Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

40: Signs of Nala


Monday, February 6

My head was brimming with discussions and arguments on Monday morning, especially because Emmett, my parents and I hadn't come to an agreement. My parents, just like Edward and I, had considered the possibility of Garrett hiring a PI to snoop on me, but a cheap, shoddy PI didn't seem likely to them, either. But they did feel obliged to admit the identity of my biological father to Emmett, who took it in remarkable stride (quite possibly because he'd worked with famous people before). I couldn't tell how surprised he'd been by the knowledge since I wasn't there when my parents told him. He didn't seem to treat me any different but I did catch him squinting at me at the breakfast table.

"Did you know that parents and family members are responsible for over ninety percent of kidnappings?"

"You think Garrett will kidnap me?"

"Doubtful." Emmett took a sip of his coffee. "He's too high profile. I'd be surprised if he knew about you given that the statute of limitations is over. He hasn't approached you even though it's been safe for years."

"The statute of what?"

"The statute of limitations," he repeated, clearly forcing himself to be patient. "A law that limits the time that the involved parties have to initiate legal proceedings. It's seven years for statutory rape in Georgia if the offense—"

Rudely interrupting him, I called out, "Mẹ!" (Mom!)

When she appeared in the kitchen like the morning sunshine, I pointed at her with wide eyes. "Did you know about the statute of limitations?"

"Of course I know, sweetie. Why?"

My jaw dropped. "But, but, why are we still keeping Garrett a secret if he can't be put on trial for having sex with you?"

Emmett stilled at my wording, but mom didn't bat an eye. She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. "It's still horrible PR, honey, and you're in the same business as him. Do you really want him to hear through a rumor that some kid in Atlanta is claiming to be his? Would you really stand on his shoulders before you've proven your worth without your connection to him?"

"Oh my God." I blinked, horrified. "I'm a nepo baby."

Mom pushed herself off the counter and sat next to me. Laughter twinkled in her eyes. "You are not a nepo baby."

"I am."

"Which role did Garrett ever get you? Which connections? None, honey."

"The world won't know that."

"But you will, and so will they—if the word does get out."

Curling up in my chair, I drank my coffee. "Wait, wait. I'll be sixteen during our chemistry reading, which means—dad doesn't have to take a sick day, and you won't have to be there, either! You don't even have to sign me over to James. I can show up all alone, or with Emmett, and maybe, maybe—Garrett might not recognize me without anyone else there. What do you think?"

Mom slid her fingers in her hair, tearing at them. She frowned. "I'm not sure we're comfortable leaving you alone on set like that, sixteen or not."

"But—only for that day! You can wait for me in the car. Emmett can come with me. It's possible that Garrett won't recognize me, and if he does get the job, he won't be on set full-time, anyway. He might walk away from filming being none the wiser."

Mom pursed her lips, not quite smiling but not quite disapproving, either. "Sweetie, while that is possible… it's also possible that he takes one look at you and figures it out. If that happens, I'd rather Charlie was there with you."

"You think he'll get angry?"

"I… I don't know, sweetie. I knew him a long time ago. But I'd rather you had Charlie with you."

I groaned. "Did Garrett ever meet dad?"

"Once or twice, I think. But dad had hair back then, and he was a scrawny little thing. I don't think Garrett would recognize him, regardless."

"Did he know dad's last name?"

Mom's mom was born a Kha while mom, mom's dad and I were all born Carmichaels, and mom obviously took dad's last name.

"I doubt it."

Her answer was neither here nor there, but I was already arguing for changing nothing about my Emmett situation, so I wasn't sure how much leeway I had to push two levers at once. It wasn't that Emmett wanted to breathe down my neck, either—or, in his words, "You overestimate how interesting teenagers' lives are."

Thanks, Mr. Pec Deck Machine. Appreciate the confidence boost.

