Accidental Action Star (3 page)

Make her a star? Me?

The director strode off, leaving me under the AD’s pointy stare, Lorene’s vicious glare, and Max’s inscrutable gaze.

Other than appearing a few times on Mom’s cooking show when I was too young to protest, I hadn’t been onscreen. And
Scoop Out
already sucked away enough time from my art. So, despite the director’s wild and weird suggestion…no. “I’m not an actress.”

The AD widened his eyes as if he didn’t see the problem. After I didn’t jump on the offer, he said, “It’s a small role. Three-day shoot max. And you’ll be great in it.”

Lorene put her hands on her hips. “She’s not an actress. She just said it herself.”

Max remained silent.

The AD scratched his chin, rubbing his fuzzy circle of beard. “Chemistry trumps good acting any day. Don’t make me name the films that prove my point.”

That was true. And acting had to pay more than my unpaid internship. Plus, more time with Max meant more chances to get the
Dragon Night
characters worked out. And it also meant more time with Max. Hmm.

Lorene threaded her hands into her auburn hair, lifting it off her neck. The move appeared to be an attempt to cool her heated rage, but because it thrust her chest forward and made the guys look, it came off as provocative. “This is not happening.” Lorene glared at the AD. “You’re not doing this to me again.” She sent me a disdainful, superior look. “Not with her.”

What?
I could be an actress. “What? I can be an actress.”

Max covered his grin with his hand. Clearly, he didn’t want to set Lorene off more than she already was. Lorene shot hate fire at me with her eyes and the amber color glowed like they actually could shoot flames. She breathed in and out and opened her gloss-coated red lips.

What was next? Steam? A forked tongue?

I blinked my baby blues rapidly at her. Her mouth closed and pursed tightly, showing off emerging vertical cigarette lines. My sweet look wasn’t working. She knew it was false. I knew it was false.

“Powder.” The AD summoned the makeup artist with a come-here look. He made it sound like a professional request, but desperation laced his tone. 

The blonde-haired lady came over, carrying a cosmetic puff and a container of face powder. She eyed the actors for shine. Lorene rolled forward for a touchup. Max backed up a step.

“Instead of a dual role, Lorene’s going to play the Summer Siren only.” The AD didn’t look at Lorene as he spoke. “Hannah here’s going to get a shot at the Snow Queen role.”

I let my lips curl up a little.

Lorene tensed further.

The makeup lady, who they called ‘Powder’, lowered her tools and assessed me. “Good. I hate it when one actor plays two parts. I never believe it and it shakes me right out of the story.”

Lorene turned her glare on Powder as Powder’s words lent support to the director’s crazy plan.

The AD shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Lorene, remember how outstanding you are in the other role. That will shine through on the screen.”

Lorene stuck her red-tipped index finger two inches from my face, and the peach perfume she’d sprayed on her wrist swamped the air. “Especially next to an amateur.”

The AD didn’t touch that. “Powder, take Hannah to administration and get the paperwork sorted.” He eyed me. “Tell me you’re over eighteen and have graduated from high school.”

I’d graduated last month and turned eighteen last week. “Yes and yes.”

Relief eased the tension lines on his face. “Great. No tutors. You’re a go then.”

A change came over Lorene’s face, a still, practiced calm. “Fine.” She swiveled her hips as if she wore a hula hoop. “‘Competition is healthy. Most actors refuse to acknowledge this. They don't want to compete. They want to get along. And they are therefore, not first-rate actors.’” She drew quote marks in the air. “Michael Shurtleff.”  She credited the quote and traipsed off.

I wanted to quote someone back at her, but I had nothing, nothing that would comfort her and nothing that would make her welcome me as a new colleague, as savior of the Snow Queen role.

Max’s phone beeped. He checked his text. “Later.” He left. 

I watched his confident stride and shifting muscles longer than I should have and pondered the problem of the unsigned art forms for less time than I should have. Then, I turned back to the makeup lady. “Thanks for helping me.”

“No problem. Let me just drop this off.” Powder took her touchup kit to the counter in the makeup area. She shared the space with Wardrobe. Mobile clothing racks took up half the area and made the place smell like a dry cleaners.

A thin man, made taller by his moussed-up brown hair, stood labeling costumes. I recognized him as the costume guy who’d been by the Art Department to retrieve Lorene’s shoes from Justin. I slunk back two steps.

