Bounce (14 page)

“Hey, I told you not to pay to get her for me,” I say, trying not to sound pissed.

Mia hefts the cello onto my bed, basically onto
me
, and then climbs in beside me.

“You'll pay me back,” she says.

“How?” Then I see how bright and expectant her green eyes are, and, finally, I get it. “I got the part?”

She nods and breaks into a huge grin. “You got the part! Adam told me I could deliver the good news, so I picked up Christina to celebrate.”

“I . . .” Don't know what to say or think. It shouldn't be a surprise. I
felt
how well the auditions went. But now that it's here and mine, it feels as likely as winning the lottery. “Wow.”

“Total wow,” Mia agrees. “They love you, Sky. Like
loooooove
you. Garrett can't stop talking about you. Brooks is so ridiculously into you. Everyone thinks you're made for the role.”

“It just feels so . . . ​crazy.” I get out of bed, pulling Christina's case out of my closet and tucking her inside with a little pat. The whole family together again.

“Not crazy. Earned.”

I did it. I'm going to star in a feature film. I can help my mom, pay my rent. Stop being the deadbeat roomie. Beth should—

Shit.

Beth.

Sounds come from the kitchen, and I can smell coffee and hear the old linoleum floor creak as she moves back and forth between the stove and fridge.

I turn back to Mia. “Does Beth know?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. They want to offer her the part of the barista. But they said they'd beef it up for her, make her more of a best friend. They liked her a lot, too. It was close. They just felt you were a better match with Garrett.”

I nod. “Beth called that the day of our first audition.”

“Well, she's a smart one,” Mia says, and gets back out of my bed. “Let's go tell her.”

Panic creates a weird flood of saliva in my mouth, and I swallow. “Me? Why? I mean, shouldn't it just be you?”

“No, it should be the two of us, because we're friends, and this is exciting!”

“But she's going to be disappointed.”

“A little, sure.” Mia leans down to look in my vanity mirror, trying—and failing—to tidy her curly hair into some kind of ponytail-like thing, which just makes her head look like a weird topiary. “But you know Beth. She's strong as hell. And she'll be so happy for you.” She turns to give me a look. “You do know that, right?”

“Of course.” I know I'd be ecstatic if our roles were reversed. But then it wouldn't bother me at all if she got the lead. This has always been
Beth's
dream, not mine. It feels like I snuck into some fortified compound where she's been pounding away at the gate for half her life.

“Well, gird those ovaries, and let's go.”

I breathe. Do it another couple of times. “Okay,” I say. “Girded.”

Out in the kitchen, Beth's in a long t-shirt and basketball shorts. Her usual Sunday attire. A stack of pancakes sits on the counter beside her, and she'd laid out three place settings. Which makes me equal parts guilty and hungry.

“Oh my God, are those banana pancakes?” Mia says. “I miss these so much.”

“Miss them?” Beth says, turning toward us. “You haven't even moved out yet.”

“I've moved out,” she protests. “I mean, mostly. Sort of.”

“Sort of is right,” Beth says. She nods toward the table. “Sit.”

We obey, and Beth slides a gargantuan tower of pancakes in front of Mia, along with strawberry syrup and butter. Mia starts to doctor her pancakes, separating them from the stack so she can add appropriate amounts of butter and syrup to each one before reassembling them into a pile.

I give her a look and nod toward Beth. “Tell her,” I mouth.

She shakes her head and holds up the one-second finger. “Relax,” she mouths back.

I groan. Now that we're here, I want to get it over with already, but it doesn't feel right coming from me. The tension makes me want to throw up, but Beth just hums and cooks, and for a minute, the kitchen's quiet.

Finally, she comes over and sets a plate down in front of me.

“Congrats, roomie,” she says and gives me a resounding kiss on the cheek.

I look down to find she's cut the top pancake into the shape of a star and spelled out the name “Emma” on it with M&Ms on a whipped cream cloud.

My throat tightens. “Oh, Beth . . .”

