My eyes drift to a picture of my big brother, front and center on the dresser. He’s wearing his football uniform and carrying me on his back. Next to the photo is the monologue I have to do for the thesis film. I grab it and slump into the chair next to the window, wondering if I should tell Carol I can’t do the audition.
“Somebody shot my son, and they killed him.” That’s my first line. Saying it makes my eyes burn, because somebody shot my brother—my mother’s son. Like the young man in the film, he was only twenty-four. I was sixteen. Robert was my everything. He was our savior. He was going to be the next O.J., before the murders and the Bronco chase. His dream was to play for the Patriots, but the Dallas Enforcers drafted him to play quarterback, and he was already setting records. My mother wished he’d landed a spot on a California team, but she was still proud as hell. “We don’t know who killed him.” That’s my second line. I throw the paper onto the hardwood floor and jump up from the chair, fresh tears falling onto my full cheeks.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
I look up through my tears at Taylor standing in the doorway. His big brown eyes dip to the sheet of paper on the floor, then back to me. He walks to me and folds me into his arms. I sob into his chest, thinking about Robert and how a bullet cut his life short and robbed him of his football career.
“I can’t do it, Taylor. I can’t do the audition. It’s dredging up too many emotions.”
He ushers me to his side of the bed, like I’m his little girl who’s gotten her first heartbreak. We sit next to each other in knowing silence. In some ways he reminds me of my father—the father I was too young to remember, the father I wish I would’ve had. Not my asshole stepfather. No, I’m not talking about that demon.
Taylor is a bald, husky guy, six-two with broad shoulders and fifteen years my senior. I look at his caring face, and he smiles, revealing the signature gap in his teeth. I tug on his white goatee, and he chuckles.
“Girl, what am I gonna do with you? Why are you in here crying and going on?”
“Taylor, it’s too painful. Saying those words hurts.” My chin drops to my chest.
He lifts my head with a finger, and our eyes meet. “Maybe the Man upstairs is trying to tell you something.”
“And what might that be?”
“You need to deal with what happened to your brother. You have pent-up rage and resentment. You’ve been stewing emotionally for more than two decades. And to be honest, I think that’s the reason you haven’t gotten as far as you’ve wanted to with your career.”
His words slice through me, and I feel a surge of anger rise within me because he’s probably right. But I don’t want him to be. I hate to think I’m not an A-list actress today because I’ve been afraid to deal with the animosity I have for the sonofabitch who took Robert’s life, the lying-ass media who tried to peg him as just another gangbanger, and the lazy-ass detectives who failed to do their jobs. “That’s not true, Taylor.”
He stands and plants his massive hands on his narrow hips. “Baby, as an actress you have to show emotion, and you can’t do that if it’s all bottled up. This part is like no part you’ve ever had before. It’s all about showing feelings. I don’t think it’s an accident that Carol submitted you for this role and that the people want to see you. This could be a gift in disguise, a chance for you to work on your issues.”
I look up at him, feeling like that little girl again. Thinking about how wise he is. Neither one of us went to college, but we read—we read a lot. Taylor more than me. Self-help books and other kinds of nonfiction that make you think about and analyze life. I remember reading this psychology book that said sometimes when a person experiences a traumatic event they can stay stuck in that time period and not mature. I think that may have happened to me. At times I feel like I’m forty-two going on sixteen.
“Did you hear me, baby? This role may help you.”
I vacate my head and answer him. “You may have a point,” I say, nodding.
“Baby, I know what I’m talking about.” He picks up the monologue from the floor and hands it to me. “Now, I’m going to go in there and finish breakfast, and I want you to get ready for your auditions.”
“I don’t have any lines for the print job. That’s my first audition.”
“Good. So you need to focus on the monologue. Get dressed, and then spend some time on it. You’ve already showered and cried most of the morning away,” he says, motioning to the clock on the dresser.
“Taylor, you’re crazy.”
“Crazy and married to a fox. I love you, Regina.”
“I love you too. What are you making?”
“Blueberry pancakes,” he says, tying his robe closed.
