Messy (20 page)

“ARE WE DISTURBING YOUR
nap time, Maxine?”

Max jerked her head upward and tried to focus her eyes. What the hell? Why was Brooke suddenly back at school running meetings?

But it was Brie, standing at the front of the classroom with her hands on her hips, her hair teased into a curling ponytail, an alarmingly Brooke-ish glare on her face. Max felt picked on; Magnus Mitchell was clearly hypnotizing himself by staring at Mavis Moore’s clicking knitting needles, and Brie didn’t reprimand
him
.

“No, Brie, I’m captivated,” Max sassed through a yawn. “Please continue. I’m dying to know if we’re getting the twenty-foot or twenty-five-foot Ferris wheel.”

Brie shot her one more imperious look, then continued on
her spiel, which appeared to involve a pie chart. She was running this Spring Carnival meeting with the kind of organized precision usually reserved for military invasions. But the kid deserved some credit: In the weeks since Max had been to one of these meetings, Brie had navigated the committee away from fantastical ideas, like
America’s Next Top Model –
themed carnival rides or performances from a band consisting of rejected
Bachelor
contestants, and toward something that resembled a real, actual, old-fashioned carnival, apparently, by referring to it all as “retro-chic.” Anna Fury was still trying to work in some kind of judicial theme—a carnival jail for miscreants, with a trial before their release—and Jennifer Parker kept furiously clicking her pen and sending Jake dirty looks. All in all, Max was not sorry she’d ditched. Only Colby-Randall would spend this much time discussing a theme, only to have the eventual outcome be “Hey, let’s have a carnival-themed carnival.”

Max tried to hold open her eyelids, but it was a losing effort. Brooke had made arrangements with Colby-Randall to complete her coursework without showing up on campus every day, but Max still had classes. Since she’d succumbed to financial pressure and written that Brady-baiting entry for Brooke, Max had figured she could just put down her head and push forward and not care, but instead it was getting
harder
to zip her lips about all of it: how she was working her ass off to give somebody else’s reputation a boost and how every time Brady smiled at Brooke it was because of something
Max
had done.

Above all, Max resented these stupid committee meetings. But the welcoming look on Jake’s face when she had walked in made it tolerable. Since their phone call the other week, in which both sides had agreed to Make Plans, they hadn’t had time to follow through. Secretly, Max was relieved. Life was a lot easier when you could just shove your money under your mattress instead of putting it where your mouth was.

A note landed dead center on her desk with a gentle
thwack
. Jake’s arm was perfect when it came to tossing notes in class—it was a shame that talent didn’t extend to the football field (the Colby-Randall Megastars had finished the year 2–8).

WHATCHA DOIN TONIGHT.

Max sucked in her breath. Was this it? Was he making plans… in a
note
? Using the word
whatcha
? Or was that all super casual because he didn’t want her to think it was a date, because even though he said he missed her, he then also high-fived her, and therefore maybe he just thought of her as a very brightly colored little brother?

Either way, she couldn’t very well be honest and reply,
Getting paid to pretend to be Brooke
. Max uncapped her pen with her teeth and wrote:

Can’t. Plans with Molly.

“Furthermore,” Brie was saying, whacking the chart with a pointer she picked up off the desk, “I’m concerned that we’ve all forgotten that this carnival raises money for
charity. Last night, I did some research on local causes, and I think—”

Thwack.

DITCH HER. GOING TO THE MOVIES. COME WITH.

Max glanced around, wishing Molly were there to help her parse this. But the closest possible substitute was Mavis, and she was elbow-deep in the large intestine, which Magnus Mitchell kept nudging with his toe. This note
sounded
datey, but it also sounded like maybe Jake already had plans to go independently of her. What should she do? She had never more heartily wished she had ESP. There was nothing worse than not knowing where you stood with someone, and flat-out asking him was not an option. Because if Jake didn’t like her, she would look ridiculous for thinking he did, and then Chaz Kelly would be all,
Kermit, dude, are you high? He’s the quarterback and you’re a potted plant.
And then all the effort she’d put into removing herself from Colby-Randall society to avoid such hideous embarrassments would have been wasted, and she’d have to run off and raise goats in darkest Manitoba.

