Unscripted Joss Byrd Page 8

  * * *

  “When are they building, Brendan? When?” My mother is screaming in our kitchen.

  “The banks backed out,” Brendan says, pacing back and forth.

  “They backed out? You said this was a done deal, a sure thing! I already bought the land! And for what? For nothing?” My mother’s voice rises higher and higher as she takes Brendan’s favorite CD out of the player and grabs a few others off the counter. “We’re gonna have to start all over again. Two movies! It took us two movies to make that money!”

  What does she mean by “us”? I made those movies. I’m the one who has to start all over again.

  She takes the CDs and stuffs them in the blender.

  “Take your hands off that blender!” Brendan rushes toward her.

  “Don’t come any closer!” She hops onto my step stool with the blender over her head, like she’s a crazy Statue of Liberty.

  Brendan holds a hand up to calm her. “Those are live Pearl Jam recordings. I can’t buy those CDs again! You press that button, Viva, and you’ll be sorry.”

  Viva presses the button. “I’m already sorry! I’m sorry I ever met you!” she yells, as the blender sputters and crunches.

  “You bitch!” Brendan picks up the whole CD player and smashes it against the wall. His fat, stinking bulldog, Doughboy, is howling into the air.

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you!” My mother holds the blender in her arms. “I’m playing some CDs!” she yells over the racket.

  I’m pressed against the wall, covering my ears, remembering our little white house in Maryland; there were snails stuck to the pier, and our neighbors had a yellow boat with a bell on the top. They used to let me pull their crab traps out from the bottom of the water. When we pulled them out of the cage, the crabs, with their speckled blue shells and their googly eyes, would snap their claws and link together like paper dolls.

  “You’re out of your mind!” Brendan crouches to put Doughboy on his leash. “I’m out of here.”

  “Good! Go!” Viva steps down to the floor. “We were better off without you!”

  The CDs rattle and grind faster and faster. Brendan is throwing his laundry into a garbage bag. I stare at the blender and watch the CDs turn to dust. Dust!

  Viva yanks the cord from the wall. The blender stops. She watches Brendan start the car and drive out of our lives. Now we really have nothing here in Tyrone—not even music.

  * * *

  I stretch my legs across the sandy wooden planks. There are dead insects above me trapped inside the light cover. For some reason, live bugs are fighting to get in. Take it from me: sometimes we’re better off in the dark.

  I could try to walk to basecamp and sleep in my dressing trailer, if it’s open. The sofa flattens into a bed. I could pee there, too; even have a shower if I really want to. Does it need the motor on for the water to pump? But there aren’t any towels. I wonder if there are enough paper towels to dry my whole body. Wouldn’t the kids at school love that—me living in a trailer, where they think I belong? My head finds the corner between the door and wall. Maybe if I close my eyes, Terrance will leave any minute. My mother says you can’t help who you’re attracted to. She calls it passion, but I call it a pain in the A-S-S. That I can spell. And according to her, there are two kinds of married men. She’s never said what the two kinds are, but thanks to Terrance naked in my mother’s bed, I’m learning by example.

  * * *

  “Joss? Joss?” Chris is shaking me awake.

  “Huh?” I rub my sore neck. “What time is it?”

  “It’s late. Where’s Viva?”

  “Inside,” I say softly.

  “Then what are you doing out here? Is she asleep?”

  “No. She’s with someone.”

  “What do you mean? Like, a guy?”

  I nod. Too embarrassed to look up but too tired to lie, I say, “Like … Terrance.”

  “What?” He lowers onto his knee. “What are they doing?”

  “God! What do you think they’re doing? They’re screwing.”

  “Holy…”

  I hang my head while Chris goes through a dozen reallys and are you sures.

  “Well, just come to my room, then,” he says.

  “No. I’ll get in trouble if I’m not back.”

  “You can’t just sit here listening to them.” He stands and stares at the door. I don’t really hear anything, just commercials. “We’ll leave her a note. Let’s go, get up,” he says, kicking my feet.

