“That’s too bad. This isn’t just any part.”
“Let me guess: I’m gonna win an Oscar? Have my name in lights?”
“I own the rights to remake A Day at the Lake. I’ve been hoping to do it for a few years now, but I haven’t been able to find the right actress. You would be perfect.”
“And, oh, what a perfect role it is!” I say in mock happiness, clasping my hands up by my cheek, and giving him a huge, fake smile. “I’d get to wear a bikini and scream! Please, sign me up!”
He laughs at me. “You’re very funny, and you have a very expressive face. If you could harness that, call it up on cue, you’d probably be a better actress than your mom. Have you acted much?”
“I grew up on movie sets, but no, I haven’t. And I’m not sure if I want to, but if I did—no offense—I’d probably want a more challenging role.”
He nods his head. “I can respect that, but I’ll give you a piece of advice. Don’t turn anything down until you have all the facts. The remake I want to do will have the spirit of the original, but not the script. I want this to be a blockbluster. We’re adding special effects and doing a total rewrite. There will be full marketing. Posters, Barbie dolls, lunch boxes. The lead role needs to be more like Lara Croft or Buffy the Vampire Slayer than the helpless victim your mom was. We want a kick-ass heroine. I saw you out surfing, and you seem pretty athletic. Still, I’d be taking a big chance casting an unknown like you.”
“You might be right. I should’ve listened. Something like that I might be interested in. I just thought—you know—we’re in a bar; you hear stories about that kind of stuff. So, is there a script I could see?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on the financing.”
“I see.” Hmm. Now I’m not sure there ever will be a script, and Mom has warned me about men that make promises to young girls that they can’t keep. I’m firm, but polite. “I’ll call you,” I say.
But I’m not going to call him. You can’t read for a part that has no script. Even if the producer is hot.
Well, not unless you want to sleep with him. And, to be honest, if I was a little older and not in love with someone else, I might consider it. Not for the part, of course. For his hotness. For his dark eyes. For his surprisingly strong arms. For his great taste in clothes.
Brooklyn is sitting at a table with my parents and Sander, who has just joined the group. Sander has Mom engrossed in conversation while Tommy and Brooklyn are watching the band. As I walk by, Sander grabs me, kisses both my cheeks, and hugs me tightly.
Brooklyn looks irritated at me.
Damian yells out to the crowd. “This song is for Brook and Keats. I better see both your asses out on the dance floor.”
The band starts to play, and Damian sings, “Little surfer, little one . . . ” Their cover version of the classic Beach Boys song is one of my favorites.
Brooklyn doesn’t look irritated anymore as he takes my hand and leads me out to the center of the dance floor. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. I’ve danced with him a few times in the past, but this feels different. And I’m pretty sure it’s not just my imagination or wishful thinking.
He’s holding me tighter than usual.
His body is pressed close to me.
His forehead is against mine, and his eyes are closed.
I want to scream at him, KISS ME, KISS ME!
I mean, how perfect would it be?
I haven’t written this exact script—we’re supposed to be on the beach when we have our first kiss—but I’ve always considered this our song. If he kissed me now, it always would be.
But he doesn’t.
When our lips finally meet.
2:30am
Damian, Brooklyn, and I are sitting in the hot tub. We decided to spend Damian’s last night in town doing what we always do: smoke a little, and then stay up late talking in the hot tub. Brooklyn just ran in the house to grab some towels.
The second he’s gone, Damian turns to me. “So what’s going on? Why does Brook seem weird?”
“He doesn’t seem weird to me.”
“Did you guys hook up?”
“I wish.” I immediately cover my mouth with my hand.
He grins at me. “You’ve always had a crush on him, haven’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Kinda, but it’s okay. He crushes back.”
“Shut up! He does? No. Like, really? Has he told you that? Do you know that for sure?”
Damian laughs at me then says, “He thinks you’re hot. His friends all think you’re hot. Why do you think none of them ever hit on you?”
“Cause I have a boyfriend and they see me as one of the guys?”
“No, they see you as Brook’s. Remember that night you got drunk?”