Page 21 of Formula Dreams
CHAPTER 7
Ronan
They’re filming thislike it’s a documentary.Handheld cameras.Natural lighting.Minimal crew interference.
But make no mistake.This is scripted as hell.
It’s late afternoon and the grocery store has been closed to the public for a few hours so Drivex can get what they need.Bright white lights buzz overhead.Shopping carts are strategically placed.There’s a boom mic hanging just out of frame and extra actors mill about.
Lex and Nash are off filming their scene with a separate crew across town.This morning, all four of us met to rehearse lines and then a hair and makeup crew ran us through the ringer.I have enough product in my hair to withstand a monsoon.
Now they’re ready to shoot Francesca and me, and I’d rather be crashing into the wall at 130R.
She’s pacing outside the entrance with a water bottle in her hand and a tightly wound energy that makes me twitchy.The makeup girl keeps patting stuff on Francesca’s face, not that she needs any help.She looks perfect in a pair of faded jeans with frayed edges, white trainers and a simple white sweater.Her hair is in a high ponytail with wisps of golden blond loosely framed around her face.She looks nothing like a formula race car driver and every bit a sorority girl who just stepped off the Cambridge campus.
Timmy practically vibrates as he adjusts something on his laptop monitor, his voice high and cheerful.“Okay, darlings!Remember… you’re not here together.You’re both running errands.Totally natural.Totally casual.Then—bam!Trolley standoff and it’s war.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes.The lines we had to learn are easy and we’ve already done two practice runs after which Timmy deemed us passable actors.But in reality, most of this commercial is going to be action hijinks as we race around the grocery store.
Francesca glances over at me, her expression unreadable.A larger chunk of hair keeps slipping from her ponytail, and for a second, I’m caught watching the way she tucks it behind her ear.
She arches a brow my way.“What?”she demands, not with hostility but maybe a bit of challenge.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ face,” she says, her expression curious.
I don’t reply and Timmy saves me by clapping his hands.“All right… let’s get going.Francesca, you’ll enter from the left.Ronan, from the right.Just do it like we practiced.”
We’re brought two shopping carts, pre-filled with items we’ve supposedly selected.Francesca shifts into position, ready to step into her role as a friendly competitor.But there’s nothing friendly about rivalry on the track.This is all a fucking farce, a complete waste of my time.
I grip the cart handle, the metal cold under my fingers.The cameras roll and Timmy yells, “Action.”
Francesca comes around the end of one aisle as I come around the other way and to my surprise, Francesca runs her cart into mine… which was not in the script.I can tell by the look on her face that she meant to do it.Timmy doesn’t scream cut, so we’re still rolling.
She “notices” me first, and as planned, her expression tightens in a perfect beat of disdain.It looks completely believable and I’m sure she’s pulling on real feelings.She looks down the aisle, then to the teenage stock boy stacking energy drinks on a bottom shelf.
“Excuse me,” she says brightly.“Where’s the Drivex Zero Citrus?”
The kid looks up, feigning awed recognition.“Oh, wow—you’re Francesca Accardi.”And then he double takes, seeing me standing there.“And holy cow, you’re Ronan Barnes.”
“I’m here for some Drivex too,” I say smoothly, and yeah… I’m a good actor.Been doing it most of my life.
“Um…” The kid throws his thumb over his shoulder.“It’s almost gone.Maybe one bottle left, I think.Back aisle, past the cold drinks.”
I’m not quite sure why it happens, but I only know it does.Even though this is a scripted commercial and in no way real, a surge of adrenaline hits me.A competitive tingle runs up my spine.
Francesca is still in her role, preparing to say her line, “I got here first,” but I’m already moving.I ram the end of my cart into hers, jostling it just enough to give me a path and I’m off.
“Hey,” she says in surprise, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve gone off script or if she’s improvising.
Regardless, I hear the rattling of her cart as she takes off after me.
We both round the first corner fast, carts squeaking against the floor tiles.I take the inside line and she cuts me off near produce.None of this is staged, this is real.We’re in a race now and I need to beat her to that damn drink.
Francesca nearly crashes into a display of oranges, and I hear her mutter what I’m sure is an Italian expletive under her breath before catching them with one hand.
“Smooth,” I yell at her.
