Before I can stop myself, I go one better than a simple lack of enthusiasm. “Pride and Prejudice. Set in a high school. Seriously?”
He sighs and tosses the script packet on the kitchen table, and we don’t discuss it further. This is our standard resolution to this sort of conflict: we both pretend I’m all good with what he wants. In this particular instance, I’ll take the packet to my room and start memorizing lines, and he’ll tell Dan how psyched I am about the audition.
Landing this role would be career-altering, no doubt about it. All the bit parts, the commercials for department stores and bacon and grape juice have led up to this moment… where I try to win another (more prominent than anything before) girl-next-door role. Truth is, I’m not just tired of one-dimensional roles. I’m sick of doing films, period.
When I was thirteen, I was one of the fairies in a local stage production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I loved the live performance, the thrill of the audience reaction. I’ve pleaded to do more live theatre in the four years since, but it’s never going to happen, because Dan and my manager-father consider my role in Midsummer a one-time community service project. They want Emma Pierce to be a household name, so there’s no time for silly local theatre roles.
As a compromise, I’ve tried suggesting quirky, edgy independent film scripts. Every time, they shoot me down. “I don’t think this is what we want for your career,” one of them says, and I fold up and cave, because when it comes to running my own life, I’m a yellow-bellied coward.
Just this morning, I felt like a regular girl—scanning my computer and phone for overnight messages, planning a trip to the mall with Emily. A day of typical spring break activities with my best friend was exactly what I needed to make me feel normal. We rolled down the windows, sang along to our favorite songs, talked about boys we know, and speculated about the ones we haven’t met.
I’m not a regular girl, though. I’m a working actress. I don’t attend school; I have tutors. I don’t hang in the commons at lunch with my friends; I grab something from the caterer on set if I’m filming, or make myself something in the kitchen at home if not. I read scripts and review lines while exercising, do homework on set.
In the past year, my relationship with my father has grown more strained than ever, but it hasn’t been great for years. I inherited little from him apart from his gray-green eyes and a passion for running. In every other respect, we’re polar opposites. He doesn’t get me. I don’t get him. End of story.
Chapter 2
REID
“Your father says he’ll be home tonight. Please, Reid?”
Shit. “Yeah, sure, Mom.”
Dinner with Mark and Lucy—always entertaining. I avoid it when possible, but Mom’s got me cornered before I leave for my meeting with Larry, my PR guy. She’s so persistently anxious that it’s hard for me to say no to her. Dad doesn’t seem to have the same struggle. She’s got this idealistic vision of the three of us as a happy little family: if we sit down together at the dinner table, domestic bliss will magically occur. Why this doesn’t strike her as wishful thinking given the fact that it’s never worked before, I don’t know. I’ll be gone soon anyway. I refuse to contemplate how far she’ll sink then.
I haven’t decided when I’ll actually move out. My room has a separate entrance and is more like an apartment attached to my parents’ house than a room within it. My grandmother lived with us until she died a few years ago, and this was her suite. Not long after she was gone, I talked Mom into letting me switch rooms. Dad was pissed because I was like fifteen and could then come and go without their knowledge, but it was a done deal by the time he noticed, and I just entrenched and ignored him until he quit blustering.
“Congrats on getting School Pride, man.” Larry’s toadying, as usual. We’re at a sushi place on Ventura, and he’s annoying the crap out of me. He can’t even use chopsticks correctly—it’s like his hands are retarded. That may sound like a pretentious prick thing to say, but he chose the place. Plus, my gut says he’s bitter about what I make compared to him. There’s a lot of envy in this business. The more successful you are, the larger the target.
“Thanks.” I pop a piece of salmon sashimi into my mouth.
He clears his throat. “Okay, so, well…” Shit, man, spit it out already. “We’re thinking that you should, uh, align yourself with some charitable efforts, now that you’re an adult.” He has this look like I’m going to have a problem with that, which makes me wonder if I should have a problem with it.
I eye him, still chewing. “Like what?”
I swear to God he squirms in his seat like a kid on the verge of peeing his pants. “Well, lots of options. Telethons, or, uh, a day or two of something like Habitat for Humanity, or you could endorse adult literacy or childhood vaccinations with a television spot.”
I forgot about Larry’s tendency to well and uh when nervous. It makes me want to shovel sushi into his mouth until he can’t speak at all.
“I’m not doing some telethon, or manual labor. And childhood vaccinations?” I quirk an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t that be left to people with kids?”
He mops his face with his napkin. “Well…”
This is going to take all damned day. “Anything else?”
He pokes at his tuna slices. “You could visit schools, participate in drug and alcohol awareness presentations—”