No Strings Attached (37 page)

She didn't want to go back. She'd been in California over a month, and so far, though she'd only been on one failed
audition, she loved her job, she loved the people she'd met, she was learning so much!

But she only had until the end of August. Then her mom's money ran out, her job ended, she'd have to give up the house-share and move someplace cheaper. Or move back home, defeated. Back to Donald, who didn't want her to succeed.

Her voice wavered. “Nick, do you think Lindsay's right? If I don't lose weight, I'll never get any acting jobs?”

Nick shrugged. “I'll tell you what I know. Those skanky types who starve themselves? Not hot.”

“Not attractive?”

“No way. Guys like girls with a little meat on their bones, you know? Working out isn't about getting all skinny. Exercising helps shape and tone you. It's good for your heart, lungs, everything. But if you wanted to lose weight—and I'm not sayin' you should—anything that increases your heart rate burns calories.”

Could he not hear her heart racing? She could lose weight watching him.

“We'll start with some simple stretches.” He bent over at the waist, so his fingertips touched the floor.

She watched.

“This is a great stretch for the back of your thighs, glutes, and lower back.”

She bent over, wondering what he thought of her glutes.

“Do you feel it?”

“I think so.” To tell him what she really felt would incriminate her.

Nick demonstrated stretches for the calves, inner and outer thigh muscles, arms, and shoulders. It was when he came up behind her, putting one arm gently around her waist, bending with her to show her an abs stretch, that Sara felt her legs turn to jelly.

He laughed. “Balance. That's what half of working out is about.”

Next was weight lifting, for underarm toning. He demonstrated first.

“Okay, Sara, your turn.” He came up behind her and proffered two small barbells. “These are fifteen pounds. Might be a little heavy at first.”

He stood behind her. Very close behind. He lifted her right arm and placed the barbell-shaped weight in her hand. “Here, curl your fingers around it. Take the other one. … Now pretend like you're Popeye, showing off your muscles.”

She laughed nervously and did as told. Tried to, anyway. She couldn't do it more than once; after that, the weights pulled her arms down to her sides.

From behind, Nick bolstered her arms. “Try again. Don't be discouraged. Just do as many reps as you can. You'll improve, you'll see.”

He was so close, she could practically feel the beads of
sweat transfer from his body to hers. She inhaled him. Sweat and soap: The combination was intoxicating. She had to do something. Say something. Conversation would take her mind off what her body was saying. “How's your modeling going?”

“Slow,” he admitted. “Not exactly the way I thought it would.” He explained that he, too, had a deadline. Three months to make it before he had to concede defeat, go home. Just like her.

“When's the audition?” he asked, demonstrating lunges.

“Friday.” She tried to follow, taking a long stride, bending her knee, stretching forward at the waist.

“Nervous?”

She was hyperventilating for other reasons entirely.

“Lunges are good for keeping your thighs taut and your butt tight,” he explained. He continued to demonstrate, unaware that his shorts rode up even higher with each stride.

Her tummy and butt tightened without her moving a muscle.

“Do you feel it in your thigh?”

When he cupped her quads, she jumped.

“So what exactly is the part in the drama?” he asked, amused at her nervousness.

“It's for a girl named Victoria, a friend of the cheerleader's, out to betray her.”

“A bad girl, huh?” He tilted his head and rubbed his chin. “Not exactly how I'd cast you.”

“You see me as the good girl.” She laughed uneasily.

“I guess I do. But that's why they call it acting, right? You make the audience believe you're something that you're not.”

“You be a good girl,” Donald had reminded her. “Don't let them change you out there. Don't compromise your morals.”

Keep talking. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Any topic would do. “Nick, do you remember that script written by the policeman who found my suitcase?”

“The one you rescued from the pool?”

“I've been reading it. I admit I don't know much, but it's every bit as interesting as the ones the stars talk about on
Caught in the Act
.”

“The cop's is better? No kidding!” Nick seemed genuinely surprised.