“I only want one. Don’t go fixing me five. I hate that my mother gave you the recipe. Robert started us eating them dang blueberry pancakes after he had them one year at summer camp. He liked to eat his with banana slices on top. God, I miss him.”
“Put those feelings into your part. Get busy now.”
I watch him leave our room, thinking about how lucky I am to have him. I set the monologue on the bed and grab my phone off the chair arm to check the traffic. My audition is at Dancing Hills University. That’s a million miles from Culver City in Los Angeles County, where Taylor and I live. If my mother hadn’t moved us out of our old neighborhood, I may have ended up going to that college. We used to live in Shady Grove, a low-income area near Dancing Hills, which is about fifty miles east of where I now live. It won’t be a bad drive, because I’ll be going against Monday morning rush-hour traffic. My first audition is out this way. I’ll knock that out, then head to Dancing Hills. I shake my head, thinking about our old neighborhood. I plan to stay as far away from it as possible, because that’s where Robert was gunned down like a dog in the street.
*****
Sitting in my Honda in the student parking lot, I look past the chain-link fence, at the red brick campus buildings surrounded by trees, wondering how my life would have turned out if I had gone to college like Robert. He got a full ride to USC. He was the brains in the family. A blinding ray of sunlight appears out of nowhere, and I pull down the visor to block it. Things like that happen a lot when I think about Robert—I’ll notice a rainbow, or a colorful butterfly will flutter around my head.
Anyway, so much for rain. Once again, the weatherman got it wrong. I tried to tell Taylor I didn’t need my umbrella, but he insisted.
I focus and scan the grounds for black women my age and size with a photo in hand and a piece of paper, peering down at it, talking to themselves. I always stake out the competition at auditions. I don’t know why; it’s a habit. Somehow, I think I can judge whether a person has any chops by looking at them. If a person is dressed too sexy for the part, nine times out of ten they can’t act, and if they’re wearing stripes or busy patterns, they’re most likely an amateur. It’s hard to tell who’s here to audition for the role of Sandra—that’s the name of the dead boy’s mother—or who’s a student. Everybody I’ve seen is focused on their phone or something.
Speaking of phones, mine rings. “Hey, Taylor.”
“How’d the print audition go?”
“Fine. All I had to do was pose for a few photos. That was it,” I say, swiveling my head toward a woman who looks like me.
“Where are you now?”
Still looking at the woman with gray dreadlocks, I ignore Taylor.
“Regina, where are you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m in Dancing Hills. At the college. I just got here. Traffic wasn’t too bad. I have to change out of my suit and put my gray wig on though. Where are you?”
“I’m at the construction site. I wanted to check on you. Be strong, baby. You can do this.”
I look at the monologue in my lap, repelling mental images of Robert’s lifeless body. “Right. I know I can. I’d better go before time slips away from me.”
“Call me when you’re done.”
“Will do.”
I
hang up and rock back and forth, trying to calm my jittery nerves. My audition is in thirty minutes—11:45 a.m. I have just enough time to change. I grab the water bottle out of the cupholder and take a sip of the orange juice mixed with a wee bit of vodka. I know it’s early, but I need courage, like the lion in The Wizard of Oz. I lift the bottle and stare at Robert’s picture plastered on the front. This was the last birthday gift he’d given me. It wasn’t cheap either, because the picture is as clear today as it was twenty-six years ago. He had the prettiest light-brown skin and chestnut eyes. He took after my mother. She says I look like our father, who was killed in a car accident when I was one and Robert was nine.
I run my purple painted fingernail along his beautiful face, imagining I’m touching his bushy brows, his round nose and full lips. I place the tip of my fingernail on the dimple in his chin and giggle. I press on his dark, curly hair. He looks so handsome in his football uniform. He loved his uniform. If he’d lived, he’d be fifty and probably married with children. Maybe he’d even have grandchildren, and many more things I can’t begin to imagine.
My eyes sting, and I choke up. I grip the bottle and hold it to my chest. “Robert, if I’m supposed to do this audition, help me get through it.”
