Jenna & Jonah's Fauxmance (2 page)

2
ASK ME MY NAME

Fielding

My mom picked Fielding because of
Tom Jones
. The book, not the singer. And Withers because of Bill Withers. The singer. Her favorite.

Aaron Littleton just doesn’t sound like a leading-man name. It sounds like the name of the guy who plays the wisecracking sidekick. Which is funny, because Nebs, my wisecracking sidekick on the show, is actually played by a guy named Hunter Davenport.

Hunter parties way too hard. I think he’ll be dead by the age of twenty-five. I could be wrong.

I don’t mean to sound cold. It’s just the way stuff happens. You do too many drugs, you wind up dead one way or the other. Even in my hometown, Cincinnati. Which is most certainly not where we are now.

Now we’re on our way to sip lattes photogenically, then a little hand-in-hand walk on the beach—just about every third ocean-view house between the pier and Venice Beach has a webcam streaming live pictures. So we’ll be downloaded a lot—we’ll probably see some packs of tweens who will take cell phone pictures with us and put them on their Facebook pages. Free publicity. Keep the ratings up. All part of the job.

I have to say the job is starting to wear on me. I’m starting to wonder how much money is enough. I’m not quite set for life, but I figure by the time the DVD money stops flowing, our fans will have kids of their own and will shell out enough for reunion tour tickets and merch that we can slink back into obscurity and then retire comfortably.

And I’ll never have to see her again.

Not that I hate Charlie. In another lifetime, I probably would have been one of those guys who secretly watches our very tween-centric show just to ogle Charlie. She’s not only pretty, she’s also funny as hell—or, anyway, she makes our lame scripts seem funnier than they actually are. She carries the comedy aspect of the show on her back. I carry the shaggy-haired-and-nonthreatening-eye-candy-for-the-tween-girls aspect. And it’s pretty easy work. The scripts aren’t very demanding, mostly just reshuffling our catchphrases week to week, and the songs are made so that any eleven-year-old can sing along.

But the fake romance—my second job, really—gets harder every day. Sometimes I’ll do stuff like whisper, “You’ve got spinach between your teeth,” when we’re posing for a “candid” picture.

Probably that stuff’s mean.

No. I
know
it’s mean. And I should feel bad. But, you know, as Sartre said, “Hell is other people.” I can’t actually use that quote in public because it would give the impression that I read books. I can’t appear to be too brainy. Though, if I’m honest, I only read that one because my studio tutor made me.

But Charlie does put me through hell. And not just me. I guess the nice thing to call her is a perfectionist. Whenever the director sets up anything she doesn’t like or the poor writers write something she doesn’t like, she gets them to change it. She’s really quite persuasive. They tried standing up to her at first, but she can throw a diva fit like you wouldn’t believe. “I
respect
the audience, Jay! They
identify
with my character, and they’re going to be
heartbroken
if she says this! I read the chat boards to find out what the fans want!” And she really does. Every day she’s on her laptop checking out what everyone in the world is saying about us. When I’m feeling charitable, I think it must be exhausting to care that much.

The crew looks at me, pleading, whenever shooting is delayed because Charlie feels like some part of the show doesn’t fit her personal vision. “You’re her boyfriend,” they seem to say. “Can’t you do something?”

But I’m not her boyfriend. I just play her boyfriend in the reality show we call real life. Not that I have a real life. But it’s okay. I mean, my dad worked forty hours a week at the GE plant for twenty-five years before getting laid off, and now he fixes cars under the table. I paid off the house and I could easily support them, but being supported by his teenage son is not something my dad figures a man should do. So I devote 168 hours a week to this—well, minus the fifty-six hours, more or less, I spend sleeping—for five years, and then I’m set for life. I’ll attend a small liberal arts college and maybe become a science-fiction writer. Or, you know, just get a little house on the beach (yeah, my dreams of a simple life don’t really include going back to Cincinnati) and read, maybe learn to surf, and just not have anyone telling me where I have to go or what I have to do anymore.

