Page 40 of My Unscripted Life

I nod, picturing the covers of the books in the trilogy, each with a glistening, shirtless fireman clutching a woman in a slinky silk dress while flames lapped around them. Definitely among the more embarrassing of her covers.

“Those were pretty well ignored, when I wasn’t getting panned by reviewers. That was supposed to be a whole series, not just a trilogy, but my publisher canceled the rest.”

“I had no idea,” I say. Suddenly my Governor’s School rejection isn’t feeling like such a big deal.

Mom cocks her head at me. “Dee, are you okay?”

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I tell her, glad to unburden myself, even just a little bit. “But this helped.”

“Well, good,” she says. “And hey, if you’re going to do this again, I can pick up another garden pad for you,” she calls as I make my way over to the yard-waste bag. I’m about to make a crack like the ones I usually make when chores are suggested to me, but at the last second I swallow it. Something about my mother’s dedication to the erratic plant life she calls a garden lights a spark of pride. After pulling weeds for an afternoon, I think I might get it. Despite the heat and the bugs, there’s something about the pulling and the yanking, seeing the progress and the dirt on your shirt. It’s somehow both energizing and relaxing, and while I used to have no problem finding that through art, lately I’ve been in desperate need of that kind of outlet.

“That would be great, Mom,” I say, and stuff the weeds and dirt down into the bag. I don’t even have to turn around to know which smile she has now. I’m sure it’s the big, bold, because-I’m-your-mom smile, which makes me smile the big, cheesy, yeah-I’m-your-daughter smile in return.

ANGLE ON a phone. On the screen, a photo of DEE and BENNY, smiling as Benny gives Dee bunny ears.

DEE

Was I right? AP Hotness score of 4?

NAZ

Meh, maybe a 3. What’s with the outfit?

DEE

Color war

NAZ

Typical Benny insanity

“Are you actually going to eat that salad, or are you just art-directing it?” Carly asks as I shovel lettuce around the plate with my fork, intermittently stabbing at chicken and croutons. She reaches over and plucks one of the large parmesan shavings from my plate and pops it into her mouth.

I push the plate toward her. “It’s yours if you want it,” I say, and she dives into my croutons, leaving the lettuce abandoned.

My weeding-induced relaxation was short lived. By the time I returned to set on Monday, I felt as if my body’s been electrified. Every time I heard footsteps or caught a glimpse of a human in my periphery, I’d jump, wondering if it was going to be Milo. But he wasn’t on set at all on Monday, or Tuesday. They’ve been shooting only with Gillian and Paul, who have their own romantic backstory as Kass’s mom and Jonas’s teacher and mentor. I have no idea where Milo’s been, other than not on set. I don’t even know if he’s still in the state, and I’m ashamed to say that I resorted to Google more than once to see if I could get any information on him. But if Milo was merelyhidingfrom the press before the picture of us hit the Internet, now he’s gone completely incognito. I’d call him, but he never gave me his number. And it’s not like I have anywhere I can find it.

By Wednesday, I’m pretty sure that whatever I had with him is over.

At lunch I’m sitting with Carly, Benny, and the rest of the PAs, laughing along with their jokes, though I’m barely listening.

“So, what are you up to next?” Carly asks me.

I shrug. “Um, I don’t know, Ruth’s probably got something for me,” I reply. I pick at the yeast roll still sitting on my napkin, but I leave the pieces on the table.

“No, I mean your next job. We’ve only got a few more days left.”

I cock my head at her, like I don’t understand. But as soon as she says it, I know it’s true. Life on set is a weird vortex of an alternate reality, like being in a casino. There’re no windows or clocks, and everyone is running around frantic at all hours of the day and night. When you’re on set, you’rein it,and it’s hard to pay attention to much else. Maybe that’s why it’s been so easy for me to forget about art and Governor’s School, or even my mom’s proposed road trip to visit colleges. Okay,maybe that’s a little to do with Milo, too, but they go together, don’t they? So the realization that I’m about to be spit out of the vortex feels wrong, like an eviction.

Carly is staring at me, and I don’t want to start crying or something embarrassing, so I laugh. “Next up for me is senior year of high school,” I say, and shrug. “You know, SATs, APs, college apps.” I try to sound lighthearted, but the truth is I’m dreading it. Now that I’ll be starting senior year with a blank slate, I’m in desperate need of some direction. And probably a guidance counselor.

She laughs. “Ah, I always forget you’re a baby.”

“Thanks, I think?” I toss a crouton at her, but I miss, and it bounces off the shoulder of a burly camera guy at the next table.

After lunch, Ruth sends me on my weirdest errand yet. She hands me an armful of five oversized feathers that look like they were procured from various exotic birds. I am to take them to makeup and let them decide “which one works.” Works for what, I have no idea. She says they’re for a photo shoot, but doesn’t elaborate.

When I arrive in makeup, I find a woman parked in the makeup chair, her hair pulled up in a bun so tight it looks like an amateur face-lift. Joanne, one of the makeup assistants, is painting the woman’s face with a rainbow of primary colors. There’s a red diamond over her left eye, and a blue triangle on her cheek. Joanne is working on an orange star on her neck when she notices me.

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