The Last Take Read online

  I tilt my chin up to the ceiling mockingly, pretending to ponder. “Yep. I’m good with that.”

  The smirk fades from Nolan’s face. “You’re going to let your arrogance shut down an entire production?”

  I cross the space between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Evie watching us like Bambi watching his mother get gunned down by the hunter. When I reach Nolan, I press the script against his Armani-wearing chest.

  “You can shove your production up your ass.”

  And if I had a microphone, now would be the best time to drop it. As I make it to the stage door, I hear what can only be the sound of Nolan throwing the script against the floor.

  I’m relieved that the production office is empty when I push the door open. I close it firmly behind me, happy to leave the drama outside. I slump into the chair, dragging my hands through my hair.

  It’s hard to pinpoint how I feel. Relieved? Disappointed? I know I should’ve been more careful getting into business with Nolan Smith. It was a mistake saying yes to the job to begin with.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” A furious Dee flies through the door.

  Well, so much for leaving the drama outside.

  “Dee, how lovely of you to join me.”

  “Shut up. What the hell has gotten into you?”

  I look up at her, scrunching my face. “What are you talking about? You heard him in there. ‘You’ve had your fun’ and all that ‘you’re in Nolan land’ bullshit. How did you expect me to react?”

  “With a bit of self-control for a start!”

  “Self-control? Dee, he’s lucky I didn’t punch him in the face. You saw how he was up in my grill.”

  “Up in your grill?” She stares at me, wide eyed, like there’s someone else she wants to punch in the face. “Jesus, Adam. We were actually getting somewhere.”

  “We were! But he came and changed the terms on me! I swore to myself I wouldn’t do another meaningless—”

  “I swear to God if you mention meaningless films or stories without substance one more time, I’m going to stab myself in the eye with this pen.” She holds up an actual pen.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “You are. You’re being a total asshole.”

  Well, that’s uncalled for. “I am not an asshole,” I mumble.

  “Really? Then you’re doing a very convincing impression of an asshole. Maybe you should cast yourself in one of your own movies?”

  Dee stands there with her hands on her hips and I frown at her. “I don’t understand why you’re so mad. I’m the one who’s had my entire movie torn apart.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” She shakes her head. “This is just a blimp for you. You’ll weather some backlash from Nolan and then you’ll be onto the next project, Mr. Multi-Million-Dollar Director. But what about the rest of us, huh? Some of us are counting on this film. Some of us are still trying to make it to where we want to be.”

  “You think this is where I want to be?” I shoot my arm out toward the sound stage. “Directing flying monkeys and talentless actors who only got cast because of their Instagram following? I have goals too, Dee.”

  “Yeah… it’s just easier for you to bide your time in your West Hollywood condo. We’re not all in the same position as you.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “Of course that’s what this is about!” she shouts, the tiny curls around her hairline looking even more frazzled. In all the years I’ve worked with her, I’ve never seen Dee so mad. “People are depending on this pay check. We can’t afford production to stop and risk not getting hired when it starts back up. The people in there have families to provide for, roofs to put over their heads.”

  I groan, returning my face to my hands.

  “And what about George?” she continues. “His wife’s chemo treatments don’t just appear out of thin air, you know.”

  I tilt my head back up to meet her eyes. “That’s a low blow.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s reality.”

  “George is employed by the studio,” I say, standing up to regain some kind of higher ground. “He’ll get more work by tomorrow.”

  “And what about the other ninety-nine people in there?”

  “It’s not that simple!”

  “Ugh!” She throws her hands in the air, turning toward the production office door. “You try to talk some sense into him. I’m done.”

  I jolt my head to see who she’s talking to. Please don’t be fucking Eric. Or worse, Nolan. But the voice that soon follows is much softer than I expected.

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  Evie appears through the threshold. Today her hair is tied back, with little messy bits hanging around her face.

  “That depends, are you going to lose your shit like Dee?”

  She smiles crookedly and walks in, closing the door behind her. I’m hoping that means ‘no’.

  She walks around the perimeter of the room, looking over the various documents and headshots stuck to the walls.

  “I guess my photo got lost in the mail,” she says in a deep, joking voice, pointing to the headshots of the main cast. I take her strange stall tactic as an opportunity to think about what Dee said. I know a ton of people on other productions in charge of hiring crew. I could just make a few phone calls and get everyone back on a payroll… then I’d be home free…

  “Who’s the Trekkie?” Evie scoffs, picking up a Darth Vader paperweight with one hand and muffling her mouth with the other. “Adam,” she makes it say in my direction. “I am your father.”

  “Trekkies like Star Trek, not Star Wars.”

  She shrugs. “Same thing.”

  “You are going to tell me why you’re here eventually, right?”

  She sighs and puts down Darth, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “You don’t know much about me, do you?”

  I bunch my eyebrows together. “Um… no? I guess I don’t?”

  “Film school was never part of the plan,” she begins, leaning back. “I studied medicine for three years before I realized I never wanted it in the first place. It wasn’t until I was twenty-three that I went back to get my film degree.”