She'd just about finished it, and was having Naomi read it too. It was called
Hide in Plain Sight
, and it was about a girl forced to go into witness protection with her mobster parents. She runs away, the bad guys go after her, and this young cop gets involved.

“Sounds cool,” Nick agreed. “Why not give it to Jared?”

“I'm not Jared's favorite person right now, remember? He'd probably make fun of me. And really, what do I know?”

“As much as anyone, I'd think.”

“Maybe you want to read it?”

“I'm not much of a reader. If not for Eliot, I might not have made it through high school.”

“I don't believe you. You ever think of acting?” Sara asked. “You've got the looks for it.”

“Me? I have no talent whatsoever—and I think you need more than looks to make it in this business. And someone like you, you've got both—you're a knockout and a natural talent.”

She blushed. He thought she was a knockout? “There are so many beautiful people here, I'm nothing special.” He thought she was a knockout! “What I have is grit and determination.”

“And me.”

“You?” Sara's heart went into serious flutter.

He grinned and rolled the huge ball toward her. “With the help of my rockin' training, and this balance ball, you'll snag the next role you're up for.”

She laughed. “I was wondering what that ball was for.”

“It's for stretching, pull-ups, and stomach curls. Come on, I'll show you.” He rolled it into the center of the room. “Lay faceup on it.”

She giggled. “I'll fall off.”

“I'll hold you steady, don't worry.”

That's exactly what she was worried about.

Cautiously, she followed his instructions, draping her back on the ball, legs slightly apart, touching the floor.

“Arms straight out,” he said. “Now use your stomach muscles to pull yourself up, just enough to curl yourself.”

Nick stood over her.

She couldn't move.

He took her hands. “Use me as resistance, and pull.”

She did as told. Maybe a little harder than he'd expected. Because she pulled him right down on top of her.

“I have good news, and bad news. Which do you want first?” Lionel, the sweetest man ever, Sara's agent and friend, called her at work.

“Might as well be done with the bad news first.”

“You didn't get the part on the HBO show.”

She swallowed nervously. “Is it because I was too … big?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Not big enough of a name. They went with Nicole Richie.”

“I'm ready for the good news, Lionel.”

“You sitting down?”

“You know I'm not. Go ahead. Lay it on.”

“Just got word that they're doing a remake of
The Outsiders
.”

Sara's eyes widened; she squealed. “Oh, my gosh, I just love that movie!”

“It's a classic,” Lionel agreed. “Made names for Tom Cruise, Matt Dillon, Ralph Macchio, Rob Lowe, Emilio Estevez—they all went on to bigger and better after that. There's one
important female role, Cherry Valance. It's pivotal, it's perfect, it'll make a star out of whoever gets it.”

Sara flashed on a scene from that movie. “Cherry. Was that Diane Lane who played her in the original?”

“Good girl! You know your classic movie history. You have a week to prepare. This is a biggie.”

“You really think I have a shot? I haven't gotten anything so far—not even that dang peanut butter commercial.”

“All the better, my smooth and crunchy one,” Lionel quipped, and Sara's belly flip-flopped.

“They want an unopened jar. An unknown, a fresh, talented looker who'll blow 'em away. In this case, not having any credits is a definite plus.”

“Just what we knew would happen,” her mama crowed when she called with the news. “See, I told you, Sara, every time you tried for something and didn't get it? It's because you're bound for real stardom. I know this is the one.”

Lionel sent “the sides”—a few pages of the script with Cherry's scenes—by messenger that afternoon. By evening, both she and Naomi had read it and had shared the news with Nick and Eliot.

Eliot was pumped. “That's my favorite book from junior high! I'll go online and order the original for you from Amazon.”

“It was a book?” Sara asked.

Eliot booted up his laptop. “Required reading.”

“In our school?” Nick scratched his head. “I don't remember it.”

“That's because I did your report.” Eliot was on the Amazon site. “You had to say if you'd rather be a greaser or a soc. You picked greaser.”

“S. E. Hinton,” Naomi murmured. “She wrote it when she was sixteen.”

