Unscripted Joss Byrd by Lygia Day Peñaflor Page B

shuffle to my room.
    At the foot of 204 is a note with a rock still on top of it:
    Joss is in my room.—Chris
    My mother and Terrance could still be inside, so I stand here watching the family next door checking out of their room. The mom and the kids are pushing their luggage outside the door while the dad is pulling the plugs on their inflatable tubes and pressing the air out. I bet if I asked really sweetly, they’d take me home with them. We could play I Spy in the car. When we got home they could officially adopt me. I’d be a good older sister. I’d teach stuff like not to wrestle too loudly in a hotel with thin walls. Our next trip to Montauk would be a real vacation. I wouldn’t have to work a single day. I’d just float around the pool on an inflatable sea horse.
    I wait for their tubes to deflate before leaving the note right where it is and dragging my feet back to Chris’s room. I want to lie to Chris’s grandma and say that Viva is back and everything’s fine. But where will I go then? The crew’s already at basecamp; I don’t want them to see me looking like yesterday’s leftovers.
    â€œShe’s not back,” I say. There’s no way around it.
    Grandma Lorna shakes her head and tsk-tsk-tsks, which must be the universal language for “what a terrible mother.” Chris’s own parents are so busy with their restaurant that they don’t come to the set at all, so I don’t know what makes Grandma Lorna so high and mighty. “Has she done this kind of thing before?” she asks.
    What does she mean by “this kind of thing”? Does my mother sleep around? Does she pick guys over me? That’s none of this lady’s business. I don’t like anybody judging my mother no matter what she does or doesn’t do. That’s my job. Viva has brought dates home before, but never on location. But this is for me to know and nobody else.
    Grandma Lorna pulls her sweater tight around her body as if the thought of my mother gives her the chills. “Do you think we should call somebody?”
    â€œNo. It’s okay,” I say, like it’s no biggie. I’d rather eat undercooked barbecue chicken every meal for the rest of my life than show her how upset I am. “She’ll be at the trailer by ten.”
    â€œWell … if you’re sure,” she says.
    My mother might leave me hanging, but she’d never miss a call time. She knows I have a fitting; she’s required to supervise. “I’m sure. She’ll be there.”
    â€œAll right, then. Let’s get you ready for the day.” She passes her eyes over me as if I’m trash with trash for a mother. “Would you like to take a shower?”
    I would, but not here, and not without a change of clothes. “No. Terrance wants my hair dirty. It’s got carrot oil in it from hair and make-up.” This is true but not true. He does want my hair dirty, and they did put carrot oil in it. But if I want to wash my hair, I’m allowed. My hairstylist would redo it.
    â€œWell, if you say so,” says Grandma Lorna, not convinced. “But I think I have an extra toothbrush around somewhere.”
    I want so bad to say no to anything more she has to offer. But because of that nasty barbecue, what else can I do but take her charity?
    *   *   *
    When I get to The Locals basecamp, Viva is at the breakfast truck ordering an omelet. She’s had a shower and washed her hair. She’s downright shiny and rosy-cheeked, which is a lot more than I can say for myself.
    â€œGood mornin’, daughter of mine,” Viva says, full of sunshine and rainbows. With her arm around my shoulders, she glances at the line of hungry crew behind her. “Can you throw on the usual for Joss?” she calls up to the cook, and runs her hand over my head. “Did you guys have a fun sleepover?”
    Sleepover? What does she