27 Scream 4
TWENTY-SEVEN
A week later, news broke that I’d been cast in the fourth installment of Wes Craven’s hugely successful horror franchise Scream.
I’d be playing Kirby Reed, a no-nonsense, sarcastic high school senior whose best friend is the character played by Emma Roberts.
Kirby was the foil to Emma’s ego-driven villain, the dry-witted girl who everyone assumes is a sidekick until she proves that she can kick butt.
If the script was to be believed (and they usually are) my character was written really well, so Kirby had the potential to be one of the film’s breakout characters.
I would even get to work with Rory Culkin, who had been a good friend of mine since we were kids.
My agent had also negotiated a character no-kill clause in my contract, so—even though I was going to get stabbed in the stomach twice—Ghostface couldn’t get me.
Chances were Kirby would be back in future Scream sequels (spoiler alert: she was).
We had the kind of wild adventures only twentysomethings can enjoy without getting arrested.
For the Fourth of July, Wlad offered to fly a few of us to Hollywood, Florida for a few days of sun and fun.
Later that summer, Neve Campbell rented a large, rural property with cottages on it, which sounds upscale, warm, and cozy except that staying there was more like glamping.
My crew didn’t care, though, and one weekend we decided to glamp out there and take ’shrooms. I’d never tried ’shrooms before and didn’t know what to expect, but I felt so comfortable with my friends that I wasn’t worried.
They would take care of me and ensure I had a stress-free trip.
Not long after we took the ’shrooms, when I was starting to settle in, someone decided to invite David Arquette over. When he arrived, he took in the scene and passed on taking the ’shrooms. Then he announced proudly that he wanted to show us his directorial debut, The Tripper.
“It’s a slasher film,” David said, holding up a DVD, “but it’s funny.”
David turned on the DVD player, pressed play, and let the film unfold before us.
A few minutes in, the screen filled with graphic images of corpses, viscera, carnage, and war.
The movie was gorgeously filmed and brilliantly conceived, but as I drifted far into the psychedelic haze of my first ’shrooms trip, I swear to God my eyeballs were about to spout blood.
One friend curled up into a ball next to me, and another put his head between his legs.
Finally, one of us stood up to turn the DVD off.
David Arquette is a good friend and a great director and actor. But unless he was messing with us—and I’m sure he was—I will never know what he was thinking.
I started filming Scream 4 when I was twenty and turned twenty-one during production, and on the big day Wlad threw a massive birthday party for me.
He rented an entire building, invited everyone we both knew, and staffed the party with several of the characters from Beacher’s Madhouse, an avant-garde, circus-like performance that had run sold-out, celebrity-packed performances in New York and LA since 2002.
At the time, Wlad fought up to three matches a year, so he rarely flew across the Atlantic to see me.
An elaborate party on my milestone birthday, thrown by the man I’d fallen in love with, felt significant.
In fact, I was relieved that even Wlad recognized it.
This was a first because I couldn’t think of a time when Wlad had seemed genuinely interested in my work.
I wasn’t sure if he didn’t care or if he underestimated how much energy and passion it took to do my job.
I knew he cared about me, so the fact that he didn’t ask about my career seemed odd.
It wasn’t like him—or was it? Our relationship was so new it was hard to be sure.
I always made sure to be interested in what he did, though. For example, each time Wlad was on the phone for business—which seemed like always—I peppered him with questions about what he was working on.
“You know I don’t speak your language,” I said to Wlad after he hung up the phone one day. “So do you want to tell me what was going on there? You sounded so happy.”
“Nothing, monkey,” he answered. “Just work.”
I sighed and went back to whatever I was doing.
Wlad never gave me many details about his business outside of boxing; all I understood was that he owned and managed lots of businesses in Ukraine.
I loved that he had this incredible drive, but I didn’t understand the mystery.
If Wlad insisted on being on the phone for work when he was with me, at the very least, couldn’t he tell me what he was talking about?
If he didn’t want to tell me, was there any harm in putting down the phone so he could be more present?
At the same time, I knew I struggled to manage my expectations.
I always wanted people to show up for me the same way I showed up for them, and when they didn’t, I was crushed, angry, confused, or all of those emotions layered on top of one another.
If I could treat someone a certain way, I had no idea why they couldn’t do the same.
Of course, this is totally unreasonable.
One person can’t control another or consistently get what they believe they deserve.
Was it my responsibility to manage my expectations, or—like Mom—keep score when someone “owed me”?
Neither sounded like an attractive option.
The truth was, I just wanted to be closer to Wlad.
“Well, if you ever change your mind and want to talk about one of those ‘many chairs’ you sit in,” I said, letting my disappointment sink in, “let me know. I’m here.”
I looked over at Wlad, and all I saw was resting bitch face, and the bitch’s eyeballs were glued to his phone.