Hank gritted his teeth. “Maybe you deserved it. Your head isn’t in this. Your behavior is unacceptable. You’re always late, you’re always hungover, and your bad performance after bad performance is bringing down the quality of this whole production.”
His voice rang out through the high-ceilinged room, and after he finished talking, there was dead silence. Hailey blinked hard, as if Hank had just punched her in the stomach. She opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it fast, tears welling in her big blue eyes.
Hanna’s stomach swirled around and around. She’d prayed for Hank to finally get through to Hailey, but hated that it was going down like this. This was so public. So embarrassing.
Hank sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and seemed to center himself. “Either you straighten up and actually listen to me, or you’re gone,” he said in a calmer voice. “You understand?”
Hailey turned away slightly. “You can’t fire me.”
“Hailey . . . ,” Hank warned.
Hailey raised her hand to cut him off. “Because I quit.”
Then she wheeled around, shoved Daniel out of the way, and stormed to her dressing room, slamming the door so hard some of the high overhead lights shook. In seconds, Hanna could hear her on the phone with someone—her agent, maybe. Hailey sounded furious.
Hanna dared to look around the set. Every single actor stood stock-still, awkward looks on their faces. The cameraman gripped the sides of the camera, his jaw slack. The hairstylist’s mouth was a perfect O. The production assistants nudged each other, and one of the guys in catering was already typing away on his phone.
It suddenly felt so hot inside the room. Hanna turned and fled for the side door, needing some air. She exited into the same alley that had spooked her the other day, though it was now bright, airy, and completely unthreatening. She peered down at the pavement. The BreAk a leg, Hanna message was gone.
“Ouch,” said a voice. Hanna turned around. Jared had stepped out onto the ramp next to her.
Hanna nodded, gesturing to the building. “Should I go to Hailey’s dressing room and see if she’s okay?”
Jared shook his head. “Let her cool down. Call her tomorrow.” He ran his hands over his thick hair. “It sucks, though. They’ll have to replace her on such short notice.”
Hanna rolled her jaw. She hadn’t thought about that. “Who do you think they’ll get?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully someone way better.”
Hanna’s thoughts began to churn. Maybe that was a good thing. Hanna’s character would be redeemed. No one would make fun of her once the film came out. And Hailey would find something else, wouldn’t she? She was a huge star. Her agent probably had something lined up already.
“Like Lucy Hale,” she suggested, suddenly excited. “Or maybe that cute girl on that Netflix series?”
“Actually, I think you should go for it.”
Hanna blinked hard. Jared was staring at her with a completely serious expression. “Excuse me?” she blurted.
Jared sidled closer. “I’m serious,” he murmured. “You’re good—really good. Hank can’t stop talking about you. And we both already know you make a better Hanna Marin than Hailey. . . .”
He smiled leadingly, one eyebrow raised. Hanna lowered her eyes, feeling guilty about what she’d said to Jared about Hailey’s performance—and about the kiss.
But it was true. Hanna thought about how Hank had done nothing but praise her after every scene. Sure, the Hanna role was more demanding and time-consuming than the Naomi part, but Hanna could handle it. Anyway, why hire another actress when the real Hanna was right here, ready and waiting?
Was Hanna ready and waiting? Could she ask for the role? She thought of something Hailey had said in New York: Never pass up an opportunity. You never know where it’s going to take you.
Jared shifted his weight. When Hanna looked up, he was studying her closely, a whisper of a smile on his face as if he knew what Hanna was thinking. “Talk to Hank,” he urged. “All he can say is no.” And then, patting her arm, he turned on his heel and went back to the soundstage.
22
A TOUR AND AN A
Thursday evening, Aria stood on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum as the sun set. Though the museum was almost closed, visitors were still lingering, eating pretzels from the cart at the foot of the steps, racing up and down the stairs like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, or listening to a saxophone player belt out a rendition of “Let It Be.”
Then a neon-green car with PHILADELPHIA QUICK CAB printed on the side pulled up to the curb, and Harrison, dressed in crisp jeans and a gingham button-down, climbed out. When he spied Aria, his whole face lit up. Aria waved happily.
“Hey!” he cried after bounding up the stairs to meet her. He leaned forward and gave Aria a hug. Aria sighed happily, inhaling the sandalwood smell of his coat.
“Ready for this?” Harrison asked when he pulled away.
Aria ducked her head, suddenly feeling shy. “A private tour in the museum? Of course I’m ready.”
“It’s the least I could do,” Harrison said earnestly.
Harrison had sent her a text this morning telling her how many comments the article had already received, though she’d been too afraid to look at them herself. He’d also added that he’d scored several new advertisers and had been asked to be an “expert” on an art-scene retrospective the New York Times was writing for its Sunday edition. At this rate, he’d said, he could actually start making money from the blog and quit his part-time bartending job.