“How did you know?” Mia asks.

Beth plops down with her own plate of pancakes and raises an eyebrow at Mia. “Girl, you dragged that cello in here with a big old grin on your face. And you know these walls are made of spit and tissue. I could hear your whole damn conversation.”

Including the part where we talked about how she'd respond to the news. And now we know the answer: with pancakes. So like Beth. Always surprising in the most magnificent, big-hearted way.

I'm relieved and overwhelmed, and for about the sixteenth time this morning, at a total loss for words. Everything hits me, in this sharp and dazzling way—like sunlight bursting through fog. I'm going to be the lead in a movie. I'm going to live out this amazing dream. My whole life's about to change in ways I can't even begin to imagine.

“So, you know they want to give you the barista part?” I ask. “Mia says they're going to expand the role for you.”

“They really loved you, too,” adds Mia.

Beth nods. “Damn right they did.” We laugh, and she spears a chunk of pancake and smiles at us. “We are going to tear up that set.”

Something's a little off; I can see it in her eyes, and the smile comes and goes a beat too quickly. But I can see how hard she's trying, how much she wants this to be a celebration. Not just wants it.
Needs
it.

So, I smile back and dig my knife and fork into the “E” in “Emma.”

“It's going to be perfect,” I say.

As I take the stage at Maxi's that night, I see the crowd's a little heavier than usual for a Sunday. Mike, the owner, gives me a thumbs-up from his usual spot by the bar. He's thrilled for me, even though the movie means I'm not going to get to come around here for a bit.

I plug Christina into her amp, so happy to play electric again. It occurs to me that Mike's going to find someone to fill my Sunday and Thursday spots. I wonder who. And then I wonder if the customers will love that person more than me. And if they'll kick me off the film on day one—like the second I open my mouth, they'll know it's all a big mistake, and that will be that. Hello, Kentucky.

I settle onto my chair and look out at the crowd, trying to absorb their energy. Silently, I ask them what they'd like to hear, plucking at the strings to warm up my fingers. The vibe is awesome. Light and spirited. The air thickens with expectation, the anticipation of pleasure I'm dying to provide. So, I decide to go right for the good stuff, plunging into the first notes of “Smooth Criminal.”

Some nights, I close my eyes when I play. It helps me to feel the music more, connects me in some way with my fingers, the string, the sounds I'm coaxing out of my cello. But tonight, I keep them open, watch the crowd, and think about how much I'll miss this—these moments when I can see how my music moves people. Watch them nodding their heads, tapping their fingers against the tabletops, keeping time with their feet, so many of them, like rows of factory workers operating imaginary treadles.

Even when they're jerks and talk through my entire set, I know my music means
something
to them. Main attraction or soundtrack to their conversation, we need each other. We move each other. And I love that feeling so much I could kiss it.

I think about how acting offers some of that same thrill, how a character is a conduit for emotions, like music is, all of it about this energy moving back and forth, delicious, powerful, connecting us in this place that's so real and deeply true.

God, it feels so good to put my whole body into it, to feel my muscles burn, sweat drip off me. I feel like a beast in the best possible way, which makes me wonder if I can love two things—two completely different art forms—equally. Can I give my passion to both?

I move into “Rock You Like a Hurricane,” which is guaranteed to peel the paint off the walls and wear me out completely. But I want to be exhausted. I want to ride the music and the night and put off thinking about anything else.

Movement catches my eye, and a group of people slips into the café, taking seats in the back. It takes me a second to register that it's Brooks, Adam, Alison, Garrett, and a few other people I don't know. One woman and two other men.

I can't make them out that well under the lights, but I see Brooks shoot a smile my way. I nod, trying not to get flustered.

This isn't a film set, I tell myself. This is
my
house. I know what I'm doing here.

To punctuate that idea, I power my way through a few more songs, “Seven Nation Army,” “Purple Haze,” “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” which puts me into a wild, hypnotic state until everything else drops away but the music. I hope it's okay for Emma to have shredded fingertips, because that's what they're getting tomorrow for the first table read and wardrobe fittings.

