favorite parts of movies, only this one hasn’t been made yet.
I pull the script out and plop it on the counter. Tory spins it around and reads through the direction. He flips through the first few pages, eventually setting his water down and taking the script in both hands as he leans back against the opposite counter. I slide into an open stool and sit on my hands, which are suddenly super clammy.
“So, your character—” he questions.
“Roni,” I fill in. “Veronica, but Roni for short.”
“Got it.” He nods.
I wait while he reads on, getting a good ten pages in before flipping back to the opening scene. I’m the first thing people see in this film, assuming this part doesn’t get left on the editing room floor. It’s a tough scene, where Roni is smoking crack with two guys from her high school, her inner dialogue about how she’s tired of her mom’s boyfriend abusing her.
“This is some fucked up shit,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “I thought you said this was a romantic comedy?”
“It gets funny near the end,” I deadpan.
Tory’s eyes pop open and he stares at me for a solid second before laughing.
“Jordan Shotcraft, huh? Yeah, I guess I can see it. His stuff is always this mix of serious and light.” He drops his chin and his eyes scan the first page again in silence. Eventually, he looks back up at me, a crooked smile playing at his mouth.
“You know you’re going to be stupid famous after this, right?” He rubs the back of his neck as he glares at me with one squinted eye. I’m oddly not very good at dreaming big. I take big breaks one at a time, never expecting them. It keeps me sheltered from disappointment. Landing this role was a big deal, but in my gut, I still expect something to go wrong—movie shelved, me replaced mid-shoot, Jordan getting struck with some huge scandal that renders our movie a flop and sends me into obscurity.
I lift one shoulder, signaling a whatever, then deliver my first line.
“The drift to sleep comes on sweet and slow, like drinking molasses. I do this so the high erases all of the fucked up things in my life, like tar oozing over gravel.”
My gaze drifts off to another place entirely. I’m not secure enough in my lines yet to be able to look at Tory’s face, and I kind of want to take on that feeling of being adrift mentally. After a few seconds pass without him reading anything, though, I’m forced to look at him.
“Oh!” He startles. “Sorry, I . . . just . . . damn!”
“Stop. I don’t even know what I’m doing.” My chest, though, flutters with butterflies at the compliment. I like that he thinks I’m a little bit good at this.
Tory’s gaze sticks on my face for one beat too long, and I get up from my seat to pace, partly to run away from it. I take a few steps around the kitchen island and back while he reads more stage direction. It’s an odd juxtaposition with the cacophony of gunfire barreling through the television a dozen or so feet away.
“Hey, Lucas? You mind maybe . . .” Tory cups his ears with both hands. Lucas gives him a blank stare, then jars himself when it dawns on him.
“Oh! My bad,” he says, leaning over the arm of the couch and opening a drawer to pull out headphones. It takes him a minute or two to get them synced, and Tory whispers an apology to me while we wait, watching him wrangle with the Bluetooth settings. He gives us a thumbs up and we shoot the same gesture back.
“Jesus, he’s a child,” I mutter.
Tory laughs quietly.
“Don’t tell June that,” he says.
“I’m sure she knows. Anyhow, let’s start from the cop’s first line, yeah?” I pace again, feeling more in character this way, even though on screen I’ll be nearly passed out on an abandoned couch in the middle of a fake desert for this scene.
“Hey . . . hey!” Tory gets into character for me, reaching out and shaking an imaginary shoulder.
“Go away, Paul! My mom doesn’t want you touching me anymore!” I let loose now that Lucas isn’t listening. Strangely, I have no problem watching my own work on-screen later, but having someone hear me deliver lines live and in person makes me sweat like a pig.
“Miss, I don’t know who Paul