Messy (13 page)

He leaned forward for emphasis and accidentally bumped her shoe with one of his. Max felt a strange jolt and involuntarily tensed as her mouth went dry. She was almost relieved when her phone visibly buzzed again, so she could shift position under the guise of tucking it farther into her bag.

“So, what are you doing here?” Brady asked. “Are you an actress?”

“Oh, God, no. I’m clearly not irritating enough,” Max said.

“
Clearly
,” Brady echoed with a smirk.

“I’m just here with Brooke.”

“Who’s Brooke?”

“Didn’t you see her come in?” Max asked. “Brooke Berlin. She’s here reading for something.”

Recognition flashed across Brady’s face. “I knew she looked familiar,” he said. “I just saw something she wrote online. It was really funny.”

“Oh, thanks—I mean, on her behalf,” Max said, feeling a warmth spread in her chest.

“She sounds cool. Takes guts to call out some of the lunatics in this town, especially when her dad is so famous.”

A messy brunette in a belly shirt and a wrap skirt poked her head around the corner. “Brady Swift? They’re ready for you.”

He stood up and crumpled the Snickers wrapper in his hand. “Okay, wish me luck. I’m so sick of eating ramen noodles.”

“Break a leg, Engelbert,” Max said.

“Psychic Lifeguard would
never
allow that to happen,” he deadpanned before disappearing around the corner.

Max leaned her head back against the wall and let her eyelids drift shut again. Her phone buzzed again but she was too tired to care. She made a mental note to check in with Jake later, just in case she’d missed something dramatic at all the Spring Carnival meetings she’d been blowing off to help Brooke rehearse.

“So, these guys totally dig the blog,” Brooke announced as she reappeared. “People apparently think I’m ‘bravely funny.’ ”

“I would agree with that,” Max said, and smiled. “Are we done for the day, finally? Bravely funny blogs don’t write themselves.”

OPENBR
KE.COM

MARCH 19

Lots of questions from readers after my last entry. Apparently none of you believe that I actually own shoes by Jessica Simpson, to which I say: Go try them on and then tell me who’s crazy. And honestly, as much as I treasure my Jimmy Choos and my Blahniks, I have no patience for footwear elitism. A cute shoe is a cute shoe. Maybe that will be my new cause célèbre. It beats that made-up charity those boneheads from
Jugular
are pimping on the cover of
People
this week. Whoever heard of Juvenile Fang Syndrome? They’re like the Hollywood version of that e-mail where a “prince” from Nigeria begs for financial help.

Let’s take a look at the rest of the Open Brooke mailbag:

Q. Are you dating anyone?

A. I don’t have time! My sister, Molly, is dating a guitar player (you might be familiar with
his band, Mental Hygienist, because they’re in a Facebook contest right now that’s looking for the theme song for MTV’s new show
Bullfight Club
), and so she’s almost never around—having a boyfriend is like having a full-time job. So for me it, would be like a
third
career, behind school and acting. I’m not that industrious. Plus, half of young Hollywood has that Bieber hair that looks like someone dropped it on their heads from a high place. I can’t date that. He would use all my product.

Q. Have you gotten any cool auditions lately?

A. Some cool, and some whose wretchedness defies description. I did a reading opposite the star of a popular teen soap who distracted me the entire time because she was wearing knit arm-warmers, a tank top, and shearling booty shorts. I’m not kidding—they were like Uggs for your butt. If Antarctica gets an NFL franchise, then I know what the cheerleaders will be wearing. She also kept spitting on every fourth word. Insider tip: If you’re auditioning for her show, bring an umbrella. But I also read for what is going to be
the
teen girl part of the year, and just between us, I’m pretty sure I nailed it. (Of course, twenty thousand other aspiring actresses probably told their friends
the same thing.) This movie is based on a popular book series, and so one of the stock “getting to know you” questions at the audition was about your favorite book with a teenage protagonist. I wonder how many people answered
Twilight
, because when I told the casting people I loved
Catcher in the Rye
, one of them dropped her coffee. My pet theory is that the entire genesis of teen-centric entertainment—from, say,
Ferris Bueller
to the very existence of the CW—could be traced back to that book’s success, and its welcome insistence on giving a teenage character the same intellectual and emotional heft as an adult one. And a snarky POV, of course. But they didn’t get to hear my mad literary science, because they were too busy trying to mop up that woman’s coffee mess. So you’re getting it first.

Q. Are you the answer to the blind item in last week’s Hey! about the meth-head child of a major celebrity?

A. It definitely sounded like it was supposed to be me. But as anyone who has ever seen me in person can attest, I’ve got the furthest thing from meth-face. Also: I’ve seen enough people in this town turn into drooling lunatics to know that I should avoid anything stronger than Advil.

However, I’ve got some juicy tidbits for you:

1) WHICH famous niece was sent packing after a
Nancy Drew
audition because “with her coloring she wouldn’t work as a redhead”?

2) WHICH spunky starlet got a seriously lousy birthday present from one of her party guests? He took her to Crab Fest, and I’m not talking about Red Lobster.

3) WHICH former teen star’s mom has turned into a mega-jackass? (No, it’s not anybody in my social circle.) Listen: This city is all about rejection. So if you are a mom whose kid is putting him- or herself out there every day, trying to be the one in a million who hits it big, don’t be a jerkwad. Imagine if you had the fate of your family’s grocery budget on your shoulders at sixteen, when all you really wanted to be doing was daydreaming about boys and maybe getting drunk on wine coolers at a college party. It would’ve sucked, right? So stop yelling. It’s gross. Also, I hate your pants. I’m just saying.

