Unscripted (18 page)

After about another minute, Mason pulled Trina out. “Pick your replacement,” he told her, and Trina pointed at Alex.

He jumped up and bounced into the scene. “I have to tell you something.”

Immediately Kaylie turned to him and said, “Really? Because I have to tell
you
something. Your old boss has been watching you this whole time. She’s right over there.” And she pointed at me.

The exercise ended so abruptly it was like the scene crashed into the back wall of the theater at full speed, then lay there, crumpled on the floor, twitching. It was so quiet you could hear the lights buzzing. I wanted to sink down in my seat, but it was too late. The students were staring at me. I gave a little half-wave.

After a beat, Alex murmured, “You don’t say.” It was like everyone let out a held breath at the same time—including me. He had gotten to the closing line, kept his sense of humor, and salvaged the scene.

“Kaylie!” Mason didn’t sound too happy. “Come on—you know better than that. You broke the fourth wall.”
And it was none of your business ratting her out like that,
he didn’t add. But I heard it in his tone anyway. And so did Kaylie. Mason sighed. “Let’s take a break. Good work. Whoever hasn’t been in yet, you’ll be up next.”

While the students scattered, gathering in small groups to talk, dropping into the orchestra pits to check their phones they’d left there, or heading out the back door for a smoke on the loading dock, Alex stayed where he was, hands on his hips, still looking at me. As did Mason, from his position at the edge of the stage. Kaylie whispered something to Alex, who ducked his head to hear her. He nodded and caressed her cheek. Still flirty, I noted. Some things never changed.

Still, that got me out of my seat, if only to interrupt his “moves” . . . just like I had done a thousand times on set when I had wedged myself between him and countless young women, come to think of it. With as much dignity as I could muster, I strode down the aisle till I was at the foot of the stage. Kaylie glanced at me and wisely made herself scarce.

“Hi, Alex. How’ve you been?”

“Faith,” he said warmly. “I heard you were around.” I let out a breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

“Yeah, well . . . can’t keep me away, can you?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mason trying to look busy, but obviously listening to everything we said. Ever the watchdog, that one. I wished he weren’t there. This would be so much easier if it were just me and Alex, but Mason had laid out the parameters of my interaction with Alex, and he was going to hold me to them, even by just being there, silently reminding me of what I had agreed to.

Alex strode to the edge of the stage and sat down, hanging his legs off the edge, one knee on either side of me. Okay,
that
wasn’t helping. “What did you think?”

“The class? It looks really . . . interesting. You did great. But then,” I added hastily, “that’s not really surprising, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shook his head slowly, eyes wide. “It sure is different from what I’m used to, let’s put it that way.”

“Really, you’re doing fantastic.”

Alex pursed his lips as he studied me. “Did you really come all this way just to see me?”

I studied his muscles flexing under the fabric of his burgundy thermal shirt as he leaned back on his hands. “Of course not. I came all this way to teach. Running into you was, you know, a crazy coincidence.”

He smiled broadly. “Yeah, I heard. Congratulations.”

Ah, screw what I promised Mason. I couldn’t keep up this stupid chitchat. “Look,” I began, ready to hit him with the impassioned “come back to us” plea that I had planned on reserving for another time.

But suddenly Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell came up right next to me and Alex. He clapped his hands a few times and called, “Okay, everybody, let’s continue.”

Damn him. He knew what I was about to do and interrupted me on purpose. I tried to give him my best stink-eye, but he wasn’t looking at me. As the other students started drifting back to the center of the stage, I turned to Alex, who obviously was more than ready to rejoin the class.

He jumped to a crouch but took a moment to ask, “What were you going to say, Faith?”

I hesitated, then said, “Nothing.Just . . . checking on you. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He nodded. “Guess I’ll see you, then?”

“I’ll be around, sure.”

He jogged back to the group of students in the middle of the stage, and I turned to go. Once again, Mason was right there. Irritating me.

“Everything all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He nodded. I couldn’t resist adding, “So, how’d I do, boss?”

He laughed. “Just fine. Marvelous restraint. See you next class, all right?” I saluted and turned to go. “Oh—and . . .” I looked over my shoulder at him. “Be on time, please.”

This time my stink-eye hit home.

* * *

Of course, I was late again on Friday. Not like I didn’t make an effort. I tried—really I did. But I just couldn’t seem to get out of my house on time. Not that I was primping. Okay, a little bit, because I planned to stage Phase 2 of the Assault on Alex that afternoon. But for some reason things just kept preventing me from getting out the door. Like Jamie. For some reason he had about a hundred questions for me: Was I going back to Moreno Valley, when was I coming home, was there any chance I might get home early?

He was definitely acting suspicious, and I almost didn’t leave at all, just to prevent him from doing whatever it was he was planning. But once I got him to swear that he was not, in fact, going to film some porn in my house—I wouldn’t have put it past him—there wasn’t much I could do except threaten him within an inch of his life and then leave him to it.

When I blew in late—but only by five minutes!—I wasn’t too surprised to see Mason’s broad shoulders stiffen and one eyebrow go up as he watched me scoot to my seat as quietly as possible. Which was a big ol’ fail when the student desk
scrreeeed
across the floor.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Mason addressed the class. “Okay, I want everyone to pair up and discuss the last study question at the end of chapter three. Take about ten minutes, then we’ll reconvene and share your responses.”

As the students got settled and opened their books or fired up their e-readers, Mason approached me and leaned his knuckles on my desk.

I hit him with a preemptive, “I know. I’m late; I’m sorry. But traffic was a real bitch.”