  In his room a few doors down, Chris scribbles on the Beachcomber notepad. His room is exactly like ours except it smells like Vicks VapoRub and hard-boiled eggs. He steps out, leaving me with his Grandma Lorna who’s asleep in her bed with her mouth open. Her dyed orange hair is thin and faded around her face. Except for the triangle folded under her chin and the lump of her body, her bed is still made. I want my own bed in room 204 so bad. My pj’s are tucked under my pillow waiting for me, all soft and cool and smelling like sleep.

  There’s a bunch of scripts on Chris’s coffee table—not The Locals. New scripts. I wonder if any of them are worth missing more high school for.

  Chris closes the door and pushes the latch. “You can take my bed. I’ll just sleep on the end there.” He points at his snoring grandmother. That’s a big sacrifice, I can tell you that.

  While Chris washes up in the bathroom I pull off my sneakers and crawl into his bed. I’m so tired I can’t stay awake long enough to thank him.

  9

  Sandy feet and sticky pits. Barbecue sauce on my fingers, in my mouth, on my chin. The smell of firewood in my hair. I wake up feeling gross all over.

  “Joss, honey? Are you awake?” Grandma Lorna says. “When is your call time?” Chris’s grandma pulls the drapes open to a bright, sunny morning in Montauk Point.

  “Ten. I have tutoring and a fitting.” My voice crackles. The other bed is empty, and the shower is running.

  “It’s eight thirty now. Christopher told me your mother didn’t come home last night. Do you want to go check for her now? There’s a van that goes to basecamp at nine. You should go then so you can have breakfast.”

  “Okay.” I jam my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces. Then, after pulling the latch flat so that the door doesn’t lock behind me, I shuffle to my room.

  At the foot of 204 is a note with a rock still on top of it:

  Joss is in my room.—Chris

  My mother and Terrance could still be inside, so I stand here watching the family next door checking out of their room. The mom and the kids are pushing their luggage outside the door while the dad is pulling the plugs on their inflatable tubes and pressing the air out. I bet if I asked really sweetly, they’d take me home with them. We could play I Spy in the car. When we got home they could officially adopt me. I’d be a good older sister. I’d teach stuff like not to wrestle too loudly in a hotel with thin walls. Our next trip to Montauk would be a real vacation. I wouldn’t have to work a single day. I’d just float around the pool on an inflatable sea horse.

  I wait for their tubes to deflate before leaving the note right where it is and dragging my feet back to Chris’s room. I want to lie to Chris’s grandma and say that Viva is back and everything’s fine. But where will I go then? The crew’s already at basecamp; I don’t want them to see me looking like yesterday’s leftovers.

  “She’s not back,” I say. There’s no way around it.

  Grandma Lorna shakes her head and tsk-tsk-tsks, which must be the universal language for “what a terrible mother.” Chris’s own parents are so busy with their restaurant that they don’t come to the set at all, so I don’t know what makes Grandma Lorna so high and mighty. “Has she done this kind of thing before?” she asks.

  What does she mean by “this kind of thing”? Does my mother sleep around? Does she pick guys over me? That’s none of this lady’s business. I don’t like anybody judging my mother no matter what she does or doesn’t do. That’s my job. Viva has br
ought dates home before, but never on location. But this is for me to know and nobody else.

  Grandma Lorna pulls her sweater tight around her body as if the thought of my mother gives her the chills. “Do you think we should call somebody?”

  “No. It’s okay,” I say, like it’s no biggie. I’d rather eat undercooked barbecue chicken every meal for the rest of my life than show her how upset I am. “She’ll be at the trailer by ten.”

  “Well … if you’re sure,” she says.

  My mother might leave me hanging, but she’d never miss a call time. She knows I have a fitting; she’s required to supervise. “I’m sure. She’ll be there.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get you ready for the day.” She passes her eyes over me as if I’m trash with trash for a mother. “Would you like to take a shower?”

