The hands of the Super Mario clock that hung in Eli’s trailer pointed to six o’clock as he mouthed along with the recording he’d made of the script. Listening to it helped curtail any mistakes his dyslexia would introduce, like mixing up his words or skipping lines entirely. An actress friend had helped him out by reading Katrina’s lines. He’d been up since four o’clock, unable to sleep; the crew had begun arriving the day before, and Eli felt nowhere near prepared.
As he rehearsed his lines in the British accent he’d been trying to perfect, he slipped into jeans that looked like they had gone through the wash fifty times too many. They had holes in the knees as well as the thighs. But his character, Benjamin, didn’t care. He liked the rebel image the jeans gave him, or at least, he liked