“That’s Cutter. He tailors the costumes.”

I pulled some of my hair over my face and looked down.

“Hey, Cutter.” Powder waved. “This is Hannah. Hannah’s taking over the Snow Queen role from Lorene.”

Cutter pivoted on his tiptoes. “And
they’re
telling me this now?”

Powder held up her hands for peace, a motion I bet got a lot of practice around here.

Cutter let out a deep sigh. “Bring her over.” He tilted his head. “I know you. How do I know you?”

I shrugged and kept my face averted.

Cutter turned to Powder. “How do I know her?”

Powder shrugged too. “Got me.”

Cutter’s not recognizing me wasn’t really surprising. Crew rarely noticed interns unless they had a pressing task to be performed. Then we became briefly visible. If interns were a day, we’d be February 29
th
.

“Whatever.” Cutter drummed his buffed, blunt-cut fingernails against his forearms and examined me. “Blond hair. Blue eyes. How original. Well, at least her coloring’s suited to winter. I don’t know how they thought an autumn would sell the Snow Queen role. Wardrobe should be consulted before final casting.” He flipped through the costumes, making the mobile closet roll an inch. The flashes of color from the fabrics said that
Time Kick
had epic fantasy scenes.

And
Cutter? Powder?
Nicknames were so de-humanizing. We were more than our titles. I glanced between the two of them. “What’s your real names? I’d rather call you by those.”

Powder grimaced. “I’ll never tell.”

Cutter arched a brow and looked down his nose at me. “That’s not how this works.”

Okay. “Oh.”

Cutter lifted the hem of his shiny green shirt and unclipped a measuring tape from his belt. “Come over here for measurements.”

Powder shook her head. “She’s not even signed on yet. This just happened. I’m taking her up to Executive to get her paperwork done.”

“
Just
now happened?” Cutter wiped the side of his jaw with his knuckles, appearing slightly appeased. “Fine. Take her.” To me, he said, “Guess you’ll have to come up with a stage name on the walk over.”

“I need a stage name?”

“Hello.” Cutter raised his eyebrows. “Hannah? Yeah. You need a stage name.” He held up a blue satin slip dress covered in crystal snowflakes. “The Snow Queen is exotic and sexy.” He shook the dress. The crystals winked under the light and he cooed at it.

Powder jerked her head toward the exit. “Come on.”

Stage name. As if the name Hannah wasn’t sexy or exotic. I fought back the offended feeling. “The thought of being called something else creeps me out.”

Powder led the way, and we threw on our sunglasses against the bright LA light. “That’s how movie studios are. They change your name, your hair, and you say,
Yes, my name is Tatiana. It’s Nordic
.”

“Huh.” Upon reflection, I kind of liked the idea of my last name not being the same as Mom’s. We kept quiet about our relationship on the set of
Scoop Out
. And, I liked the idea of no longer hearing,
Aren’t you Sara Sim’s daughter? Can you cook something for me?

***

I plopped down on my bed and looked over at my roommate. I didn’t know Eva all that well because we both worked a ton, and I hadn’t met her before moving into the dorm two weeks ago. “Today was crazy.”

“Yeah. Daughter of the boss. I’m sure they put you through the wringer.” Eva’s concession stand job at the local theater had left her a little bitter and smelling like popcorn.

“I’m sure you’ll make ticket booth soon.”

Eva toed off her black, oil-stained canvas sneakers. “Are you? Are you really sure?”

“Stop being such a b-yotch and I’ll tell you about my day.”

Eva laughed. She was still a b-yotch, but her sense of humor saved her. “Your art supplies are easing onto my side of the room. Again.”

“I know. Now, let me tell you about my day.”

Eva got up and unclipped her hair, letting the blue-black strands fall down her back. Having her hair up was a health code requirement for concession stand workers, and Eva resented the restriction with more force than I thought necessary.

“Let me guess. One art class. Then you had to eat gourmet food prepared by spectacular chefs on your mom’s show. And then you worked at your dream job in the Art Department for an hour.” She opened the bathroom door. “Poor Hannah.”

“Ugh.” I threw my pillow at her. I so missed my friends from back home. Online friendships weren’t the same. My old friends got that I didn’t mind helping out on Mom’s show. It was that she was pushing me to make it a career that drove me crazy.