Emmett was… cautious. He wasn't aggressively against my wish to keep things as they were, but he didn't jump from joy, either. He liked Edward's idea of not going out for a while, but, obviously, brought back the topic of always being with me (us) in public like originally intended. Mom was on my side, but dad hesitated to support her, so the matter was still unsolved when I stepped out of Emmett's truck half a block from school.

Edward had to drop Riley off to kindergarten, so he couldn't pick me up.

I had so many fronts of my life to keep track of that school almost felt like an afterthought, but my floaty bubble with Edward felt unreal. I was bursting in the way his eyelashes fluttered when he held me close, and no doubt I looked no less silly when I hugged his arm as I laughed. He helped me study, we spent time with our friends, and I didn't want to know how many days of going to a normal high school as an average student I had left. We spent lots of time with Alice and Jasper, and while (unlike me) Alice was near-terrified to ride on Jasper's bike and had definitely not told her parents she was dating (much less a senior), Jasper and Alice seemed to be in their own, much more mischievous cocoon.

In fact, the first time Jasper saw Edward and I together after the first class, he whistled and smacked Mr. Death Grip on the back, but his playful eyes were on me. "So… a little birdie told me you spent the night at Bella's. With permission. What the hell kind of drugs are your parents on and can you give mine some?"

I shot daggers at Alice, but when she shook her head with wide eyes, I saw Edward tilt his head and tighten his jaw in a very telling way.

"You told him!" I accused, unsure if I was upset or wanted to laugh. "Why would you tell Jasper?"

A stupid question—they were best friends.

Edward was shooting his own daggers at him. Glancing briefly at his best friend, Jasper crossed his arms. "Heard your sweet sixteen is coming up. I'm throwing Masen a birthday party on Saturday night, no parents. You in? You can share the glory."

I stifled my smile at the soft, happy glint in Edward's eye.

"No need to share his glory," I replied. "I'll tell my parents and be there."

"Tell her parents, she says," Jasper teased. "Your folks are something else, man." Jasper's blue eyes twinkled as he leaned closer and lowered his voice, "So… did Masen tell you yet?"

"Tell me what?"

Edward's sharp, alarmed gaze assessed his best friend while Jasper's grin only widened.

"You haven't told her, have you?"

Edward whacked the back of Jasper's neck before the boys grappled with each other, tearing at each other's clothes and nearly falling over as they fought. Angela, Tyler and a few others stopped their conversation to watch the commotion with interest until Mrs. Alston, our black, fit Anthropology teacher, stopped next to the fighting best friends.

"What is this?"

Instantly, Jasper and Edward wrapped arms around each other's shoulders, grinning.

"A friendly game of Brazilian jujitsu, Ma'am," Jasper answered.

Mrs. Alston narrowed her eyes up at them.

"Keep it to the gym," she said, leaving after a chorus of 'Yesma'aming'. Edward and Jasper stared at each other for three seconds before the grappling, grunting and tearing at each other's hoodies ended with Edward holding Jasper's back against his chest with his elbow squeezing Jasper's neck, whispering something fierce but inaudible in his ear.

Red in the face, the master of mischief tapped his fingers against Edward's forearm before Edward let go, and for the life in me I could not interpret the look that passed between them, a warning, a taunt, or a frustrated agreement.

"That was on purpose," Jasper told Alice, rubbing his shoulder. Comforting Jasper, Alice raised her accusing eyes on Edward. Mr. MMA Fighter lifted both arms.

"I didn't hurt him. I know when to stop."

"Mortal wounds, Ali," Jasper replied, fake-groaning and exaggerating his pain with his puppy dog eyes. "Hurts so bad."

"Oh shut up." Smiling, Edward whacked him in the stomach without force. "You're fine."

The smile Jasper failed to hide as he talked to Alice spoke volumes of the severity of his injuries, and Jasper's grin widened when he got to whack Edward right back.

Chuckling, Edward stepped out of his reach, took off his backpack, sat down on the hallway floor, and held out his arm for me. I plopped down next to him and leaned my temple against his shoulder. Taking his arm in my lap, I turned toward him. Edward made a face at Jasper before he lowered his gaze.

