Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

“We’ll handle the expenses, and I know this production is coming to an end. We can set up a meeting after closing night.”

Corbin leaned his elbows on his knees. “What exactly is the part?”

“Five twenty-somethings in California working in the arts. Think Friends meets Center Stage sprinkled with the issues of today.” He pulled at his chin, looking me over. “The parts I have in mind for you would depend on your demeanor and how you play off the rest of the cast. I need a bitchy blonde babe who’s always pulling strings behind the scenes. The other part is America’s sweetheart—adorable, sugary girl-next-door that every boy wants to marry.”

I couldn’t help thinking of Tiffany in that moment. Where I stood in comparison to her was obvious, but I’d never consider myself as anyone’s sweetheart. “Are those the only two options?”

“Your friend mentioned you have some family drama? She wouldn’t get into specifics, but she said it was worth asking about if you were comfortable.”

“What does that have to do with it?” I asked. “I wouldn’t let it get in the way of my craft.”

He laughed. “No, it’s not that. It can help. This is where we’re on the verge of something huge.” Mike hiked up his pant legs and sat on the coffee table across from me. “Reality television.”

I tilted my head. “What?”

“Survivor. The Bachelor. You’ve seen the craze over Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson. The world wants to see beautiful Californians, and they crave a story—struggle, gossip, drama. This show rolls it all into one.” Mike shifted to Corbin. “Are you two dating?”

“Uh.” Corbin cleared his throat. “No.”

“Doesn’t matter. Look at you. You’d be a perfect addition to Lake’s story.”

“My story?” I asked. “I don’t understand. I haven’t seen any of those shows.”

“You’ve watched Real World, haven’t you? MTV?”

“A little.”

“It’s just like that, except it would be a little more—how do I put this . . . contained. You aren’t running completely wild. We’d give you direction, even though the American people would see it as real life.” He opened his hands. “Now that I’m sitting here with you, I’m thinking America’s sweetheart. You have a real naïveté about you that would play well on camera.”

“But I’m not that—I’m an actress,” I said.

“You would still act. Loosely. That’s why they hired me, a casting director, to find the right people. I feel very good about this, Miss Kaplan, and I’m rarely wrong. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

Corbin narrowed his eyes. “Would she have to move back?”

“Of course. We’d go through rounds of interviews, background checks, physical exams and whatnot, but if you’re hired, you’d be expected to move there. You’d live your life as you normally would—auditioning, going to school, dating, fighting with your family—whatever it is you’d do on a daily basis, just with some input from producers.”

“I don’t speak to my family,” I said.

“Even better. There’s opportunity for real, meaningful stuff there, and maybe even a reconciliation at some point. We can work out the specifics,” Mike said. “We’d set you up with a roommate, another member of the show, and you’d all be friendly. Filming starts this summer so there’s plenty of time to get situated.”

Going home? Reconciling? Those were reasons enough not to do it. To me, California wasn’t sunshine, palm trees, beaches and killer weather. It was the site of my first heartbreak. It represented the regret of losing what I’d never had, and the division of not just my family, but Manning’s, too. “I’m sorry, I really don’t want to return to California. I love New York.”

“It wouldn’t be forever. Plus, if the show gets picked up and it’s a hit, maybe they’d follow you wherever you go and set you up along the way. If you want to come back to New York, discuss that as a storyline with the producers.”

“What’s it pay?” Corbin asked.

“More than she’s making here,” Mike answered.

“And that would be?”

“For the purpose of the show, we’d want you living like a normal twenty-something. No flashy apartment or car, just business as usual. So, the pay is decent, but it’s not a movie star’s salary or anything. Let’s just say you could get yourself a few cell phones.” He winked. “One for each boyfriend.”

Hollywood was a far cry from Broadway, but it was hard not to get swept up in Mike’s excitement. “I have to think about it,” I said. “I went to Tisch to be a performer, and this doesn’t sound like what I had in mind.”

Mike stood. “Reality television is the wave of the future, Lake. Take my word for it. Not to mention, if this takes off, you’ll be famous. Once your contract is up, you can turn that fame into anything you want—movie roles, a clothing line, charity work, or, of course, you can come back to Broadway with an audience directors won’t be able to ignore.”