Freeways in Los Angeles

‘My name is Jacob Clark. I won a competition to be in a film. And I was supposed to get here on Tuesday but was delayed. Sorry about that. Thanks.’

I sat in a back seat of Mr Lewis’s Toyota. Jennifer had insisted she sit in the passenger seat. The car wasn’t moving. Ahead were infinite brake lights. All around us were stationary cars. We were part of a solid whole, a metal snake suffocating Los Angeles.

Rush hour. American style.

‘Please hold, Mr Clark, while I connect you.’

‘Pretend to be someone who’s assertive,’ said Jennifer.

I’d used Mr Lewis’s phone to get on my Gmail. Along with all the marketing messages from Somerset’s premier pizza restaurants and four emails from Mum, of increasing panic and desperation, there was an email from the studio.

Basically it said that they understood there’d been difficulties with transportation from Chicago and I wasn’t the only one affected but, importantly, it also gave me a phone number to ring when finally in LA.

‘Jacob!’ It was a woman’s voice and if Hollywood possessed a particular accent, it was this. ‘First off, have you spoken to your parents? You’ve spoken to your parents, right?’

‘Yep,’ I said.

‘Great. You had us all anxious there. We don’t want a Netflix doc about the prize-winning kid who went missing.’

‘I took a Greyhound.’

‘Did you go via Hawaii? I’m kidding. I’m kidding.’

‘There were … some problems.’

At this Jennifer swung round from the front. She offered the largest smile I’d ever seen. It stretched from ear to ear. My eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. And although I could only see Mr Lewis’s eyes and eyebrows, I could tell he really wasn’t smiling.

‘Where are you now, Jacob? I’m hoping you’re going to say pretty close. Like two blocks away close. You heard we’re running your scene tonight, right?’

‘Yeah. My dad said.’

‘Here’s the thing. We’re shooting in an hour. Which means you need to be at the lot in, like, a bare minimum of thirty minutes for costume and make-up and paperwork. Where are you right now? Are you going to make it?’

I lifted the phone from my ear and put my hand over the microphone.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘Los Angeles,’ said Jennifer, still grinning. ‘That’s in California.’

I ignored her. She could be annoying sometimes.

‘Coming out of Little Tokyo,’ said Mr Lewis.

‘How far’s that from Hollywood?’

‘Should be fifteen minutes,’ he replied. He opened his hands from the steering wheel to indicate the solid traffic. ‘But now? Who knows, kid. LA traffic.’

I reported back to the studio woman.

‘I’m afraid to say, Jacob, with the schedule already delayed I don’t think they’ll be open to waiting on your behalf. Time is money, you know. Obviously it goes without saying that the rest of the prize, or what’s left, remains valid. I’m sure we can arrange merch and a tour and you’ve got your spending allowance still.’ She heard the silence coming from my end. ‘Autographs, even? Maybe a meet and greet?’

‘But if I get there in half an hour, I can still make it?’

‘Sure thing, honey.’

I licked my lips, daring to ask the question.

‘Are you allowed to say what you’re filming? I know it’s top secret. But …’

‘It’s the new Spider-Man project, Jacob. Are you a fan?’

A star exploded in my mind. A whole galaxy destroyed. The universe.

‘No way. For real?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Like I’d fallen into a deep freezer, I felt my everything stiffen. Maybe not everything. Mainly my resolve. I’d seen enough films and played enough video games to realise there were ways round gridlock in American cities. I might not have ropes made from super-strong spiderweb, but I had a car. Driven by a prison counsellor.

And that should sound more impressive.

‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Tell the director. No problemo.’

(I don’t know why I used that last word.)

‘Okay, Jacob, it’s just gone six now. We’ll be seeing you at half past, then?’

Less than half an hour that was. Less.

Still. ‘I swear. I’ll see you, then. Thank you for the opportunity.’

And, as I dropped the phone from my ear, I heard a tinny voice continue. I listened in.

‘You don’t want the address?’

I apologised. She told me the address. I repeated it back. I said goodbye. She wished me luck. I thanked her. As I returned the phone, Jennifer asked what the plan was.

‘We’ve less than half an hour to get to Melrose Avenue,’ I said.

Jennifer’s smile turned upside down. ‘Well, that’s not going to happen. We’ve not moved in five minutes.’

How could I get so close but fail so massively? I didn’t regret going to the prison, but Jennifer had kind of bigged it up like her dad was a hardened criminal. And there’d been a distinct lack of police trying to arrest her, like she’d said there’d be.

Which all meant that I now possessed 100 per cent determination to get to the studio. This wasn’t just something I wanted. This was something I needed. We all tell ourselves stories to cope with disappointment but now that I was so close to making it, my whole body quivered with the terrible question: ‘What if?’

Honestly, I realised now, I’d never get over the disappointment if I missed the shoot. I’d be forced to wear black every day for the rest of my life. I’d move schools. I couldn’t face explaining it to them. I’d change my name. I’d burn all my Marvel merch. Because it wasn’t Doctor Bong, after all, and my eyes pricked with spidey tears.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

‘Open the glove compartment,’ said Mr Lewis. Jennifer frowned, but did as instructed. Mr Lewis lowered his window. ‘Hand me the light.’

And, miraculously, Jennifer’s hand appeared holding the sort of lamp you’d see spinning on top of a black-and-white squad car. Her dad flicked a switch at its base and the insides began turning, a miniature lighthouse. It flooded the space red and blue. His left hand took the light, about the size of a snow globe, and he stretched to land it with a thump on the car roof above his driving seat.

‘One of the perks of working in a correctional facility,’ he said.

He flicked an indicator to move out of the stationary traffic and so pull into the bus lane.

‘Half an hour, you say?’ The engine revved aggressively. ‘We’ll be there in twenty.’