Like right now. I attempt to order a medium iced latte, but Charlie interrupts, whispering through clenched teeth. Most people would think this is a smile, but I know it’s a threat display. “Field. Did you hear me order a large? You can’t be consuming fewer calories than me. Think for a minute, will you? They’ll start taking telephoto shots of my thighs and making me into some horrible ‘before’ picture. We’ve talked about this.”

Actually, she’s talked. I’ve only listened. And usually not even that. “He’ll have a large with
extra
whipped cream,” she says to the leering barista. He catches me looking at him checking out her chest and looks guiltily at the floor. Dude, I want to say, you can have her. Take my girlfriend, please.

And then I could get a real girlfriend. We’ve now got fans who went through high school with us, attractive female fans of legal age. And I can’t get near them. Because—George Orwell was wrong, you know (
1984
was another studio tutor–required classic)—it’s
little
brother who’s always watching you, and you never know who’s got a cell phone camera aimed at you or who’s going straight to the tabloids with the “My Wild Night with Cheating Fielding” story. My mom warns me about this particular danger pretty often. Usually right after Dad asks me which hot female celebrities I’ve met.

If I ever did become a front-page tabloid story like that, I’d be the one who derailed the gravy train—and the one who broke the heart of America’s sweetheart, killing my likability and, therefore, my career.

Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. But then I remember all the time my mom put into taking me to auditions and rehearsals, and I feel bad about how I would let her down. And once, when even that guilt wasn’t working, I went over the financials with Marjorie, my accountant. She says that with the market in the toilet, I’m getting great value on my investments right now, it’s a great time to buy, and I shouldn’t worry about all the paper value my stocks have lost. And my real estate. She says I could retire today, but I saw what happened to my dad, and I want a little extra security. Still, I sometimes think about ending it all with one bold stroke.

I actually think about it all the time. Two girls from USC just sent e-mail through the fan page with photos attached and thoughts on just exactly how they’d like to get to know me listed in excruciating detail.

I’m only human, after all.

And so is Charlie. I think. She hides her humanity under a robotic control-freak exterior. Walking with our iced lattes in hand toward Santa Monica, she snuggles into the crook of my arm and I pull her close—like I need to protect
her
from anything, but, whatever, it’s camera friendly—as some guy with a camera lens as long as his arm takes our picture from a block away.

“I could be in a dorm room at USC right now doing unspeakable things to girls named Brandi and Brittani,” I say, smiling with practiced affection. “Not with
y
’s. With
i
’s.”

“You smell like a sixth-grader on his way to his first dance who couldn’t cover up his stink even with too much of Daddy’s cheap cologne,” she retorts, smiling up at me like I’m the only man in the world.

It’s all I can do not to laugh. It’s the cologne I promote. “Hey,” I joke, “I paid nearly five bucks for this at the Rite Aid down the street!”

“Filling out an application for a job you’re actually qualified for?” Charlie retorts.

“No, checking out this week’s
Celeb Weekly
for details from your plastic surgeon on your enhanced—”

“You’ll never get any closer to them than a magazine article, loverboy.” Charlie smiles.

“Well, I’ve got your mom’s, so I’m all set. Where do you want to do the script-reading shot? The pier?” The pier is a great place for paparazzi shots because of the Ferris wheel and roller coaster in the background reminding people of fun and adolescence. Still selling the Family Network brand. Also, we’re close to the pier, and once we get the shot I can go home and not be Fielding till we get up and do it all again tomorrow. I think we’re scheduled for a pancake-house breakfast before shooting. I’ll have to check my calendar.

“We’ve done too many shots on the pier. Let’s go to the farmer’s market. We’ll get some organic strawberries and do the shot there.”

