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“Nothing. I mean he was in her room, smelling her hair.” The moment the words leave my mouth, it all feels more real, and though I haven’t eaten in over twelve hours, bile rises up my throat. “But I got there in time. Nothing happened.”
“I’m going to murder him.” Cory’s words are more growl than syllables.
“And deprive Lizzie of her father even longer while you’re rotting in jail? No. I know what we need to do. More importantly, I figured out how I’m going to do it.”
“We have to go to the police!”
“You know from your experience with Sarah how that’s going to go over. I may have already gone too far, because I posted about this on the Net, and I wasn’t subtle in describing what I think of Jeb Eli. But there’s something else we can do. Something that will hit Jeb where it hurts most. But first I need the script.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Where did you put it when you were packing last night?”
“Shit,” Cory mumbles. “Packing. When’s the moving company coming?”
“What?” My exasperation is breaking through the dams. This is the third time I’ve asked him, and he still hasn’t answered. Instead, he’s asking me questions. “You set that up. Or Joan did. It’s not my job. You know what my job is? Protecting my daughter. And acting. You’re the one who brought me into this, so if you make me ask one more time, I swear to god—”
“It’s in my briefcase. Next to that chair in the corner of the room upstairs.”
“You have a briefcase? What is this, the 1950s?”
“It was a gift. I was cleaning out the closet when I found it. Thought it was appropriate for the occasion. Can you turn off the light when you—?”
But I’m already taking the stairs two at a time, Cory’s groans reverberating behind me as he breaks out of the room and the sunlight meets his hangover full force. I just need to get my hand on that script, sit Cory down, and get to work. Because if I just follow my plan, and I manage to make it through today, I can make this plan work. I can take Jeb Eli down.
While my mind is a machine with a single focus, when I finally come across the briefcase, the world slows. Stops. Then goes back in time to tenth grade. Cory’s birthday was coming up, and he’d been in this real vintage phase. He began imitating the way Cary Grant talked. Started wearing the fattest, ugliest necktie. And he kept saying how great it would be to have a briefcase.
So I bought him this one. I found it at the Goodwill in the next town over. It took giving up my allowance for the next month for my mom to get it for me, but the way that Cory carried it everywhere the rest of the year was worth it. Even though that was half a lifetime ago, I would know it anywhere. It’s a shitty leather briefcase with horrid scuffing on one side and a busted latch on the other. Cory didn’t complain back then, and though he could walk into a department store and buy any of the luxury brands on display today, he’s still toting this one around.
So leaving the room quietly as Lizzie is still snoozing off her first hangover, I head back downstairs and promise to be gentler with Cory. I even go so far as to brew him a cup of coffee, so when I drag him to the living room, I’m not without a peace offering.
“You kept it this whole time?”
Cory’s focus is understandably somewhere else. “What? Yeah, you know how it is with gifts. You gotta wear the ridiculous Garfield socks your grandma bought you, even if you want to put them in a paper shredder.”
At least his humor is still intact, even if there’s a glint in his eyes I don’t like. The words Jeb said to me last night ring through my skull once more: Hollywood is no place for such an innocent look. Cory is far from innocent, but my news about what almost happened last night has scraped away any of the youthful hopefulness Cory might have been hanging on to.
“I just can’t believe you brought this thing with you all the way out here. Or that it survived the move.”
“Some things are built to last.” When he says this, he’s not looking at the briefcase, but at me. And I get the distinct feeling that we’re talking about something else now.
There are other things we need to talk about. Deep topics that need to be decided sooner rather than later. Discussions about us. About Lizzie. About our future. But right now, there’s this idea burning a hole in my head, and until I get it out, I’m not going to be able to focus on anything else. So I pull the script out of the nostalgic briefcase, set it in front of Cory, and completely change the topic.
“What’s the hardest scene?”
“Hardest scene?”
“The one that’s going to be the hardest for me. Is there any scene where I have to break down crying? I’ve never been able to cry on command. Or is there a scene where I have to say a bunch of lines? I don’t know.” I accentuate my not knowing by slamming my hand on the table. It’s a childish way to release anger, but now that I’m actually describing my plan out loud, it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t help but hold onto it so I don’t feel completely useless. “I just need to know what the hardest scene is. Because if I can film that one, I can film anything else. I have to throw myself into the deepest, strongest waters. That’s the only way I’m going to know if I can swim against this current threatening to sweep me out.” I calm my voice and grab Cory’s fist between both of mine. His hand is shaking under my fingers. “It’s the only way we can beat Jeb at his own game. Because if we make this movie a success, it will show others that they don’t need Jeb to make it in Hollywood.”
Once I’ve spewed all this out, I’m sure that Cory’s going to tell me that this isn’t how movies get made. I’m sure there’s a filming schedule already mapped out, and it hasn’t taken into consideration which scenes are going to be
harder or not. Because why would they? I’m supposed to be an actor, and an actor is professional, though I feel everything but.
Instead, Cory lifts the script and flips through it. He hits on a scene about three-quarters through. “Page 95. Right here. I was planning to save this scene for last, but if you want, we can move it up. The only other actors in the scene are going to be wearing masks, so it can be anyone really.”
“What’s the scene?” I go to pull the script out of his hand, but his grip is unyielding. I end up holding the opposite end of the papers, and for a blink in time, we’re connected, staring over these words that contain our collective fate.
“It’s not fair to ask you to do this scene so early, but I can guarantee if you can get through this, you can do anything.”