  I do the math in my head. It all makes a lot more sense now. I knew she wasn’t as young as the other PAs. Mind you, the hair ropes don’t help in the guessing-her-age department. Most days she comes to the studio looking like an extra out of Degrassi. Or whatever show pre-pubescent teens watch these days.

  “My parents were furious, of course. I mean, their studious med school daughter, a drop out?” She places her hand against her chest and does a mock posh accent. “Picking up and moving to LA? They thought I was crazy.” She laughs to herself. “Everyone thought I was crazy.”

  She stands up and returns to the wall, looking over a row of call sheets stuck to the paint. “But I knew without any doubt that this is what I wanted to do… work in Hollywood… be a part of something special… see my name roll up in the credits…” She trails a finger down one of the call sheets until she lands on her name. A small smile appears on her lips. Those smooth lips…

  She turns abruptly to face me. “So you can only imagine how excited—no—how ecstatic I was to get the call from Dee—that I had a job on an actual movie set. Not a job slinging coffee to people who have meltdowns about foam to liquid ratio, not an unpaid internship shooting commercials for ingrown hair removal, but an actual paid job on a feature film.”

  “I think I know where this is going, and—”

  “No, you really don’t know.” She steps toward me. “I made the biggest risk of my life dropping out of medicine. I gave up everything to follow my dreams—my relationship with my family, my friends in San Diego, a pathway to a stable career. But I did it anyway, because I knew that if I worked hard enough, I would make it. Now, I know you don’t get it—being a successful director and all—but this assistant job means everything to me. Not only is it a stepping stone to more work in the film industry
, but it’s paying for the apartment I live in, and protecting me from going to my parents with my tail between my legs for support.”

  She is basically on the ground now, hovering in front of me.

  “So I’m asking you, Adam. No, I’m begging you… please don’t quit this film. If you walk, they will have to stop everything. And I was hired as part of your team, so there’s a huge chance they won’t want me to come back when they replace you.”

  I feel a stab of guilt in my stomach.

  “Stay. Give Primal Nature a chance.”

  I wince. “Geez, even the name is fucking terrible.”

  She pulls a face and nods. “Look, I know it’s not the film you want to make. I know you say you’re done with cheesy action sci-fi’s. But just the one? Just because we’re already started? And then no more. Heck, if you go to sign on to another tacky blockbuster, I’ll stop you myself. I’m pretty forceful when I need to be.”

  “You do a pretty convincing Gandalf impression.” I haven’t been able to get that ridiculous thing out of my head since I saw her banging her fake staff on the ground.

  She grins.

  “So? What do you say?”

  I look into her brown eyes. What did I say? I have no idea where to even start. This girl just poured her heart out to me. And I have to give her credit. Her tactic is a lot more effective than Dee screaming at me like a sassy banshee. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about this moronic movie. Especially now that I have to do it on Nolan’s terms. Tacky animal action scenes, cringeworthy jokes, a totally unrealistic ending complete with a happily ever-after kiss. She was right. I’m done with this stuff. My dad was a literary giant, for crying out loud. Talk about big shoes.

  But she’s looking at me with those pleading eyes again. Something about her hopeful expression… it reminds me of how I felt when I was first getting in the game. So excited to make my mark. So grateful for any opportunity.

  Do I really have it in me to take that away from her?

  “You won’t regret it,” she says when I don’t respond. “I pinky-promise you won’t regret it.”

  I exhale, letting out a grumble and looking at her bent little finger, held out towards me. The only thing more embarrassing than this film is a grown man doing a pinky promise.

  But here I am, hooking her finger with my own.

  “I highly doubt that.”

  11

  Evie

  There is never a safe assumption to make when it comes to LA traffic. Even at six in the morning. Will it take me an hour to get to work? Will it take me twenty minutes and I’ll have to sit in the catering tent for a half hour? Find out on the next episode of I Have No Flipping Idea.

  Unfortunately, today is option one, because of an accident on the freeway. Which explains why I’m trying to get out of my car comically fast in the studio parking lot and don’t bother to check the caller ID when my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Well how about that, you answered.”

  I suppress a groan. “Mom.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised you remember who I am.”

  Is it really necessary to start every conversation with some variation of ‘I never hear from you’?

  “I remember, but I’m also running late to set so—”

  “Oh, you’re still doing that, are you?” she says, with a tone that suggests I’ve taken up soap carving or crafting wind chimes out of forks.

  “Yes, I’m still doing it. It’s my full-time job now.”

  “I assumed the reason you haven’t been in touch was because it fell through.”

  “Why would you assume that??”

  “Well, you never know with these things.”

  “These things?”

  “Darling, I’ve just come off a twenty-two-hour shift. Please don’t sass me,” she sighs, like I’m the one being insulting.

  I take a deep breath. “I’ve been really busy, too. Which is why I haven’t had the chance to call.”

  “Your father and I were just wondering when you are planning on visiting again,” she cuts in. “You are planning on seeing us eventually, right?”

