Unscripted (16 page)

Halfway there, I took a break in the shadow of a building and pretended to check the campus map Mason had sent me by e-mail. Within minutes after I’d committed to this thing, he’d inundated me with the course syllabus, tax forms, the map, and the one-page contractual agreement promising me a silly amount of money (silly as in tiny) for fifteen weeks’ worth of work. Of course, since I was only going to be putting in a few hours of my time per week, and co-teaching at that, it was probably a fair deal.

God, it was hot, even in the shade. I thought I was in shape, but perhaps what was needed here wasn’t so much muscle conditioning, but endurance training—no, I amended,
survivalist
training: altering your body so it was able to function on two sips of water and one cricket a day or something. I pushed on, wondering if there was a health club that taught that sort of thing in L.A. Then I realized that the sun must have been getting to me. Of
course
there’d be a health club that taught survivalist training. There was a health club for
every
type of fitness in L.A.

I almost missed the building, because for the most part, aside from the theater, which was funkily round, and the esteemed admin building, which was trying its best to look Ivy-League-by-way-of-Spanish-Colonial-architecture, all of them were pretty much interchangeable—and as inspired as railway freight cars.

I ducked inside and, as usual, the air-conditioning nearly made me weep with relief. I took my time finding the classroom, just to cool off before I got there. The last thing I needed was to stand up in front of a whole room full of students while sporting pit stains.

Still, my classroom plans were secondary to my ideas for finding Alex afterward. I hadn’t told Mason the reason behind my change of heart about teaching. He didn’t need to know that the show was in even greater crisis than ever. Then again, he didn’t ask, either. He just sounded really, really happy that I’d called. That was kind of surprising; even though I hadn’t forgotten what Jaya had said about him being a fan, I sort of felt that he was just barely tolerating me most of the time.

No matter, though. Right now it was “all about the kids,” as they say. I walked into the classroom with my head held high. “Hey guys,” I said brightly, dropping my bag next to the lectern and taking a swig from my coffee cup. “Scriptwriting 350, right?”

Before I could get another word out, Mason swooped down on me, grasped my upper arm, and steered me toward the door. “Can I talk to you a moment before we start, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Don’t I get to be called ‘professor’?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “After you.” And with his free hand he gestured at the hallway, as if I couldn’t remember where I’d just come from.

Once we were out of the classroom and the door had shut behind us, he let go of my arm, but stayed alarmingly close to me. He didn’t look happy.

I smiled at him. “Want to give me some last-minute tips, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell?”

He didn’t smile back. “You’re late. Class started ten minutes ago.”

“I was here.”

“You weren’t in the classroom.”

“I was hiking from the damned parking lot, to tell you the truth.”

“Let me give you a little advice: Get here earlier. Okay?”

I saluted. “Yes,
sir,
sir. Anything else?”

“You might want to dial back the snark—you’re going to have to be the grown-up in there.”

“Duly noted.”

“Lose the coffee. You need to look more professional.”

“Okey doke.” I hid it behind my back. Sure, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, I’ll give up my coffee. When you pry it from my cold, dead hands.

“And act more responsible.”

“I’m a very responsible person!”

He regarded me silently for a minute, implying disagreement. And disapproval. I didn’t take kindly to that.

“You’re calling me irresponsible just because I misjudged how long it was going to take me to walk from where I had to park—which, for your information, was on the outskirts ofVegas? Do you not understand that up until a few months ago, I was in charge of a major television production, shepherding a cast and crew of thousands?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “‘Thousands?’”

“So I’m hyperbolic.”

“Among other things.” After a pause, he sighed, then said, “I’ll introduce you when we go back in. We’re going to go over the syllabus, answer any questions they might have, that sort of thing. Just listen and observe today, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine!”

He looked me up and down before he nodded and stepped back. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Mason pushed the door wide to let me go through first. Then he gestured to a student desk; they were arranged in a sloppy semicircle, more or less facing the instructor’s desk and lectern. The one he pointed out to me was at the far edge, closest to the front of the room. I scooped my bag up, slid into the chair, and put my cup of coffee on the floor next to me, within reach. Cold, dead hands, like I said.

Mason picked up a few sheets of paper, rounded the instructor’s desk, and leaned his butt and the heels of his hands against the edge, his long legs out straight, crossed at the ankle, as he faced the students.

“Okay, sorry for the interruption. As I was saying, this class is going to be a little different, because you won’t always have to listen to me droning on incessantly.” The students smiled and laughed politely—the girls a little extra, which wasn’t surprising. Mason didn’t notice—or, if he did, he didn’t let on. He leaned my way to hand me one of the papers as he continued to address the students. “Pardon the hard copy of the syllabus—I’m a bit of a Luddite in that regard—it’s the same as the one that’s posted online. Okay. This class will have two instructors. Me you know and, perhaps, are sick of already.” More polite chuckles. “Our other teacher just made her Hollywood entrance.”

He swept a hand in my direction, and all the students swiveled their heads to stare at me again, as if they hadn’t seen me the first two times I entered.

“This,” Mason went on, “is Ms. Faith Sinclair. You probably know who she is, but if you don’t, you should. Ms. Sinclair is a noted television producer; she’s creator of the very successful
Modern Women.
”

Some of the students nodded knowingly; others let their mouths fall open in an “O” of surprise and recognition.

“Ms. Sinclair was kind enough to sign on rather recently, on short notice. So the syllabus doesn’t adequately reflect how this class is going to work. In other words, usually in this class, you would learn the mechanics and nuances of scriptwriting. With Ms. Sinclair here, you’re also going to learn about real-world applications.”