Until next time,

B.

“PICK UP YOUR FEET,
McCormack!” the gym teacher, Coach Petit, yelled. “We’re not paying you to chat!”

“You’re not paying me to run, either,” Max panted, infinitesimally increasing her pace around the Colby-Randall track. “I don’t know how you deal with her every day in practice.”

Molly, jogging alongside her for company, grimaced. “The beauty of cross-country is that it’s based on running away from her for long periods of time.”

“Where is Brooke, anyway?” Max crabbed. “I know Friday afternoon gym is totally lame, but she’s already skipped it like ten times this year.”

“She got a note from Brick’s hypnotherapist. Something
about the prospect of group sports contributing to her claustrophobia.”

“I have got to get in with her doctor,” Max said. “I’m being crippled by how badly I need to take a nap.”

Things had been crazy since OpenBrooke.com launched. And yet, weirdly fantastic—being so busy somehow made Max more productive. Her grades were up, because the little time she had to study, she had to maximize. She and Brooke had slipped into a pleasant social truce—they weren’t sitting around braiding each other’s hair and talking about their periods, but they weren’t sniping at each other all the time, either. (Well, not in a mean way, anyhow. Max didn’t think she could live in a world where she couldn’t get in a couple of digs at Brooke Berlin every now and again—it was like getting a dog to unlearn how to bark—and she suspected Brooke felt the same about her.) And above all, the blog was exploding, thanks to a mention on
Conan
. Max loved hearing chatter about it everywhere she went, be it history class or Café Munch just off campus, or on her various errands with Brooke. It was addictive.

They rounded the top of the track, which was set into the base of one of the foothills Colby-Randall abutted. Cement benches had been erected at some point in the thirties, when the venue had been an outdoor amphitheater. While the junior class girls ran laps, the guys were running the stairs. Max and Molly reached them just as Jake Donovan finished.

“Max!” he yelled, trotting toward them. “Are you avoiding me?”

Max could feel Molly’s eyes on her. And Jake’s. And other people’s. “No,” she said, as Jake fell into stride with them.

“Hey, Dix,” he said, leaning across her to greet Molly. “Do you think Max is avoiding me?”

“Why would you think that?” Molly asked him.

Jake made a “duh” face. “Well, because I’ve texted her about a hundred times and she never answers, and,” he added, turning to Max, “you never go to the carnival planning meetings and it’s
so boring
, especially now that Jennifer isn’t speaking to me.”

“Why isn’t Jennifer talking to you this time?” Max asked.

“Dude, we
broke up
. For real. I even changed my Facebook status to single.”

Max stopped, confused. How had she not noticed that? Come to think of it, when was the last time she’d checked Jake’s Twitter? “I must have missed that,” she said feebly.

“
Really?
” Molly said, then shot Max an apologetic look.

Jake beamed. “I took a stand,” he said. “She was just always kinda mean to me. Coach told me I have to line up in the shotgun next season instead of under center, and she didn’t even
care
.”

“I’m sorry,” Max offered. It might have been the biggest lie she’d told all year, and based on the last two weeks alone, that was saying something.

Jake shook his head. “It’s totally for the best. I have better people to hang out with. People who make me
happy
.” He inched toward her. “But then I started worrying that you were mad at me or something.”

“Me?” Max asked, confused. Suddenly she felt very conscious of smelling like… well, like gym class.

A wide, white-toothed grin spread across Jake’s face. “Yeah, you, dummy,” he said. “I really missed you.”

“Missed
me
?” Max echoed again. Molly coughed lightly. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’ve just been really busy with an… outside project.”

“McCormack, stop flirting and step it up!” Coach Petit screamed from across the track.

Jake jumped. “God, she’s meaner than Coach,” he said. “Anyway. I’m stoked we’re cool.” He did that boy thing where he turned his body so that he nudged her in the arm. “We should really hang out sometime.”

“Yes, sometime,” Max said, still discombobulated.

“Like, just the two of us.”

Max begged her jaw to stay hinged. She could feel a flush climbing her cheeks. Molly stepped in and grabbed her. “Petit is going to kill you if you don’t start running,” she said, pushing Max forward.

Jake beamed and held out a hand, palm forward. “Don’t leave me hanging, McCormack,” he said, and Max gave him the world’s most awkward high five before trotting away.

Molly turned to Max and raised her brows. “What just happened?”

Max shook her head. “I have no idea. Did he…?”

“I think he did,” Molly said. “How did you not know they broke up? You usually monitor his social media like he’s al-Qaeda and you’re the CIA.”

“I don’t know,” Max marveled. “I feel like I should get fired or something.”

Molly grinned. “I guess you’ve been enjoying yourself too much with the blog to care.”

“Yeah, right,” Max scoffed, picking her pace up to a jog. “Like writing about Brooke’s favorite toenail polish is so fun.”

But, deep down, she knew Molly was right.

The last Friday of March was cloudy and gray, much like Brooke’s mood. Two weeks had passed since her spate of auditions—not that much time in the Hollywood scheme of things, but an eternity in Brooke’s universe, which mostly revolved around instant gratification (hence the size of her closet). She knew casting often took ages, but she also felt like Hollywood waited for no one, and her blog was hot
now
. Somebody needed to hurry up and snatch her out of the jaws of demi-obscurity before everyone lost interest in her natterings about Andrew Garfield’s use of hair product.