Imposter (2 page)

RYDER OPENS THE DOOR WIDE LIKE
a deferential servant and, with a sweep of his arm, invites me to enter the airy, uniformly beige conference room.

“I was afraid you might not come,” he says.

I try to stay calm. “I think, maybe I'm meant to do this.”

“So you're a fatalist.”

“More like an aspiring optimist.”

He gives an abrupt laugh, like a dog barking. “Nice.”

Across the room, a woman in a black business suit stands beside a video camera mounted on a tripod. “I'm Tracie,” she says. “I'm an attorney for the production company. I'm here to make sure everyone plays nicely together.”

Ryder
tsk
s. “I always play nicely. It's our producer, Brian, you need to worry about.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Speak of the devil, he's on standby on a video conference link, if you want.” She adjusts the camera so that it points straight at me. “So Seth, I hear you missed out on a commercial. Why'd you want to do commercials anyway?”

I wish Ryder hadn't told her about our conversation. Who misses out on a commercial one day and lands a movie role the next?

“I want to be an actor,” I say. “Do real work.”

“Earn real money, you mean.”

“That too. My dad's not doing so well.”

Tracie gives a sympathetic nod, but her expression doesn't change. Even her bobbed brown hair remains perfectly in place.

Ryder pulls out two chairs and we sit side by side. A laptop computer rests on the table beside a small stack of pages.

“The top sheet is a nondisclosure agreement,” announces Tracie. “I need you to sign that before you read for us.”

“What's said in this room, stays in this room,” Ryder explains. “You'll understand why, soon enough.”

It's just one page. Barely fifty words. A promise that I won't repeat anything that's said today. I sign it with Ryder's pen, my hand shaking so hard the signature looks fake. Tracie walks the length of the table and takes it from me.

“Okay, then,” says Ryder, tapping what looks like pages of a script. “This movie is about star-crossed lovers—a boy and a girl pushed to the limit by circumstances they can't control. They're a team, but when everything around them is collapsing, even a perfect couple can be collateral damage. For this scene, you take the part of Andrew. I'll be Lana.”

I scan the lines of text: the words of a boy and a girl nearing the end of the road together. I nod once and begin to read, though my voice hardly rises above a whisper:
“So what happens now?”

Ryder doesn't try to speak in a girl's voice, thank goodness. In fact, he doesn't act at all.
“We spend some time apart.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? If we're breaking up, then call it what it is.”

“Would that make you happier?”

I pause.
“Happier? No. But I gave up on that a long time ago. Now I'd settle for honesty. Just a sign that any of it was real.”

“That would be nice, wouldn't it?”

An ambivalent end—under different circumstances, I might appreciate that. But right now I'm fixated on the camera at the end of the table, and the realization that the screenwriter is sitting beside me.

We turn to the next scene—
Ext. A park
. I'm still Andrew, but Ryder is playing my father now. We argue, and finally he asks me why I've changed. Why I'm not the boy I used to be. The scene ends without an answer, but in my mind, I'm thinking that change isn't necessarily bad. How much easier would things be for my real father and me if I got this job?

As we work through page after page, I begin to realize why Ryder might've seen me in this role. I
am
Andrew. The biggest difference between us is that I don't have a girlfriend, let alone one as committed as Lana.

Finally Ryder opens up the laptop. He cocks his head to the side. “Well?”

A voice comes through the computer, deep and brusque: “Good. Real good. Let me talk to him.”

Ryder turns the laptop around. The guy on-screen is older, maybe late thirties, square-jawed and serious. “Seth, I'm Brian Halsey. I'm out of town at the moment, running auditions for the part of Lana. Now, you're probably wondering why we made you sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“Until recently, this was a Sabrina Layton and Kris Ellis movie. They came as a package deal, and that suited us just fine. Well, until they stopped being a
package
. No one's saying what happened, but it was pretty clear they wouldn't be able to work together. Not on a movie as intimate as this.”

