Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I get asked a lot. “It pays the bills, I guess.”
“You should become my manager.” He laughs.
“I’m not qualified to manage you. I can hardly manage myself.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Even as a teenager, you were smarter than half the grown-ups I know.”
He’s not wrong. As a teenager, I loved hanging out with adults and learning what they do. I blame my parents for not always treating me like a child when I was growing up. They told me things my peers didn’t know and explained shit I had no business knowing.
I open my mouth to reply, but Chandler pushes us through the door and joins us on the porch, hoodie and leggings and hair in a messy bun. She smells like cinnamon rolls and delicious food.
“Your mom brought over that pan of lasagna while you were walking Molly. We’re definitely having that tomorrow because it looks incredible.”
“I’m stealing some to take home, too. She didn’t make me my own pan, so I have to resort to theft.”
Lucky for me, I got to eat some while it was fresh.
“You guys, it was so good seeing you,” I say, stepping down onto the sidewalk after hugging them both. “I won’t be a stranger next time. I’ll just come waltzing in like I did when I was a kid.”
“Yeah—don’t do that.” Chandler laughs.
Tripp sets the dog down and holds her by the leash. “You know, Big Molly, I’ll be at the stadium on Wabash Avenue tomorrow filming a chip commercial. You should swing by and watch me in action.”
A chip commercial?
“Did you just call me Big Molly? Don’t ever do that.”
“What? Big Molly and Little Molly? What’s wrong with that?”
“Soooo many things.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Chandler grimaces. “So much no.”
“Anyway. As I was saying—you should swing by the studio tomorrow. You can see an old man at work, and maybe I can convince you to come to work for me.”
“Old man? What are you, forty-three?”
He hunches forward as if he can’t stand straight. “Worse. Forty-four.”
“One foot in the grave.” I shake my head solemnly. “Sure. I’d love to pop into the studio tomorrow and watch you in action. Do you think they’ll have any free bags of chips?”
“Eh. You don’t want these chips. They taste like shit.”
“Tripp!” Chandler nudges him with her hip. “You can’t just say they taste like shit! You’re getting paid four mill—” She catches herself. “You’re getting paid a lot of money to pretend you love them. Yummy yummy chips.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—yummy chips.”
“What time is this commercial you’re shooting?”
“Call time is ten. Think you can make it?”
I nod, feeling excited. “Absolutely.”
six
elias
“…And nothing tastes better than a Zingle!”
Crunch.
Grimace.
Things I learned today: Tripp Wallace is a horrible actor.
Like, so bad.
The guy can’t fake a happy expression as he chews for two entire seconds. How the hell are we going to get him through three more lines?
But Eli, he’s a football player, not an actor. Cut the guy some slack!
Right. I would, but this is taking way too long, and he has more lines to memorize—easy ones that he cannot learn.
If there was a table to bang my head on, I would be banging my head on it right now.
“Again,” the director says. “And this time, try not to look constipated. You like these chips, remember? They’re your favorite.”
I look up at the ceiling, which is more warehouse than not, at the rafters and exposed beams, cables, and lighting.
Nearby, I hear the distinct sound of a snicker, one that’s not so polite and not so stifled, and glance to my left. Then to my right.
“Well, well, well. Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
“Ew,” she replies, crossing her arms and ignoring me, facing front watching Tripp Wallace.
“Fan of his?”
She ignores me.
“How did you get in here? It’s a closed set.”
She rolls her eyes, then lifts the lanyard hanging around her neck, flashing her credentials with a loud sigh.
It’s not actually a closed set. It’s barely a set at all—not like the movies or anything, but they are filming a commercial, and it is costing the chip manufacturer a fuck ton of money.
Money Tripp Wallace has been paid for chips he needs to like.
Say the first line.
Eat a chip.
Say another line.
Crush the bag between his hands like he’s crushing a football. Chips explode, he says another line.
The end.
We can all go home.
Trouble is he can’t get past that first bite, and they refuse to give him something else to eat, something I’ve seen done on plenty of sets when working with health-conscious athletes and fitness experts—like Suzie Kit, the celebrity trainer I represent. Does she endorse chocolate fiber shakes? Yes.
Does she drink them?
No.
Would she drink them for the commercial?
Also no.
Huge pain in the ass coming up with an alternative for her to drink that resembled the actual sludge she gets paid a fortune to hock.
My gaze shifts toward Molly Summervale as she continues pretending I do not exist, and I still can’t think of a viable reason she’d be standing here, watching Tripp Wallace unless she worked for the station?