Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (11 page)

“Well, I do kind of do that—probably because my mother used to sell everything to me, to try to make me give in to her. She’s a better actress than manager, and that’s really saying something.” I sigh. “But the trip’s a bad example. I mean, I could hardly just walk out on my contract and our ‘romantic getaway’ to Tahiti.”

Aaron nods. “So how does the rest of it go?”

I pause, feeling shy about singing. Then I realize why. We sing scripted pop songs. Not ones that mean anything personal, not ones that inspire genuine emotion. But I force myself to sing. “How can you tell me you’re lonely, say for you that the sun don’t shine?” Then I stop singing. It was always too expensive to buy the rights to use real songs on our show, which is one of the benefits of having original songs. “Then he says he wants to lead her through the London streets and show her around. Somehow this will make her change her view, you know, make everything different …” I immediately try to apologize, for what, I’m not quite sure. “Anyway, you’ll probably think it’s cheesy.”

“You don’t know what I think. We’re off the page, remember?” He slicks his hair back and finds my hand under the water. “It’s pretty. It sounds sad and sort of … I don’t know … gentle.” He looks down at the water and then right at me, his eyes locked onto mine.

“Aaron … ,” I start, but I can’t get words out.

His whole voice is different, cold. “See?” He breaks the gaze and drops my hand.

“See what?” I ask.

“That was me, just now, acting. Acting like I care.” He raises his eyebrows and grins. “Pretty good, huh?”

I want to tell him he’s an asshole. I want to slap him. The industry is so competitive and cruel, it really works its way into your bloodstream. It might be impossible to be normal after nearly drowning in it, and maybe that’s why Aaron keeps reverting to his jerky persona. But instead of giving in to the dramarama impulses, I nod. “So … you think I need to improve, right?”

He nods slowly, deliberately, and waits for me to react with my usual fit. But instead, I give him a long, lingering look, my gaze taking in his wet chest, his shoulders. I step closer to him. Aaron narrows the gap between us, getting closer to me. Close enough that it would take very little to make us touch. But we don’t. We can’t. Or I can’t, because if there’s anything that the back-and-forth of reality and acting, that nice Aaron/mean Aaron has reinforced, it’s that I should protect myself. Cue the splash fight.

I take his hand, sliding my fingers through his, making our hands entwine again in the warm underwater world. “So, Aaron, what’s next?” I wait for him to drop my hand, to break the mood with a caustic remark, but he doesn’t. With his eyes glued to mine, he pulls me toward him.

“Are you going to sing a power ballad?” I can’t help but ask.

“And whisk you away to prom?” He grins.

“A girl can dream.”

“Keep dreaming,” he says, and to combat any of his hesitancy, I loop my arms around his waist. He tightens his grip on mine, pulling my body into his. I stand on his feet, then wrap my legs around his waist so he’s supporting me. He leans in, and I know his lips will be salty. His mouth will be warm and familiar but different, too, and I smile. He smiles back, a real soft smile, and leans forward. We’re in the ocean, about to kiss for real, with only the sound of water and gulls around us. Closer. Our eyes meet. Our lips are about to touch and then I hear it. The sickening sound—roll film!—and a herd of paparazzi with telescopic lenses, reporters with their camera crews, the E! news anchor running on the beach in her high heels.

But before we can react to that, Aaron stares at me, still in the moment. “What do we do?” he asks as though we’re really a team.

I break away from him and grin his own grin right back at him. “See? You know what that was? That was me. Acting like I was attracted to you. Pretty good, huh?”

I leave him there because it’s easier to be alone, to do what I’ve always done and back away from getting hurt, to leave before I can be left, just in case everything Aaron does is an act. Deep inside I want to be with him. I love laughing and talking with him, love making pasta sauce and singing with him, but it’s too much exposure for my heart. You just never know when you’re going to get slammed with rejection. It’s simpler not to get close, not to touch his hair, not to link hands and join forces. Easier just to wave good-bye.

12
SHE’S GONE

Aaron

Cameras, reporters, and all, I really want to go running after Charlie and say I’m sorry, I don’t know what makes me such a jerk, I shouldn’t be so mean to you. But that would be embarrassing, both for the emotional display and because I’m still sporting visual evidence that suggests, given the proximity of an underwear-clad Charlie, that I’m heterosexual. So I decide to just hang out in the surf for a while until things subside.

But Charlie—I have to hand it to her—strides from the surf in her bra and leopard-skin panties and stands there for an interview with the paparazzi. Every mom in America is going to see those shots as they wait in line in the supermarket next week: Charlie dripping wet, wearing sexy underwear.

If she wants, she can probably turn this paparazzi moment into a
Vanity Fair
or
Maxim
shoot when she’s eighteen.

Good luck to her. The relative cold of the water has taken care of everything that came up during our little fauxmantic clinch in the water, so I float on my back with eyes closed. The sea holds me up and moves me around. I hear Charlie’s voice, I hear the shutters on the cameras clicking, but it’s all background noise. I wonder if it’s too late to put in some college applications.

Suddenly, Charlie’s voice breaks through the noise. “Field! Field, honey! We’re canceled!”

I raise one hand in the air, and while it’s tempting to raise a middle finger, I give a thumbs-up instead. I hear the paparazzi laugh, and then they start tossing questions my way.

Why don’t I get up and moon them? Why don’t I just paddle out to sea and float to Tahiti? Why do I find myself walking out of the surf to join Charlie on the beach? No wonder Charlie doesn’t get me; I don’t really get myself.

“Fielding,” a male voice says, “why’d you give the thumbs-up to being canceled? What do you have to say to your fans?”

