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.”