Not in the Script (35 page)

I'm tempted to remind her that The Bod has a real name too, but letting her call Jake by her pet name for him makes everything feel less
real
for me. “Flesh, paper, or plastic,” I say, “he's pretty much got the same bod.”

“Ohhhh! I can't wait until he comes in plastic!” Rachel squeals. “I bet when he does a big blockbuster, they'll make an action figure of him. Then I can have an entire shelf in my room with cute little Bods on it.”

I wouldn't mind a miniature Jake for myself, to be honest.

“I have so much in common with The Bod,” Rachel goes on. “We're both actors, have December birthdays, green eyes, and our parents are divorced. Are we meant to be, or what?”

Rachel only knows about Jake's parents because a reporter who interviewed him at the junket did some pretty invasive research beforehand and asked Jake to confirm that his parents are divorced, which ended up in a well-circulated article. The question wasn't malicious, really, but why was it relevant? This has been Jake's first exposure to his private life going public, and it's made me feel very defensive, wanting to protect him from what I know will only get more intrusive as he becomes better known.

“I think divorce is one of those topics you're supposed to avoid on a first date,” I tell Rachel, hoping to wipe that off her list of things to probe Jake about. “Maybe you should stick to things like his favorite movies, or the classes he's taking.”

“Well, movies, duh. But charm him with talk about
school
? Really?” She says this like it's the lamest thing I could ever suggest. “Whoa! You just ran a stop sign.”

“I did?” I glance back. The sign was right in front of Sabino Haven, and I guess I had just wanted to get past Jake's condo. “Oh, no worries. That stop sign is actually out of order.”

“
Everything
has been out of order since you moved here,” Rachel says, missing my joke. “I feel like we don't really talk anymore—like you hardly call me. It makes me sad, you know? I've really missed you.”

It's true that I've been calling her less and less, especially these last few weeks. But the more I talk to her, the more I have to lie, and I hate it. “I've missed you too.”

Just after my community guard waves us past the gate, Rachel's
cell rings. She answers the call, listens for only a few seconds, then screams, “I got it!
Stars in Their Eyes
! I got it!”

I scream then too. Things had worked out great getting her in front of the right people who make the casting decisions for the reality show, and that was all Rachel had needed. Famous actors and coaches are mentors on the show, doors will now be opened for her at feature film auditions, agents will take serious looks at her … this is huge!

I pull my car over by the pool so I can pay closer attention and cheer along with Rachel in earnest, as she's told all the details and passes them along. I feel a bit selfish for also celebrating the moment for my own reasons: not only will Rachel have something to think about besides Jake this weekend, but I will no longer have to be the constant medium between her and Hollywood. That will only matter, though, if our friendship survives this whole Jake thing.

I'll know soon enough.

My dad texted me a few times when Rachel and I were talking, so while Rachel showers, I step out my back door and call him. He says he's with my mom at his campus office—the boys are at soccer practice—and they want to wish me luck for tonight.

Ever since I told Mom about what happened with Troy, Dad feels he should be more involved in my life. “I sure wish I could be there,” he says. “You know how much I love those Hollywood egofests.”

He's missed more of my events than he's made it to, but Mom usually comes to everything. This time, I told her I would rather her make a fuss over my brothers instead, who have a tournament starting tomorrow. Besides, having her in town right now would have complicated things even more.

Dad passes the phone to Mom, and I tell her Rachel's news. “It's about time she found something of her own,” Mom says. “She's been living through you far too long.”

We talk about Rachel for a few more minutes, and then I realize I've gone so far down the running path, I've reached Jake's condo. I take a deep breath and close my eyes against the high afternoon sun, its light a beautiful red glow. “Mom, can you put the phone on speaker?” I say. “I need to talk to both of you for a sec.”

“Oh, brother. What's happened?” she asks, and I just wait, debating with myself. Should I tell them? “All right, you're on speaker. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” I begin, still unsure. “I think you should be among the first to know that … well, I've been dating someone, pretty much since I moved here. And it isn't Brett.”