Once again I ponder telling the fans the truth. “I have to say thank you. You’ve supported us for four years, and we would never have had the career we’ve had without your support. I’m sorry for disappointing you. But listen, folks, here’s the deal. I’m … I can’t speak for Charlie, but we’ve spent basically our entire high school years on this show, and I’m just kind of ready to move on. How many of you would have liked to do a fifth year of high school?”

“Not too many of us got paid for it,” a male voice says.

“Hey, fair enough. But still. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I understand how completely lucky I am. My folks still live in their house in Cincinnati, and they’ve worked hard for their whole lives and had very little to show for it. Certainly a lot less than what I have. And that’s stupid and unfair and I’m ridiculously lucky, and all the same I don’t want to do it forever. I’m ready for a new challenge. When we met Nicki, who toured the studio on what turned out to be our last day, she understood that we’re real people and we can’t be the same forever. Our fans are growing up, and we should, too.”

I meant this whole speech as a peace offering to Charlie. Here you go, now go ahead and do your
Maxim
spread and grow up, and I can stop being Fielding. Finally.

“Are you excited about Shakespeare?” the
EW
lady asks me. I look to Charlie for guidance, but she’s ignoring me, deep in conversation with
In Touch
, or maybe
Life & Style
.

“Uh. Well, I’m an actor. So, yeah, you know, I’m excited about Shakespeare in general.”

“And how do you feel about being cast as Beatrice and Benedick? Is this the last chance to save your careers?”

I search the face of my inquisitor, trying to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. Charlie’s still not looking at me. “Well, I mean, we’re a little young for Beatrice and Benedick, don’t you think? I mean, probably Claudio and Hero would be a better fit, age-wise, but Beatrice and Benedick are really way more interesting parts.”

EW
lady is standing there with her mouth literally hanging open.

“I … ,” she stammers. “I don’t know … I mean, I’m not familiar—”

“Of course, actors are supposed to want to do the tragedies, right? But I have to say, I don’t have any great yen to play Hamlet or anything. I’d rather play Puck, or Bottom, or Orsino, maybe even Prospero when I get older. I mean, why would you want to be Lear when you could—”

“Okay, we’ve got what we need,” the
EW
lady says.

She walks away and the rest of the pack follows. Nobody asks me about being gay.

I’m alone on the beach with Charlie again. At least I am until she stalks up to the house. I guess I should be happy that she doesn’t hang around to mock me for saying, “I don’t have a yen.” I walk slowly, hoping to be able to share information whenever she cools off, but by the time I’m back in the house and changed into dry clothes, she’s driven off in the Rug Suckers van.

I take my phone off the charger and turn it on. It beeps for a solid minute as it registers all the texts and voice mails and missed calls from Jo.

I delete all of Jo’s texts unread, which leaves only this one from James:
Shakespeare. Cool move. Snuggles dumped me.

Sorry,
I text back.
How are you doing?

Awesome.
He responds right away.
Being offered every gay role on the planet. And lots of dates, too. Often with photos attached. Want me to forward some?

I text back.
I’ll pass. Good luck.

I call Mom’s cell, but she doesn’t pick up, so I call the home phone.

“Aaron!” Dad yells joyfully into the phone. “Where you been hiding out? Never mind, don’t answer that. Carpinteria. I just saw the photos on TMZ.”

“Um, I’m sorry, I was calling the Littleton household? Is my dad around?”

“Charlie in that leopard-skin print—let’s just say there are a ton of straight boys who probably would have killed to disappear with her for a few days. Kind of a missed opportunity there.”

“Dad, I—”

“I’m busting your balls, kid. I joined PFLAG, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” I choke out as tears come to my eyes. My dad joining Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays is so completely out of character that it says more about how he feels about me than just about anything else he could have said. It makes it kind of impossible to insist that he’s joined this particular support group under false pretenses. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot to me.”

“Well, I just want you to know that we love you and we’re very proud of you, and nothing can change that.”

“I … I love you too, Dad.”

“Listen, kid,” Dad says, his voice shifting from tender into the mode I’m a little more used to, “just stay away from gambling. Gambling will kill you. Also, you probably know this already, but guys are jerks. They’ll cut your heart out and stomp on it just because they can.”

Dad’s been telling me to stay away from gambling pretty much since my first paycheck. This is probably because his brother lost everything he owned on a three-day bender at one of the casinos in Indiana. I’ve never bought so much as a lottery ticket. He’s warned me before about girls liking me for my money, but this is the first time he’s warned me about men being jerks. I guess he never thought he had to before.

“Dad, I don’t think I have to worry about guys breaking my heart.”

“No, of course not. Big celebrity. But be gentle with the boys. Just because they’re guys doesn’t mean they don’t have feelings.”

“Got it, Dad.”

We talk for about fifteen more minutes, and I get updated on all the extended family drama that rivals anything going on in Hollywood.

It’s the best conversation I can remember having with my dad, but at the end of it I feel like I’m about ten years old. Like I’ve just been playing a grown-up. Which I guess I have. I walk out of my room and into the empty house. The house that seemed like a wonderful, peaceful oasis now just feels kind of lonely and run down.

Charlie’s obviously taken off and abandoned me here. I told her she could, and then probably drove her away by being a jerk, because—uh, well, I’m still working on that one, but I still didn’t really want her to leave. I snap open my phone and am eight digits into her number when I hear the crunch of car tires on the gravel outside.

I snap the phone closed and go running outside to greet Charlie in the Rug Suckers van, only to find it’s actually Jo’s Lexus. Charlie is nowhere to be seen.

“Phone. Ever hear of it? Ever answer one?” Jo says as she gets out of the car.

“Uh, Charlie sucked it into the Rug Sucker,” I say, not exactly lying.

“Well. Here,” she says and throws me a brand-new phone. “It’s charged, it’s got your number, and I want you to pick it up when I call you. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let me tell you exactly what’s happening.”

Jo strides into the house like she owns the place, and I follow her.