Unscripted Joss Byrd by Lygia Day Peñaflor Page B

too far away from set for us to get shuttled back and forth between takes, and we finished filming interior shots at the soundstage, so Damon and me are going to tutor in the house during the backyard scene. I’m supposed to do school for fifteen hours a week. Benji keeps track of my hours in a leather memo pad as if his life depends on it. He says that production can get in trouble if I don’t meet my schooling requirements. We’re two hours behind from last week, so that adds up to needing seventeen hours for this week. But Damon said we should try to live in the present. In other words, we’re in denial about having to make it all up in the end just like we’re in denial about the reading he wants me to do, and the long list of classwork Viva will sign off on. I’ve brought my backpack with some books, but they’re just for appearances. All we’re really going to do here is practice Vern LaVeque’s listening, feeling, and reacting. Denial is just a real-life type of acting.
    The inside of this house is worse than the outside. The floorboards squeak, and the whole place smells like old people.
    â€œHey, how are you? Kind of a spooky house, isn’t it?” Damon says to Rodney as we pass each other in the tight hallway, but all Damon gets back is a cold stare. This house isn’t the only thing that’s scary.
    I think it’s rude to be in character with people who aren’t even in the movie. If you have to practice your part 24/7, then maybe you aren’t that good of an actor. I’m no Meryl Streep (I remembered who she is. She’s won three Oscars), but fifteen minutes is always plenty of time for me.
    This house must be between getting sold and either being bought or knocked down by a wrecking ball because there isn’t any furniture in it. There’s a fold-up table and a couple of chairs set up for us in one of the upstairs bedrooms. The windows are already open, but it’s still stuffy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old folks who lived here died of suffocation right here in this room. It’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts because this house would be haunted, for sure.
    â€œI’ll go see if they can get us a fan. And I’ll bring us up some waters,” Damon says. “Then we’ll practice ‘Nailing the Scene with Vern LaVeque.’ But you have to do some schoolwork later, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I answer. That’s fair enough. I guess denial can only last for so long.
    â€œDo you want anything else from downstairs?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    I hear him say “Excuse me” to someone on the staircase—someone with very heavy feet.
    Those footsteps come closer to my room. They stop. They start again.
    â€œAre you doing school up here?” It’s Rodney in the doorway. He must be bored. He must be giving himself a tour. Sometimes there’s no place to hang out on set. The trailers can’t come with us when the streets are tight.
    â€œYes.”
    Rodney steps in without being invited. His body practically fills the whole room. He’s breathing hard; the stairs must’ve taken a lot out of him. “It’s nice and quiet up here,” he says slowly, without blinking.
    This is the first time he’s ever spoken to me. I don’t like it. I want to tell him that no one’s allowed in the schoolroom. That’s an actual child labor law. My last tutor said so; she was very into following laws. But I’m not as tough as the mouthy surfer girl from the parking lot. I don’t ask Rodney to leave.
    He moves in closer. The stains on his undershirt from wardrobe are meant to be grease and beer. But I’ll bet his real T-shirts are exactly like it. I notice chest hair through a hole, so I turn away. He’s disgusting.
    He leans over me, smelling of sweat and onions and cigarettes. “What are you learning?”
    â€œNothin’.” I