“Okay.” It’s away from the beach, which is going to add to the time we have to spend together this afternoon, but I like fresh produce as much as the next guy. I’ll “surprise” her with some fresh sunflowers while she’s buying strawberries; then we’ll sit there with “images of youth and fertility” (a direct quote from our Family Network publicity training) and look at the Season 5 script. Which is a mock-up created by my agent. But hopefully a “they’re just like
us
!” photo with us eating strawberries and laughing over the hilarious script will force the network to renew us for another season. This is the theory, anyway.

I really don’t know if I want it to work or not.

3
“OVER” IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD

Charlie

Dahlias bright as pinwheels, yellow marigolds, purple irises pointing to the afternoon sun, apricot roses bunched together with raffia ribbons, and the dreaded sunflowers.

“Don’t get the same ones today,” I whisper to Fielding as we pass the flower cart and smile for a couple of teens and their moms, who try to act nonchalant but are in fact swooning over catching us in person. He’s not a bad person, not slimy like so many Hollywood boys, but he’s full of himself. So full there’s no room for anyone else in there.

Fielding leans in, his lips close to my ear as though he’s discovered my lobes are made of chocolate and he needs a taste. “Despite your wishes, you can’t control my every move. If they had a Venus flytrap, believe me, I’d snag that for you and present it on one knee for all the world to see.” I pinch his side and he flinches, then catches himself and laughs as though it tickled. “You give new meaning to the words ‘ball and chain.’ ”

I pull back and, because of the sun’s glare, only he can see my eyes squinting angrily behind my Wayfarer sunglasses. “I wouldn’t touch your ball or chain if you paid me.”

This is normal stuff, our usual back-and-forth, but for some reason Fielding doesn’t end it with a kiss on the cheek and send me on my way to buy strawberries. Instead, his voice is low, seething. “From what I hear, you’ve touched enough balls that two more wouldn’t make a difference.”

My pulse races. I sweep my hair back from my face and gather it in a messy ponytail, securing it with an elastic I keep around my wrist. A woman and her friend linger close to us, clearly wanting to hear what I say next. And what should I say? That all the tabloid rumors about hooking up with James Linden or Asher Piece were nothing but air? The sun warms my shoulders but my arms feel riddled with goose bumps.

Snap!
A photographer steps out from behind the flower cart and gets a few shots before we have time to collect ourselves. I quickly smile, put my hand in my bag as though I’m searching for something, and come up with my phone. I put it to my ear even though no one’s there. “Oh, sure! Great news,” I say into the empty phone. I wave faux-excitedly to Fielding, who looks positively bored and begins plucking petals from a fuchsia-colored dahlia and flinging them to the ground, where they land like drops of blood. “We’re number one in Sweden!” I hold up my finger in the one position and the photographer, satisfied with his shots, skulks away.

Under my breath I say, “You’re a dick,” to Fielding. He looks at the ground and, for a moment, looks truly sorry. I crumple like tinfoil when I see that look; it’s endearing, loveable. Once, back in Season 1, we had to do this scene where I taught him to dance. We kept messing up and it was early enough on that we weren’t a fake couple, and I might—might—have had the smallest of crushes on him. So we hung out by choice, trying to get the steps right. But the funny thing was that he can dance, really well, actually. And I’m as coordinated as a drunk flamingo in furry boots—which is to say not at all. So he taught me off camera but I taught him on. I almost bring this up, but before I can he waves to someone. I turn to see who it is. James Linden, fellow teen star and notorious scenester who lives to love them and leave them. Or not so much love as
lust
. Then again, he’s an indie film favorite, so he’s allowed to be unshowered and gritty, sleazy but sexy.
Jenna & Jonah
is a family show and we have to “uphold the values and lifestyle to which the Family Network is committed” (a quote from my contract).

“Hey, loser!” James shouts in our general direction.

“I’m taking off,” Fielding says to me, pushing his hair back from his eyes. He’s gorgeous in the sun and I swallow hard to avoid noticing the way sunlight glints off his hair, the easy way he moves his body, as though he’s always just stepped away from a massage table. Which maybe he has.