“At the next meeting, we’ll be voting for which charity to support, so please give this some serious thought in the interim,” Brie said, flipping her hair over her unusually tan shoulder in a very familiar way. “No time for questions—I’m running late for my facial.”

Brie started packing up her bag—Max noticed that her
Target tote had been replaced with a Kate Spade—and the room erupted into chitchat. Jennifer leaped up from her seat and ran out of the room like her feet were on fire.

“Dude, what’s up with Molly that’s so important?” Jake asked, handing Max her backpack.

Max silently apologized to the universe for her umpteenth lie. “Girl stuff.”

“Well, whatever, it’s okay,” Jake said. “I didn’t really want to see that Matthew McConaughey romantic thingy anyway. Bro might have great abs, but he seems stoned all the time. It makes me tired.”

It was a date. It totally was a date.
“I wouldn’t have made you see that,” Max ventured. “I like explosions and gore, myself. I think Michael Bay movies are the greatest thing ever.”

“And that is why you’re the bomb, Max,” Jake said, hugging her to him. Max was so surprised by this display of affection that all she could do was stand there.

Jake crinkled up his face. “What about this weekend? Can we go out then? Will your girl stuff be over?” He frowned. “Molly’s not having trouble with your brother, is she? Do I need to crack some skulls?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Max said quickly, mentally kicking herself. “He’s just stressed about this band thing this weekend.”

“Dude, we should go watch him play!” Jake beamed. “That’s Saturday, right? It’s a date.” Max felt a hot flush crawl up her face. His smile was as swoon-worthy as ever.
“Okay! I gotta go talk to Coach about how much he’s making me lift.”

And off he went, and that was that. But it was okay. Max wasn’t a sweet-nothings kind of girl. Or at least she didn’t think she was.
Guess I’ll find out. Finally.

Max’s phone buzzed in the pocket of her cardigan. It was Brooke.

WHERE ARE YOU? BOY PROBLEMS.

Having a double life was stressful. How did spies do it?

By the time Max finally trotted into Stage 32, any good mood that had been created by Jake’s attention had been replaced by the kind of bone-deep crabbiness only L.A. traffic could create. Other people appeared to be having similar issues.

“Why don’t people just use their g.d. accelerators?” Kyle was booming at Germain, who gave Max a little wave and a covert eye-roll. “And why don’t we ever have any f’ing bagels left? These people are actors—they don’t eat carbs!”

Brooke, however, seemed to be in a great mood. Judging from the fact that she was perched beside Brady on a black leather sofa next to some wardrobe racks, her mythical boy problems had clearly solved themselves. The two of them had their heads bowed over a folded magazine. Watching them, Max felt uncomfortable and short of
breath, like she’d accidentally put on a too-small pair of Spanx.

Brooke threw back her head and laughed. Max saw she was wearing a trendy pair of black-framed reading glasses.
Since when?

“Max!” Brooke chirped, catching sight of her. “There you are! Where have you been?”

Max rearranged her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression. “Sorry. Traffic was crazy.”

“When I think about how those emissions are poisoning our lungs…” Brooke said with a tsking noise, cocking her head toward Brady in such a way that a curly lock dropped gracefully onto his shoulder.

“Hey, Max,” he said, unfazed. “Did you know that Brooke was so into French history as a child that she named her pony after Joan of Arc?”

“That is news to me,” Max said, carefully. This was technically true: Brooke’s pony had actually been named Mr. Pickles.