  I would, but not here, and not without a change of clothes. “No. Terrance wants my hair dirty. It’s got carrot oil in it from hair and make-up.” This is true but not true. He does want my hair dirty, and they did put carrot oil in it. But if I want to wash my hair, I’m allowed. My hairstylist would redo it.

  “Well, if you say so,” says Grandma Lorna, not convinced. “But I think I have an extra toothbrush around somewhere.”

  I want so bad to say no to anything more she has to offer. But because of that nasty barbecue, what else can I do but take her charity?

  * * *

  When I get to The Locals basecamp, Viva is at the breakfast truck ordering an omelet. She’s had a shower and washed her hair. She’s downright shiny and rosy-cheeked, which is a lot more than I can say for myself.

  “Good mornin’, daughter of mine,” Viva says, full of sunshine and rainbows. With her arm around my shoulders, she glances at the line of hungry crew behind her. “Can you throw on the usual for Joss?” she calls up to the cook, and runs her hand over my head. “Did you guys have a fun sleepover?”

  Sleepover? What does she think? We made popcorn and watched Frozen?

  I answer under my breath, “No. Did you?”

  “Joss, not now.” She presses her shampooed head against my greasy scalp. It’s a phony hug to show to the crew.

  “How could you?” I mumble.

  She pulls me roughly out of the line. “Get in the trailer.”

  “Ow!” I say, wriggling in her grip. “You’re acting like Oscar Coombs!”

  “Shush!” Viva digs her fingers into me while she smiles at Peter Bustamante, Benji, Jericho, and his father. “Good morning,” she says as she shoves me forward across the lot.

  “Don’t ever say the name Oscar Coombs to me! Get inside.” Viva pushes me up the steps of the school trailer.

  Damon is sitting at the table with his breakfast and juice, his eyes wide.

  The closing door rattles the entire trailer. “How dare you speak to me like that in front of everybody.”

  “How could you?” I ask again, crossing my arms. He’s my director! You got tsked by an old lady three times, and I had to use a plastic-wrapped emergency toothbrush from a Ramada Inn!

  “I don’t answer to you, missy. You answer to me.” She points an angry finger. “I don’t care who you are when you’re on set. There are no movie stars in this family. I’m still the parent, and you’re the kid.”

  Could’ve fooled me.

  I’ve heard this before. A zillion times before, actually. In Paper Moon. Tatum’s dad says, “Don’t you go makin’ the decisions. I make the decisions. All you gotta do is look like a pretty little girl.”

  “Wipe that look off your face.” Viva swipes her hand in front of my eyes. “Know your place.”

  I shouldn’t say anything. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve got so much building up inside me, I just can’t help myself. “Why do I have to be perfect, but you can do whatever you want?” I yell.

  I brace myself for I don’t know what—a smack, a thunderbolt, a natural disaster? She’s yanked me and shaken me before, but she’s never slapped me. Yet. At the table, Damon is eating Tater Tots as if they’re popcorn, and he’s watching me and my mother like we’re entertainment.

  In a second, Viva’s laughing like a crazy person; her eyes are about to pop out of her head. “Perfect? What makes you think you’re perfect?” She laughs even harder and pulls at her hair. “Get over yourself. And you better watch it, because you’re getting mouthier and mouthier with every passing day.” She looks in the mirror and adjusts herself. “You’re not the only one who deserves a little bit of attention from this world.”

  But I never wanted attention from the world. I only wanted attention from her.

  “Don’t forget that you’re just one zit and a training bra away from being unemployable.” She slams the door behind her.

  That’s one line I can’t ever forget.

  “Who’s Oscar Coombs?” Damon asks. I almost forgot he was here. I should probably be embarrassed, but I’m not because he already knows all our business, and none of it has shocked him so far. Someday he’ll be one of those people who’s interviewed about my life story. I wonder what he’ll decide to keep to himself for “life or longer.”

  “Cameron Coombs, the kid actor’s father. He had a tantrum on set. He broke a camera and got arrested.”

  “Oh, right. I read about that.” Damon scratches his head. “What ever happened to Cameron Coombs? I never see him anymore.”