“It's easy for a smaller movie to get lost in the shuffle,” says Ryder, taking over, “but with Sabrina and Kris involved, everyone was talking about
Whirlwind
. People started posting spoilers before I'd finished the script. It's crazy, but that's the way it is these days. You with me?”

“Sure.” I glance at the nondisclosure agreement. I can see why they don't want me discussing any of this stuff outside the room.

Ryder follows my eyes. “Our job is to keep everyone talking about
Whirlwind,
even without Sabrina and Kris. The only way to do that is to keep up this veil of secrecy about the whole production—script, casting, locations
 . . . everything.
Once we've recast the lead roles, we can be open again.”

He sounds apologetic, as though I'll be appalled at the trickery. But actually, I respect him more for telling me straight up what's going on. Why shouldn't he use Sabrina and Kris's notoriety to keep everyone interested in the picture?

Brian's been watching me the whole time. “Be honest, Seth. You just did a reading. What do you think of Ryder's script?”

“It's good,” I say.

“Glad you think so. But I don't think it's the script that hooked Sabrina and Kris.”

Ryder is practically bouncing beside me. “We sold them on the
vision of a new kind of movie. Instead of sets and a film crew, they were going to film each other.”

“Film each other
how
?” I ask.

“However they wanted. Prearranged camera setups. Headcams.” Ryder clasps his hands together. “Look, you've been onstage, so you know how real it feels. The way I see it, the only way to make a new kind of star-crossed lovers movie is to put viewers in the heart of the action. Forget lavish sets and pretty cinematography . . . we want it raw and cramped and sweaty and messy. We want you to dig deep, live this role until you can't tell where Seth ends and Andrew begins. Once all the actors are ready, we wind you up and set you free. See what the hell comes out of it. Understand?”

I understand that he just switched from
they
to
you,
and even though it might have been a mistake, I feel like I'm closing in on something. “So, it's like a movie version of reality TV?”

“No. This is more like Method acting.
Scripted reality,
we call it. As director, I'll make the final cut, but I'm more like an editor really, shaping raw material. You control the camera. You can tweak dialogue, add material, establish relationships
your
way. Hell, even film scenes without me knowing, or when your costars beg you not to. Sometimes you'll be so stressed out, you'll say stuff you shouldn't and so will they, and it's all good, because it'll be
real
. It'll redefine what a movie can be.”

“It's also going to require a new approach to publicity,” says Brian. “Sabrina and Kris could sell this project by themselves, but we need you in the public eye. Forget doing press junkets after
filming wraps, we want everyone to know who you are
now
. We need them to see how gutsy you are for tackling something like this. We want people talking, Seth. Can you make people talk?”

I can't tell if they're still auditioning me, or if I'm auditioning them. There's so much energy in every word, like they're anxious for me to climb aboard. “Yeah,” I say. “I can do that.”

“I think so too,” agrees Brian. “So I'm going to ask you just once: How much do you want this role?”

“I'd do anything for a chance like this,” I say without hesitation.

He gives a sharp nod. “Good. I think you'll be perfect.”

I can't believe I've heard him right. I knew this was no ordinary audition—I saw it in Ryder's eyes from the moment I entered the room—but still . . . no matter how well you perform, there's always that moment of eerie silence at the end of the play when you wonder: Will the audience clap? Will they stand? Will they just walk out?

“This wasn't just a reading, Seth,” Brian explains, filling the silence. “It was a screen test. Tracie and I have been watching you ever since you entered the room. How you carry yourself. Your professionalism, focus, engagement. We're looking for someone who's smart enough to recognize that these are uncharted seas, and who's willing to dive in anyway.”

Ryder rests his elbows on the table. “You've probably got questions.”

My mind is spinning, but I have to ask
something
. “Who's playing Lana?”

“I'm casting right now,” says Brian. “We've got three excellent
options. None of them are Sabrina Layton, but maybe that's a good thing.”

I nod, like I actually care who they cast. Truth is, they could put me opposite an animated Martian and I'd still sign on.

Tracie sidles up to me. “Welcome aboard, Seth. You'll be wanting this.” She places a document on the table. My name is typed on the front of the contract, like they knew all along how this would go. “I'll fax a copy to your agent.”

