Page 19 of My Unscripted Life

And that’s how I spend the rest of the day, running between props and set, often waiting outside the studio door until I hear Rob call cut, so I can enter without disturbing filming. I quickly learn to live in mortal fear of making any noise while the camera is rolling. I bring books, dishes, and boxes of knickknacks, so Ruth can adjust things in the shot as Rob requests them. We replace one of the posters hanging on the wall of the attic, a vintage circus shot, because it’s pulling too much focus. This is our chance to get the attic set right, since this is the first time shooting in it. From here on out, everything that comes in, goes out, or gets moved around will need to get documented with a tiny point-and-shoot camera that lives in Ruth’s pocket, because everything needs to be in the right spot for every shot that comes after. Otherwise we’ll start piling up continuity errors that will take the audience out of the story or wind up in snarky comments on message boards. It’s our job to avoid that.

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. My arms ache from carrying boxes, my feet ache from running and standing, and my ears are ringing a little from the cavernous silence of the set during filming. I can think of nothing but my bed, and possibly curling up with Rubix at my feet. And the rest of the week is the same. I learn to wear my most comfortable sneakers every day, partly for comfort and partly because they don’t make any noise when I move across the concrete floor of the warehouse. I learn to leave my phone off and in my purse so I don’t have to worry about remembering to silence it on set (this lesson came after a makeup assistant got a thorough reaming-out from Rob when her phone started quacking during a scene). Eventually, Ruth hands over the camera and puts me in charge of taking continuity photos. And by the end of every day, all I want is to fall asleep until I can wake up and do it all over again.

I don’t see much of Milo throughout the week. During lunch, he’s either in his trailer, rehearsing with Paul and Gillian, or going over the script with Rob to prepare for upcoming scenes. I see him plenty on set, but he’s always surrounded by a fleet of people attending to him. The only time he’s not surrounded is when the camera is rolling, when he’s Jonas, and then I definitely can’t talk to him.

By the time Friday rolls around, I feel like we’ve been filming for a month, not barely a week. Life on set feels like an alternate reality where time simultaneously flies and grinds to a halt. Maybe it’s because we spend so much time recreating tiny moments from different angles and with slightly different inflections. Hours can pass, but on camera it’s only been a few minutes.

Rob has just called a wrap on the day, and I’m piling items back onto Ruth’s cart to return them to the prop room when Milo appears. The skin on his arms is red and scrubbed tattoo-free, and he’s out of his punky Jonas wardrobe and back into his standard relaxed jeans and V-neck T-shirt. I haven’t seen him out of wardrobe in days. It’s amazing what clothes can do. He’shimagain, the version I want to see.

“Hey,” he says.

“Oh, hi.” I realize that I’m trying to sound casual to hide the fact that I’m staring at how good he looks in that dark-green shirt. But I’m failing. Miserably.

“I never did get a chance to say thanks. For having dinner with me last week.”

“I think I should be thanking you,” I reply. I can’t believe it’s been a week since the Diner, and that I haven’t talked to him since then. It feels like a lifetime ago that I was crying over the paintings in the prop room. “You were the one who was pulling me out of my funk.”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I had a good time. It was nice to get out. I’ve basically spent all my time either here or in my hotel room watching basic cable. I’m pretty worn out on reality TV and home improvement shows at this point.”

“You should get out. See the sights,” I say. Across the studio, Ruth gives me a look, and I know I need to get the cart back. I may be leaving for the day, but she’ll still be here for a few hours packing boxes and getting ready for next week, when we’ll be on location. I start pushing it toward the exit, and to my surprise Milo falls in step with me.

“Well, I was thinking, I don’t really know what the sights evenare—so since you’re from here, maybe you want to hang out this weekend?”

I stop walking, and the cart squeaks to a halt. I blink at him.

“Seriously?”

“Well, yeah,” he says. He slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders rising slightly in a shrug. “But maybe someplace not supercrowded?”

I immediately think of the SocialSquare comments and hiding in the dry goods storage. I remember how Milo’s eyes darted around the alley before he slunk off toward home. So far only my fingernails have experienced that kind of public paranoia (and they’ve since been scrubbed clean of chipped polish, as if they’ve joined the manicure version of the Witness Protection Program), and already I don’t want anything to do with it.

“Uh, that sounds great,” I say. “And absolutely.”

Milo lets out a breath, like he was worried I might say no, which is completely and totally upside-down ridiculous, but it’s cute that he doesn’t think so. “We should probably be careful. You know, about being seen together,” he says. He shuffles his feet, and a cloud of sawdust kicks up around the toe of his boot. “Not that there’s anything to see. But, uh, now you’ve seen how crazy things can be. So, you know, we should watch out.”

“Yeah, of course,” I reply. I’m shocked that nowI’mthe calm and collected one, while he’s playing the role of stuttering nervous guy. “Tomorrow morning? Say around ten?”

“I’ll do the driving, you do the navigating?”

I shake off the comments that are still pecking at my brain and smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

“We’ll be back late,” Mom says, leaning against my doorframe. “Call if you need anything, and if it’s an emergency, call the doctors Parad. They’re in tonight.”

Early this week, Mom started to get that twitch in her left eye that we all know means she needs a break from writing. When Dad saw it at breakfast this morning, he told her they were going to drive up to Atlanta for dinner at their favorite sushi restaurant, whether she wanted to or not.

“If I have to kidnap you, I will,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee out of hisEITHER YOU LOVE HISTORY OR YOU’RE WRONGmug. “But my knee is acting up, so please don’t make me resort to that.”

For the first time in days, Mom’s out of her office and her favorite purple yoga pants. Dad very wisely picked a restaurant with a dress code, so she’s wearing a pale-blue sundress; her curls, long and brown like mine, though streaked with gray, fall past her bare shoulders. The bunny slippers I bought her as a joke three Christmases ago have been replaced by a pair of brown leather sandals.

“Lookin’ good, Mom,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Any plans for you today?”

If I tell her that Milo Ritter is picking me up to hang out and see the sights in Wilder, I’m afraid she and Dad will never leave. And as much as she needs this night out, I need Mom and Dad not to give the world’s biggest pop star the parental third degree.

“Just a date with some laundry and aParanormal Diariesmarathon,” I tell her.

“Team Salinger,” she says, declaring her allegiance to the muscled werewolf from our favorite TV show.

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