Kayla
I settle into my chair and busy myself with my e-reader. If past takes are anything to go by, I know I will need to be on hand to help Ian with his lines.
When my fingers find the spot, I finally look up.
Brad and Scott are on set and ready to go. Ian hovers on the edge and seems to be arguing with a young girl.
“Problem?” I turn to Derrick, who shrugs.
“Let’s roll,” he calls, and everyone takes their place.
This time the scene takes place in the garage of the brothers’ home. They’re about to head out to a party where they plan to meet their unsuspecting female victim.
I watch Brad and Scott deliver their lines near perfect. I hang on their every word. They are good—really good.
My decision to write the show my way intensifies. I don’t only owe it to these two great actors, I also owe it to the viewers.
Ian comes on set. I hold my breath. I watch and listen.
Today at least he remembers most of what he has to say. Luckily, he only has a few words to recall. It’s really Brad and Scott’s scene.
To an outsider, it might look deliberate. But it wasn’t. For this scene, the focus had to be on what the older brothers were doing. Ian just had to take a little back seat.
Whilst he remembers what to say, his delivery was still nowhere near as good as that of the other two. Ian stumbles over some of his words, and as far as delivery is concerned, well it could be done a lot better. I groan inwardly and shake my head.
The part might only be minor today, but that does not mean it is not important. And of course, it is no excuse for a poor performance.
I sigh. Ian really needs to go, off-limits or not.
During the break, I see Ian flick through his script. I watch him. His piano fingers move the pages back and forth.
A storm cloud travels across his face. And then he looks at me.
As he walks over, I know whatever he’s got to say, it’s not going to be complimentary.
“A word,” he hisses, and I can feel some of his spit land on my cheek.
Disgusting.
“Yes?”
I try and remain cool, calm, and collected.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re trying to do.” More spits come flying my way, and I try and move to the left to avoid being showered in it.
“It won’t work with me playing the innocent little girl.” Ian is overcome with rage. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Brad move in my direction.
It is heartwarming to know he’s concerned for me; however, at the same time, I don’t want a repeat of the other day. Life’s complicated enough.
“You are trying to reduce my part. Don’t think I haven’t noticed I have far fewer lines than Brad or Scott. I’m not stupid.”
Someone, I’m not sure who, whispers that’s debatable, but I don’t laugh.
“If you think you can write me out of the show, you’re wrong. If you don’t start to write more scenes for me, you’ll be sorry. Really sorry.”
Silently, I pat myself on the back for having stayed calm.
“Finished?” I ask and rise out of my chair.
For this I don’t want to be having to look up at the enemy. And I have decided that is what Ian is, the enemy.
Part of me wants to wipe his smirk off his face with a heavy object, but there’s nothing suitable nearby.
“Well, let me tell you something, Ian.”
Someone is putting his hand on my arm. I think it might Derrick, but I shake it off.
“If it wasn’t for your bumbling, idiotic attempts at acting, this show could be fantastic. You are dragging it down. Not only do you never remember your lines, you can’t deliver them. A dead fish would have more delivery presence than you do. I have never seen an actor as bad as you.”
“How you can even call yourself an actor is beyond me,” I continue. “You are a disgrace to all other actors. I’m not sure how you got the job, but if you want to keep it, you should start to put some effort into it. Better still, why don’t you have someone teach you the basic skills of acting, speaking, and enunciation? Half the time, I can’t hear what you are saying.”
I take a deep breath in before I continue. “But maybe it’s just that you can’t get any better. Maybe it’s time you look for a new career. I hear they have a vacancy in garbage collecting right now. Surely even you with your pea-sized brain should be able to do something like that.”
I stop.
Silence.
No one says anything.
My arms are by my side, and I feel a little quiver run through them.
Ian takes a step toward me.
“You’ll be sorry,” he hisses. “You’ll be sorry you spoke to me this way, and you’ll be sorry you’re trying to write me out of the show.”
I lift my head and pull my shoulders back. “Appearance is everything,” my ballet teacher used to say. If you look confident, you will feel confident and ooze confidence.
“Not as sorry as you and your lousy acting career,” I yell at his retreating figure. “You may be pretending to be an actor, but I’m still the writer.”
I’m not sure if he can hear me. I don’t care. Someone will tell him what I said, I’m sure of it.
Without taking any notice of the other people in the room, most of whom are not quite sure where to look, I turn to Derrick.
“I’m going home,” I say and pick up my device. “There’s some major rewriting I’ll need to be doing whilst it is fresh in my mind.”
I leave the set quickly. I don’t want anyone talking to me.