Finally, I slow it down, playing through a few ballads. I even do Bon Iver's “For Emma,” as a private joke to myself, though Brooks catches it and gives me a little salute with his glass. He's sharp, that one. He watches me in a way that makes me want to show off a bit, but I've already blown it out tonight, so I just settle into the rest of my show, taking a few requests and ending with “Viva la Vida” and wild applause.

Afterward, I spend a few minutes in the greenroom, trying to do something with my sweaty, blotched-out self, though it's pretty much a lost cause. I fluff up the pink strands, the ends now a sodden magenta, throw on a little lip gloss, and decide that's as good as it gets. My fingers burn from how hard I played, and I still feel drunk on the music.

Back in the main area, Brooks comes up to me and sweeps me into a bear hug.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You're amazing. I've never seen anything like that!”

I grin and push away gently. “I had no idea you were coming out. I could have comped you guys.”

He waves a hand. “Just a spontaneous impulse. I wanted to see you play.” His chestnut hair is pulled back from his broad face, and in the café's dim light, his brown eyes look deep and soulful, softer than usual. He's also got an amazing smile, broad and bracketed by deep dimples. He usually looks so intense. I decide this is a better look for him.

“That's really sweet of you.”

“And Garrett wants you to meet someone. His agent?”

I look over at the table where the others sit and try to guess which of them is his agent. I settle on the woman with an auburn pixie cut, her long neck swimming in the cowl of some kind of cape-blouse combo.

It turns out I'm completely wrong. His agent is the older man, introduced as Parker, though I don't know if that's a first name or a last. He's got a head of thick silver hair, like a mane, and a precisely groomed goatee. He kisses both my cheeks when we meet and holds on to my hands for a really long time.

“Garrett told me you were special. And he was right.”

“What did I say?” Garrett asks and gives me a quick hug. “I told Brooks he has to work in the cello somehow.”

“Into the movie?”

“Absolutely! You can't let a talent like that go to waste.”

Brooks laughs. “I'm pretty sold on the idea, actually. Just have to convince Leigh to work it into the script. Lucky for us, she's a total badass, like our Skyler here.”

Even though I'm used to people watching me, all this focused attention at close range makes me blush. And the thought of them rewriting the script to feature this part of my life? Amazing.

“Come,” says Parker, pulling me toward the table. “Sit.”

I'm introduced around to a couple of friends of Garrett's and to the woman, Jane, who's his publicist, apparently. “My port in the storm,” Garrett says, grandly. “Basically, she keeps me from looking like a prick.”

We sit and chat, have a few rounds of drinks. The high from being onstage mellows into this sheltering warmth. Parker, especially, is full of compliments, commandeering the conversation to keep it focused on me, though I'd much rather talk about anything else.

“You're going places,” he says, tipping the last of a bottle of champagne into my glass. “I want to help you navigate.”

“I'm sure a lot of people want that spot,” says Brooks, smiling. He takes my hand beneath the table and squeezes. His touch feels firm, reassuring.

“Well, I'm here
now
.” He leans in, and the spicy smell of his aftershave surrounds me. “Listen. Garrett can tell you, I fight for my clients, I keep them working. And I get them what they deserve. Our agency's boutique, but we're formidable.”

Finally, it penetrates my thick skull that he's asking to be my
agent
. That he's
wooing
me, not just making small talk. The idea feels so surreal, I don't even know what to do with myself.

“Do I really need an agent?” Probably the exact wrong thing to say, but I can't see beyond the first day of filming, let alone to a whole career.

“Honey, you're poised to break out in a major way,” Garrett tells me. “This is
exactly
when you need an agent. These first steps are critical. You have to be smart and make sure someone's got your back.”

“I've got her back,” Brooks says.

And I've got my own back, I want to say. But in this case, I really don't. How could I? I don't know anything about this world and how to negotiate it. Maybe I do need a navigator.