For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (books for 10th graders txt) 📗

a small swarm of picket signs bobbing up and down around the entrance. Other matters had apparently demanded their attention as, this morning, the only faces to greet Renata were those of two potbellied young men standing guard, giggling excitedly and covered in Rye Productions attire. So these were the jobs Quentin had promised the town. They looked up from their chattering.

‘Hello, sorry, I’m here to see Mr Rye,’ said Renata, tugging on a sleeve and glancing around nervously. ‘He told me to ask for him.’

As they were formulating an answer, a man as big as a tank stepped from behind a trailer, wide-framed and dressed all in black. ‘Name,’ he grunted.

It took her a moment to realise this was a question. ‘Renata,’ she answered, picking at her palm. ‘Renata Wakefield.’ The two young men lost interest and resumed their chattering. The tank glared at her. ‘Mr Rye asked me to the set,’ she elaborated. ‘He said I should give my name.’

His face cracked a smile. ‘Right this way, ma’am.’

She was led inside. The airfield was a sea of tarmac sprinkled with intermittent dustings of weeds. A large hangar stood in its centre, more ‘NO ENTRY’ signs plastered across its entrance. The fence snaking around the airfield’s perimeter was dotted with the illegible graffiti of bored country teenagers.

The field was still being primed for production; trucks entered through a dedicated gate at the far end, delivering the means to erect a fully functioning filming location. She looked around at the swarming production crews, like bees readying the hive for their queen.

‘Renata Wakefield?’ The voice came from behind her. She turned to see a girl approaching, slender, blonde, and sporting denim cut-offs so meagre that for a moment Renata thought they had a streaker. She wasn’t the only one who’d turned to look.

‘Renata Wakefield!’ repeated the beaming teenager, her US twang a high-pitched version of Quentin’s. ‘It’s really you, isn’t it?’ Renata looked at the thick hardback under the girl’s arm. Was that a Coleridge collection? ‘I’ve been waiting endlessly to meet you in person, Miss Wakefield,’ she said. ‘What am I doing, I’m so…boorish.’ She offered a hand, tanned, nails manicured. ‘I’m Sandie.’ The young actress unveiled her name with practised composure. ‘Sandie Rye.’

‘Ah, you’re…Quentin’s daughter?’ Renata asked, looking everywhere but into the girl’s wide, eager stare. Even the prettiest eyes could burn.

‘Come on!’ said Sandie as she did a little bounce. She grabbed Renata’s hand and began leading her across the tarmac. The man-tank took a fearful step back. ‘I’m not even in the film and the crew still gave me my own trailer. I’ll show you!’

Before she could protest, Renata was pulled towards a cluster of trailers and Portakabins. Lying between the units were sealed trunks and equipment casings waiting to be unpacked, as well as marquees housing first aid stations, serving and dining areas, make-up and costume-fitting sections, and covered bulks of whirring generators, all bustling with Rye Productions crew. Sandie galloped up the steps of the largest trailer, upon which giant golden stars had been adhered. A printed sign on the entrance read SANDIE RYE. The teenager pushed open the door and lead Renata, still clutching Quentin’s blazer, into the furnished living space. Sandie dashed to the kitchen area, dumped her book of poetry, and began pouring two cream sodas.

Fitted spotlights running the length of the ceiling came to life. The trailer’s fixtures were dark wood, with thick carpeting underfoot and an expansive leather seating area. Sandie flicked a switch beside the wall-mounted plasma television, electronically controlled blinds lowering over the windows in response. Renata stood in the middle of the seating area, feeling like a caged animal. She felt her toes curl.

‘I’m just so jubilant to have Renata Wakefield in my trailer!’ gushed the young girl as she clattered in the fridge.

‘I really do need to see your father, Sandie,’ said Renata, picking at her fingernails. She glanced over and saw the girl was now wearing glasses. ‘Do you have any idea how long he’ll be?’

‘Ice, Miss Wakefield?’

‘Uh, fine, thanks.’ Her toes began to hurt. ‘It’s just he said I’d be able to find him here and—’

‘Yeah, my apologies,’ the girl said with a sniff, stepping towards the couches. She handed Renata a glass. ‘They said he’s due in soon, but you can wait with me for the…interim. The truth is Daddy doesn’t actually know I’m here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s kind of a surprise. See, he didn’t want me in this film…’ She paused, a hint of heartbreak passing over the young girl’s face. ‘…which is fine, but it doesn’t mean I can’t come visit.’ She looked down, fiddling with her fraying shorts. ‘Dunno…maybe he’ll, like, have a change of heart.’

Her thoughts flicked like a television changing channel. ‘My mom had all your books when I was growing up, you know,’ she gushed. ‘Man, I read them all. You’re what got me into literature.’ She shoved aside some glossy magazines on the coffee table to reveal an Emily Brontë, placed as tactically as her unnatural vocabulary. ‘I know your latest…chef d'oeuvres haven’t been received as well as usual, but that’s because they’re more literary. Adelaide Addington, her romances. Y’know, the men she meets…’ She twirled her blonde hair, showing off an elaborately tattooed ring finger. The girl’s brown eyes glazed over. Renata discerned dark rings buried under the make-up. ‘She’s so inspiring. You’re so inspiring, Miss Wakefield.’

The channel flicked.

‘Hey, you ever thought about making a film? Just imagine…’ she did her best movie trailer voiceover, ‘…Starring Sandie Rye as Adelaide Addington. I even have the blonde hair! I bet Daddy would help. Dunno, maybe he’d even—’ She spotted Renata eyeing the glossy magazines pushed aside, each cover plastered with Sandie’s airbrushed face. ‘Miss Wakefield, I want you to know I’m more than what they make me out to be,’ she said. ‘I’m a