Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (12 page)

13
WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW

Charlie

Here are three ways you know you’re in trouble in “the industry” (as in film and TV—Aaron always hates when I call it that because he thinks it sounds affected, but what does he know?):

1) You’ve been out of the tabloids longer than you’ve been in them.

2) You’re no longer asked to endorse overpriced products that Hollywood people don’t actually wear but market to middle Americans, thus making them feel inadequate and ugly. We conspire to keep the magic fixes of lighting and retouching to ourselves.

3) Your agent leaves you a note scrawled on a piece of gas receipt.

I haven’t had to deal with number one until now. Even though the paparazzi were all over us in Carpinteria, they only tail us now a week later to get the pathetic shots, ones that run with headlines like “Fall from Grace” or “Washed Up at Seventeen.” Gone are the swarms of photographers that have lined the entry gate so many times in the past. Missing the paparazzi is a huge warning sign.

Number two on the list is also happening now—for only a few more hours will I be able to claim Super Fit! sports energy bars, the cardboard snack of choice, as my fave brand.

And I whip off my sunglasses just to get a better look at Martinka’s all-caps note on the gas receipt.

CHARLIE—

WHAT A MESS.

YOU LEAVE TONIGHT—FLIGHT TO PDX. PICK UP RENTAL CAR AND FIND YOUR WAY ASHLAND. YOU’RE DUE ONSTAGE AT 7AM TOMORROW.

THE CAT’S ON THE ROOF— MARTINKA

The cat is on the roof is actually from an old story my dad used to tell me. I would visit him on the set of whatever crummy movie he was filming and he’d sit there in his cop uniform or baker’s whites and he’d tell stories. This guy asks his neighbor to watch his cat, and when he calls the next day to check on him, the neighbor says, “Well, the cat’s dead. It fell off the roof and got smushed.” And the guy’s all sad, like, why didn’t you tell me in a kinder way? The point being, you’re supposed to lead up to the bad news, say things like, well, the cat’s missing, and then, the next day, say, we’re awfully worried about that cat, it doesn’t look good. Then, finally, when the person’s good and prepared, you say the cat is on the roof, meaning the end is near.

My mind’s a whir after reading Martinka’s note and I try to process it all as I unlock the door. The alarm sounds for a second as I type in my security code. Aaron is the only other person who knows it; I had to give him access so he could do all sorts of clever things, like surprise me with flowers and “wake up in my bed here” (even if I was already on set). I go upstairs and begin to frantically shove clothing and personal items into my luggage.

PDX? A quick search informs me that’s the airport code for Portland. As in Oregon. As in, what the hell am I going to be doing there? Presumably this is what the photographer meant on the beach, but like so many humiliating experiences so far, I have to learn the details of my life from
DivaStar Weekly
, which they send me despite the fact that I’ve never asked for a subscription. Luckily, I find mine in a heap of mail on the floor under the mail slot. Having been away, I see my house with an outsider’s eyes and it looks like no one lives here. Not just that I haven’t been here in a while, based on the mail and stale air, but like no one has ever lived here. I cast my eyes on this week’s
DivaStar Weekly
and read aloud in my best Jenna voice (“perky and upbeat, with nothing to hide”):

After the scandal that rocked the
Jenna & Jonah
set, scarred starlet Charlie Tracker and Fielding Withers—still denying any issues with his sexuality—will test their acting chops at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.
Much Ado About Nothing
is the main stage production this summer; the festival is the oldest and most respected in the country—pretty high standards for two teen dramarama stars who might do better in a summer stock production of
Grease.

I don’t know which is worse: that my acting credibility has suddenly plummeted (maybe it’s always been down at the bottom, but people were too busy ass-kissing to say anything) or that I’m heading to the middle of nowhere to do God knows what on a stage. I panic, my stomach rolling, my fingers shaking. I haven’t performed live on a stage since I did a reading when I was twelve in a version of
Our Town
set in space. It was very Hollywood and had cool special effects, but it tanked with East Coast people. And even then I nearly vomited from stage fright. So I’ve got that going for me. Actually, it’s not even clear if I’m acting or sweeping the stage. Martinka’s note is vague, though the tabloids certainly suggest I’ll be in a play.
Much Ado About Nothing
? At least I know the lines. But how can I actually speak the words with feeling when I clearly need to learn to act? I’ve read that play a hundred times. I don’t need cue cards. The lines aren’t the problem. Presumably no singing. But the challenge of acting outside of the
J&J
set looms ahead.

Jenna would try to look on the bright side. A change of scene! No annoying fans and photographers! No charade of fauxmance! No personal training, tan spraying, toning, macrobiotic eating, agent meetings! But I’m quickly overcome with reality: No real job! No money! Dwindling fame! Not to mention spending more time away from my beloved California-king-sized, hand-plucked-down-duvet-covered bed. And the small task of attempting to embody the role of a lifetime is something I never thought I’d have to face before I reached twenty-one. And there’s no place to hide onstage. A live audience instead of a laugh track. Just thinking about Aaron’s smirk makes my face flush with anger. I try to replace the memory of linking hands with him underwater with dunking him.

