WILL
I can’t take this. Obviously we’re on different levels socially and you’re a complete one-eighty from my usual type, but I can’t get you out of my head. Go to Charlie’s party with me on Saturday. I’ll pick you up at eight.
LIZBETH looks up at him, tilting head as if confused:
LIZBETH
Usually if I’m not interested in going out with someone, I try to be nice about it. But I’m sort of in shock right now.
WILL
(incredulous)
Are you saying no?
LIZBETH
I’m saying you couldn’t pay me.
(Again, this feels dead wrong, but it’s in the script.)
WILL glares at LIZBETH, steps closer to her:
WILL
What the hell? You’re actually saying no?
LIZBETH, squaring shoulders:
LIZBETH
So you think you can ask me out and I’ll trot after you like every other idiotic girl in this school? I won’t. Even if you weren’t so rude every time I’m around you, do you think I want anything to do with you after what you did to Jane? And to George?
WILL
What happened between George Wickham and me is none of your business. This is ridiculous. I only wanted to take you to a party, even if you aren’t exactly in my league. Would you rather I just lied about that, to save your precious ego?
LIZBETH
I couldn’t care less how you asked.
(We’re inches apart. Reid waits for my one-word line—his cue to kiss me. Up close, Reid Alexander is the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen, though it’s hardly the best time to appreciate this fact, as Lizbeth is currently livid.)
What?
WILL grabs LIZBETH’S shoulders.
“Cut!” Richter calls. “Good, good. Thank you, Emma. We’ll be in touch.” He dismisses me with a smile.
Good smile or bad smile? The audition felt good, but he stopped us right before the kiss, which seems not good. “Reid, let’s take a look at the next to last line…” he says, and Reid jogs over to consult with him after giving me a mesmerizing smile of his own.
“Ms. Pierce?” The scene attendant breaks my trance, her expression telling me that she witnesses the stupefied look on my face all too often. “Right this way,” she says, showing me to the exit.
Chapter 4
REID
Lucky number thirteen—Emma Pierce. We’ll see two more girls today and five tomorrow, but I already know it’s her. That spark, the chemistry—we’ve got it. The source of it is inexplicable; it’s more than and many times separate from simple attraction. There are couples who have it onscreen but can’t stand the sight of each other in real life, and couples where sexual orientation should negate it, but there it is, on film. Like magic.
I’ve never heard of this girl before. If chosen, she’ll be a virtual unknown, and I wonder if Richter will have problems convincing production to take a chance on her. We auditioned two prominent actresses for Lizbeth on the first day. Either of them would work… but not like Emma. Richter knows it, too. After her audition, he asked me what I thought.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling.
He smiled back. “I think ‘yeah’ sums it up nicely. Let’s see these last… seven, is it? But I’ll go ahead and give Emma’s agent a call tomorrow, and get her set up for a callback. Let’s see what you two can do with the entire scene.”
He wants to see the kiss.
So do I.
Emma
My father and Chloe keep eyeing each other with sideways glances; he sighs noisily every couple of minutes while she chews her lip. Neither has asked me anything since their initial How’d it go? probes, which I answered briefly and with no specifics. They deserve the silent treatment for that speech over the breakfast table a couple of weeks ago, even if they don’t know I was listening.
“So… Reid was there?” Chloe prompts, following a full five-minute silence in the taxi after dinner.
“Yeah.” I hope they’ll take my attitude as typical seventeen-year-old reticence.
She waits another minute for me to elaborate, then realizes I’m not going to. “So, is he gorgeous in person? Was the scene with him or was he just, you know, there?”
“With him.” The hotel finally comes into sight, thank God. Soon we’ll go to our separate, adjoining rooms and I’ll have my thoughts to myself.
My father heaves another perturbed sigh. “Do you think you’ll get a callback?”
“I don’t know.”
Chloe rolls her eyes and pulls out a compact mirror and lipstick, as though her exit at the curb of the hotel is a red-carpet event. Hopefully that ends the interrogation for tonight, though I’m positive it will start up again over breakfast.
In my bag are the School Pride sides I was expected to memorize for the audition, and the copy of Pride and Prejudice that belonged to my mother, who died when I was six. What my mother bequeathed to me: cloudy memories of our lives before she was gone, a handful of photos, her wedding band, and dog-eared copy of her favorite novel. On page 100, there’s a faint coffee ring. On page 237, a smudged fingerprint, undoubtedly pressed to the page while she was simultaneously cooking and reading to me, something I vaguely recall her doing. When I feel the absence of her the most, when I crave her arms around me and can’t bear the knowledge that she’s never coming back no matter what I do or how much I need her, I open her book to these pages, touch my fingers to the fingerprint and the coffee ring, and feel comforted.
