Fourteen
I wake to a harsh flood of morning light and Jack pouring forth a steady stream of cusses.
“What’s wrong with you?” I mumble, glaring resentfully at the windows from which Jack has just ripped away the curtains.
“Get up ,” she says.
I check the clock.
It’s 8:52. Eight minutes before we’re supposed to start filming.
I forgot to set my alarm last night. And, it seems, Jack did too.
“We’ve got George and Serena down there already,” Jack says, yanking her sleep-mussed hair into a ponytail. “Shit. George isn’t ever going to let us live this down. Come on , Tash, get your ass out of there.”
This can’t be happening. This never happens. Jack and I are so good about following our schedule, keeping things professional. And now this —this is the height of unprofessionalism. I throw off the covers and hurry over to my duffel. I pull out my shirt and jean shorts and am just putting on my bra when the door flies open behind me. I glance over my shoulder and let out a yelp.
“Whoa!” Paul shields his eyes and slams the door shut. A second later, he creaks it back open and says, “Sorry, Tash. Um, I wanted to see if you guys still need my help today. Also, there are people here.”
“We are aware,” Jack says in a cold voice that warns of impending violence.
“Well, let me know if I can help with something in the meantime.”
“Oh sure ,” says Jack. “Why don’t you serve our guests some tea and crumpets?”
“Fuck off, Jack.” The door slams again, more forcefully than before.
“Don’t push him over the edge,” I say, zipping up my shorts. “He’s all the help we’ve got.”
“He’s fine,” says Jack. “When it comes to Paul, there’s no edge too steep.”
• • •
Jack and I planned on getting up at seven this morning and setting up the dining room for the day’s shoot. The scene is supposed to take place at night, which means we have to BlackWrap all the windows and figure out lighting. There are also lots of props we need in order to transform a corner of the Harlows’ so-so dining room into something that resembles a fancy university library.
But Jack and I didn’t get up at seven, which means there is at least half an hour of hurried setup to get through before we can even think of rolling the camera.
George isn’t happy. Even Serena looks upset. She’s sitting in an armchair with folded arms, studying her script, and she only looks up to say, “I have to leave by three. Ben and I have a date.”
“We won’t run over,” I assure her. “It’s just now nine.”
“Nine is when we start ,” says George, his face twisted in a way that makes him look like he’s in labor with a baby elephant. “Nine is when you shout ‘Action.’ I can’t believe this. Eva’s not even here.”
As though on cue, the doorbell rings. I run to get it. Eva is huffing and puffing and crying that she slept through her alarm but she is never going to be late again.
“You don’t have to apologize today,” I tell her.
When I return to the dining room, George and Jack are in an all-out fight.
“We’re not going to start that late if you help out,” Jack is saying. “We’ve got to cover these windows, move in the bookshelves, and set up the lights. Then we’re good to go.”
“But that’s not my job ,” George says, with a special dramatic emphasis I have only ever heard used by actors. “My job is to study my lines and give a good performance. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”
“Oh my God, George,” says Serena, who now looks more resigned than pissed and is cutting off a long sheet of BlackWrap. “You’re not in SAG-AFTRA yet.”
“I’m not the one who overslept.”
“Well, this is the first time they ever have, so give them a break.”
George will not be moved. While Jack, Serena, Eva, Paul, and I set up the room as quickly as possible, he remains at the dining room table, reading through his script and, on occasion, sniffing loudly.
Things don’t get better, even once we’re ready to film. In her rush to leave home, Eva forgot to bring the lipstick she was wearing in the scene we shot last weekend, which means we have a continuity error on our hands.
“I guess the audience can assume she sneaked off to change her lip color between dinner and drinks,” says George. “Girls do that, right?”
“Shut up, George,” says Jack, who reached her George threshold an hour ago.
After which point, George purposefully botches his lines. He goes so far as to cut off some of Serena’s, and there is only so much she can sustain before, in the middle of a take, she slaps George on the shoulder and yells, “I can’t work with this prick!”
“Well, that’s not going in the gag reel,” Jack mutters.
I stop the camera, and Paul lowers the boom mic, and I tell Eva, George, and Serena to call it a day, because there is no way we’re going to get usable footage like this.
“We’ll reschedule later,” I say, talking over George’s protest. “I don’t think any of us are in a position to calmly discuss this right now.”
George says, “This is so unprofess—”
“Just. Leave.”
So the talent leaves, and I throw myself on the living room couch with a muffled wail.
“I can’t believe we just wasted a whole day of filming,” Jack says.
Derivative piece of fluff, I think.
“That was—” Paul begins.
“A train wreck?” I supply.
“I was gonna say ‘high drama.’ Have you ever thought about turning the filming process into a reality show? Because I would totally watch that.”
This only puts me in a fouler mood, because it reminds me that Paul doesn’t watch Unhappy Families “on principle.” The way he explained it once, he doesn’t want us asking for his opinion on the show, because if he hates it, we’ll be forever angry at him, and if he likes it, he’ll be constantly pestering us to see footage of what’s coming next. I think this is flawed logic, but it doesn’t bother me that much. Except at times like this.
“You,” Jack snaps at her brother. “Go to kitchen. Bring back ice cream.”
Paul blows her a kiss with his middle finger. But he leaves the room, and a moment later I hear the telltale unsticking sound of the freezer door.
“We get back in our pajamas,” says Jack. “Then we hole up and watch movies, and we are not going to think about what just happened for the next five hours at least.”
I don’t have a problem with this plan. An hour later, the three of us are lounging in the living room among used ice cream bowls, watching The Dark Crystal .
“I think I kind of look like Jen,” Paul says.
“You’re just saying that because you have long hair,” says Jack. “Doesn’t work that way.”
“It does a little, though,” says Paul. “There are so few long-haired men in the world.”
“Oh, so now you’re a man, are you?”
I laugh. “Yeah, Paul, I’m not sure you’re in man territory yet. You’re still solidly a guy.”
Paul looks wounded. “Well, Jen isn’t a man either. He’s a puppet.”
“You can’t call looks alike just because you have similar hair,” says Jack. “Next thing we know, you’re gonna be comparing yourself to Jared Effing Leto.”
Paul shrugs. His expression says, If the shoe fits .
I thwack him on the head. “Ass,” I say, and as I do, I get that tight, bubbly feeling in my throat—the carbonation indigestion, though I haven’t had a single soda today.
We watch movies late into the night. Eventually, Mr. Harlow pops his head in the room and asks, “Am I getting my house back anytime soon?”
“We’ll clear out,” says Jack, switching off the television and gathering up some of the wreckage in the room. Our collection of ice cream–skimmed bowls has since been joined by potato chip bags and string cheese wrappers.
Mr. Harlow gives the three of us an approving nod as we clear the trash and ourselves out of the room. He looks tired—kind of worn down around the eyes. Which makes me nervous, but I’ve had to train myself to not think every tired look of Mr. Harlow’s is a sign his cancer is back. If he’d found out anything about those headaches, Jack and Paul would’ve told me. He’s probably just eager to have the television to himself. Even before we set foot in the hallway, I hear a baseball game blaring from the room.
“Is he mad at us?” I whisper to Jack.
“What? No. ” She smirks. “You know Dad, he’s such a pushover. If we’d told him we wanted to watch movies all night long, he would’ve let us. He’d rather die than witness a confrontation.”
“Good thing he wasn’t around earlier, then.”
“I’ve got some stuff to do,” Paul says. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”
His voice is tight, almost angry. I frown at his back as he hurries down the hallway and closes the door of his room.
“What was that?” I whisper.
Jack shrugs, but there’s a troubled look on her face as we head back to her room.