Eliot complimented her. “That's right.”

Naomi had offered up nothing about herself. Sara wasn't sure the girl even had an education. “I guess it was required in your school too?”

Naomi shrugged. “I guess.”

Eliot was all about it. “You
have
to read it, Sara. You'll understand the character better and ace the audition.”

“I'll go out and get the DVD. We'll help you rehearse,” Nick offered.

Sara was overcome with emotion. Everyone wanted to help her! She threw her arms around Eliot. “You have no idea how much this means to me. Y'all are … my best friends.” She started to cry, and Eliot stroked her back, holding her tightly. She wasn't sure, because she was crying, but she thought Eliot whispered into her ear, “You smell sweet.”

Sara wept. Eliot grabbed a tissue and blew his nose. Even Nick, notorious noncrier, sniffled. They'd settled around the
big oak coffee table in the living room, lit candles, ordered dinner in, and watched the DVD of
The Outsiders.

“Johnny Cade gets to me every time,” Sara said between sobs. “His life was so sad, and he was a hero. And Ponyboy, you just can't help loving him. …”

Nick leaned back on the couch, stretched his arms out. “Forget about them. It's Dallas Winston—Dally—that Cherry is supposed to be in love with.”

“No she isn't,” Eliot corrected. “She says she
could
love him—”

Naomi picked up the pages of the script from the coffee table. “Should we start helping Sara rehearse, while it's fresh in our minds?”

Nick volunteered to read Dally's lines, Eliot shoved his hands in his pockets, doing Johnny. Naomi played Ponyboy.

Sara alternately sat, stood, walked around—and eventually, after several readings, lay down on the carpet to stretch her back and her imagination. She wasn't real happy with any of her readings, and wanted to try again.

“‘What's a nice, smart kid like you running around with trash like that for?'” She sounded like a sweet, syrupy kindergarten teacher. That wasn't right.

Naomi responded as Ponyboy: “‘I'm a greaser. Same as Dally. He's my buddy.'”

Eliot clapped. “Naomi, that was good!”

Nick added, “Dude, if you were a guy, you could totally nail this.”

Naomi ducked her head down, embarrassed, and mumbled, “Let's keep going. Sara? Do Cherry's next line.”

She did, and tried it completely differently.

“That was better,” Eliot decided.

It was just okay. Cherry was a complicated girl—she could be sensitive and sweet, but also sarcastic and confrontational. She didn't have that many scenes in the movie, but she made you remember them.

“Let's go over the part where Dally brings her a soda at the drive-in,” Nick suggested. He read Dally's line, pretending to hand her a drink. “‘This might cool you off.'”

Sara recited, “‘After you wash your mouth and learn to talk and act decent, I might cool off too.'”

Darn, that was bad. Sara closed her eyes.

Eliot tented his fingers. “In this scene, Cherry's being sarcastic, Sara. You need to read it …” The room went silent.

Naomi spoke up finally. “As if you were Lindsay.”

“That's right, like this,” came another voice, oozing with snarkcasm: “‘
After
you wash your mouth … and learn to talk and act decent, I
might
cool off too.'”

Sara, prone on the floor, looked up just in time to catch the full impact of the ice-cold Pepsi flicked in her face. She was aghast.

The pointy toe of Lindsay's boot was on her stomach before she could get up. “By the way, Cherry throws the soda at him
before
she says the line.”

Lindsay turned theatrically and whirled out of the room. Exit, stage left. Jared, clutching a few pages of a script marked “The Outsiders,” wore a dumbfounded expression. He followed her.

“Why is
she
auditioning for Cherry?! That role is mine, and I
want her off!” Lindsay was steaming, stomping around the elegant, expensively appointed great room at the Larson family mansion in Bel Air, waving her cell phone around like a weapon.

“Put the phone down, Linz. You can't call Amanda; you're not calling Lionel.” Jared, resting his elbow on the marble fireplace mantel, tried to dissuade her. “You got the audition too. And we're not asking them to cancel Sara's audition.”