“What about the shot with the script?” I ask, trying not to whine, but I don’t want to deal with Martinka’s wrath if more rumors circulate about problems on set or the show’s future.

“You’ll survive without me.” Fielding grins. Who knows what he and James will go do. No doubt some secret boys’ club meeting that I’m excluded from: girls, drinks, driving fast—all activities prohibited by our network.

I turn his ambivalence into a quoteworthy moment. “How can I survive without you?” I ask and stand on tiptoe to kiss him. It’s a peck on the lips, nothing more, standard stuff, and I can feel Fielding try not to wince.

A few paparazzi take note of our cute farewell and then leave me alone. I wander around halfheartedly, picking up sprigs of lavender and smelling them. I consider buying a bunch of cheese but then remember I’m not allowed to have it by order of my dermatologist, so I create a fantasy meal instead. When I was growing up, my grandma cooked giant meals—huge spreads of sautéed onions and fresh pasta, crisp green beans with shallots and garlic, cheese tarts, and double-layer chocolate chip brownies for dessert. I haven’t had anything like that in years. Not just because Martinka and everyone around me monitors my every mouthful, but because I have no time. And no place to cook. Sure, I own my house, but it’s pretty much for show. There are no pots or pans in the state-of-the-art kitchen cabinets, because I never need them. Takeout, restaurants, on-set dining, awards shows, catering truck—that’s how I eat. But I miss it. Sometimes I wonder if I could still do it, remember the recipes my grandma made me, or if those, like so much, are just distant memories of another life.

“Jenna, look over here!”

I automatically look up, even though I feel inclined to point out, “I’m not Jenna!” This is said with a cheery smile, of course, and I catch none other than Bret Huckley, infamous paparazzo complete with his multiple cameras, lenses capable of capturing the insides of your pores.

“Charlie Tracker, why on earth are you alone?” Bret asks while simultaneously snapping picture after picture of me in case I suddenly falter. He lives for catching stars at their weakest, getting paid six figures or more for proof of failure.

“A girl needs some private time,” I say, hoping he quotes me on that and Fielding reads it and translates it to mean “away from my crappy fake boyfriend.”

“So, you’re not fighting with Fielding?”

I shake my head and choose the perfect pint of strawberries—deep red, small, local, and sweet-smelling. I hand the seller ten dollars even though they cost half that and walk away toward a grassy patch where I can sit and attempt to enjoy my limited free time.

Just doing simple things like sitting on the grass, feeling the breeze on my legs makes me feel so relaxed I could fall asleep if it weren’t for fear of someone making fun of me for it. Nearby, a toddler tugs on her mother’s hat and the mom slips it on her little head. Adorable. I was the same age when I made my first commercial: Li’l Huggeroos, the diapers that don’t leak. Let me say for the record, they do leak. I know this because Lulu Lichtman, my first agent, kept a journal of everything that happened and let me read it the day my mother demanded I switch to Martinka, power agent to the A-list. You’d think my mother would have been the one keeping a journal, charting her only kid’s path to fame, but my mother was too busy securing my next gig (Twinkle Toes, the shoes for every young princess) to bother. I became legally emancipated at fifteen after I discovered that my parents had drained my bank account to finance a chain of workout studios for pets, which went bankrupt, and then took up acting and sent me the bills for their lessons. I bought my own house right away, and even though I don’t cook in it, it’s mine. I never wanted to act—my parents were the ones who saw me as their gravy train and pushed me into auditioning before I could speak. And then, well, I just got enmeshed in the machine. It’s difficult to step off the fame track, mainly because now I don’t know what I would do or who I’d be without a script. The simple pleasures I always used to enjoy—cooking, singing without an electronic keyboard and background tracks—aren’t a part of my schedule anymore. Even the farmer’s market isn’t mine to really enjoy.

“Oh, honey, don’t take the nice girl’s strawberries,” the toddler’s mother warns and follows her child as the girl grabs a whole handful of fruit and squishes it in her small palm.