The kids studied me as this sank in. Most of them—there were only six—smiled in approval, and that was gratifying. This morning I had been so sure that this was going to be a cakewalk, but Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell had popped that balloon pretty deftly. I needed building up again.
Faith Freakin’ Sinclair,
I reminded myself.
I can do this.

A hand snaked into the air.

“You have a question, Alice?”

A pale, solemn-faced girl turned to me. “Yeah. Um, Ms. Sinclair, is it true you dated Johnny Depp back in the ’90s?”

I practically choked on a sip of coffee I thought had been safe to sneak. Good lord, that old rumor? I thought it had gone the way of the dodo years ago. But some juicy Hollywood tales refuse to die. “Um, no,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Definitely not. Total fabrication. He was just a guest at one of my mom’s parties. I think I exchanged all of three words with him.”

“Oh.” Alice immediately lost interest in me and disappeared behind her curtain of blond hair.

“This brings up a good point—a couple, actually,” Mason said, refocusing the class. “First of all, Ms. Sinclair is a great resource who can share the real day-to-day ins and outs of the entertainment industry—what it’s like to be a writer, a producer, a director in Hollywood. Please don’t think of her as a gossip resource. That would be insulting to such a skilled professional.” Hey, I sort of felt myself blush, there. “Second, she’s not only a success in her own right; she’s also the daughter of the legendary film producer Mona Urquhart.” He paused and surveyed the students, gauging their reactions to the name. “You
should
know who Mona Urquhart is. If you don’t, that’s your additional assignment for tonight: find out. My point is that Ms. Sinclair can talk to you not only about the current climate in the entertainment industry, but also what Hollywood was like several decades ago. When she was a mere tot,” he added with a grin. Nice save, there, professor. “So with that in mind—” Mason stopped when he saw another hand go up. “Yes, Brandon, go ahead.”

“Uh, right. Ms. Sinclair?” A rail-thin kid, wearing supertight skinny jeans that emphasized how skeletal he was, looked my way. “Is it true you’re only here to stalk Alex McNulty because you were in love with him but he dumped you and you’re here to get him back and that’s why he’s hiding out here at IECC but you tracked him down?”

Speechless, I scrambled to sort out his rambling question. Panicked thoughts crowded my buzzing head.
How did he know?! Where did he hear that? From Alex? I’ve never told anyone at all! . . . Who else knows? . . . Is he going to take this to the tabloids? . . . Can I kill this kid and the rest of the class so the rumor stops here?

Nothing came out of my mouth for what felt like ten minutes but in reality was only a few seconds. I must have looked like I was going to faint or something, because Mason jumped in.

“Brandon, what did I just say? No gossip.” Mason glanced quickly at me as Brandon dropped his eyes to his desk, embarrassed. “Alex McNulty and Ms. Sinclair worked together on
Modern Women
for the first two seasons,” Mason said after a moment. “That’s all we need to know. End of story. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but no spreading rumors about Alex and Ms. Sinclair. Or just Alex, or just Ms. Sinclair, for that matter. That’s not what we do at this school. Understood?”

I dragged my gaze up from the lid of my coffee cup to Mason’s face, while the students murmured their promises. He was looking at me, smiling grimly. I returned a tight grin, grateful that he had come to my defense.

It also made me strong enough to reply, “That’s, um, an interesting take, Brandon. Where’d you hear that?”

“Around. With Alex hiding out, students talk, you know.”

“He’s not hiding out,” Mason corrected quietly. “He’s attending college, that’s all.”

Brandon nodded, then addressed me again. “And the thing about you and him—um, Internet, I think.”

“Of course,” I muttered.

The guy sitting next to Brandon, a jock type with a cylindrical head, cocked an eyebrow at him. “You read Internet gossip about
Modern Women
?”

“I don’t care either way. I just hear about it from my girlfriend. She’s a fan of the show. And a fan of Alex. She keeps bugging me to introduce her.” He snorted. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. Anyway, I just think it’s weird he’s here at all—”

“First of all,” I cut in, “don’t believe everything you read on the Web, right? As for Alex’s life choices, like attending college at this stage of his career . . . he’s a grown man; he can do what he wants.”

The girl next to Brandon slouched in her chair, muttering, “Wish he’d do
me.
”

“Taylor,” Mason murmured reproachfully.

“Ms. Sinclair?”

“Yes?” God, what now?

A handsome Hispanic boy leaned past his classmates and turned huge, long-lashed dark eyes to me. “Well, I just wanted to say that . . . I’m a really big fan, and I’m really glad you’re going to be helping to teach this class.”

I smiled with relief. “Well, that’s nice of you—thank you.”

And my relief was whisked away when a girl with a finely made-up face and huge cascades of black hair scowled at him and said, “Oh, please, Elias, stop sucking up. You didn’t give a shit about her or her TV show up until five minutes ago. So shut up, you big faker.”

Oookayyy then.

Mason stepped in yet again. “Elias, that was a very kind welcome for Ms. Sinclair. Trina, not so much. All right, people, playtime’s over. Let’s give Ms. Sinclair a break and take a look at the syllabus for the semester. There are a few things I want to point out to you so you know what’s coming up . . .”

* * *

When the class was over, I hung back until everyone was out of the room. As Mason pushed some papers into his battered leather messenger bag, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Welcome to IECC,” he said with a sly grin.

“Thanks a bunch.” I held out my arm for him to examine. “How many chunks are gone?”

Mason’s smile broadened; he was evidently glad I was making light of the situation instead of throwing a tantrum. “You did just fine.”