9. Avery
Has Duke lost his mind?
I watch through the peephole in disbelief as he waves that chainsaw around, sending the paparazzi fleeing. But his unhinged psycho killer routine works. Everyone piles in their cars, and hightails it out of there, some of them racing away so fast, they leave sweaters and backpacks abandoned on the ground.
Then, when the road outside the cottage is finally empty, Duke calmly stows away the chainsaw, get in his truck, and drives away like nothing happened.
There’s silence.
I catch my breath, reeling.
What the hell just happened?
I wander back through the house, dazed. First, Duke shows up out of nowhere. I was braced for more angry accusations and blame, but instead, he actually seemed sympathetic: helping me out with my makeshift privacy screens.
Catching me in his strong, muscular arms when I fell…
I shake my head. I have got to stop thinking about that man’s arms. Even if we seem to have a momentary truce against our common enemy (aka, the paparazzi), that doesn’t mean anything’s changed. He still thinks I’m a vapid Hollywood princess – and I’m in no hurry to forgive all his arrogant insults, even if I do feel bad for landing him in the tabloid spotlight with me.
But suggesting we actually go through with Quinn’s crazy fake-dating scheme…?
He doesn’t mean it, I decide. He can’t. He was probably just feeling sorry for me, and got caught up, thinking like he was some knight in shining armor. Once he’s had time to actually think it through, he’ll take the offer back in a heartbeat.
Still, I can’t say I’m not a little grateful, now his chainsaw antics have given me a window to get out of the house. I’m not about to waste my chance, so I quickly go grab my keys and my biggest pair of sunglasses, then hit the road: driving up the coast towards the tip of the Cape.
It feels good to get away.
I’ve been cooped up all morning, hiding in the dark, but now the sun is shining bright through the windscreen, and salty sea wind whips through my hair. I feel myself relax a little with every mile, and even though I’ve still got one eye on the rearview mirror making sure I’m not being followed, by the time I reach the narrow cobbled streets of Provincetown, I’m ready to put this morning behind me, and focus on something else for a while.
Like my next big starring role.
Even though my agent made it clear he doesn’t think I’m good enough to land a prestigious indie part, I haven’t forgotten about Madeline Marrone, the director I want to work with. I really loved her breakout movie, a small indie movie about a teenage girl on a road trip to Vegas to find her birth mom, and after clicking around through interviews and news announcements, I found that she’s planning to make a historical period movie next, a biopic about Amelia Earhart.
I’m determined to land the role. Or at least, get in front of her for an audition. So, I head straight for the local bookstore, to find out everything there is to know about the icon. But when I walk in, I come face-to-face with a magazine rack of tabloids.
And my face staring out from the cover pages.
‘Small-town Seduction!’
‘Avery’s Sex Addict Shame!’
I wince.
I know I should just keep on walking, but I can’t help reaching for the nearest one and quickly flipping through to read the story. Sure enough, it’s the photos of Duke and me in the field, with him on his knees sucking venom from my thigh… but they’ve pixelated out a whole area where his head is bent by my leg.
I stifle a groan. Now it looks even more like he’s doing something scandalous!
Just perfect. Now all of America thinks I’m some exhibitionist nympho.
I start to put the magazine back, then pause. I sneak a quick look around: the store is quiet, just a couple of people browsing new fiction, and a mom trying to get her kid interested in the picture books – and not the stuffed animals lined up on the counter.
All clear.
Quickly, I grab every trashy gossip magazine off the rack, piling my arms high. I scurry through to the back of the store, searching for somewhere to hide them. Somewhere nobody will ever look. Somewhere dim and dusty and forgotten?—
The foreign poetry section!
I bend down and stash the magazines at the bottom of the shelf, pushing them all the way in the back?—
“Can I help you?”
One of the booksellers appears behind me. I lurch up so fast, I bang my head on the top of the shelf. “Owww!”
The girl winces. She looks about twenty, intimidatingly cool with piercings and intricate tattoos. “Sorry. Are you OK?”
“Uh huh,” I manage to blurt, rubbing the back of my skull. “I’m fine! Just… browsing the poetry.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the magazines start to slide off the shelf.
Whoops! I quickly angle my body away. “Do you have a history section?” I ask quickly, hoping to get away before…
The entire pile of magazines spill out, whooshing to the floor in a sea of bitchy headlines and weight-loss tips.
Busted.
We both pause, looking down at the mess.
“Umm…” I try to think of an innocent explanation, but of course, there is none. I cringe. Any minute now, she’s going to recognize me, and kick up a fuss, and then this whole embarrassing stunt is going to wind up on the cover of next week’s magazines.
As if a few missing tabloids was ever going to make a difference, when anyone with a cell signal and a social media account can read all the dirty details of my dumpster-fire reputation.
But before I can blurt an apology, and maybe offer up my firstborn to keep it quiet, the girl bends down – and then shoves them all back into the dark recesses of the foreign poetry dungeon.
“There,” she says, deadpan. “I hate a mess. Now, did you need help with anything?”
“Umm… history section?” I manage in surprise – and relief.
