Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (10 page)

11
THE STREETS OF LONDON

Charlie

Our highest-rated episode of
Jenna & Jonah’s How to Be a Rock Star
was the episode that almost didn’t get made. End of Season 2, Jonah was in his usual state of self-congratulatory confusion—should he go to the prom with the girl of his dreams (me, of course, played subtly in a beautiful dress and with downplayed boobs) or should he receive the Golden Frog Award (the Family Network’s answer to the Kids’ Choice Awards) or should he, rising rock star that he is on-screen, keep his tour date in the Bahamas? Never fear, dear viewers, he does all three! Shocker! Jonah convinces a pilot of his plight, gets the pilot to charter a private plane from the concert to the awards show and then back to my yellow house. Keep in mind his house is under construction, so he has to sleep over—but not, NOT, in my room. He can sleep in my brother’s room, who is, of course, conveniently at an all-star pitching thing “upstate,” even though we don’t really know where on a map that would fall. But here’s the best part: I was—I mean Jenna was—kept out of all the mass confusion and private planes and concerts for that episode. I was laid up in bed with a broken ankle (an injury sustained in real life, skiing in Vail—ask me if Fielding cared), narrating the show as it went along. Highest viewership ever for a Family Network show. And more people downloaded the final scene than watched live.

Cue the rain on prom night, even though the show is set in a fairly rainless make-believe state. Cue Jonah hurrying to put on his tux and scrape together a corsage from the rhododendrons in the yard. Cue Jenna (uh, me) lying in bed, having narrated nine-tenths of the story. The spotlight-generated moonlight streams in my fake bedroom window. A lone silent tear works its way down my perfectly made-up cheek. I continue to narrate: “So if you’re wondering if Jonah makes it to the prom, I can’t tell you that. Because I’m not going. Will there be other proms? Maybe. But right now, in the prime of my life, I’m sitting this one out.” Cue full-length shot of me in my white nightgown, hair a tumbled mass, fake brown eyes watery, as my cast somehow keeps me from being able to crutch my way to the dance.

But—wait—what’s that? It’s the stirring chords of a power ballad as Jonah bursts through the window to sneak me out of the house and carry me in his arms—to the prom! Worried about my dress? I manage to turn my bathrobe sash into a bow and rip the sleeves from my nightgown in the limo and twist my hair up with the rhododendrons, inspiring many teens to rip apart shrubbery and tear their nightclothes to disastrous effect. Jonah saves the day! Jenna goes to the prom! The song shoots to number one on iTunes before the episode is even over. And the YouTube clip? Still one of the highest ranked.

Aaron finds me beachside this morning, bringing a mug of tea as a peace offering. I examine it but don’t accept it yet. “It’s green tea—antioxidants … Come on, you know you want it …”

I take the steaming mug—the sting of last night having faded a little—and sip it while staring at the waves as they break near my feet. “I always wondered why I didn’t just use crutches in the prom episode,” I say.

There’s only a second or two when Aaron doesn’t answer; then he nods, taking a few steps closer on the sand so we’re side by side but not looking at each other. “I know, it’s like, they wanted you to be stuck up there in the princess tower and I’m riding in on a black stallion to rescue you.”

I sip more tea, abandoning my flip-flops on the sand and letting my bare feet drag in the surf. The cool water feels good on my skin. I sing, “Lying all alone, nobody on the phone, no one came for me …”

“Until you did,” he half sings and then grimaces. “Ugh. I loathe that song—even if you sound decent singing it.”

I continue, singing louder now and with my real voice, which can more than carry a tune. “But doors will open, windows, too; all I’m asking is you be you. Save me, come for me, I’ll rise to the occasion …”

Aaron looks amused and slightly sweet, his stubble and sleep-tousled hair working wonders for him, and his expression is one of tenderness, as though the song doesn’t bring up only evil feelings. “You’re the first, the last, the only one, the one who makes me come undone … ,” he sings and then can’t help but laugh and comment, “I mean, is it just me or is it lewd? We’re ‘pure’ neighbors? A love song? Rise to the occasion? Come undone?”

“You might be on to something. Or you just might be a perv.”

“Well, that’s a definite.”

I laugh, loving the banter between us. More than anyone, he’s the one who brings out my playful side, even if it’s defensive sometimes. “It’s funny. I always loved music—I guess I still do, except I hardly listen to anything anymore.” Aaron nods and I go on. “It’s like singing bullshit kind of sucked the enjoyment out of me.”

“I actually removed the sound system from my car.” He pulls off his shirt, shivering once and giving me an eyeful of his toned chest. The arms that have wrapped around me so many times look unfamiliar now. It’s amazing how the light of day can make everything feel better, as though his accusations last night weren’t really said by him. A body double maybe. “What use is music if all it does is make those lyrics echo in my head?” He turns to look at me once before plowing into the surf, swimming through the waves until he’s yards away, bobbing in the morning light.

Normally, I’m not a swimmer. That is, usually I’m being photographed and therefore am not interested in being caught with pool hair or with my bikini half off, so waves and tides are not my thing. But here, free from watchful eyes and lenses, there’s no reason not to swim. So I shuck my gray T-shirt, keep my bra and dazzling leopard underwear on, carefully set the teacup in the sand, and tentatively wade in. Aaron watches all of this, staring at me as the water rises up my legs to my waist, and I don’t flinch.

We meet in shoulder-deep water. He raises his eyebrows, looking like he’s about to tell me a secret.