I look down at the monologue and recite it, blinking back tears, thinking about how much the film parallels Robert’s life. The man in the film was killed at the same age Robert was. He was a football player, he lived in Shady Grove, and his birthday is January 1. Maybe this Gretchen chick knows about what happened. What if she saw it on the news? Robert died in 1991. According to her website, she’s twenty-six. So she was born in 1991, the same year Robert died, and couldn’t have seen the story on the news. But she could’ve read about it somewhere. If she did, she has no right to do a film about my brother’s life without his family’s permission. Okay, I’m tripping. It’s probably a coincidence.
I make it to the end of the monologue, surprising myself. Maybe Taylor’s right. I’m supposed to do this. I collect my things and head to the nearest restroom, to change from a female executive to the devastated mother of a dead twenty-four-year-old named Him.
Chapter 3
Gretchen
In one of Blakely Hall’s many audition rooms, I chuckle while I read Lance’s text: I’d say break a leg, but they’re too pretty. But wait, that’s for actors. You’re not acting. You’re the writer and director. Wow, look at you. Good luck. Love you, Red.
I love you too, sweetie. Thanks for being so supportive, and have a great day at school. I turn off my phone and set it on the table, covered in photos with resumes attached. Sitting next to me, Jocelyn, the casting director, is on the phone with an agent. Her assistant, Tabitha, is getting us coffee. God bless the assistant. I’m running on sugar from the syrup I had on my blueberry pancakes this morning and pure adrenaline, and the rush is fading.
I leaf through the photos, then put them in two stacks—the men reading for the part of Him and the women reading for the part of Sandra, the mother. So far we’ve seen one Him and one Sandra, and neither one was impressive. Maybe Jocelyn isn’t as good as my mentor and favorite film professor said she is.
The door opens, and Tabitha, clutching two coffee cups, enters. The voices of the actors chatting each other up and going over lines spill into the room. Tabitha kicks the door closed, and silence overrules.
Jocelyn, still on the phone, takes her coffee and sips. I happily grab mine and suck it down. Tabitha did as I had asked and put ice in it. She smiles, revealing braces that make her look like a twelve-year-old. Her gray eyes widen when I motion for her to keep the change she thrusts my way.
“How does it look out there?” I ask.
“There’s a full house.” She stuffs the money into her back jeans pocket.
“We’ll be ready for the next person in a few minutes,” I say.
“Great. I’m making sure everyone signs in.” Tabitha gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.
My eyes dart around the room, which has a skylight in the center, while I wait for Jocelyn to finish her call. Posters from popular movies cover the walls—classics like Vertigo, Citizen Kane, The Godfather, and North by Northwest—films that were required viewing in cinema school. And more current—Forrest Gump, Pulp Fiction, She’s Gotta Have It, The Wolf of Wall Street. Chairs, flanked by two long tables, are stacked in a corner opposite the door. A motorized ceiling projector is attached to the wall, and a flat-screen TV is mounted on the adjacent wall. A remote with a string attached hangs on a hook. Next to our table, the digital camcorder we’re using to record the actors sits atop a tripod.
Jocelyn tells the agent, “Thanks anyway,” and I stop examining the room and turn toward her. She sets down her phone and runs her hand through her brown hair, which falls just past her shoulders. Dressed in a tan pantsuit and red-soled shoes, she makes me feel underdressed. I’d opted for jeans and my Patriots hoodie. She crosses her short legs, then reaches into her Louis Vuitton bag. I watch as she removes lipstick and paints her collagen-filled pout red. She puts away the tube then grins.
“You have lipstick on your teeth,” I say, wishing she would focus more on the auditions and less on her appearance.
“Thanks, Gretch. Anyway, sorry I was on the phone for so long, but I was trying to get this actress who took my workshop last year to come in and read for the part of Sandra. Unfortunately, her agent doesn’t want her doing anymore student films.”
I nod and ignore the way she said student films. I’m tempted to remind her I’ve won numerous awards and that several producers are courting me. I stay humble. But if she calls me Gretch one more time, I’m going to scream.
