top of her, moaning my mother's name.

Her leg is hooked over his body.

He lifts his chest.

And his head.

It's not just any man.

It's
Terrance
.

I'm hyperventilating again. My room card slips from my fingers right before I step back outside. As soon as the door clicks, I turn and punch the wooden railing. Then I press my forehead against it.

How could she do this?

He's my director!

We're supposed to listen to him about when to scream and when to be still. We're supposed to start when he says action and stop when he says cut. And that's
it
.

Nobody—especially not my mother—is supposed to bring him to their hotel room to do it with him while the rest of the town is eating chicken!

And everybody who's ever seen a
People
magazine knows that he's
married
!

There are so many rules that I have to follow: get to set on time, hang my wardrobe at the end of the night, know all the crew members' names, say please and thank you, keep my trailer clean, don't talk bad about other actors, hand out wrap-gifts to the cast and crew, don't let anyone find out that I'm stupid, don't complain, don't complain, don't complain …

What are the rules for my mother?

*   *   *

“It's the director!” Viva loud-whispers with one hand over the phone. On her laptop are dozens of pictures of Terrance Rivenbach—him in a baseball cap, him in a tuxedo, him standing on a cliff, him playing basketball with the president (of the country!) … “Well, if you say so. I mean, if you truly think my daughter is right for the part … Right … I can understand that … You did?… Yes, we have worked with them before … Of course…”
I recognize something in Viva's voice. They're “clicking,” as she likes to put it. With some people she just “clicks,” and there you go.

“But still. I'd hate to fly her across the country if she isn't exactly right,” Viva says, even though she would never turn down a paid trip to LA for any reason whatsoever. “I don't like pulling her out of school.”

I'm laughing to myself, already planning to charge my laptop before the flight so it'll last through a couple movies.

“Well, if you really think so…” Viva scrolls through the pictures on the screen and clicks on one of the director with his pretty young wife and their very blond twin boys. “I very much look forward to meeting you, too.”

*   *   *

I should've known this would happen. She's going to ruin everything the way she always does. Any minute now she'll piss Terrance off; he'll hate her, and then he'll hate me, too.

I wonder if Peter Bustamante knows. Is this the image she wants to give to the executive producer? And if Doris finds out she'll be furious. How does my mother expect us to look professional when she's pulling stuff like this? People will think we're a joke.

I plop down against the door and breathe into my knees—deep breath in, deep breath out. All I can think about is one of my triggers: we lost the house we loved in Maryland because Viva wanted to follow her beefed-up boyfriend to Tyrone, Pennsylvania.

“It's gonna be so great!” she said. “Brendan and I are partnering with his friends and opening up a chain of upscale hair salons. There aren't any classy places yet. The whole town is hungry for something high-end. We'll buy the land and his friends will build. We'll grow our money back faster than we can count it.”

But Tyrone wasn't great. It was a broken-down apartment with stained carpets and jittery lightbulbs and other people's scum between the tiles. Viva was only right about one thing—there isn't anything classy in the entire town. Tyrone is a place to leave, not to go. The town's hungry, all right. There's not even a Panera Bread. Sophisticated salons didn't make sense from day one. Why would people who wear pajama pants to Walmart pay sixty dollars for a haircut?

*   *   *

“When are they building, Brendan? When?” My mother is screaming in our kitchen.

“The banks backed out,” Brendan says, pacing back and forth.

“They backed out? You said this was a done deal, a sure thing! I already bought the land! And for what? For nothing?” My mother's voice rises higher and higher as she takes Brendan's favorite CD out of the player and grabs a few others off the counter. “We're gonna have to start all over again. Two movies! It took us two movies to make that money!”

What does she mean by “us”? I made those movies. I'm the one who has to start all over again.

She takes the CDs and stuffs them in the blender.

“Take your hands off that blender!” Brendan rushes toward her.

“Don't come any closer!” She hops onto my step stool with the blender over her head, like she's a crazy Statue of Liberty.

Brendan holds a hand up to calm her. “Those are live Pearl Jam recordings. I can't buy those CDs again! You press that button, Viva, and you'll be sorry.”

Viva presses the button. “I'm already sorry! I'm sorry I ever met you!” she yells, as the blender sputters and crunches.

“You bitch!” Brendan picks up the whole CD player and smashes it against the wall. His fat, stinking bulldog, Doughboy, is howling into the air.