“I don't have one,” I say.

“But you've done commercials.”

“My mom used to handle everything.” Tracie looks like she's expecting a fuller explanation, so I add, “Before we moved to California.”

She taps the pages. “Hmm. Well, we need to be moving forward, so you've got a couple options: You can hold off signing and try to find an agent ASAP, or you can sign now and parlay this role into representation down the line.”

The way she says it makes it seem like a simple decision. But what if I can't find the right agent in one week? What if Ryder or Brian changes his mind?

“I could read it right now, yeah?”

“Sure.” Tracie points to a box at the bottom of the page. “I'll need you to initial each page here, and sign the last. Take your time. If you have questions, just ask. My job is to protect the interests of the film, and as of now, that includes you.”

It's got to be fifty pages, at least. I read and initial each one. I'm feeling impatient and elated, but also cautious. I'm eighteen,
old enough to know that putting a signature to a page,
any
page, carries weight.

“Can I get a copy of this?” I ask.

“Absolutely. I'll run one off when you're done.”

I keep reading. Tracie bustles around me, and though my heartbeat is racing, I feel sluggish, like a million tiny needles are pricking my skin but the signals are reaching my brain on tape delay. I need to show them that I'm a professional, but really I just want to run home and celebrate.

Once I've signed the final page, Tracie gathers the sheets together. For a few moments, I just sit there, trying to make sense of what has happened. Then I start chuckling to myself like a crazy person.

“How did you know?” I ask Ryder. “That you wanted me, I mean.”

Ryder leans back in his chair. He's smiling, but doesn't laugh. “When I saw you onstage yesterday, I knew right away you're the one we've been looking for.”

Brian, still present on the laptop screen, nods emphatically. “You'll be perfect, Seth. Trust me. This role was practically made for you.”

SAME CRACKED CONCRETE PATH. SAME ALUMINUM
porch with drooping gutter. Same off-white door, unlocked. Gant and I have picked up a lot of skills trying to keep the house livable—carpentry, plasterwork, even a little painting. Dad has the knowledge but not the strength and coordination.

We don't even own the place, but the landlord gives us a break on the rent in return for repairs. For months I've wondered how Dad will manage once we both leave home.

Now I have my answer.

“Dad?” I shout.

Gant emerges from the bathroom. “He's still out.”

“But the car's gone.”

“He can drive fine.”

“The doctor said—”

“Seth!” Gant stifles a laugh. “Come on. Dad's going to do stuff like this. That's the whole trouble with parents. They grow up so damn fast.”

For once, I feel like I can laugh about it too.

I slip into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. There are smudges along the rim.

Gant follows me and takes a seat beside my open laptop. I bought it with money from my last commercial, almost four years ago, but Gant uses it more than I do. He's downloaded so many photos, it doesn't run as fast as it used to.

“You were badass,” he says, pointing at the screen.

It's a photo from last night's performance. Tybalt and me, swords crossed, moments before I slay him. My features are twisted into a furious scowl.

The front door opens and Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, car keys clenched tightly in his hand.

“How did the interview go?” I ask.

“They . . . they . . .” He clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head.

He doesn't need to explain. They could've used any one of a hundred reasons to reject him. Potential employers know how to discriminate without getting into trouble.

We fall into an all-too-familiar silence. Five minutes ago, I wanted to shout my good news like the hero of a Broadway musical, but now I'm not so sure. Does my good fortune make up for Dad's disappointment, or just rub salt in the wounds?

Then again, what choice do I have? Preproduction starts next week.

“I've been offered a role,” I say.

All smiles, Gant raises his hand so that we can bump fists. “The Chevy people came to their senses, then?”

“Not a commercial. A movie.”

“A
movie
?”

“It's called
Whirlwind
. I auditioned this morning.” Everything comes out sounding like a question. “The director was at the play last night. He's offered me the lead role.”

Dad's left eye blinks rapidly.