“This way. Watch for the step.”
She leads me into a cozy back room, with shelves stretching all the way to the ceilings. “So, the system makes sense, I promise,” she tells me. “Wars are over there, Korea through the Middle East. Ships, planes, automobiles… boring old guys… awesome old women…”
I smile, and tell her what I’m looking for.
“Ooh, I just unpacked some good ones,” she brightens, and starts fetching thick volumes down. “Is this research or…?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I say vaguely.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” She pauses. “But I wanted to say, I think it’s really messed up. All the shit they’re saying about you. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum,” she adds, in what sounds like Latin.
I stare blankly.
“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” She gives me a wink, and then exits – leaving me with a massive pile of books.
I tug the first one closer, feeling intimidated. I’ve never really researched for a role like this before, but I try to take it one step at a time. Somewhere in this stack is the spark of inspiration that will break the character wide open.
I just have to figure out where to start.
I windup buying a whole stack of biographies, and pitching up in the corner of the coffee shop to read for the afternoon. It feels good to lose myself in a project like this, making notes on important events in Amelia’s life, and things that might inform her character. I get more excited as I read. I know it’s a massive long-shot, a role like this is Oscar-winning material: prestigious. Emotional. The kind of thing A-list actresses would claw each other’s fake lashes out to get.
And I’m a long way from the A-list, especially right now.
Hey, a girl’s got to dream, right? And not just dream, but ruthlessly plot, and plan, and hunt down every last chance of getting what I want.
It’s how I got this far.
But after a few hours lost in the dense pages, even I’ve had enough of twin-prop airplanes. I pack up, and decide to take a stroll through town. It’s busier here than Blackberry Cove, with narrow cobbled streets packed with tourists and families, and kitschy stores selling sell jewelry and nautical gifts.
I get an iced drink and wander for a while, happy just to blend into the crowds. Everyone has that summer vacation vibe, and I enjoy the feel of the sunshine on my bare shoulders. Little kids are running around, trailing sand from the beaches, and there’s a group of teens over in the park, rehearsing some kind of performance.
I pause. This must be the theater camp Suze was talking about!
I drift closer to watch. Suze is trying to keep it together, but the run-through is breaking down into typical teen anarchy. One preppy-looking girl is trying in vain to get everyone back on track, while a few of the guys are play fighting with wooden swords, and the other girls have given up to sprawl in the sun on their phones. Nobody is so much as glancing at their photocopied script pages.
“It’s supposed to be funny!” one of the shaggy-haired boys is arguing. “Not everything’s, like, life and death all the time.”
“They literally die at the end!” the preppy girl wails.
“Yeah, at the end. I don’t want to look like a loser, all sincere,” he grumbles.
“Can we just try it one time without you idiots ruining everything?”
“You’re not the director, Beanie is. Yo, Beans!” Shaggy-Hair hollers to one of the other guys, who’s trying to flirt with a girl. “We’re doing this my way, right?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
They try the scene again, the famous balcony duet from Romeo and Juliet, but it’s clear that Shaggy-Hair is hamming for laughs, while Preppy Girl is overemphasizing every line.
“Counting your blessings, huh?” Suze waves me over, from her spot in the shade. She’s wearing a denim romper, with her hair pulled back in a scarf like an old Rosie the Riveter poster. “I figured I’d just let them wear themselves out. Eventually, they’ll get back to work again. I hope.”
I laugh. “I was just having flashbacks to my high-school drama club,” I admit. “There was always one jock guy who signed up for extra credit, got cast as the lead, and then was terrified of showing any actual emotion in front of his buddies.”
“Aka, Cade over there,” Suze nods to Shaggy-Hair. “How did you handle it?”
“Oh, I didn’t,” I say immediately. “I was just hiding out in the back, playing the extra characters. Nurse, messenger, Random Capulet #3.”
“You, hiding out?” Suze looks disbelieving, and I understand why. The Avery Lawrence everybody knows, and loathes, never shies away from the spotlight. But back then, attention was the last thing I wanted. Not with my dad passing out drunk in the parking lot of his favorite bar every week, and my mom taking off for weeks at a time to “clear her head”, leaving the bills unpaid and the refrigerator empty again.
No, it was safer to go unnoticed, gliding through the hallways with a big fake smile on my face, counting the days until I could get my diploma, and get out.
“I stayed pretty much under-the-radar,” I give Suze a vague shrug. “But there was an English teacher who’d run all the school productions. She’d actually been an actress, way way off-Broadway, she would always joke,” I add with a nostalgic smile. “I refused to try out for the big parts, but she made me understudy everyone, she swore one day I’d surprise myself. Then one night, the lead was out sick, and I actually had to go on.”
I was terrified, fully expecting to bomb, but the moment I stepped on-stage…
Everything changed.
Losing myself in another character, it was the only time I could truly forget my shitty, stressful life. When I felt the eyes of the audience on me, the way I held them in the palm of my hand…
I knew, this was my future.
“Ohmygod, is that Avery Lawrence?”
I turn to find the kids have spotted us. Half of them have their phones out, texting furiously, and the other half– the male half– are just staring, slack-jawed.
