License to Spill Read online

  I must have looked like a kid who just found out that (SPOILER ALERT) Santa isn’t real because Ivy put her hand on my back and rubbed mom-circles.

  So all this is… fake? (Me.)

  No. Some of it’s real. (Paige.)

  Like what? (Me.)

  Your hat. It’s real cute. (Paige.)

  Ha! (Ivy.)

  Can I borrow it for Snooki? The clips on her extensions are showing and wardrobe took a weather day. It would really help.

  I guess.

  I sat, hoping to absorb this shock to my system. Not because I’m a fan of reality. I’m not. I can’t stand reality—TV or otherwise. Hence the reason I want to not be me for a living. But to find out the entire genre is a lie? What next? Frosted Lucky Charms aren’t magic? I needed to take five.

  Ivy directed me toward the blue rectangle by the house. Now, color me a diva, but I refuse to cry in an outhouse for the same reason I won’t puke in a toilet. It’s superlatively gross and—

  Uh-oh, battery at 8 percent.

  Anyway, while searching for a sanitary place to cry, I happened upon a tent full of snacks. The tables were empty except for some Vogue-type woman with short hair, sipping tea. She was on the phone and didn’t seem to notice me so I loaded a plate with mini cupcakes and cinnamon buns. I figured it was more professional to lick frosting than my wounds, at least on set. So I sat and ate and felt better instantly.

  Hungry? (The woman.)

  Her French accent made the question sound more like a judgment.

  Been on set all day. I’m starving.

  You usually heat that? (Her.)

  Cupcakes? No, room temperature.

  She shook her head no and then lifted an invisible fork to her mouth.

  Oh, eat! (Me, cheeks burning.) Um, not usually. Unless I’m trying to gain weight. Which I am… for a role.

  She lifted a perfectly plucked brow. Impressive.

  Something about her chic hair and red lipstick made me want to keep impressing her. So I said, I’m an experienced actress. This whole extra thing is just a favor, you know, for a friend.

  Do I know your work?

  Maybe. Sheridan Spencer?

  She shrugged. I am Madelon Etienne.

  I asked what she did because I couldn’t understand what a sophisticated woman like that was doing on a windy, deserted set like this.

  I am a casting director.

  My body tingled—toes to scalp.

  Movies? TV? Theater?

  Yes. And webisodes.

  In New York?

  Paris.

  Oh.

  This is my first job for America.

  Oh! (I sat up taller and forgot that I was craving salt.) What is it?

  A television show. Very huge in France. America just bought the rights.

  What’s it called?

  Tut-tut-tut. (Madelon put a finger to her mouth.) I cannot announce it yet. But I am looking for teenager types.

  Like me?

  Perhaps. Stand up.

  I did, and suddenly became aware of all my body parts at once, especially the pear-shaped ones. I’m a small on top and a medium on the bottom, but I can easily change that.

  No. Your size is perfect. What is your age?

  Twelve to nineteen.

  Do you sing?

  Mezzo-soprano.

  Dance?

  Ballet, modern, tap, jazz, river.

  Madelon handed me a flyer. Can you audition next Sunday?

  Yes! I was just about to hug her when a production assistant announced they were striking the set. The weather was getting worse. The shoot would be postponed until further notice.

  Ivy felt terrible but I told her not to. It was the best job I never had.

  END FLASHBACK.

  INT. SPENCER HOME—BASEMENT—LATE AFTERNOON.

  SHERIDAN’s battery is about to flat-line and she hasn’t even written about THE ENCRYPTION yet. Not that she wants to waste her last 2 percent on someone who abandoned her on a basketball court Friday night and never apologized. She needs to weather this storm and then focus on her audition or she’ll be all washed up. Pun intended.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  Oct. 30.

  I am watching CNN.

  Eight million people don’t have electricity.

  If we didn’t have a generator, that total would be eight million and three plus one dog named Noodle.

  10.31.12

  INT. SPENCER HOME—DAY THREE WITHOUT ELECTRICITY.