“Jocelyn, can you do me a favor? Please don’t call me Gretch. It’s Gretchen.”
Her face turns redder than her lips, and her fake lashes flutter. “I’m sorry. I meant no harm.”
“No worries.”
“So, Greeet-cheeen.”
Oh boy.
“What do you think about the actors we’ve seen so far?” she says, shifting in her chair.
I hesitate, my eyes wandering from white wall to tile floor to ceiling. “The guy who just read didn’t look like Him. And the woman was too young. And the acting was mediocre.”
She swigs her coffee and nods. Her Botoxed face droops (as much as it can) with disappointment. “It’ll get better. You’ll see.” She pats my hand, then stands, straightens the two chairs across from us, and repositions the camera.
“I’m ready for the next Sandra,” I say.
She walks to the door and calls Tabitha, then returns to her chair, sending a smile my way that eludes her eyes. The door opens, and Tabitha enters, followed by a black woman with gray hair, who must be in her late thirties to early forties. I immediately get a good vibe from her. She stands near the chair, her purse draped over her arm. I notice she doesn’t have anything in her hands. Excitement shoots through me. Finally, someone has taken the time to learn the lines.
“Hello,” she says, waving at us.
“Hello,” I say. She reaches into her bag and removes a headshot. “That’s okay. We have your photo. By the way, I’m Gretchen Holloway. I’m the writer/director.”
“I know. I saw your website,” she says, beaming.
We’ve got a winner here.
“You can begin whenever you’re ready,” Jocelyn says. She looks at Tabitha, who’s running the camcorder.
“Do you want me to slate?” the actress says.
“No, go for it,” Jocelyn says.
“Before you start, do you have any questions?” I ask. I want to make sure she’s fully prepared. I like this woman.
“I do have one question. In the monologue, why doesn’t the mother ever call her son by his name?”
“That’s a good question. I haven’t decided on a name yet.”
“I see. The writing is good,” she adds.
Before I can thank her, Jocelyn says, “You can start whenever you’re ready.”
The actress smooths h
er hand over her purple sweater, then tugs on her jeans, apparently now a little nervous. She takes a deep breath and shuts and opens her eyes. I silently pray for her to do well.
“Somebody shot my son, and they killed him. We don’t know who killed him. But we do know it was somebody in this neighborhood. Somebody who probably grew up in this neighborhood. Somebody who probably went to school with him. It might even be one of you. Did one of you kill my son? Tell me which one of you did it. Was it you, Darnell? Did you kill him? Tyrone, did you kill my baby? Did you kill him because he made something out of himself? Did you murder him because you were jealous? You’re all fakes and frauds. You acted like you were happy my baby made it out of Shady Grove. You congratulated him for making it to the NFL. You said you were proud of him. But it was all a lie. Secretly you hated him, because he was everything you weren’t and couldn’t be. Today is my baby’s birthday. Today—January 1. He turned twenty-four today. And now he’s dead. I’m not going to rest until I find his killer. You had no right to take my baby’s life. So help me God, I’m going to find his killer if it’s the last thing I do!”
I look down at my hands, clasped so tightly they ache. Tears stream down my face, and I turn to Jocelyn, who’s trying to keep her mascara from smearing. Tabitha grabs a napkin off the table and wipes her eyes. The actress, who’s sobbing uncontrollably, slumps into a chair. I bask in the wonder of the powerful moment. I’ve found Sandra. She’s magnificent. Moments like these remind me why I love writing stories, making movies. Moving people emotionally always enthralls me.
Growing up, if I wasn’t tossing a football, I was holding a camcorder, which my grandmother bought for me when I was in elementary school. She used to take me to the dollar cinema, where they played old black and whites. I remember the joy on her face and the light in her eyes while she watched actresses like Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, and Katherine Hepburn. I believe those films helped her cope when she was grieving my grandfather, who’d died of a heart attack. I was fascinated by how she got swept up in the stories. I knew that’s what I wanted to do.
The Truth About Gretchen Page 2