***

“Two minutes, chefs.” Mom signaled the
Scoop Out
contestants.

I sat in the corner drawing, and Mom hovered over me like Batman after a criminal. “Do you want to do the countdown?”

No. I wanted to finish sketching in peace. I’d almost got the curve on Max’s mouth  as it had looked right before he tossed me onto his shoulder. Wicked. I closed my notebook and shoved down my irritation. “No thanks.”

Mom’s mouth tightened as I politely thwarted her attempts to lure me into her dreams for my future.

At some point I’d have to tell her I’d cut my
Scoop Out
hours along with my Art Department hours. I’d also have to tell her why—because I’d accepted the small part on
Time Kick.
However, as long as Mom kept showing up late, I could keep that information to myself.

Mom turned back to the contestants, eying her chefs with the same blasé expression a presenter used when reading the names of the award winners. “Three…two…one…”

The finalists threw their hands in the air.

“Cut,” the director said. “Remember, when Ms. Sims reaches you, step one foot forward and angle your shoulder toward the camera. This will give you better dimension and your best shot.”

Mom moved in front of Marissa, a fellow Texan who idolized her and loved cooking. Just the type of daughter Mom had wanted. “Explain your dish.”

This was the first time Marissa, a mid-season replacement contestant, had met Mom. She gushed.

Mom smiled, but the director cut in, “No, no Marissa.” She sighed. “Introduce your dish.”

I went over and examined the computer monitor that showed the visuals caught by the various cameras in the room. Image selection was much more interesting than cooking. I clicked on the one showing Mom’s smile, contestant Gert’s narrowed eyes, and Marissa’s excitement. I wondered if Marissa knew Garrett Campbell was totally into her. More importantly, I wondered who Max Stone was totally into.

Mom gave nothing away as she went down the rows. After she’d sampled each dessert, she faced the main camera. “Paprika on Crème Brulee? Spice King, your spice-centric take on the world went too far this time.”

Another contestant down, another step toward ending this season of
Scoop Out
.

The contestant nicknamed Spice King huffed and went to the front of the room. I clicked on his snarled lip, marking the frame for the editor. The editor said I had a good eye for shots. I didn’t know if that was true or if he just liked me doing some of his work. I didn’t mind. It was fun. If Mom pushed me toward editing instead of hosting and cooking, she might hook me.

Mom raised the doggie bag, and the camera zoomed in. “You’ve been scooped out. Enjoy this at home, because you can’t eat it here.”

Spice King shed his apron and threw paprika at the camera while the remaining finalists barked like dogs. That was the really fun part. I grinned and shook my hands in the air so they’d raise the volume.

“Cut. That’s a wrap.” The director’s shoulders slumped. She blew out a breath. “Great job, you guys. See you next rehearsal.”

Before she’d finished the word
rehearsal
, Mom was out the door with a wave. She was done for the day. Not me.

The contestants high-fived each other and Grandma Gert sliced up the desserts so they could all try them. Gert was a whiz with the knives. While on the show, all her movements were careful and sweet. Take the cameras off and the blades flew. Her grandmotherly persona was so false. Her game focused solely on the prize money; same for the lead contestant Will. They didn’t seem to realize that each week they had a shot at impressing potential backers. But no way would anyone hire fake Grandma or arrogant Will.

Cal got it. He worked his Cajun charm and boy-next-door good looks. Someone would hire him or become his Sugar Mama. Kate did well too in her own way. Her work area was spotless. If cooking didn’t work out, the health department would take her.

Marissa had the most showbiz potential here. Her wit and fascination with food shined through on camera. Social media buzzed about her recipes and her delivery. She was the one to beat, even if she didn’t know it.

I gave out the
Scoop Out Final Five
T-shirts. “Obviously, you can’t wear the shirt until the episode airs, but then we encourage it.”

Gert and Will took their shirts, switched to street clothes, and left. Kate, Marissa, Cal and I changed to go celebrate.

***

Music pounded through the dance club with so much bass I felt it on the inside. Cal flirted with all of us, spreading his Cajun charm equally between Kate, Marissa and me. So special. So glad I hadn’t fallen for his line about how good I looked in the
Scoop Out
T-shirt. He probably thought I’d get him more air time. I twisted away while Kate swiveled around him like he was a pole and she needed to earn a dollar.