I zip my bag shut, take one look at my house, and realize it might be my last. If I’m let go from my contracts, there’s no way can I afford the payments. I call a taxi to take me to the airport. As I lock the door and enter the security code, two things occur to me:

1) I don’t have anyone to call to drive me to my flight unless I pay them. Normally, people have friends or family do this, right? People who send them off with hugs, magazines, flowers, or at least a “good luck.” But usually my agent drives me. Or the studio sends a limo. I feel a pit growing inside when I realize I have no one to ask.

2) Once, when we were between scenes of
Jenna & Jonah
, Fielding and I sat in our chairs reading. I was halfway through
The Buccaneers
, thinking about which girl I’d want to play in the movie version, and he had a book the size of a large pizza on his lap. He turned the pages carefully, lingering and
hmm
ing in the most annoying way. I tried to see what book it was, and when he realized I was trying to read over his shoulder or see the spine for the title, he crouched over it to hide the words from my view. When they finally called his name for his next scene, he slammed the book shut and looked right at me. “Shakespeare. Complete works. You wouldn’t be interested.” As if the Edith Wharton I was reading was drivel in comparison. Aaron left the Shakespeare there on his chair, tempting me, daring me to try it. And now I’d have to.

According to the navigation system on my rental car, Ashland, Oregon, is located 350 miles north of San Francisco and 285 miles south of Portland, which is to say nowhere I want to be. I follow the directions into the Rogue River Valley, winding my way along the ocean and then farther inland through natural tunnels made of the tallest trees and their canopies of lush summer leaves. At a stoplight, I look at one of the tourism pamphlets I grabbed at the airport. At the foot of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountain ranges, Ashland has a population of twenty thousand. Twenty thousand? That’s, like, an average line of people waiting for tickets to one of the
Jenna & Jonah
events. Wide-trunked trees topped with deep green line the big streets, the summer greens soft, each branch dark against the fading light in the sky. Another traffic light. How many could a town this size possibly need? I stop at the red and read for a second.

Ashland and the whole southern Oregon region offer every visitor a wealth of exploration and discoveries. From historic Jacksonville to the wonders of Crater Lake to local museums and wineries, there are cultural and scenic treasures awaiting you. We know your vacation is about more than the plays onstage—browse our attractions and accommodations listings and create your ideal Rogue Valley getaway.

Rogue Valley? Sounds like a perfect place for Aaron, though this is hardly my ideal getaway. I turn left toward Pine Hill Drive, which, according to the packet of information Martinka had waiting for me at the airport, is where I will be living. When we were filming in Japan, we had an amazing house complete with meditation pools and koi ponds. And when we did that ChristmaKwanzikah special with the InnerCity Choir and the Disabled Kids Troupe, I had the entire top floor of the Mandarin in New York City. And even though I’m not into hotels—they’re so impersonal, really—I’d gladly stay at an inn instead of 16 Pine Hill Drive, which is not so much the woodsy castle I had imagined. Rather, the structure is pretty much only that: a roof and walls to provide shelter from the elements. I stand there, studying the tiny Lincoln Log cabin in front of me and wondering what time I could catch the next flight back to LA.

“Cast or crew?” asks a guy in full-on Shakespearean garb. His hat has not one but two feathers on it, his tights—never a good look on a guy—are white even in the dark, and his accent is more Des Moines than London. “M’lady,” he finishes.

“Cast,” I say. And then I add, “I think.”

He laughs. “You must be jet-lagged.”

I nod, even though there’s no time difference. Between the flight, the drive through the woods, and the loss of my familiar set and routine, I realize I have no idea what to do or how to be. And it’s worse without Aaron.

“I have to run this codpiece back to costuming,” the guy says, “but don’t miss the midnight club.”

A club? Maybe the place isn’t as dead as it seems. “Is there a list?”

He looks confused, as though I’m speaking another language. “It’s just desserts—leftovers—in the lodge.” He gestures to a large, squat building on the other side of the clearing near the cabin. Lace flounces from his sleeve, making the action appear comic. “Sundays and Wednesdays,” he adds. “Get settled and come on down later. We’ll all be there.”

“We,” he says, as though I’m part of the
we
. I smile at him, grab my bags from the car, and wait until he’s gone to walk up the steps. To the left, behind the cabin, is another just like it. And to the right, another one. It’s like summer camp. Or the summer camp I’ve seen in movies. Maybe we’ll sing around the campfire. Maybe hijinks will ensue—short-sheeting beds, shaving cream instead of whipped cream. I can almost hear the laugh track now.

In my cabin, I find a single bed, a dresser, and a functional though tiny bathroom with a shower built back when the festival started and mold that has probably lived through every show since. I walk over to the bed, hearing my flip-flops slap against the bare wood floors, and sit on the narrow, sagging mattress. The mugginess gets to me, finally, and I go to the window and fling it open. Outside, the moon rises behind the trees. I can’t decide if the extra light makes the cabins and lodge look more like a fun summer camp or one of those camps where a killer lurks in the bushes, waiting to grab the campers.