Dad's sigh sounds like relief. “It had better not be.”

“Who, Emma? Who is it?” Mom asks.

I catch a glimpse of a large white egg that Jake set near his front porch last night to see if a snake would come out from under a rock or wherever and eat it. My bet had been yes, so I'd insisted that the test happen at
his
place, not mine.

He's such a boy. I love it.

“It's Jake,” I tell my parents. “The guy whose mother inspired my foundation.” Mom knows at least this much about Jake, but I had previously made it sound like I'd just casually met Mrs. Elliott when she was visiting Jake at work. “I've had a lot of reasons to keep our relationship a secret, but I wanted to tell you guys before—”

“The one with all the college questions?” Dad asks.

I laugh at the excitement in his voice. “Yep, that's him.”

“Then you certainly have
my
approval,” Dad says. “What are you all tight-lipped about, Judy? You said yourself that you think he's handsome.”

I nervously kick pebbles around the riverbank, waiting for my mom's reply. “How he looks has nothing to do with this,” she finally says. “There are other issues involved here, Bob, and you couldn't possibly understand them.”

“Good grief, I have a PhD. I think I can—”

“The tabloids will go absolutely crazy with this, and
Rachel
practically expects to marry that boy,” Mom says. “This is bad, Emma. Haven't you considered how Trina will react? She could make a fortune selling this sort of story to
Celebrity Seeker
.”

“Oh, who cares?” Dad says. “Trina is a loon. The last time I saw that woman, she was wearing a rhinestone-studded tank top. With matching boots.”

I wait through another minute or so of my mom explaining to my dad all the problems I've just created. Then Dad tells Mom something about Jake being very polite and sounding smart when they talked a couple of months ago, and Mom says she has to leave and pick up the boys. “Okay, thanks for calling!” I half laugh to her because I think she's forgotten that I'm still on the phone.

At least Dad is on my side … which makes me think he might understand about something else too. I wait until I hear my mom close the office door, then say, “Hey, Dad, I need your advice.”

I picture his ears perking up. He takes the phone off speaker. “Sure. What is it?”

“Well, I … need to hire a new manager.”

Silence. “To replace your mother?”

“No. To replace my
manager
,” I say. “Mom and I rarely talk
about anything but business anymore—you saw what just happened. Jake is a
personal
matter, and the type of guy any mother would want her daughter to date, but Mom immediately turned him into a PR disaster. And this sort of stuff is pretty much a daily issue.”

“Right. I've definitely noticed the tension and have been thinking this through for a while now,” Dad replies. “I'm just not sure you understand your mother's viewpoint. Or mine, for that matter. We allowed you to enter a very grown-up world at just twelve years old. There was a lot we felt we had to protect you from early on, and we knew your mom was the only one who could do that. And yes, she's been rather aggressive. But in our eyes, Emma, you're still our little girl. We haven't been around to witness you growing into the young woman we only get to see every once in a while. So continuing to have control over your career might just be your mother's way of holding on to that small bit of your childhood we still have left.”

Is he really telling me to keep her as my manager? “But—”

“
But
,” Dad interrupts, “you're right. It's time for her to let you go. Let you take charge of your career,
and
your life. I'll talk to her about it.”

I'm not so sure about that. “Thanks. I think I should be the one to do it, though. I guess I just wanted … your blessing?”

“You have it. And I like this Jake guy too.”

“He'll be happy to hear that!” We say good-bye, and I return to my town house.

Rachel is wrapped in her robe and sitting at the kitchen table when I walk in. She's flipping through a binder and looks up with a huge grin.

“I have a surprise for you,” she says, and lifts the binder so I can see the cover. There's a photo of the orange-sorbet sunset I remember from when she helped me move into my town house, and
The Emma Taylor Foundation
is printed in beautiful scrolling letters across it. “I know the foundation doesn't have an official name yet, so I just put that. But here you go!”

I open the thick binder to find page after page of material from at least fifty fund-raising events. “This is
amazing
!” I say. “It must've taken you forever!”

