Unscripted Joss Byrd by Lygia Day Peñaflor Read Free Book Online

inside their catering truck. Then they set up a buffet lunch as if we’re at a wedding or something. The chef gets lots of complaints about too much salt or overcooked this or undercooked that. But I don’t know what all the moaning is about because at home a home-cooked meal is fish sticks and toast with ketchup packets we collect from McDonald’s. Here the buffet’s got a beef station, a seafood station, cold pasta, hot pasta, four salads to choose from, a dozen dressings, chicken and mushrooms, roasted vegetables, paella, and something that looks like beef stew but isn’t, but I’m sure it’s good, too. If you ask me, the food truck is the greatest thing Hollywood ever created, besides Paper Moon . Seriously, how does all of this come out of that ?
    I don’t get how so many actresses can be anorexic, especially when catering has a ravioli station on Fridays: there’s cheese ravioli, mushroom ravioli, and lobster ravioli with a choice of sauces. What I get is marinara on the cheese ravioli, cream on the mushroom ravioli, and butter and garlic on the lobster ravioli. But that’s on Fridays. Today is a rice pudding day. Finally, something’s going my way. Rice pudding is a universal favorite. The strategy is to take your share of pudding before you line up for the real food because if you wait until after, there might not be any left.
    â€œJoss!” Chris calls my name and rushes up behind me as I’m loading three little pudding cups on my tray. Why don’t they just put the pudding in bigger cups? “I gotta talk to you,” he says, no nonsense.
    â€œI’ll know the lines after lunch, okay?” I slice him like a paper cut. “Don’t I always know the lines when we shoot?”
    â€œWhat?” He crinkles his forehead. “No, no. It’s not about that. I don’t care about that,” he says, taking four pudding cups for himself.
    If this isn’t about rehearsal, I don’t know what it could be. I shouldn’t have been so rude. I’m still touchy about the script, that’s all.
    â€œAh! Rice pudding day!” Terrance calls from the back of the line. “No hoarding, ladies and gentlemen! One per customer!” he jokes, pointing at Chris. “I see you, Christopher Tate! That is a direct violation of catering code 421, section B!”
    â€œJust get your food, and sit with me out back, okay?” Chris says, walking toward the back door.
    â€œOkay.” I try not to look surprised, but I am. We never eat together, just the two of us. Sometimes Chris eats with Jericho, to talk about how to get to the next level on a video game or to quote some TV show I’ve never heard of.
    I thought it’d be easy to make friends with other kids who act. But it isn’t, not when they think I’m Miss Thing when I’m not. When we got to Long Island, Chris asked if I wanted to go to Splish-Splash water park with him and Jericho. I wanted to go so bad. They were all excited about the Giant Twister—three slides that twist through the trees and end up in one pool. The three of us could’ve gone down at the same time. But, like a complete snob, I told them I didn’t want to go because water parks are where you get pink eye and foot fungus. How could I tell Chris that I had to stay in to memorize lines because I’m dense? I couldn’t.
    *   *   *
    Jericho and Chris barrel into my schoolroom at our Brooklyn studio. They thump their heavy backpacks onto the table where I’m showing Damon this year’s textbooks. Soon enough Damon will find out that books are not my claim to fame.
    â€œDing, ding! School’s in!” Jericho says.
    â€œWhoa, wait a second, guys!” Damon holds up a hand. “This isn’t school for you.”
    I’m supposed to tutor alone. Viva told the producer that she wants me to have the best possible education. But really, me and my