"So what are you supposed to have told me?" I asked, amused by their antics.

Edward's sharp eyes lingered on mine, and I couldn't interpret his expression. It was… expecting, intense, and a little bit vulnerable.

"Is it bad?"

He held back his smile. Goosebumps rose on my neck when he leaned his forehead against mine and pecked my lips.

"Probably not."

"Probably not? What is it?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized I had no right to push him for answers.

"That's why you don't press me on my—" I lowered my voice, mouthing, "NDA. You have your own stuff you can't tell me."

"No." Edward assessed my face with a daunting intensity before he leaned the side of his head against mine and drew patterns on the back of my hand. "No. I don't press you because I'm not an asshole and whatever it is has no impact on me, anyway. And I can tell you, just—not here."

I had so many questions about his secret. Was it about his family? His aunt and Riley? His birthday? His future? Himself? Briefly, I entertained the idea that what Jasper alluded to was Edward's (lack of) circumcision, but not only had Edward shared the knowledge freely and dismissively, he wouldn't have had a pretend-fight with his best friend over something I already knew.

I kissed his shoulder. "You're a much better person than I am. More patient, too. I'm crazy curious."

Edward shook his head, disagreeing, but he dropped the subject. Watching our best friends in a whispery, bright-eyed conversation, Edward kissed the back of my hand and said, "Just promise me that if you ever get big, you find a talk show for Jasper. If he doesn't spend his old lady gossip energy as a late night show host, he's going to get himself killed."

"Did I hear old lady energy?" the boy in question challenged, and Alice and I watched their mole-less whac-a-mole game of slapping each other's body parts until the next class.

It was fun to be back.

Tuesday brought one of the last days of re-shooting (although I'd heard that one before). Because of a camera focus mishap, Mike and I had to reshoot a scene of us fighting (with words, not bodies) prior to my fall into a swamp. I had to wear my black scleral lenses because Tanya wasn't the type to leave all the details to CGI, but they didn't affect my vision and I wore Nala's light green contacts so often I didn't even notice them.

We took lots of breaks to get it just right, which was good. Between studying with Mrs. Haisley, learning about our schedule for the second season, going over my contract for it (the top level people were getting twitchy over me not having signed it yet), forcing all my colleagues to write a birthday message to Edward and making giddy plans with said boyfriend for the weekend, I had a lot going on.

A few extras asked for my autograph, too, which was… surreal.

Of course, everyone knew that (in the best case scenario) we had a month and a half before the teaser dropped, and nobody could doubt my central role in the series given the fancier trailer I was given and the obvious fact that I played Nala. But, while Mike was frequently approached by nervous extras wanting to get acting advice and talk, only one eleven-year-old extra had ever had that reaction to me, so it was a rush to realize that the elderly man shyly asking for my autograph for his granddaughter was just the beginning of my journey. My autograph wouldn't mean a thing for more than a month, but the man said he'd keep it for her birthday in April, and I saw no reason to refuse his request.

Our producer Rose, too, was back with a skin-colored bandage on her sprained ankle. During a break, she hobbled to where I sat on my named chair next to mom. I scooted a spare stool in front of her so that she could keep her ankle elevated.

Born to famous parents and legendary grandparents, Rose had deep-rooted connections in the industry. She'd started as an actress in her teens but swerved off that path in her early twenties to become a producer. She had a phenomenal network, and yet, she did not enjoy being approached with the express purpose of getting an introduction to some famous director, especially not Xabier Aroztegi, her grandfather. As a result, unfazed by celebrities, she sometimes greeted world-famous actors (who made me squee and die inside) with an indifferent warmth and cheek kisses.

She was one of those rich women with flawless skin and gel nails but the most casual dress-code, opting for sneakers, jeans and an impeccably tailored but unremarkable T-shirt on most days. She had grayish eyes, and the same kind of 2b/2c curls Jasper had except Rose had dyed her naturally ginger hair a caramel color.