  “The road between LA and San Diego goes both ways, you know.”

  She gives a fluttery laugh. “And battle against the tourists and the homeless people? Besides, your sister would like to see you too.”

  I chew on my lip. “I wasn’t planning on coming back until Thanksgiving. The next couple of months are flat out, and I want to be available when this shoot is done if any other work comes—”

  “Hopefully you can find it in your busy schedule to see your family. You only have one.”

  One too many.

  “I’m going to lie down,” she goes on. “Let us know when you’re coming.”

  And the line goes dead.

  I stuff my phone into my bag, reminding myself to never again answer it without checking who’s calling first. If I think that was painful, I can’t even imagine what it would have been like to tell them the film had been canceled.

  I owe Adam big time.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  Damon is standing at the bottom of a ramp, waving his hands above his head.

  “They’ll only attack if they feel threatened. Put down your weapons!”

  A cluster of creature performers come running out from behind him on all fours. They have little stilts attached to their arms with balls on the ends, so they can run on their hands like gorillas. Three actors in police uniforms stand at the top of the ramp, guns aimed at the fake apes.

  “Please! Don’t shoot!” Damon cries.

  The creature performers charge, gliding up the ramp with rhythmic strides. It’s impressive how much they look like actual animals. The cops aim their guns.

  “No!”

  Just as they tighten their fingers around the triggers, Damon breaks out in a weird monkey language. A strange combination of almost Russian and a lot of grunting. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Adam drop his head into his palm.

  On Damon’s cue, the creature performers stop and look back at him, returning the strange grunting by way of answering. Damon drops to his knees, his face flush with relief. “And I thought my dog Max was a handful.”

  “Cut!” Adam calls.

  “CUT,” I repeat.

  We all wait to see if Adam wants to do another take. He looks across at Joel, who just shrugs and nods.

  “That was great, right?” Damon asks, a satisfied grin on his face.

  “Exactly as Nolan wants it to be,” Adam grumbles, before turning to the camera crew. “Let’s set up for the next shot.”

  Damon does a little air punch and starts chatting with the creature performer, the biggest gorilla of them all.

  I hand Adam and Dee a bottle of water each, grimacing. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did that hurt to watch?”

  “Remind me again how I won’t regret doing this film?” he says, accepting the hydration.

  “At least Damon is completely in his element now,” Dee says, watching our lead actor as he practices macho poses. “And he’s taking half the time to get a scene done.”

  “Imagine how that thrills me,” Adam says in monotone. He looks down at the shot list, his face completely flat. I can’t help but feel a little responsible for his low mood. Ever since he agreed to keep going with Primal Nature, any tiny spark that he had is gone. He’s as grumpy as ever.

  But maybe I can do something to make him feel better.

  While the crew is setting up to shoot the next scene, I sneak outside to the craft service trailer, knocking on the side. Out pops a guy’s head, his hair pushed back in a baseball cap.

  “What’s up?”

  “Hi,” I say, putting on my best smile. “Those cupcakes we had yesterday, I wondered if you had any left?”

  “I think there’s a couple in the back, sure. Go nuts.”

  “That’s the thing, it’s not for me,” I reply, twisting the hair in my ponytail. “Actually… I was kind of hoping yo
u could do me a favor.”

  The lunch tent is swarming with people. Crew members, cast, extras dressed in dirt-stained clothing after a stampede through the streets of New York City. Gang’s all here.

  But there’s only one person I’m looking for.

  “Ooh, I didn’t know we were having these again,” Brian says, reaching for the treat in my hand before I slap him away.

  “Don’t even think about it. I’m a girl on a mission. Have you seen Adam?”

  But Brian is already grinning at a brunette extra with dirt stains on her face. “After you,” he says, motioning to the spot in front of him in the cue. She smiles and takes her place in the line, which weaves its way to the tables running through the middle of the tent. They’re packed with steel trays filled with all kinds of food. My stomach rumbles at the smell of it all. Noodles, salads, lasagna, those delicious little dinner rolls warmed in the oven. But I can’t get distracted by carbs yet. I have to do something first.

  I spot Adam across the tent, sat next to Joel and cameraman George.

  “Hello, gents,” I say, sliding up next to them. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Pull up a chair, sweetheart,” George says, nodding at the space across from him. “You can be a rose amongst three thorns.”

  “Oh stop it.” I flap my hand at him. “What are we talking about?”

  “We weren’t,” Adam says without looking up. “Enjoying a rare moment of silence.”

  “You can have silence when you’re dead. I have something for you.” I place my gift on the table in front of him and slide it forward. “It’s my way of saying thank you. You know, for not bailing on us.”

  He looks down at it. “A cake from yesterday?”

  “Not just any cake,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest. “Look at the frosting.”

  His eyebrows pinch down in confusion.

  “Well?!”

  “There’s a little man on my cake,” he says.

  “It’s not a little man.” I roll my eyes. “It’s an Academy Award. See the gold sparkles?”

  “Well, would you look at that,” George says, leaning in closer. “That’s a tiny little Oscar, that is.”