  A blinding light wakes SHERIDAN from a deep sleep. She pulls the blankets over her head and screams, “I’m not ready!”

  A familiar voice says, Obviously.

  Oh, it’s you. (Sheridan to familiar voice.)

  Of course. Who’d you think it was?

  Death.

  Mom laughs. Stop being so dramatic.

  Stop being so Mom-ish.

  I’ve been calling your name for ten minutes. Are you ready?

  I sat up and tried to focus but my eyes had nowhere to land. My room was end-of-the-world dark. The street outside my window was even darker.

  We’re ready to start the candy hunt. You should see your brothers. They look like real sumo wrestlers. She aimed her flashlight at my legs like a cop searching for something illegal. Why aren’t you dressed?

  Before Mom became a mom she was an off-Broadway costume designer. She says she doesn’t miss it but I know she does, because every October she tweets things like, Store-bought costumes are to Halloween what the plastic pine tree is to Christmas and RT this if you DIY on 10.31.

  She started stuffing and sewing H&M’s girth suits in September and has been glue-gunning leaves and wildflowers to a flesh-toned unitard so I can channel Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’s that passionate. Which is why she did not react well when I said I had decided not to dress up.

  You can’t just decide that!

  I didn’t. Governor Christie did when he canceled Halloween.

  Sheridan, he said we have to stay indoors, he didn’t say we can’t have fun. She went on about how life doesn’t always go the way we planned and how we have to adapt, not give up.

  I avoided her eyes like I didn’t agree even though o’course I did. I just knew I couldn’t tell her that the unitard was too tight. She prided herself on taking accurate measurements. The news would be a dagger to her heart. I know how it feels to fail at the one thing you’re passionate about. I’m an understudy, remember?

  PAUSE FOR PRAYER.

  Please let me nail my audition this Sunday. Please, oh, please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please.

  UNPAUSE.

  Mom begged me to reconsider until I said the costume deserved a stronger debut. Something bigger than immediate family members and a dark house. This spoke to her and she left satisfied. Then I rolled over on a collage of bite-sized candy wrappers and went back to sleep.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  Saturday, November 3, 2012

  Last Sunday morning, while I was supposed to be reading Beowulf, I found myself sneaking up to Duffy’s to liberate his muddy hiking boots from the front porch. Then it started to rain and I figured he’d need them, so I took one of the laces instead.

  At first I felt pathetic. I know that ferreting a boy’s belongings is not a socially acceptable manifestation of desire. I’m not in-sane after all, I’m in-fatuated; I know the difference. But my collection is about to dwindle because Mom is making me donate my “androgynous European club kid clothes” to the Hurricane Sandy relief drive today. And these items give me something to hold on to, something other than hope.

  Saturday

  The clothing and food drive was pretty decent. You know, for a clothing and food drive. But who’s going to admit they’re amped to be at school
on a Saturday, even if it’s for hurricane relief?

  Feeling = Not me.

  Still, girls hugged like they’d just come back from Iraq, and I bumped a lot of fists.

  Feeling = Good. Bedrick’s wasn’t a dream. The guys liked me again for real.

  I know that’s a girly thing to say, but right when they started talking to me again, bam! I’m home for a week with Sandy, Mandy, and no electricity. That’ll mess with any guy’s head. Not just mine.

  Bubbie Libby made me donate her flowery housecoats. Hud and Coops wanted the Screamers to see me carrying grandma clothes, but the Screamers weren’t around. Sheridan was. Boxing up cans of food.

  She looked kind of messy and I like that. Not that she had crumbs on her lips or anything. That would be gross. Messy in a cool way. Like she was up for anything. Hair in one of those clumps on top of her head, old jeans, and a loose purple T-shirt. Maybe it was white. I forget.

  I wanted to say hi but I didn’t want to have “the talk” so I dumped Bubbie Libby’s clothes on a table and turned away.

  That’s when I smashed into Lily and knocked everything out of her hands. Trendemic clothes were all over the wet grass.