Anyone who suspected her of having had a boob job always received an earful of her back pain and her hip envy. Rose thought Tanya was nuts for getting a boob job as soon as she'd turned eighteen because Rose was considering a boob reduction, and Tanya thought Rose was crying her pitangas (whining). Our director had once asked me if I'd consider a boob job if my boobs didn't fill in more than my (then barely) B-cup, and dad had been so horrified by the question that he cursed at Tanya and led me away before I even got to consider my answer.

Rose later explained that the Brazilians she'd met were like Californians and South Koreans, so blasé about plastic surgery you'd think they were talking about dyeing their hair.

I was still growing in height, but I'd filled in a C-cup half a year ago, and it was perfectly fine with me if my boobs had stopped growing given how much Rose hated her (beloved) boobs. It was truly insane how many people had opinions about them.

I didn't quite know how to describe my relationship with Rose. She was a year or so older than my mom, but she wasn't a motherly figure. She wasn't my friend. She was one of those people you could have a mind-blowingly personal conversation with only to nod casually at each other in the hallways for months.

When we first started working together, she'd divulged that her very public three-year relationship with a famous model had been for show, and I'd nearly shared it with my parents until I realized that she could've been testing me. So I said nothing. A few weeks later, she plopped down next to me during one of my breaks, smiled, and began questioning me about my voice acting. I never asked if she'd tested me.

"First boyfriend and first stalker," Rose said, adjusting her foot on the stool. "Busy times for our Mel C. Let me know when your stalker steals your panties and we can have champagne together."

Rose's ex-boyfriend famously broke into her home and stole her underwear, but she'd never alluded to it and I wasn't quite sure if she was joking or not.

"Champagne is—" I made a face. "But cocktails? Cocktails I can have."

"I will politely pretend you couldn't know that about yourself."

I smiled. "How's your ankle?"

"Getting there." Crossing her arms, Rose glanced at my mom right beside me, but mom, focused on transcribing, had headphones in her ears. "But I'd much rather talk about you."

An unpleasant jolt ran through me. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all. Do I only talk to you when you're in trouble?"

I made a sheepish face because, yes, she kind of did.

"You're not in trouble," Rose repeated, reaching over her handbag to draw out a white, nameless envelope. "I'll be in New York for a week, but I wanted to give you this. Happy early birthday."

She poked my forearm with the envelope when I was still staring at it a few seconds later. Daunted by what it could've been, I flipped the top open (it was unsealed) and pulled out a white piece of paper.

Dear Bella,

Live like nobody has an opinion on your choices.

Best, Xabi

My hands began to tremble when I realized she'd given me not just her grandfather's autograph, but she'd had her grandfather, now ninety seven, personalize it for me. Blinking away the shimmer in my eyes, I pressed the paper against my heart and locked eyes with Rose. Looking exasperated, she waved her arm between us.

"You have my permission to frame it as long as you don't breathe a word to anyone that I gave it to you."

I shut my eyes, nodding, willing for the shimmer to go away as I took a deep breath. I wanted to cry and hug her, but, beyond her polite cheek kisses, Rose didn't like being touched, so I just grinned like a madman when I locked eyes with her. I had never mentioned my obsession with her grandfather to her, not even spoken his name on set, but somehow, she'd found out.

"Thank you," I whispered, willing my voice not to break. "This is—beyond words."

Rose waved her hand again, brushing me off and changing the topic. "So, your boyfriend. Is he a good guy?"

Still beaming, I tried to focus on her question.

"The best."

"I'm glad to hear that, but be careful what you tell him. He can sell intimate information about you for a lot of money if it doesn't work out."

I blinked, adjusting to the change in topic and how callous he thought Edward would've been, but I didn't feel up to an argument with her, so I nodded. Her concern, although misplaced, came from her heart.

"I heard Garrett is reading for Nala's father," Rose continued.