“Sorry,” I wince. “I don’t want to be a distraction. I’ll just go?—”
“Nonsense!” Suze cuts me off. “Why don’t you stay and say ‘hi’? They might get their shit together, if they have someone to impress. Hey, everyone!” she calls, beckoning the group over before I can protest. “We have a real actress here. What did you think of their scene, Avery?”
I gulp. Way to put me on the spot!
“Well, it could use some work…” I start, tactful. “Maybe you need to take a step back, and think about the meaning of the scene. What’s it really about?”
Shaggy-Hair shrugs. Preppy Girl sticks her hand up. “He’s declaring his love for her,” she says loudly.
“Well, yes,” I agree. “But he’s also trying to get laid.”
There’s surprised laughter. I smile. “Look, just because the language is fancy, it doesn’t mean the plays aren’t about real things. Loyalty, revenge, and yes, sex. Romeo just met Juliet, he’s infatuated, and he’s trying to spend the night. ‘Wouldst thou leave me so unsatisfied?’” I quote. They giggle again. “And Juliet, she’s playing coy. Here’s this guy talking a big game, but she doesn’t know if she can believe him. It can be playful, not just dramatic.”
Preppy Girl sticks up her hand again. “But how do you stop feeling awkward? The language is so old-fashioned and weird.”
“You have to forget about looking stupid,” I tell them. “The point of acting is to get out of your own head, so that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re not the one saying these things, the character is. Play around, try it a bunch of different ways,” I urge her. “When I’m shooting a scene for a movie, sometimes we’ll run it ten, or twenty times before it’s right. That’s what rehearsals are for, you find the unexpected moments.”
More hands go up, and soon I’m fielding all kinds of questions about life in Hollywood, and what really happens on a movie set. I answer them all as best– and age-appropriately– as I can, until Suze finally cuts them off.
“OK, guys, that’s enough. We’re out of time– and I think Avery’s had enough of us. Thank her for all her expert advice,” she adds. It takes a few minutes for the kids to take their selfies and disperse, but finally, we’re left alone.
I let out a breath, helping Suze collect the discarded script pages. “Wow, that was…”
“Exhausting?” she finishes. “Vaguely traumatizing? Makes you fear for the future of our country?”
“I was going to say ‘fun’,” I grin. “But yes, all of the above. They seem like good kids, though,” I add, “Once they stop trying to impress each other, I mean.”
“Well, you really helped focus them on the play again,” Suze says, looking impressed. “I haven’t seen them so interested in acting techniques since I promised free snacks to whoever learned their lines first. Speaking of which, I owe you for this. Ice-cream? Cookies? Salt-water taffy?” she offers, gesturing around at the collection of kitschy food stores all a stone’s throw away.
“Ice-cream sounds great,” I decide, so we go load up on double-chocolate-chip cones, them find a spot on the beach, where the gentle curve of the bay is packed with tourists, enjoying the breeze.
“You grew up here, didn’t you?” I ask, settling cross-legged on the sand.
Suze kicks off her sandals and leans back, relaxing. “Born and raised.”
“Duke is too, right?” I ask casually. Despite all my research and distractions, I haven’t forgotten about the scene with the paparazzi this morning – or Duke’s wildcard offer.
Who is this man, really?
“Oh, yeah. Duke’s a lifer.” Suze licks her ice-cream. “He left for college, and that whole Rachel incident, but he’s Cape Cod through and through.”
“Rachel?” I look over.
“His ex,” Suze replies. “They were together for years, even got engaged, but then she turned out to be a cheating bitch, so that was the end of that.”
I blink. Duke was engaged?
“Is that why he’s so… prickly?” I venture curiously. “He’s still nursing a broken heart?”
I feel a pang of sympathy for the man – until Suze snorts with laughter. “God no, that was years ago!” she exclaims. “And it didn’t come soon enough, if you ask me. Duke was running himself ragged, trying to keep her happy. He’s way better off without her. I know he can be a grouch sometimes, but he’s a really good guy,” she adds.
“Uh huh,” I reply, still unconvinced. His one chivalrous moment chasing off those photographers this morning doesn’t exactly outweigh the week of grumpy, acrimonious run-ins we’ve been having.
But Suze grins. “You haven’t exactly seen his good side, but he’s solid. He’s never let me down. He’s even helping out with the Shakespeare production,” she adds. “Selflessly giving his time for the community. Supporting the arts, and our future citizens…” she says, fixing me with a hopeful look.
I laugh at her not-so-subtle hinting. “OK, OK! I could maybe sit in on another rehearsal,” I agree. “Give them a few pointers.”
“Thank you!” Suze beams. “They actually listened to you today. Maybe this production won’t wind up a complete disaster, after all!”
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I check the message.
Eddie’s Lobster Shack. 8pm. Meet to discuss the arrangement.
This is Duke, he adds, a moment later.
I blink, staring at the screen in disbelief. Duke wants to meet me tonight– of his own free will? To talk?
About what?
He can’t possibly mean… the fake-dating plan.
Can he?