No Ordinary Life (10 page)

20

T
he contract is for so much more than I expected that I can't get my head around the numbers. Molly will be paid $20,000 per episode for the first seven episodes. If her contract is renewed for the rest of the season and the two seasons after that, a three-year contract total, she will get $30,000 an episode for the remaining episodes. For any
Foster Band
merchandise that has solely her image on it, she will receive a ten percent royalty. For merchandise with multiple persons on it, she will get a proportional split of the ten percent royalty. The contract is exclusive of any money Molly receives for concerts, music royalties, endorsement deals, magazine shoots, or appearances.

Twenty thousand an episode for seven episodes is $140,000. Thirty thousand an episode for fifteen more episodes is $450,000. Molly's gross income for the year will be $590,000, not including the money from the Gap commercial or anything else she might do. The years after, she will make $660,000.

I am designated as Molly's manager, and as such, fifteen percent of what she earns will be mine. Fifteen percent of $660,000 is $99,000. I suddenly have a job that pays nearly one hundred grand a year, possibly more, and the job is to take care of my little girl. I can't believe it. I really can't.

I read the contract three times. Some of the legal jargon is a little confusing, and there's a paragraph about breach of contract that is unsettling because it says if we leave without cause we can be sued, and since I've never committed to anything for longer than a day, signing on to do something for three years is a bit out of my comfort zone. But I also can't imagine ever wanting to quit something like this. Why would we? This is the greatest thing that's ever happened to us.

I sign on every line I'm supposed to then grab a sheet of paper and write a list:

     I smile. I kiss my list. I twirl in a circle then sit back down and stare some more at my wonderful, amazing list.

When my eyes grow too heavy to keep them open a moment longer, I crawl onto the sleeper couch beside Molly and continue the silent reverie in the dark, swooning a little with the disbelief of it all. My hand slides across the mattress until the knuckles rest against Molly's forearm, her solid warmth anchoring me. We made it. All the scraping and scrapping we've done to survive is over, and somehow, miraculously, it all worked out. Tears squeeze from my eyes with the sheer relief of it.

It's so wonderful and I'm so overwhelmed by the thought of it that I can hardly believe it's real. Money, that sweet green stuff that makes the world go round, is going to start rolling in. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, the little stucco bumps shadowed blue by the moonlight through the window. No more struggle. Incredible.

Molly snorts then resumes her steady snoring, a perfect rhythm of breath I try to match with my own, hoping to settle the erratic pounding in my chest.
It is real
, I assure myself, but the thought only causes my heart to pound harder.

Our new reality seems so fragile that it unnerves me. We only just got here, but already I'm terrified it will be taken away, that as quickly as it arrived, it will disappear—the whole thing amazing and tenuous as a butterfly's life.

I tell myself it's only the newness that has me off balance, that this is the greatest thing that's ever happened to us. A good night's sleep and tomorrow the shadows of doubt will be gone.

21

W
e pull onto the lot, and Molly yawns awake then climbs from the car without an ounce of urgency, and it's all I can do not to scream at her to hurry up. It's our first day and already we are ten minutes late.

We race to the soundstage then through the corridors toward the sound of voices, and when we find a small crowd, we stop, assuming this is where we are supposed to be. A few people look our way, but no one says anything and I don't recognize a single face. Some chat in small groups, others hang by themselves with cups of coffee and their cell phones, and a few slump against walls with their eyes closed.

“You're late.”

I don't know the woman who has stepped in front of us, but by her tone and demeanor, I assume she's in charge. Petite as a pixie, her hair is jet black and her eyes piercing blue. She could be a haggard thirty-year-old or a well-maintained fifty-year-old; it's impossible to tell. She carries a clipboard and wears black jeans, a black sweater, a headset, and a scowl.

“You need to leave,” she says. Her voice matches her hairstyle and wardrobe—severe and shrill—like the squawk of a raven.

I blink, not understanding. Are we being fired or is she sending us home as punishment for being late?

“Give me your cell number,” she says.

I scrawl the number on her clipboard as I stammer, “I don't understand.”

“What don't you understand?”

“You just told us to leave.”

She frowns, her mouth pinching so tight that it puckers. “Minutes. Your daughter has 270 of them a day. They are clocked from the moment you arrive on the lot.” She looks at her watch. “You pulled in at 7:09. It is now 7:16. Seven minutes are gone and nothing's been accomplished. By the time you pull off of the lot again, another ten minutes will have been wasted. At this rate, we'll finish the first episode in time for the finale. I told Chris he should have cast twins, but no, he insisted your daughter was
the one
, so now I'm stuck dealing with three hours of set time and four and a half hours of lot time. Does he know how difficult that's going to be?”