  I stare blankly. “Exactly.”

  “Ah…” Damon holds his breakfast burrito and pushes a bowl of pistachios and melon across the table. “Nuts?”

  Plunking into a chair, I pick up a pistachio but trade it back for a slice of melon.

  “You weren’t at the bonfire last night,” I say.

  “It was a school night,” Damon answers, unfolding a napkin.

  Of course. Our one responsible adult was in bed by nine.

  Through the screen door I see Benji crossing the parking lot with my breakfast. I open the door and crouch down for the handoff.

  “Breakfast! Your usual.” Benji reaches up to pass me my foil-covered plate of French toast and scrambled eggs. It’s warm in my palm, and I smell the sweet maple syrup.

  “You all right, Joss?” Benji asks softly.

  What is there to say but “A-okay”?

  “Good.” Benji winks.

  Before the audition for Tallulah Leigh, me and Viva daydreamed a lot about being served drinks beside a swimming pool where there’s live music and a buffet table with crab legs. I always pictured a cruise ship or that Sandals resort on the commercial. But now we’ve got even more, so I’m not about to complain.

  “Your fitting will be sometime after lunch. I’ll swing by and bring you and Viva over,” Benji says. “Can I get you anything else while you start tutoring?” I can tell he’s not just asking because it’s his job.

  “Uh … yeah, one thing.” I lean over my food to whisper. “Can you ask Monique in wardrobe if she’s got something I can wear for now? Nothing special—just a regular top and shorts? Because it’s getting hot, and I’m in these.” I pull on my thick gray sweatpants, which I wore to last night’s bonfire.

  “Done,” he answers, no questions asked.

  Some people like to boss around production assistants because they’re the fetchers around here. Directors and actors and producers are always telling them: fetch me some coffee, fetch me the paper, fetch me the copies. Worst of all, I’ve seen actors make them hold an umbrella for them in the rain. I would never do that. I’d feel bad letting someone get wet just so I could stay dry.

  “Thank you. You’re all the rage, Benji,” I say.

  He walks away toward the wardrobe truck and calls, “And Joss Byrd, you are the latest craze!”

  After I step back inside the trailer, I notice a fat envelope on the counter. I freeze. “What is that?” I ask Damon. It’s the kind of envelope with a metal clasp—the kind that usually holds contracts or headshots to autograph … or scripts.

  Damon opens the clasp. He peeks inside as if what’s in there might bite him.<
br />
  “It’s another one, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I give up.” I lay my head on the table. “What color is it now?” I ask, as if it makes any difference.

  He pulls the entire script out. The color reminds me of stale Halloween candy.

  “Ew. Orange,” I say.

  “Actually”—Damon reads the cover page—“it’s called … goldenrod. It’s the ‘goldenrod revision.’”

  “What about the lines?” I ask. “Is the order different or are the words different?”

  He flips pages and pauses. “The words are different.”

  Goldenrod is the most hideous color I’ve ever seen.

  10

  “Hiya, cutie,” the lady in the very clean, white shirt says. “Can you stand on that piece of tape for me and tell the camera your name and your age and where you’re from and a little bit about yourself?”

  “Uh-huh.” I put my toes behind the pink tape. “Here?”

  “That’s perfect. Go ahead. Your name, please.”

  “I’m Joss. Byrd. I’m six.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Maryland. Our backyard is water.”

  “How fun,” she says. “Now, can you turn and face left for me?”

  I turn in one direction. I hope it’s left.

  “Good. And now turn and face right?”

  I turn in the other direction.

  “Great. You can face forward,” she says. “Did you drive all the way from Maryland to meet us?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s impressive. And how’d you like traveling all those miles?”

  “Our air conditioning busted.”

  I don’t know why she’s laughing. It was so hot; I could’ve fainted. Sometimes kids die in cars. I saw it twice on the news.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “Well, I hope you have a better ride home.”

  “We’re gonna stay in a hotel. An air-conditioned one. With room service.”