Twice in a Blue Moon(43)

My face heats under the attention of the room. Dad is seated just to my left; his presence is like a pulsing light beside me. Sam’s too, just down at the other end of the table. It’s taking every bit of restraint I have to not lift my head and look at him.

I nod and read the scene again. It doesn’t really feel any better the second time. My dialogue is forced, rushed in some places and wooden in others. But it’s just a table read . . . so Gwen lets it continue.

Ellen turns away and begins tightening a bolt.





RICHARD


My father owned a repair shop in Charlotte. I used to work there during the summers. These machines have really come a long way since then, but they can be temperamental.

I really wouldn’t mind . . .

Ellen ignores him. She sets down the wrench and presses the power button. She waits as the machine rumbles to life, pleased UNTIL it begins spraying water everywhere, soaking them both. A beat of silence.





ELLEN


What about this scenario doesn’t look under control to you?

“Tate, let’s try that line again.” Gwen nudges her glasses down her nose so she can peer over the rims at me. The action makes me feel twelve years old again, getting a lecture from Nana on how to set the café tables right. “She’s freshly divorced, standing in the backyard of her childhood home, her father has budding dementia, and her washing machine essentially exploded all over her. To her, the situation is ridiculous.”

Someone shifts at the far end of Gwen’s table, and I blink over before I can stop myself. Sam is sitting there with his eyes down, arms folded across his chest.

My mouth is dry, but I worry my hands will shake if I reach for my water. Stalling for time—hoping to get my breathing under control—I say, “We want her to be able to laugh at herself a little.”

Gwen nods, encouraging. “Exactly. This really is an if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry moment.”

She has no way of knowing this, but Gwen has just crystallized the emotion down to exactly what I needed to hear. If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

I can certainly relate to that.





ELLEN


What about this scenario doesn’t look under control to you?

They laugh at the absurdity. With a resigned sigh, Ellen realizes she could probably use another hand.

ELLEN (cont’d)

Could you hand me those pliers over there? And hold this?

Richard takes off his hat and rolls up his sleeves, then eagerly does what she asks.

ELLEN (cont’d)

I don’t know why we even keep this thing. Probably faster to wash it all by hand anyway.

They work together in silence for a moment.

ELLEN (cont’d)

I don’t recall seeing you around.





RICHARD


No, ma’am. I just got into town yesterday. I work for Whitmore Feed and was just making my rounds.

That’s why I was at your door.

Thought I’d be okay on foot, but your farm is a bit farther from town than I thought.





ELLEN


You walked all the way from town?





RICHARD


Yes, ma’am. I don’t mind.





ELLEN


You don’t have to call me ma’am.

I’m Ellen Meyer.

They shake wet hands over the washing tub.





RICHARD


Pleased to meet you, Ellen.





ELLEN


Likewise, Richard.

Richard motions to the fields behind them.





RICHARD


Beautiful place you have here.





ELLEN


Thank you. Grew up here. My dad still thinks he runs the place but . . . he doesn’t.

The rest of it goes unsaid. Richard moves to adjust a hose and then takes a step back.





RICHARD


Try it now.

Warily, she turns it on. It works and water begins filling the tub.





ELLEN


You did it.





RICHARD


Actually, you did. I just tightened a hose. You’d’ve found it if I hadn’t interrupted you. I can see the other repairs you’ve done in there. Mighty impressive.

She blushes, not accustomed to the recognition.





ELLEN


Thank you. (beat)

I can’t send you home drenched through to your skin. Why don’t you grab a towel over there and I’ll bring you some lunch?

“Good job, everyone.” Gwen pushes back from the table, standing. “Let’s take twenty.”

I stand, stretching and working to put on a brave face. I can blush on command, and have put on a good show of Ellen flushing at the idea of a handsome Richard soaking wet in her yard, but the heat on my cheeks lingers in earnest as the reality sets in that I’ve just bungled my first—albeit unofficial—performance on Milkweed.

I wasn’t good, and everyone knows it. The lines I fell in love with seem to drag with my delivery. The chemistry that crackled during my screen test with Nick is nowhere to be found. This is my movie—my dream role—and I’m letting my head get in the way.