  Feeling = Whoa!

  That’s literally what I said. It was the opposite of I.D.E.A.L. (Ignore Don’t Engage Avoid Leading her on.) But I wasn’t expecting to be that close to her face. I also wasn’t expecting to see my shoelace tied around her wrist.

  Hud cracked up, but Coops? He limped over in his Darth Vader boot—which his mom made him double-bag because of the flooding—and helped Lily pick her stuff up off the ground. He held up the paint-splattered jeans I sold her.

  COOPS: You’re getting rid of these? They’re so cool.

  LILY: All of it.

  Feeling = Better. She obviously wasn’t stalking me anymore.

  Then I got a text from Sheridan. It said, Busted. I know you saw me.

  Feeling = Life was easier when the power was out.

  I turn to escape and there she is, walking toward me. I stand there and wave like some Derp who has no clue he’s about to get “the talk.” But I do know so I tell Hud and Coops to gimme a minute because the only thing worse than “the talk” would be those guys making faces behind Sheridan’s back while I got it. And I could tell by the way her arms were folded across her chest that I was about to get it good.

  ME: Hey.

  I was about to ask if she wanted to sit on the steps or something, but she laid into me before I had a chance.

  HER: Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything.

  ME: Huh?

  HER: I’m not one of your screaming fans so get over it.

  Feeling = Harsh.

  It was my turn to say something, I just didn’t know what. So I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, looked at my high-tops, and wondered what the guys in One Direction would say.

  ME: I never said you were a screaming fan.

  HER: Well, you act like you think I am.

  ME: How?

  HER: By constantly trying to remind me that we’re “just friends.”

  ME: We are friends… right?

  HER: Yes. So stop trying to remind me.

  ME: Okay.

  Feeling = Totally confused.

  ME: Wait. How do I keep reminding you?

  HER: Um, how about a ring that says Best Friend?

  ME: Actually, I gave you that ring because I thought we were more than friends.

  HER: Yeah, I know. Best friends.

  ME: No. That’s just what it said. It’s not what I meant.

  HER: It’s not?

  ME: No.

  She looked at me like I was supposed to say more. I flipped up the mini blade on my Toolery ring ($24.99) and then shut it, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  ME: I mean, unless you want it to be like that.

  HER: I don’t.

  ME: You don’t?

  HER: No. Do you?

  ME: No. You?

  HER: No.

  We kind of stood there for a minute looking at the ground and the people walking by and the donation tables and the food trucks, everything but each other.

  ME: Do you want to start wearing the ring again?

  HER: Yes. But I kind of gave it to Audri.

  ME: Audri? Why?

  HER: She’s my best friend.

  ME: Ah.

  Sheridan pointed at the chunk of silver on my finger. The one I was supposed to be advertising and selling so I could finally stop advertising and selling.

  HER: I could wear that one.

  ME: It’s kind of big for you, don’t you think?

  HER: No.

  ME: It’s got all these blades and stuff in it.

  HER: I know. I love that.

  Feeling = What was I supposed to do?

  I took off the Toolery and gave it to Sheridan. She said she’d wear it for luck on her audition tomorrow. Then she filibustered about that and everything else she did last week.

  I wasn’t yawning but I did go deaf while I thought about how much better things are, now that I have friends and a cool girl who wants to wear my ugly ring.

  Feeling = I didn’t want to leave but Mom made me. We need dog food.

  Nov. 3.

  I’m at Randy’s Exotic Pets gearing up to order a sugar glider when Duffy comes in.

  He asks where we keep the dog food.

  Organic or regular, I say, like I’m working.

  –I dunno, regular I guess.

  –Second aisle on the left. If you see cat toys you’ve gone too far.

  I know this because Noodle ate the regular before organic came out.

  –You gonna hit the clothing drive at school?

  LIE #45: I don’t have anything to donate.

  –Oh, that’s right. Sorry, dude.

  It’s fine, I say.

