Page 10 of My Unscripted Life

But I’m not alone for long. A few minutes later, a guy sits down across from me. I recognize him from my whirlwind tour yesterday. He was hauling what looked like lighting equipment and rigging through the warehouse, but that wasn’t what made him stick out in my mind. Nor was it his bushy beard. It was his outfit: khaki cargo shorts, worn and frayed, and a purple T-shirt, with matching purple knee socks and a purple bandanna tied around his head. He’s wearing almost exactly the same outfit today, only everything is green instead of purple. While he digs into his own plate, a small smile playing around the fringes of his ample facial hair, I give myself a second to stare. Did he lose a bet or something?

He doesn’t say anything, so I don’t either. I try to act like it’s no big deal, like strangers in oddly color-coordinated outfits are just drawn to me, no bigs, but the word “what?” is hanging out on the tip of my tongue. After a moment, he drops his fork on his plate, where the clatter disappears in the buzz and chatter of the room. He pushes the plate back a bit, crosses his arms on the table, and leans forward, staring at me. Hard.

I glance over my left shoulder, then my right. Then I look down at my white tank top, a laundry-day choice, to see if maybe there’s a trail of barbecue sauce running all the way down to my jeans. It would not be unheard of for me. But no, miracle of miracles, I haven’t spilled on myself. Not yet, anyway. Something isdefinitelyup.

“Uh, can I help you?” I ask, trying my best not to sound rude.

Beardy’s face remains serious, then a smirk creeps onto his lips. “You really don’t recognize me, huh?”

Wait, what?I study him. The buzzed hair and beard ring no bells, nor does the weird, color-coordinated outfit. But now that he’s said something, thereisa glimmer of recognition. Just a flash. I squint and tilt my head, trying to look past the beard to find the familiar face.

When he realizes I’m totally stumped, he breaks into a smile, and then I see it. The tiny gap between his two front teeth. He used to scare Naz and me by spitting a white Tic Tac into his hand, ketchup smeared across his lip, pretending he’d knocked out his own front tooth.

“Benny?” I say, loud enough that the crew members at surrounding tables turn to gape.

He laughs, the same belly laugh I remember hearing from down the hall at Naz’s house. “It’s Ben now, but yeah.”

Benny Orazi was best friends with Tariq, Naz’s older brother. They were seniors when we were freshmen, and Benny was at the Parad house almost as much as I was. Back then he had shaggy hair that constantly fell over his eyes and curled behind his ears and absolutely no facial hair save for the patchy stubble that grew after a weekend sleepover. He was that sort of nerd who was so committed to his nerdery (supersmart, AP everything, and near-perfect SATs to boot) that he was actually kind of cool. Naz always said he was cute, but I never saw it. I think she was mostly attracted to the 5 he earned on the AP Physics exam. I hadn’t seen him since Tariq’s graduation party four years ago. His family moved away at the beginning of that summer, just before he started college somewhere north and east of here, and to be honest I’d completely forgotten about him.

“Holy crap, Benny Orazi! What are you doing here?”

“No, really, it’s Ben now,” he says, glancing around to be sure he’s not about to get a new on-set nickname. “It’s Dee, right?”

I nod. I wish I had realized he only barely remembered me before I barked his full name to a room full of people. Now I sound like a superstalker. “You’re working here?”

“Yup, just graduated. Film major, which made my parents crazy, but at least I managed to score a job right away.”

“You’re a PA?”

“Best boy.”

“And modest, too.”

He laughs. “No, best boy is a title. I’m Cole’s assistant.” He points across the cafeteria to a tall, lanky guy with shaggy blond hair held back by a pair of sporty sunglasses. “He’s the gaffer, and he works for Allen, who’s the director of photography.”

I blush at my novice mistake. “Oh, that’s great.”

“Yeah, he’s awesome. Supertalented and crazy connected. I’m hoping if I can impress him, maybe work with him on a couple projects, I can really get a leg up.”

“So that’s what you want to do? Lights?”

Benny shoots me some serious side eye. “Okay, don’t say it like that.Lights?” He mimics my wrinkled nose, which I hadn’t realized I’d done.Oops.“I want to be a director eventually, but I really want a good technical base. Lighting, cinematography, editing. I did tons of internships during school, which is how I got this gig in the first place. A lot of people make the mistake of diving right in, trying to direct shorts and indies and commercials and whatever else they can. I want to develop all the skills to make me well rounded and technically proficient before I try to take on a director role. I call it my secret strategy of success. I like the alliteration.”

Ah, there’s the Benny I remember. And yet even as he’s saying what could possibly sound pompous or totally nerdy, his half smile, his easygoing demeanor, the lilt in his voice all serves to make him endearing. It’s exactly how he got away with talking about physics or chemistry or Brit lit at lunchtime in high school without getting a wedgie on the regular.

“How ’bout you? You haven’t graduated yet, right?”

I shake my head. “One more year.”

“And then?”

I laugh, but it comes out sort of squeaky and fake. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” I flash him a superfake, superforced smile, my eyebrows skyrocketing. I’m sure I look totally demented. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. I’m a PA. Working in props.”

“For Ruth?” Benny drops his voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure she’s not nearby. “Intense.”

All around us, people are starting to push their chairs back, gather up napkins and silverware, and make their way toward the doors. Apparently lunch is over.

“Yeah. Speaking of, I should probably go.” I wrap my lemon bar in a clean napkin and hold it gingerly in my palm before gathering the rest of my leftovers to toss. Next time I’ll try to remember that my stomach is about one-tenth the size of my eyes. My mom would kill me if she saw how much food I’m about to throw away.

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