Rachel shrugs. “Three or four days. I wanted to make up for putting it off for so long. There are some really great ideas, though.”

“I'm sure there is! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I set the binder down and hug her so tightly she's afraid I'll squeeze her guts out.

While Donna and Madelyn primp us for the premiere, we tell them about the fun we had growing up together, and how we once turned the sidewalk in front of Rachel's house into the Hollywood Walk of Fame. We spray painted silver stars on thirty or so sections of concrete, then wrote our names with black permanent marker on each one of them.

We had to scrub that sidewalk for weeks.

Once our hair and makeup is done, we change into our dresses. Rachel's golden hair is long and curly, which goes perfectly with the elegant gown she's wearing—flowing layers of indigo-blue chiffon. I'm glad she chose this dress after all. I wore it to a New Year's gala and felt like a princess. Tonight, I don't feel like a princess at all; I feel unusually grown-up in a crimson sheath by Valentino.

Except for the knee-high slit in the front, my dress clings to
every curve of my body. The back is open all the way down to my waist, joined by only a pair of thin laces. The front covers quite a bit more, thank heaven, but with my hair off my bare shoulders, there's a lot more exposed skin than I'm typically comfortable with. Still, I feel pretty.

Rachel has taken photos of us at every stage and has live tweeted all day, so #CoyoteHills is trending big time. McGregor will be so proud. But I momentarily freak out when Rachel posts a picture of me in my dress, and within minutes, this tweet shows up that tags both of us:

Kimmi Weston @SoooooOverIt

Excited to wear matching dresses with my #BFF
@EmmaTayAllDay! #twinners #psych

(@Crazy4Hollywood—she freaked for a sec, didn't she? lol)

I laugh and tell Rachel, “Who would've guessed? Kimmi has a sense of humor!”

Rachel turns from my full-length mirror, her eyes wild with panic. “That's great, but I need you to focus now. I only have one chance to make this first impression, and I look awful.”

“No you don't!” I reply. “You're
gorgeous
. And you're a natural star, Rachel, so just enjoy tonight. Don't worry about a thing.”

Tears are pooling in the corners of her eyes, but she nods. “I'm just so nervous.”

I've forbidden myself from feeling guilt this weekend, but I'm consumed by it right now. What could I have done differently? Been honest from the first day I met Jake? Said, “Hey, Rach,
you know that Bod guy? You're right, he's amazing. Can I have him?”

Rachel gets excited again as a limo takes us to The Sonoran Events Center, but the moment we pull up to the red carpet, she digs her nails into my arm. “Emma! He's standing right by your door! I can't …” She starts hyperventilating, gathering only enough air to tell the limo driver, “Hit the locks!” And the doors click.

But Jake already knows it's us—our limo is scheduled to arrive last—so he tries to open my door. I take Rachel's hand. “You'll be fine,” I say, attempting a soothing voice. “Jake is just a regular guy.” Her face is as white as the teeth she's now gritting. I search for anything to prove my point and stop her panic attack. “In fact, he's absolutely disgusting sometimes. Just last week he had a belching contest with Brett, and Jake burped the entire alphabet.”

Rachel recoils like she's swallowed a slug. “Eww!”

Yep, that does the trick. But she'll likely stop breathing again once she gets a better look at Jake in his Armani suit. I can hardly breathe myself.

I give Rachel's hand a squeeze. “He won't have much time to talk, but don't take it personally. He has to do all the red carpet stuff. So just say hi, then come find me.”

I unlock my door, and Jake opens it. We're surrounded by throngs of fans, reporters, and photographers lining the red carpet—flashes everywhere. But once I step out, his eyes sweep down my dress anyway, and he whispers, “A new and improved way to torture me?”

My mouth smiles on its own. “Would you please help Rachel out too?”

He only nods.

I want to peek when he meets Rachel, but a StarTV reporter—who I happen to dislike quite a lot—approaches me, and I have to turn on my publicity personality. “Oh, hi!” I say, adding an air-kiss as she swoops in for a hug. “It's so nice to see you.”