"You ever met him?"

"A few times. I think Tanya will shit her pants if the chemistry read goes well. Two of the best voice actors currently alive acting in the same room—maybe series—together? It'll be a hell of a day. I might even cut my trip to New York short to come witness it."

She mistook my gaping for anxiety.

"Don't worry, he goes if you don't mesh well on camera. Stranger things have happened."

Swallowing the surprise of being given the opportunity to casually talk about my biological father with a person who knew him as he was now, I cleared my throat. "What's he like?"

"Garrett?"

At my nod, Rose stared off into the distance as she adjusted her hair.

"Passionate. Driven. Smart. But… arrogant, too. I'm sure you've heard about how much he's done for his village, the Rumanyo community, Namibia—setting up scholarships, infrastructure, lobbying for equality. Rare for all of that to not be just PR, so he can't be that bad. And—" Rose shrugged, and while she wasn't smiling, her eyes glinted with amusement. "Slick as a whistle. He'll charm your pants off. I'd do him in a heartbeat if he wasn't an actor."

Mom's lip palm fell on the floor, and Rose misinterpreted the wide-eyed look mom gave her as she leaned to get it.

"Sorry, I—" Rose pressed her lips together, eyes darting between my mom and me. "It's too easy to forget your age. I'll behave."

Mom gave Rose a tight-lipped smile that had less to do with Rose's language or what she'd said around me than it had to do with the fact that she was talking about my biological father. I wondered how Rose would've reacted had she known that she was sitting between a woman who had, in fact, done him (ew, ew, ew, please bleach my brain), and the literal, living, breathing result of it.

I discarded my thunderstorm of questions about Garrett to veer us away from the topic.

"What's wrong with actors?" I asked, knowing that she had (very publicly) dated one of her co-stars as a teenager.

When Rose entered into a discussion, she usually looked half-way bored, ignoring you, staring off into distance or messing with her fingernails, which was exactly how you also knew that she trusted you. I couldn't tell if she did it intentionally but she definitely had an M.O. for discussions.

Fiddling with her nails, she tilted her head toward me, shrugging. "Nobody would become an actor if they didn't have some borderline traumatic need for validation, but in male actors, their life becomes a performance. They're just… I don't know what it is. They're just on, all the time. It's infuriating. Especially method actors. Pretentious fuckers, the lot of them, taking pride in their inability to split their character from their own. Do yourself a favor and never date an actor. Every talk show worshipping their talent while you're made to suffer on the sidelines for their craft. And for what? So that they could learn to bake bread for a month to film a three-minute sequence that could've been handled just as easily with a good coach? I swear method actors are like the 'not like other girls' of acting."

I didn't know she'd decided not to date actors after her first (public) relationship, but everyone with the ability to read had heard her infamous rants on method actors. Having never worked with a true method actor for any significant amount of time, I smiled but said nothing.

Rose's eyes fell on Mike who was crouched over Edward's card across the room. "We're lucky Mike's not method. I'm glad you two have become friends now."

"We were always friends," I defended.

"Not like this." Rose gave me a passing glance. "You're more comfortable with each other today than any day last year. Was it the fact that he nearly refused to do the kissing scene unless it was with your double?"

It took everything in me not to express my surprise.

"Partially," I bluffed. Revealing that she'd given me brand new information would've only made Rose more careful around me.

"He's a good guy. You'll go far if you take care of each other." Rose noticed my mom's attention on us and nodded in her direction. "Props to you for not accepting the endorsement with Sébire and Loïc. Waiting until the teaser is out to have leverage is a smart move."

I locked eyes with mom. A world-famous luxury brand approaching my parents for an endorsement deal was usually something my parents would've discussed with me. Mom had the decency to look sheepish, but I was not stupid enough to reveal that this, too, was news to me.

Mike crossed the room and handed Edward's card over, now nearly as full as my dad's had been. "History was made with my words. Your boy better frame this thing."

"Bite me."

