Unscripted Joss Byrd by Lygia Day Peñaflor Page A

in real life, especially in front of Chris. “But she’s very proud of her mini-self. She really is.”
    â€œWell … okay,” I say.
    Just then I notice a plastic wristband on Terrance’s arm. Chris is wearing one, too. “Hey, what are those wristbands?” I ask.
    â€œChris and I went to the driving range last night.”
    â€œWe got unlimited refills—golf balls, not sodas,” Chris says.
    â€œOh.” Besides missing so many good times, another problem with turning down invitations is that after a while you stop getting invited altogether. “Then what about the lighthouse?” I ask Terrance. “When can you take me?”
    â€œJoss, TJ has enough to do right now. Don’t go bugging him about sightseeing,” my mother says, even though Terrance had time for the driving range and the lighthouse was his idea in the first place. If Viva would stop kissing up to Terrance for two seconds, it’d be two seconds of pigs flying.
    â€œBut we’re supposed to take trick pictures that look like I’m holding the lighthouse in my palm. Terrance said he’d do them with me.”
    â€œLet’s all nail scene fifteen first.” Terrance isn’t kidding even a little. “Then we’ll talk lighthouse. And Chris, don’t forget to cut the wristband off before the shoot.”
    Chris is biting the inside of his mouth again. I can tell that Terrance is making him even more nervous, so I drop my napkin on the floor and pull him down with me.
    â€œYou know,” I whisper under the table. “They can give you tear drops.”
    â€œThey can?” he asks, surprised.
    â€œSure.” I cover my full mouth. “The makeup department’s got tears in a dropper. Plenty of actors use them.”
    His face lights up. “Do you use them?”
    â€œNo…” I feel bad about that, for some reason. He looks so worried that I almost tell him I’ve been studying Vern LaVeque’s Master Class. Almost. “I don’t use them, but everybody does,” I say instead. “No one cares, anyway. No one cares how you get the shot, as long as you get it.” That sounds like something Viva would say, but it isn’t. That line is all me.

 
    5
    Caroline, my stand-in, is twenty-three but my height and my coloring. We each get a stand-in: Jericho and Chris get Warner and Davey (grown-ups who are small). And Rodney gets a big guy named Frosty who’s as doughy as him. Our stand-ins pretend to be us so that the crew can set up the camera and the lights and practice shooting all the movement without us. That’s how we get time to rest or tutor, or in Rodney’s case, to order fast food and nap in his trailer.
    I’m obsessed with stand-ins; on Hit the Road I couldn’t believe that I got one. For some reason I thought stand-ins would be only for adults. But that’s how come I realized I was an actor, too. I figured if I needed a backup, I must be somebody important.
    I wish I had a stand-in for real life. Can you imagine having someone walk through your day to make sure everything’s fine before it’s your turn? She could warn me, “Watch out for Viva. She’s snippy today!” or “There’s a pop quiz on fractions. Number 3 is C!” I could get used to that.
    Caroline is up in my tree when we get back to set after lunch. She waves to me on my way inside the house. Viva says that stand-ins do a lot of work but don’t get any glory. Caroline told me she likes this gig but is trying to get a real acting job. But to me, being a stand-in should come under the heading of count your blessings because she gets to stay at the Beachcomber, too, and she gets to eat all the same catering and sit up in a tree for the day. Best of all, she never has to learn any lines. If you ask me, she’s pretty much got it made. So, I guess it all depends on your definition of glory .
    Basecamp is