“Going east? In the morning?”

He had me there. The commute was the other way.

“Okay, okay. I just couldn’t get out of the house on time. Jamie—”

“Jamie?”

“My stepbrother. He’s staying with me for . . . for a while. He kept bending my ear about this and that—drives me nuts, but he’s a good guy—”

“Faith,” Mason said quietly, but decisively enough to cut me off. “Have you considered maybe staying out this way for the semester? Even just during the week?”

What—
stay? Here?!
Was he crazy? “No!”

“Just a thought,” he said, still sedately, his warm brown eyes holding me in my seat, keeping me from looking anywhere else.

My breath caught, and I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. Suddenly spending time in Moreno Valley started sounding like a plausible idea . . .

“Professor Mitchell?”

Mason tore his eyes away from me. “What is it, Alice?”

“I’m not sure what the author means by ‘raising the stakes’ here?”

I needed to get my mind off my tingling nerve endings, so I spoke up. “Can I—?”

Mason held up a hand to stop me. “No, please just keep observing for now.”

“What, am I on probation or something for being late?”

With a wry smile, he murmured, “Maybe.”

“No, really—when do I get to talk?”

“When I’m sure you’re taking this seriously.”

I gave him a dramatic
I’m shocked
—
shocked!
look. “I
am
serious.”

“Just observe, okay?” he said, then turned to Alice.

So I observed. In other words, I took it in turns to be interested in the class, irritated at the parts of the introductory material I disagreed with (mostly talk about nuance, when I knew the bottom line was, well, the bottom line: money), and bored out of my mind. There were so many things Mason could have been doing with the class—and I could have been helping—but instead I was relegated to the status of a mushroom while they all pointlessly examined the minutiae of the “art” of scriptwriting. What the hell, with the art? In reality, you slammed it out and tried to make it interesting and original enough to attract the right people—the money people—who would produce it, but not so original that it would scare them away. Because they were nothing if not skittish about taking risks with the bundles of cash they doled out. Mason should have known this. He nearly ended up in my world, so he must have had some practical scriptwriting skills. I had no idea why he was teaching the class this way.

By the time I had gotten through that class and most of the next one, on Monday, I was nearly jumping out of my skin. After all, I was used to being the one in charge; being relegated to a seat in the gallery and not even participating, let alone leading . . . it drove me crazy.

When my phone rang near the end of class, I was grateful for the escape route. I hissed “Sorry!” for the interruption and scooted into the hall.

It was Jaya.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea how glad I am to hear from you!”

“Yeah, don’t be so quick to say that,” she muttered.

My innards went cold. “Do
not
tell me Randy B. has struck again.”

“No. Not him this time.”

I leaned against the wall. “What, then?”

There was a pause, then Jaya said hesitantly, “I wanted you to know as soon as possible. And I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“Hey, now you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

She sighed. “I’m going to text you a link in a minute. Check it out and text me back. I don’t know who’s behind it, where it came from, but you need to know that it
wasn’t me
.”

“Jaya, tell me—”

“Just go look, okay? I’ve got to get back on the set. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hung up and, true to her word, sent a link within a matter of seconds. While I watched the Web page load, I could hear Mason wrapping up and the students getting out of their seats. Other doors in the hallway opened as classes were let out, and I was knocked around by a bunch of backpacks and messenger bags. But I barely noticed, because my phone’s screen was suddenly filled with the very familiar pink-and-white color scheme of my least-favorite blog.

At the top of the page was a new entry, set off by garish scrolling text and bouncing smiley faces. “McNulty McNuts!” the bright pink font screamed against the cartoon heart-laden background. “Big news! No, BIGGER than big!!!!”

The scriptwriting class filed out, each kid saying good-bye to me in turn, but I didn’t acknowledge any of them. I was waiting for Mason.

When he appeared, last out the door, holding my purse out to me, I lit into him. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

He jumped back half a step. “Okay, what now?”

“This!” I shoved my phone in his face, way too close for him to see clearly. Again, he pulled back, grasping my wrist to hold my hand steady as he tried to focus on the screen. “
This
is what I’m talking about! How about you explain where this came from?”

Mason frowned, put my purse on the floor, took my phone, and scanned it quickly. Then he looked up at me. “Who—?”

“Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea!”

“Hold on,” he protested. He took me by the elbow and said, “Let’s go to my office.”

Yanking my arm away, I hissed, “Oh, let’s not. Let’s talk about this right now. Right here. Explain yourself.”

“You think
I
had something to do with it?” He frowned and stepped into the now empty classroom. When I joined him, he half-closed the door and read from the Web site, “‘Rumor has it, rumor has it, rumor—’ Why is it repeated four times?”

I rolled my eyes. Did he really not know Adele’s music? Now was not the time to ask. “Just keep reading.”

He shrugged. “‘Rumor has it—’ um, et cetera—‘that Alex McYummypants—’” He stopped again with, “Really?” I waved my hand for him to continue. “‘—might be coming back to
Modern Women!!!!!!’
” Mason paused and squinted at the screen. “Six exclamation points? Is that necessary?”

“Will you read!”

“‘Word is that Faith Sinclair herself has gone to find him and beg him to come back to the show! For good and for realz!’” He stumbled over this last bit of creative spelling but gamely kept on. “‘We hear he’s somewhere close by. We don’t know exactly where, but Faith seems to. If she can get Alex back on the show, we’ll even forgive her for that last mess she made. Who’s with me? David and Sabrina 4-evah!’” He looked up at me. “You made a mess? What mess?”