“What's that? I can't hear you!” My mother holds the blender in her arms. “I'm playing some CDs!” she yells over the racket.

I'm pressed against the wall, covering my ears, remembering our little white house in Maryland; there were snails stuck to the pier, and our neighbors had a yellow boat with a bell on the top. They used to let me pull their crab traps out from the bottom of the water. When we pulled them out of the cage, the crabs, with their speckled blue shells and their googly eyes, would snap their claws and link together like paper dolls.

“You're out of your mind!” Brendan crouches to put Doughboy on his leash. “I'm out of here.”

“Good! Go!” Viva steps down to the floor. “We were better off without you!”

The CDs rattle and grind faster and faster. Brendan is throwing his laundry into a garbage bag. I stare at the blender and watch the CDs turn to dust. Dust!

Viva yanks the cord from the wall. The blender stops. She watches Brendan start the car and drive out of our lives. Now we really have nothing here in Tyrone—not even music.

*   *   *

I stretch my legs across the sandy wooden planks. There are dead insects above me trapped inside the light cover. For some reason, live bugs are fighting to get in. Take it from me: sometimes we're better off in the dark.

I could try to walk to basecamp and sleep in my dressing trailer, if it's open. The sofa flattens into a bed. I could pee there, too; even have a shower if I really want to. Does it need the motor on for the water to pump? But there aren't any towels. I wonder if there are enough paper towels to dry my whole body. Wouldn't the kids at school love that—me living in a trailer, where they think I belong? My head finds the corner between the door and wall. Maybe if I close my eyes, Terrance will leave any minute. My mother says you can't help who you're attracted to. She calls it passion, but I call it a pain in the A-S-S. That I can spell. And according to her, there are two kinds of married men. She's never said what the two kinds are, but thanks to Terrance naked in my mother's bed, I'm learning by example.

*   *   *

“Joss? Joss?” Chris is shaking me awake.

“Huh?” I rub my sore neck. “What time is it?”

“It's late. Where's Viva?”

“Inside,” I say softly.

“Then what are you doing out here? Is she asleep?”

“No. She's with someone.”

“What do you mean? Like, a
guy
?”

I nod. Too embarrassed to look up but too tired to lie, I say, “Like …
Terrance
.”

“What?” He lowers onto his knee. “What are they doing?”

“God! What do you
think
they're doing? They're
screwing
.”

“Holy…”

I hang my head while Chris goes through a dozen
really
s and
are you sure
s.

“Well, just come to my room, then,” he says.

“No. I'll get in trouble if I'm not back.”

“You can't just sit here listening to them.” He stands and stares at the door. I don't really hear anything, just commercials. “We'll leave her a note. Let's go, get up,” he says, kicking my feet.

In his room a few doors down, Chris scribbles on the Beachcomber notepad. His room is exactly like ours except it smells like Vicks VapoRub and hard-boiled eggs. He steps out, leaving me with his Grandma Lorna who's asleep in her bed with her mouth open. Her dyed orange hair is thin and faded around her face. Except for the triangle folded under her chin and the lump of her body, her bed is still made. I want my own bed in room 204 so bad. My pj's are tucked under my pillow waiting for me, all soft and cool and smelling like sleep.

There's a bunch of scripts on Chris's coffee table—not
The Locals
. New scripts. I wonder if any of them are worth missing more high school for.

Chris closes the door and pushes the latch. “You can take my bed. I'll just sleep on the end there.” He points at his snoring grandmother. That's a big sacrifice, I can tell you that.

While Chris washes up in the bathroom I pull off my sneakers and crawl into his bed. I'm so tired I can't stay awake long enough to thank him.

 

9

Sandy feet and sticky pits. Barbecue sauce on my fingers, in my mouth, on my chin. The smell of firewood in my hair. I wake up feeling gross all over.

“Joss, honey? Are you awake?” Grandma Lorna says. “When is your call time?” Chris's grandma pulls the drapes open to a bright, sunny morning in Montauk Point.

“Ten. I have tutoring and a fitting.” My voice crackles. The other bed is empty, and the shower is running.

“It's eight thirty now. Christopher told me your mother didn't come home last night. Do you want to go check for her now? There's a van that goes to basecamp at nine. You should go then so you can have breakfast.”

“Okay.” I jam my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces. Then, after pulling the latch flat so that the door doesn't lock behind me, I shuffle to my room.