“What?” I ask. “Never seen a girl swim in her underwear before?”

He tips his head back in the water and shakes his head. “Never seen you do it.” I can tell he means he thought I was the type who wouldn’t want sand or seawater to muck up her makeup. Why would he think otherwise?

“I never had the chance,” I say. And then I can’t help but follow up with, “God, everything I say sounds cliché, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not your fault.” Aaron flicks water at me. “In fact, just splashing you feels cliché. Like now’s the part where we get in a water fight and laugh and some upbeat song plays and then we get closer, splashing, and then—”

I swallow hard, looking at him, knowing that the end of his scenario would end with a kiss. Something we don’t do now. “So maybe we should do everything anticliché.”

Aaron floats on his back and I do the same, looking skyward. “How do we do that?”

“I don’t know … For starters, we should have a sad song in the background. Not an upbeat one.”

“Like what?” he paddles over to me so he can turn his face and see mine. We look at each other across the dipping and rising ocean. “ ‘I Used to Love Her But I Had to Kill Her’? That’s Guns N’ Roses. Or maybe no song but a shark comes and eats us both. That’d be unexpected.”

“You really want to fade to black right now?” I ask and stand up. I touch his leg and for a minute we’re there, in the ocean sounds—birds, waves, wind—and I wonder if I should splash him or what. The “or what” being more nerve-racking. And I want so much to still be angry at him for last night, annoyed by his smugness and his lack of respect for the job I’ve had my whole life, for sabotaging everything. He has a hometown to go back to; Hollywood is my everything—there’s nowhere else for me to go. But maybe that’s behind us now and we can move forward and figure out—together—what to do next.

Of course, just as I’m thinking this, Aaron comes out with, “You know, the problem wasn’t about your leg.”

I scrunch my face in confusion and the bright rays. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it was the show that was the crutch.” He crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. After a second he rakes his wet hands through his hair so it’s spiky but picture-perfect in that sea ’n’ surf way.

I give him my “you’ve got to be kidding” look, all hands on hips and smirky, except my body is hidden under the water so most of the gesture is lost on him. “
Jenna & Jonah
wasn’t a crutch—it was a job.”

“See? You’re using the past tense already,” he insists. I want to throw up. It can’t be past tense. Aaron goes on. “You used that show—”

I slap the water and groan. “They used me! It used me.”

“Maybe, but you did it right back. And not for the paycheck—because we all did that. You did it so you’d never
really
have to challenge yourself.”

I shake my head, trying to remain calm. “I can act.” The words sound small.

Aaron cups his hands together, forming some sort of water fountain that spits ocean spew out at me. I duck. “Really?” Disbelief shows up all over his face. “You want to know why they had you lying in bed that whole time?”

I can still smell the production-set odor, hear the hollow sound of memorized lines reverberating in the set. I smirk. “I couldn’t move. It’s called a broken ankle.”

“No! It was because you couldn’t—can’t—cry. The producers, Jerry and Marsha—they were panicked they’d have to use that fake tear shit like at the playground scene back in season one.”

I wrap my arms around myself, stunned that I could have thought it was all behind us. All his condescension. His certainty that he’s right and I’m nothing but a hack.

“It’s not my fault I can’t cry,” I insist. I never do. On or off the set. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t act.”

Aaron cocks his head. “Um, actually, the definition of acting is being able to sustain believable emotions regardless of the true feeling of the—”

“Oh, shut up! There’s nothing about crying in there, Mr. Webster. It’s not as though you’ve won a Golden Globe, either—hello, Limited Range. Look at me! I can glare! I can pout!” I put on my best Jonah impression and it’s enough to silence my costar. Former costar. I try not to imagine the rest of the world, how it’s spinning, how people are being hired, fired, let go from contracts.

“I just want you to be the best you can be, that’s all,” he says as though that excuses the insults. Maybe he does only want the best for me, but he has a funny way of showing it.

A few minutes slide by and we swim, not really with each other but nearby. Floating in the cold water, I watch a gull diving for its breakfast. So what if I can’t cry? Tears are not the only measure of good acting. I had to cry on my first job, the diaper gig, and I managed that, right? But since then, I’ve faked it. And faking it is the definition of good acting.

Aaron wades over to me, waist deep in the water, striding as though he’s got groceries on both hips. He’s not looking as smug as before, so I relax but squint so he knows I’m still suspicious. But he bypasses any further critiques and his voice softens.

“So what song? If we were going against the cliché… Tell me.” He bites his lip, submerges his entire body, and then stands up, close to me. Rivulets of water come down his cheeks to his jawline, and the air chills me, so I sink underwater to keep out of the air and make sure my nipples don’t show too much.

“ ‘The Streets of London,’ ” I say. “It’s really old. Some guy, Ralph McTell, wrote it. My dad used to sing it to me when I was little.”

He furrows his brow and nods, really interested. “Oh, yeah? Did he play an instrument or just sing?”

“He just sang … but every night.” I give a small laugh, feeling a bit exposed for telling the truth or anything about my family. “I couldn’t get to sleep without it for a while.”

“So sing it now,” he says softly. “Give me the anticliché version.”

I explain it first. “It’s this guy and he’s walking the streets of London and seeing day-old newspapers selling stuff that doesn’t matter anymore …”

“You always do that,” he says. “
Talk
about the thing instead of just
doing
the thing. Like when you wanted to take that trip to Europe? You brought those guides in and bored me to tears at the dumb bagel place talking about Belgium and Milan instead of just going.”