I pull Molly against my hip to buffer her from the woman's rant.

“From now on, when you're given your call time, it means you'll be waiting somewhere nearby at that time. Seven means seven, not seven-sixteen. You will wait until I call, then you will come onto the lot. Understood?”

I nod.

“Good. Now go.”

“But Molly doesn't have a scene until halfway through the first episode. Do you even need her today?”

She runs me up and down and sneers in distaste like I'm a fly that landed in her soup. “You've never done this before?”

I shake my head.

“First, we don't shoot in sequence; that would be incredibly inefficient. Second, today and tomorrow are blocking.”

I swallow.

“Christ, you don't know what blocking is? Are you kidding me?” Her voice has reached a glass-shattering octave, and now everyone is looking at us. “I'm going to kill Chris. I don't have time for this.”

“She's scawry,” Molly says as we hurry back the way we came.

22

E
xtreme boredom has set in.

We wait at a nearby McDonald's for the woman to call. We've been here five hours.

Molly plays in the play area, rotating friends as previous ones leave to get on with their days.

I've eaten breakfast and lunch, indulged in a chocolate sundae, and am now contemplating an apple pie. If each day is like this, I'll weigh three hundred pounds by the time the season begins.

While I wait, I contemplate what a loser I am at my new job. I don't know the woman's name who sent us away. I didn't get her number. And I have no idea what blocking is or why we're not a part of it.

Reluctant to tie up my phone, I've resisted calling home to check on Emily and Tom, but unable to stand the boredom one more second, I cave.

First, I call home. No answer.

I try to recall if my mom told me her plan for the day. Emily had a soccer game this morning, that I know because her uniform needed to be washed, but after that, the activities of my other two kids are a blank. My mom might have told me, but last night I was distracted. Molly and I needed to memorize her lines, and it was a lot of work. My mom and Emily and Tom were there, but I can't remember if they talked about their day. If they did, I wasn't paying attention.

I try Emily's cell phone, and she answers on the fifth ring.

“Hey, baby, where are you?”

“We're going to Sky Zone for Melissa's birthday party. Didn't Grandma tell you?”

I don't think so, but she might have. Not wanting to incriminate myself, I say nothing, feeling bad for either not listening or not asking. But it doesn't matter because, for the first time since we got back from Bo's, Emily sounds happy, and I grab onto it. “That's terrific. Melissa from your class?”

“My soccer team.”

How do I not know this? In Yucaipa I knew every classmate, every teammate, and most of the parents.

“And Tom is going with you?”

“Yep. Melissa's parents are like super rich, so she invited the brothers and sisters too. They rented out the whole place, like the entire Sky Zone.”

“That's wonderful. Did you get her a present?”

“Grandma,” Emily squeals in alarm, “we didn't buy a present.”

“Crap,” I hear my mom say in the background.

“Em,” I say, trying to get her back on the phone.

My mom's muffled voice says, “We're already late. We'll give her something at the next practice.”

“We can't,” Emily cries. “I can't not have a present. She's going to open her gifts, and I'm just going to be sitting there.”

“Em,” I yell louder, hoping she'll hear me. The other customers in the restaurant look over at my screech that Emily still doesn't hear.

How could my mom not have realized that you need to bring a gift to a birthday party?

Because my mom never remembers things like that. My dad was the one who took care of the details of life—cooking, buying toilet paper, making sure I had gifts for birthday parties.

Emily's sobs resonate through the line, and I want to grab Molly and run to her rescue, but there are way too many problems with that idea. First, I have no idea which Sky Zone they're headed toward. Second, by the time I fight my way out of the downtown, the party will be over. Third, we're waiting for a callback so Molly can finish her workday.

“We're here,” I hear my mom say. “Emily, stop crying.”

Emily continues to sob.

“Em, come on, let's go. Melissa won't care that you don't have a gift.”

More hysterics.

Minutes pass.

“Fine. Then we're going home,” my mom says, clearly frustrated.

And that's that. No Sky Zone, no birthday party.

“Mom, what's wrwong?” Molly says, appearing in front of me, and I realize tears are rolling down my cheeks.

I wipe them away and click off the phone. “Nothing, baby.” I pull her onto my lap and bury my wet face into her soft hug, reining in my frustration and trying not to be angry with my mom, reminding myself that she's doing the best she can. She didn't sign up for this. Until a week ago, she was a part-time volunteer librarian, and now she's a full-time babysitter.

My phone buzzes.

We're needed back on the set.