Bounce (16 page)

Skyler

M
ia, Beth, and I get to the studio at 8:45 a.m., which I've been told is a late start. But I couldn't sleep again, revved up from the night at Maxi's, all the attention from Garrett and his agent, Parker, and the . . . ​whatever it is . . . ​with Brooks, who drove me home on his motorcycle, gave me a tight, long hug at the door. I'm not going to lie; he feels good, smells better. There's something so sturdy and adult about him.

Which, of course, makes me think of Grey. Who doesn't seem sturdy and adult at all, but who feels so
alive,
somehow, super-heated where Brooks is a slow and steady warmth.

I push all of that aside to focus on the day in front of me.

“Why don't we grab something at the craft services table before your fitting?” Mia suggests. “I have to head over to Boomerang for a bit and then run Nana to an appointment.”

“You're not going to be around today?”

She shakes her head. “I'm going to meet with Adam and Brooks to go over reels from prospective DPs, but I have to finish work on some TV spots for Boomerang. I'm holding down the fort there until production really gets going. And Nana has physical therapy.”

“How's she doing?” asks Beth, making me feel like a jerk for not asking that first. Mia and her grandmother are so tight, I know it kills her to see Nana wheelchair-bound after the accident she had a few months ago. The last time I saw her, she didn't remember me at all. She seems to be slipping away, faster and faster. I wish I could do more for Mia. Anything to soothe the pain she admits to only rarely.

“She's a trooper,” Mia says with a sad smile. “Come on. Let's eat.”

After we throw down some coffee and bagels, we go our separate ways. Beth's got to fill out some paperwork, and it looks like I have hours in wardrobe ahead of me. The table read is scheduled for 3 p.m., so I'll see her again then. Since she's in a supporting role, she's got a lot of off-days, so we won't be together as much as I'd hoped. But she's already lining up other auditions, which I take as a really good sign. I want something amazing to come her way so badly, I can taste it.

I spot Garrett and Grey in some weird tête-à-tête where Garrett is hanging on to Grey's arm, and gesturing madly, while Grey looks like he wants to fade through the floor. Garrett catches my eye and blows a kiss. I pretend to catch it and plant it on my lips. He laughs, but Grey just gives me a strange look that I can't interpret from a distance. We've barely spoken except to mumble “good morning” at each other.

I head off to one of the production offices, where I'm supposed to meet Kaitlin from wardrobe. I find the room already filled with racks of clothing, more than I've ever seen in one place, outside of a department store. Kaitlin and Bernadette have shown me sketches for how they want Emma to look. Modern, super chic but with a little whimsy.

Running my hands over the garments, a little thrill pulses through me. There are so many beautiful pieces here, of such high quality. All so different from my usual slouchy sweaters and jeans, peasant dresses over funky leggings. Even before I've put anything on, I'm convinced of how much costumes can make a character. I can
see
Emma, looking at these racks. See her in a way I haven't before now.

“Killer, aren't they?” Kaitlin asks from the doorway. Her clothes and makeup are so on point, she makes me feel like a bridge troll by comparison. She's loaded down with supplies, and I take a sketchbook and sewing box from her, as she sets a roll of measuring tape and her laptop onto a table by the windows.

“They're beautiful.”

We chat about the character for a bit while Kaitlin gets herself together. “What are you?” she asks. “Size six?”

I laugh. “Not since junior high. More like a ten on the bottom, eight on top.”

“Well,” she says, with a little frown. “Some of these are a bit smaller. Some designers don't go up past a six.”

“Really?” It hadn't even occurred to me that I might not fit into the clothes. I assumed the clothes would have to fit
onto
me.

“Yeah, but let's not worry about that. I think the tops will be fine, and we'll swap out anything we like for larger sizes, if we can find them.” She pulls out the measuring tape and starts to unspool it. “Why don't you take off your clothes, so I can get firm measurements?”

I look at the open windows, the open doors out into the hallway. “Uh, sure.”

“Don't worry. Everyone's tied up with meetings.”

I unzip and step out of my jeans, pull my shirt up over my head.

“I'm going to measure everything,” Kaitlin says, getting down on the floor. “So, we're going to be really good friends by the end of this.” She pushes her silky brown hair over a shoulder and curls the tape around my ankle, then makes a note in her sketchbook. This goes on for every part of my body—from toe to head with about twenty stops in between.

“Don't suck in,” she says, when she goes to double-check my waist.

“Sorry. Didn't realize I was.” But the more that tape cinches around me, the more conscious I am of my size. Not that I'm big, but that my proportions maybe aren't the greatest. My hips and thighs are fleshy compared to my narrow shoulders and completely average breasts. I've never thought about it much, but seeing those measurements go into her book makes me wonder how I compare—to the clothes on those racks and to all the other girls trying to make a go of it as actors.

“Am I . . . ​Is there a problem?”

She makes a last notation in her book and looks up at me. “Problem?”

“I mean, with my size. Or . . . ​measurements. I mean, should I try to lose some weight?” It kills me to even ask the question. It makes me feel needy and insecure. But this is all such new territory. I want to look good for the part. To be able to wear those beautiful clothes of Emma's like I truly own them.