I don’t want to discuss the audition with anyone but Emily. We’ve been known as Em and Em since kindergarten, when we became best friends, and attended school together until sixth grade, when my father put me into tutoring, citing my erratic schedule. Thanks to my grandmother and Emily’s mom taxiing us back and forth, we stayed close. I don’t know what my life would have been like without her. Lonely, I think.
With Emily, I got my ears pierced and spied on cute neighborhood boys (armed with her dad’s binoculars), learned to skateboard (sort of) and took driver’s ed. With Emily, I have sleepovers, get pedicures and talk about everything. With Emily, I feel normal.
I call her as soon as I’m in my room, and she answers on the first ring. “So which scene did you do? Was it a good one? Did you nail it?”
“The scene where he asks me out.”
“The one where he kisses you at the end? Aaaaaand?”
“When we got to the part where he grabs me, which by the way isn’t something Darcy would ever do, because he’s fully in charge of his emotions at all times—it’s his defining characteristic! I don’t think the screenwriter even read the novel...”
“Emma, you’re killing me. I’m dying. Spill.”
“No kiss. The director stopped us right before, and I guess they brought the next hopeful contender in.”
“Aw, crap. No fair.” She sighs, taking the loss personally.
“Yeah, kissing him would’ve been a nice consolation prize.”
“Emma, I told you, you’re getting this part. Are you ready to handle all the screwed up stuff in the script? Movies are never as good as the book, no offense. You can’t let it drive you insane.” Emily knows me so well.
“I can do it. I’m just worried that if I do this movie, I’ll be stereotyped as insubstantial and cute. I’ll never end up doing something significant.”
“At some point you’ll be in charge of your career, and you can do whatever you want.”
“When will that be?” I can’t help the whine that seeps into my voice.
“When you’re like forty,” she answers. “No doubt about it—by forty, you’ll be in complete control.”
I smile. “Night, Em.”
“Night, Em.”
Chapter 5
REID
After the last two auditions, I’m waiting for my car to be brought around and pulling my phone from my pocket to call my friend John when I get a text from Mom reminding me about dinner at 8:00. My first thought is how the hell to get out of it, but then I remember how she looked this morning when I said yes. I hit reply and type yep.
The valet zooms up in my Lotus, which I convinced Dad to let me buy a few months ago by telling him I would just get it when I turned eighteen if he said no. He hates the car, from the engine roar when I gun it to the stereo vibrating everything in the house as I pull into the garage, but above all, he hates the color—lemon yellow. He calls it a douche taxi. Last week I pulled into the drive when he was getting the mail, and as I walked up to the house he stared at the car and said, no inflection, “You’re keeping that thing at least a year.”
As he knew it would, that remark made me want to sell the fucking car immediately.
Dinner in two hours should be all kinds of enjoyable.
I might as well do some shopping—no sense in being home early. Rodeo Drive is closing down for the day, but I head over to Robertson and hand over the keys to another valet, wondering if valets actually drive my car as much or more than I do. Paul & Joe is open and nearly deserted, the sales clerks (both hot—gay guy, wispy blonde chick) hovering, waiting to be helpful. They exchange a look as I browse. Between the two of them, they probably generate interest from anyone between fifteen and fifty who walks through the door.
I grab a few funky shirts and a pair of jeans and request a dressing room from the girl. “Yes, of course, Mr. Alexander,” she says. Maybe someday I’ll hate it, but for now, I love being recognized. I’ve just pulled on the jeans when she comes into the dressing room with another pair in a different shade. Without a trace of apprehension at walking in on me half-undressed, she holds them out. “This is the newer wash. I thought you might want to try them, too.” I toss them onto the pile as her eyes rake over my chest. Turning to the mirror like I don’t notice, I button the jeans and pull on one of the vintage t-shirts.
“What do you think? Too dug-it-outta-Dad’s-closet?”
Her mouth turns up on one side and she shrugs. “If your dad was cool, then that’s in.” She bites her lip, lightly. “Let me see the other one.”
I pull the shirt off and step closer. “Hold it for me?” I can almost hear the porn soundtrack starting up in my head, until my phone beeps—another reminder text from Mom about dinner. I reply that I’m on my way.
“So, Kaci,” I touch the nametag just over her breast, “I’ll take both shirts, and the jeans I’m wearing. I don’t have time to take them off right now.” My meaning is clear as I rip the tag off and hand it to her. “I’ll just wear them out, if that’s okay.”
When I leave, the discarded tag, her phone number written on the back in red ink, is in the bag with the new shirts and the jeans I was wearing when I came in.
I park next to Dad’s empty spot in the garage. Not a good sign; I hope he’s just late. As much as I’d prefer to pass on sitting across the table from him, I live in constant dread of having to watch the effect on Mom whenever he bails on her—which is often. Immaculada is perched on a stool in the kitchen, chin propped in her hand, watching reality TV. Everything on the stove is set to low. Waiting.