  But it’s not. I don’t want Duffy to think I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t help out so I tell him about Wednesday.

  –I can’t believe you boxed hygiene products for eleven hours straight.

  Funny how I’m finally telling the truth and he thinks I’m lying.

  –How’d you get hooked up with such a big company? he asks.

  LIE #46: Their top executive shares a cell with my pops.

  –What’s he in for?

  –Dunno. It’s not cool to ask.

  Some guy in a safari shirt asks if we need help finding anything.

  My heart starts pounding like a drum solo.

  –I got this, bro, I say.

  LIE #47: He’s always stealing my customers.

  –Derp, says Duffy.

  –Yep.

  Then Duffy thanks me for hooking him up.

  LIE #48: It’s my job.

  –No, the other day. At Rosco’s.

  LIE #49: Oh. No big.

  Only it was a big ’cause I had no clue what he was talking about.

  –Anyway, Audri has it now. Sheridan gave it to her.

  LIE #50: Makes sense.

  Then some girl walks by and tells Duffy he smells good. After she leaves he says he’s not even wearing cologne today.

  (I am.)

  But I don’t dare say that. I just want to get out of there before my cover is blown.

  LIE #51: Randy needs me to run an errand. I better go.

  I make it out of there and realize I never ordered the sugar glider. I also realize I’ll never be the kind of guy random girls sniff.

  Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  11.4.12

  INT. HILTON HOTEL—BALLROOM C—ALMOST LUNCHTIME.

  Rows of chairs rainbow across the ballroom as if facing a screen that isn’t there. No matter. The jittery hopefuls who occupy them don’t need to be entertained. They need to entertain. SHERIDAN SPENCER being chief among them.

  She needs to stay centered, confident, connected to her creative epicenter. She needs to become her monologue (“I Dream” from Little Shop of Horrors) and inhabit her song (“Good Morning Baltim
ore” from Hairspray). She needs to adjust the black leotard that keeps riding up her butt.

  They just called number seventy-seven. Two more, then me.

  Usually these open calls are packed, but people are without power and roads are flooded and well, let’s just say Mother Nature had my back on this one. Audri, however? Notsomuch.

  FLASHBACK. ONE HOUR AGO. HILTON HOTEL PARKING LOT. SAYING GOODBYE TO MOM.

  Make sure your phone is on. (Mom.)

  I wasn’t going to bring it. (Me.)

  Why?

  It’s distracting.

  Then I’m going with you.

  But I need to focus. (And eat Skittles without being lectured on artificial dyes and processed sugar.)

  Mom turned off the engine.

  Fine, I’ll bring it.

  She turned it on. I’ll park right here. Call me if anyone looks sinister.

  I was tempted to show her the blade on the ring Duffy gave me, but that would make her worry even more.

  I really like this ring. The weight of it. It’s hard to write neatly with it on because it’s so heavy, but I don’t care. It connects me to Duffy in ways the plastic one could only dream of. Besides, that one snapped in half while I was trying to put it on. I saw it as a sign that Duffy and I were through, but Audri said I was being superstitious and that my fingers were probably just bloated. Then, at the Food & Clothing drive, she dared me to get all Miss Piggy on his ass and confront him. Not one to back down from a channel challenge, I did. Now everything with Duffy feels yay.

  CUT.

  GET BACK TO THE POINT.

  I’m sitting in the first row of the rainbow to avoid sizing up the competition. It’s my thing and it works. It’s also my thing not to take calls or texts before an audition, but I hear Duffy’s alert (popcorn) and I can’t resist.

  Break a leg. (His text.)

  How awwwww is that? I snap a pic of me holding a bag of Skittles, ring showing. I’m about to write Got me lucky charms when a male voice shouts, Number seventy-eight!

  So all I text is: I’m next.

  I close my eyes and try to become Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors. Then my phone rings.

  It’s Audri.

  Never, ever, would I EVER pick up, but I was channeling Audrey when Audri called and if that’s not a sign I don’t know what is. So I tossed out the rulebook and answered.