Mike made a wounded puppy face before he grinned.

"Ready to tear me a new one?" he asked, referring to our morning full of fighting.

"Always," I replied, mirroring his smile. "Thanks, Mike. Appreciate it." I didn't read what he'd written but he'd signed it as M. (which could've stood for Mathys or Mike). Rose casually held out her hand to write her own message in my card.

"Who is it this time?"

"My boyfriend."

She arched her eyebrow. "Do you mind?"

I watched her scribble a message on the back, and she hadn't even finished by the time our main screenwriter Vince and our 1st AD Steve emerged with a handful of assistants.

"Back to one!" Steve yelled.

"Actually—" Vince, holding his arms around his stomach, muttered something to the 1st AD before his eyes darted across the room to us. "Before that. Mike, Bella—a word!"

I slid out of my chair.

"Duty calls," Rose muttered, locking eyes with me as she lifted the card. "Do you mind if I—?"

"Knock yourself out," I replied, giddy at the fact that Edward's card was going to be full of messages written by incredible people.

Mom had a work commitment just close enough to the Martini shot that she left my trailer in a rush when Emmett arrived. But my bodyguard, a boulder of a man I'd never seen flustered, nearly fell over when he caught sight of our producer as we left together.

"Rosamund—" Emmett lowered his voice, eyes wide and awe-struck. "Rosamund Genevieve Aroztegi Hale is on your project? Daughter of Lillian Hale and Mikel Aroztegi, granddaughter of the—"

Emmett gaped like a fish when Rose glanced over. She waved at me before turning her attention back to Vince. I almost laughed because I had never, not once, heard anyone call Rose by her full name. Hell, I didn't even know her middle name was Genevieve.

"Yeah, why?"

Emmett's chin moved to the side in half a dozen consecutive tics, and he wouldn't meet my eyes as he licked his lips and put on his sunglasses. Looking flustered and twitchy while trying to keep his tone casual, Emmett asked, "What's her part?"

"Nothing. She's our producer."

He cleared his throat. "Does she work with you a lot?"

I snickered before stifling my smile and swiping an answer to Edward.

"She's a producer, Emmett. Her presence here is, strictly speaking, not necessary."

Emmett huffed at my non-answer, and his nervous, suppressed excitement gave me life. This was more the reaction I'd expected when he found out who my biological father was, but Garrett didn't have a legendary family tree or a cult-like following among guys after two gorgeous swimsuit issues.

While clearly curious, Emmett said nothing during our ride to the parking lot of a newly closed Waffle House where Edward was going to teach me how to ride his motorcycle. I was stoked. Not even the fact that my security detail was going to keep his eye on our date from his truck killed my anticipation.

Emmett pulled up next to Edward's bike, and I hopped out of the truck and into Edward's arms, shutting my eyes and humming against his lips when he leaned down to kiss me. He smelled faintly of motor oil, and he brushed his thumb against my jaw.

"Fuck, I—stained your face." His low voice that sent a shiver through me. "I'm sorry."

I pulled back to see his eyes, but Edward jerked back as if stung. He hit his motorcycle. I grimaced at the clanking sound his Yamaha made when it fell over.

Edward stared at me. He crouched, covered his face with his palm and started laughing.

"What? What? What happened?"

Edward shook his head and straightened, taking a calming breath, shaken but amused.

"Who the fuck are you playing?"

"What do you mean?" My stomach twisted as I checked over my clothes, hair and skin for any residue or evidence of my role, but I found nothing amiss.

"Your eyes," Edward whispered, walking closer. Tilting my chin up, he observed them, fascinated.

"Oh fuck."

Back to one! – A sentence called out by the Director or the Assistant Director when they want the camera, actors and crew members to return to their starting positions to run the scene again

Scleral lens – A scleral lens is a contact lens that covers the pupil, the iris, and the sclera (white part) of the eye

A/N: Miss you, miss you terribly. Cannot wait to return to a better writing schedule.

How're you all?