Kaitlin hands me a shirt to try on—a tailored blouse in navy, which I'm relieved to find fits perfectly. “Well, you are a bit bottom-heavy. Which we can totally work with, of course. Though the camera does add . . .”

She doesn't finish, but she doesn't really have to say more.

I step into a gray wool skirt with a ruffled, asymmetrical hem. It's definitely a tight squeeze. We can zip it, but it bunches at my thighs and wouldn't be great if I actually plan to breathe. I feel a zing of panic. Maybe they should have tried to dress me before giving me the part.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask.

“Well, just lay off the bread and pasta. Try to cut down on alcohol. All of that makes you look bloated. Just go a little easy.”

I nod and step out of the skirt, relieved. Probably just cutting beer and chicken wings from my diet will go a long way. Having fruit and yogurt instead of the bagel I just slathered with a metric ton of cream cheese.

This is manageable.

“You know, I've got these supplements you might be into,” Kaitlin says, heading over to her sewing basket. She comes back with a couple of blister packs filled with what look like vitamins.

“What are they?” I sniff the plastic, which smells like every other vitamin supplement I've ever smelled. Herby. A little like dirt.

“They're all natural. A little bit of a water pill and then some goodies to rev up your metabolism. Totally safe.”

“Do you know what's in them?”

“It's a long list, but nothing crazy. Amino acids. That kind of thing. They should definitely help. Here. Try a few of mine and see what you think. Even if you can just lose a few pounds before filming starts, you'll probably feel better.”

I nod and take the pack from her. I'm sure they're fine.

We try on a dress that's beautiful but also tight. Next time, I'll definitely skip the bagel.

  
Chapter 19
  

Grey

W
ednesday afternoon, Bernadette sends me back to the costume trailer for a fresh shirt.

“That one's history,” she says, shaking her head at Garrett. He's sitting at a desk in an office set up in the studio, coffee stains splattered across the front of his button-down. Today, we're shooting footage of his character, Mr. Knightley. He's supposedly some kind of real estate tycoon who rarely works. My dad's friends with a couple of real estate tycoons and those guys
never
stop working, but this is the Hollywood version, I guess. In the film, Knightley mostly just lounges around and gives Emma Beautiful Emma a hard time as he struggles to hide his ardor for her. Painful.

“It most certainly is. We can't take me anywhere,” Garrett says, with a big smile.

You can, but it's a hazard. Turns out he's super accident-prone. The problem is he thinks he's a multitasker, but he's really not. Earlier this morning I stopped him from smashing into a car as he was walking, texting, and talking to me. Part of my job is turning out to be making sure he doesn't kill himself. I'm babysitting a toddler.

“Just try talking before or after you drink next time,” I tell him.

“Not during, Greyson! I'll remember that!”

He won't.

As I'm heading outside, I hear my name. It's Brooks, who's standing with the director of photography. “We're on a shooting schedule so make it quick, please,” he says.

I nod, but as I step into daylight, a surge of anger shoots through me. The dynamic over the past couple of days makes no sense. Garrett orders me around, but it doesn't feel disrespectful. It's light and joking. He loves it when I shut him down, or call him out on behaving like a princess. He thinks it's hilarious, which somehow makes it easier for me to schlep around and do shit for him. With Brooks, it's been the opposite. Whenever his assistant director is busy, he asks me for things. He'll say please like just now. All proper and nice. But I still feel like he's ordering me around.

I've been trying to tell myself it's because we were friends before this. I've known him since he and Adam were at Princeton together, and we were roommates for a few months. But I think it's more than that. It feels like he's making a point of letting me know where I stand. Which is about a thousand pegs below him.

As I head to the costume trailer for Garrett's replacement shirt, I think about last night, when I saw him in the parking lot with Skyler. It was late and almost everyone else had already gone home. I was in the Mercedes, and I had Garrett with me, as usual. He was talking on the phone and checking his schedule for the night on his iPad, so I'd know where to drop him off. I watched Skyler snap a helmet on and climb onto the back of Brooks's bike. I watched her wrap her legs and arms around him. She didn't see me, but Brooks did. Brooks looked over but he didn't tip his head or smile or anything.

It was more like we just looked at each other, acknowledging the situation. He got the beautiful girl on the back of his motorcycle. I got the gay actor who couldn't remember his iPad pass codes without my help.

I've only seen Skyler one other time this week. That was also yesterday, when I ran into her at craft services after lunch. She had a tray with an apple and some kind of smoothie on it. When she saw me, she set it down and the apple rolled off the tray, but I caught it.

“Congrats,” I said, setting the apple back on the tray. “On getting Emma Beautiful Emma. I haven't had a chance to tell you yet . . . ​I'm happy for you, Skyler.” I'd stepped in to give her a nudge on the shoulder, just needing to touch her. But she must've thought I was moving in for a hug because that's what we ended up doing. Hugging right by the fruit bar.

It was amazing and unexpected. But later, when I saw her straddle Brooks's bike and leave with him, that hug lost the
amazing
part.

I'm so tied up in my head that I'm not prepared when I jog into the wardrobe trailer and see Skyler sitting on a long bench. With
my mom
.