Brooke pushed up her glasses and rubbed her nose. Max was unreasonably pleased to see they had left a mark. “We’re trying to get in some quality bonding time,” Brooke said, giving Brady a flirtatious elbow and Max a pointed look. “Tad has us doing our first kissing scene next week, and it’s just been so nice to try to get to know Brady a little bit before we get so
intimate
.”

“Yeah, my personal rule is never to kiss a girl before you know her middle name,” Brady said. “Apparently Brooke
has two, which would make her porn-star name, what? Ophelia Mayflower of Arc? That’s fantastic.”

Brooke giggled and leaned over Brady’s lap toward where Max was standing. “Did you know Brady once almost choked to death on a sandwich?”

“It’s true,” he affirmed. “Ruined my appetite for pastrami. I can only eat it once a week now.”

Brooke slung her arm casually around Brady’s neck. “See? It’s so valuable to get close like this,” she said. “If we don’t get comfortable giving up our personal space for each other, then scene fifty-two will be a bit of a shock.”

They grinned at each other.
Kill me now
, Max thought. Apparently her powers of persuasion matched well with Brooke’s… well,
powers
.

A harried production assistant stormed over to them. “We need Brady,” she told them, without looking up from her clipboard.

Brady stood and pushed his (hideous) argyle sweater sleeves up over his elbows. “Ned Nickerson is about to find out that his father was in league with the crack dealers in Nancy’s hood,” he said. “I get to punch someone from my apple crate.” He cracked his knuckles. “That thing is in so many scenes with me, I feel like I should name it. Any suggestions?”

“Mr. Pickles?” Max muttered before she could stop herself.

“Brady, I’ll come watch in a minute,” Brooke interjected, leaping to her feet and nudging herself between
them. “First, Max and I have to talk about what we’re going to read next for our book group. I really want to do
The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire
, but she keeps agitating for
Sweet Valley Confidential
.”

Max opened her mouth and then shut it.

“I used to sneak Sweet Valley High books out of my sister’s room when I was a kid,” Brady said. “That’s how I learned that if you wake up from a coma with someone else’s personality, the easiest cure is to hit your head on the coffee table.”

“Brady,” the PA repeated flatly. “They’re waiting.”

He grimaced. “Look at what a diva I’m turning into already. Nice to see you, Max.”

“So what do you think?” Brooke whispered as soon as Brady was out of earshot. “Is this working? He always just wants to talk. It’s been four days and he’s had tons of opportunities to accidentally put a hand on my knee, or something, but he’s not making a move. Is it me? Is my breath secretly bad?”

She exhaled lightly in Max’s face, a warm vanilla-spearmint breeze.

“Can I get my paycheck?” Max asked. “I have a ton of homework tonight.”

“He’s just so gentlemanly. You don’t think he’s
gay
, do you?” Brooke suddenly gaped. “I mean, not that I mind being someone’s beard, but I’d just like to know. It totally affects what eyelashes I wear.”

“Paycheck,” Max repeated flatly.

“Oh,
fine
,” Brooke said. “I just thought you’d want to hear about how your plan is going. The check is in my trailer.”

“It’s your plan, not mine,” Max said, following her through the cold and slightly dank soundstage and then outside to where the Airstreams were parked.

“Same difference,” Brooke said, opening the door and ushering her inside.

Brooke’s trailer was as cozy as Stage 32 was cavernous. Persian rugs hid the linoleum, and a queen-size daybed in the back room was decked out with a royal blue velvet duvet and multiple bright silk throw pillows. The perfunctory but functional kitchen in the middle faced a small table with bench seats in deep chocolate leather, and whatever wall space was available had been covered with framed vintage movie posters. Turned out living in a trailer wasn’t so bad when you were doing it on a billionaire’s dime.

“I’ve got your money in here somewhere,” Brooke said, rooting through some books on a long counter under the window. They included
The Corrections
,
Literature of the Western World,
Volume II, and
Ulysses
, all stacked in a failed attempt to hide
The Secret
.

“A little light reading?” Max asked, thinking of when Brady had used those exact words with her.