“It’s okay.” I laugh and dig in my bag for a tissue. “Here.” I give the mom the tissue and she thanks me.

“It’s amazing the stuff she gets into. Thanks for not freaking out,” the mom says.

“No problem,” I tell her and pick one of the nonmushed berries up and hold it by the stem, eating with abandon as the toddler does the same. “I’d never finish the whole pint anyway, so have some.”

The mom reaches in and sits down near me. It’s so nice. A normal, peaceful interaction.

I give it four seconds before it implodes.

“Berries are always so good this time of year. I should really get some on the way out,” the mom mutters as her child smears red juice all over her face.

“The best ones are Fleischer’s, the last stall on the left,” I tell her, wishing Fielding had stayed with me. Not just for the snapshots but for company. Three. Two.

“Oh, really? I’ll have to—”

One.

She looks at me, seeing me for the first time instead of just being embarrassed about her toddler’s sticky hands. “Oh. God. You’re …”

I nod. “It’s okay.” Like somehow it’s worse for me to have a strawberry stolen than it is for a regular person? “Really.”

The mom blushes, and starts stammering. “It’s just … even though I’m not your demographic, really, I’m still—I’m a huge fan. I mean,
huge!
The duet—that one on the beach with the waves and the hula dancers doing backup … ?”

“ ‘Say It Isn’t a Summer Thing,’ ” I answer. In a moment of on-set camaraderie, Fielding and I made up an inappropriate song entitled “ ‘Over’ Is a Four-Letter Word,” which had us doubled over with laughter, using every word forbidden to Jenna and Jonah while we pushed each other off a cliff as we simultaneously gave the finger to each and every paparazzi onlooker. But “Say It Isn’t a Summer Thing” was
the
anthem two springs back, the song you hear so much you can’t help but know every word. I wore an uncomfortable sarong during the shoot. It left a welt on my lower back that hurt more than Fielding saying I’d be lucky to be anyone’s summer anything. The truth is, he’s exactly the kind of guy I would want to date if I lived in the real world, which to me seems as far away and made up as our own
Jenna & Jonah
set. They screen-tested loads of boys, and I hardly noticed, but when they played Fielding’s tape—he juggles in it, which wasn’t scripted—I couldn’t stop grinning. I didn’t know the producers were watching my reactions to the screen tests, and it was more than a little embarrassing when they offered Fielding the part and showed him a tape of me watching his audition.

The mom claps. “Exactly!” Her phone is in her hand before I can say anything else. “Could you just … one chorus? Anything?” She starts to hum and mumble-sing. “You! You flip-flopped my heart this summer … You’re something something I can’t remember the words … the one for me but … dadaaaa.”

Such memorable lyrics. I politely decline and begin to gather my things. She’d film me and it would be on YouTube before I even got home to my empty kitchen. “Sorry. Nice meeting you, though,” I say and pat the toddler on her head for good measure. In a normal life, I’d be the kid’s babysitter.

The mom, once kind and chill, can’t let me go. She tugs on my bag from her spot on the grass. “Oh, you’re leaving?”

I pull on my bag, just enough to get her off and try to walk away. From normal to freako fan in the course of four seconds. Sometimes it’s even shorter.

My bag, itself a product placement to try and land a spokesperson deal for Le Bon Sac, the French purse maker, clearly isn’t worth the thousand dollars it costs retail, because the shoulder strap snaps, splattering everything in it onto the ground. Quickly, I grab as much as I can and shove it in: eyeliner, UltraGloss lip gloss (contractually obligated to carry on me at all times), phone, pager, other cell phone, directions to the random pancake house where I have to meet Fielding tomorrow at some ungodly hour for breakfast, a spare pair of flats, car keys, house keys, SuperFit! sports energy bar (my supposed “snack of choice” even though it tastes like sand)—all of this tossed in a jumble back into the bag.