“We'll rehearse for a week or two and be filming by New Year. They're putting me up in the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Seriously?” Gant whistles. “You could drive to Beverly Hills in forty-five minutes.”

“They want me close. There's going to be a lot of promotional stuff. In January, I'll have a tutor too, so we don't have to worry about me missing school.”

Dad grunts. I can't tell if it's deliberate or if it just slipped out.

“I know it sounds incredible, but it's how a lot of actors get discovered. I've got a contract and everything.” I pull it from my backpack and place it on the kitchen table.

“You signed a contract without checking with Dad?” Gant sounds incredulous.

“I'm eighteen. They're paying me a hundred thousand dollars.”

It's my trump card, and it has the desired effect. They stare at me, waiting for the punch line, not daring to believe it's true.

“Two installments. First installment on January first.” I don't want to sound so excited about the money, but they have to realize how this changes everything.

Gant pretends to read the contract. “How many other people auditioned?”

“Hundreds. But after they finished casting, the leads pulled out. Now they're kind of scrambling.”

Gant begins to type. Research is his answer to everything. It doesn't seem to occur to him what that means—how he's lost the ability to trust good news.

For once, I'm happy to let him do it. I know what he'll find.

He scrolls down the page. “It's true.
Whirlwind. Preproduc—
Whoa!” He leans back suddenly. “You're not seriously replacing Kris Ellis.”

“Someone has to.”

He and Dad exchange glances. Even Dad has heard of Kris Ellis.

“Come on,” I groan. “I'm going to be in a freaking movie. It's—” I'm about to say
a hundred thousand dollars,
but stop myself. “It's two months.” I turn to Dad. “The director's going to call you. Wants you to be okay with everything.”

Dad leans against the counter. He looks tired and confused. I think he has a million questions, but doesn't know where to begin.

“Mom would've liked it,” I say.

We mull the words over together. After my first play in elementary school, Mom started taking Gant and me to Sunday afternoon children's shows. Then matinees, as we got older: Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, and a bunch of other playwrights whose work I didn't really understand. Summers were for Shakespeare in the Park, which I liked more because we always took a picnic. Dad used to stay behind, though; theater wasn't part of his world.

From the way Dad's looking right through me, I get the feeling he's thinking of Mom now. How she booked my first paid acting gigs. Of course she'd be happy for me.

Dad's cell phone rings, startling us.

“That's probably Ryder,” I say. “I gave him your number.”

He tugs at his shirt collar and leaves.

Gant pushes his chair back. Paces around the room and finally
settles, leaning against the door frame. Arms folded, he looks like one of those moody, rebellious guys from 1950s movies. James Dean, or someone like that.

“This is really sudden,” he says.

“Has to be. Filming starts soon.”

“Sure, but . . .” He glances at the laptop, and his frown shifts to a grin. “Are you seriously starring with Sabrina Layton?”

“No. She dropped out too, same as Kris Ellis.”

“Bummer. Probably not worth taking the role, then.”

Dad's pacing along the hallway, his uneven footsteps loud on the laminate floor. He's hardly speaking.

Gant returns to the table. “I'm going to miss you,” he says.

“It's less than an hour away.”

“Yeah, but . . . you're probably taking the laptop too, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Nice, Gant. Real nice.”

“Well, Dad's computer is even older and crappier than yours, and I can't run my photo editing software. Actually, it's kind of selfish of you to take this role.”

I pretend to punch him on the arm.

“Y-yes,” says Dad, breaking his silence. “Hmm-hmm.”

I wait for the questions to commence—
How long is the shooting schedule? How many hours of tutoring per day? Will Seth be home for Christmas?
—but Dad hangs up.

I join him in the hallway. “Y-you can d-d-do it,” he says.

Even with the contract signed, I was bracing for an inquisition. Instead Dad is smiling. We hug, and he laughs, and in this instant, our whole world seems to shift.

Two-thirds of it, anyway. I wait for the remaining third.

Gant is two years younger than me, but has the jaded attitude of an older brother. Perhaps that's why things don't feel completely right until he joins us—almost like he's the one giving me permission to go.