Between the Lines Read Free

Alexander is disgustingly close to the age of the geography students she teaches? You’d think she’d draw a personal line. Gross.
    “I have no idea what she wants,” he says. If I rent a billboard or hire a freaking skywriter, might he comprehend what I say I want?
    “She’ll come around,” Chloe says. “When she’s rich and famous, she’ll get decent work instead of chasing down whatever crappy roles she can get. Though it would be a stretch to call what she does working .” I grip the banister, waiting for him to say something in my defense.
    “Humph,” he says, marching out the door to work. Chloe parks it in front of Good Morning America , because unfortunately spring break applies to teachers, too. Usually, I couldn’t care less about her opinion, as annoying as it is to listen to it at early-o’clock in the morning. Not even coffee can induce me to go down there now.
    My father was there when I did my first commercial—nineteen takes to get the precise sip of juice that wouldn’t inhibit my two lines about how delicious and wholesome it was. I still can’t look at grape juice without gagging. He was there when the maniacal director of a low-budget made-for-tv movie screamed in my face because I dropped a prop phone. He watched as I sweltered through Arizona desert heat with a parka zipped to my chin, portraying the daughter of an intergalactic explorer who’d been exiled to a dry, frozen planet.
    I thought he was clear on how hard I work, at least.
    Don’t misunderstand—I love what I do. And I’m good at it. Some people assume acting is just putting on someone else’s clothes or accent, but that’s not enough. You have to unzip the character’s skin, step into her completely, allow yourself to meld with her. You have to become the character. Even if the character is a kid who really likes juice.
    I should be grateful, I should feel lucky, and I am, I do. But even if you have what everyone else wants—if it isn’t what you want, it isn’t what you want. A high school film version of one of the greatest novels of all time? Really? Unless Jane Austen is a Reid Alexander fan, she’s probably spinning in her grave.
     

Chapter 3
     
    REID
    These auditions are killing me. They did screen tests on I don’t even know how many girls, and narrowed it down to twenty. Richter wants her to be attractive, but not exceptionally hot, which blows, but he’s right. Lizbeth Bennet is someone Will Darcy falls for against his normal inclinations.
    I’d like to think I’m capable of having onscreen chemistry with anyone, but sadly, that isn’t the case. Before each girl comes in, we go over her headshots, clips of past film work, and her screen test. I’ve done auditions with eleven of them so far, and I’m thinking these are the ones we narrowed down to? We’ve spent varying amounts of time on each one, and I’m trying to figure out how Richter operates, because we’re spending longer with the ones I want to cut. Not that I’m complaining to Adam Richter about whatever method he uses or who he chooses.
    “Daria,” Richter calls to his assistant, his finger on the clipboard of information in his hand. “We’re ready for the next girl. Belinda, is it?”
    “Yes, sir,” Daria says. “I’ll bring her right in.”
    “I’m going to kiss this one, aren’t I?” I say.
    Richter barks a laugh and his bright blue eyes regard me over his glasses. “What makes you say that?”
    Oops. “Um. It just seems the less jazzed I am about one, the more likely we are to do the kiss.”
    His eyebrows—equal parts black and silver—rise slightly. “Good observation. I don’t want to miss out on possible physical chemistry, so the ones who aren’t passing the test on script audition get one final chance before we reject them.”
    “That makes sense.”
    “Thanks, I appreciate your support.” His mouth twists, and he laughs again when I color slightly, which I never do.
    “Adam, this is Belinda