“It is. We call it chalking. It’s not uncommon on campuses these days, but I’m not sure any have matched this.” Graffiti now covered every inch of Mathers Walk.
“Incredible.”
They arrived at Duffy and walked the two floors up to Lulu’s new room. “We moved her to a single so she could have more privacy,” Milton said. He knocked on the door; there was no answer, so he tried knocking harder. “Hello?”
“Who the hell is it?” came a voice from behind the door.
“Lulu, it’s Milton Strauss. May I have a moment?”
After some shuffling inside, the door swung open. Lulu had on a terry-cloth bathrobe and a face mask of avocado-colored cream.
“Hello, Milton!” She sounded hoarse. Primal screams had taken their toll. She appeared pleased, though, perhaps because the president of the university had come to her.
“Hello, Lulu, it’s a great pleasure to finally—”
“Wait.” She’d noted the presence of another, the great Camille Thornton, America’s Sweetheart. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
Milton’s face broadened with shock. “Excuse me, young lady, but—”
Camille cut him off with a dismissive wave, looking intently at Lulu. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?”
It’s Only a Motion Away
“I DON’T SUPPOSE you could take the mask off?” asked Camille. They were alone now, a flustered Milton Strauss having practically run off.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lulu left the avocado cream where it was.
Camille took in the space. “These rooms are small, aren’t they?”
“I’ll repeat the question. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Camille’s tone softened. “Don’t be like that. I come in peace.”
“But why have you come at all?” Lulu asked, arms folded.
“Listen … Lulu, I know this is odd, my just showing up like this. I would have reached out, but I wasn’t sure you’d respond, and I wanted to see you.”
“You know what that’s like, don’t you? Not hearing back from someone.”
“I deserve that, I know.” Camille took a chance and sat down on the edge of Lulu’s bed. “I hope you’re open to hearing this because it’s very difficult for me to say. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I feel badly about, well, everything. I was very young … I just didn’t know how to handle things…”
“Things.”
“Marriage, motherhood … a child. All of it. I wasn’t that much older than you, you know.”
“So you just show up at my door one day unannounced and think you can snap your fingers and everything’s peachy? You must be kidding.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d agree to see me…”
Flashes of red were starting to show around the avocado edges of Lulu’s mask. “Pretty good fuckin’ instincts there, Camille. Let me ask you something. All these years, you had a child you kept a secret. How do you suppose that made the child feel? Just curious.”
It was true. No one knew that Camille Thornton had a child. The marriage to Sheldon had been a spontaneous, justice-of-the-peace sort of thing. They had known each other for nine weeks, and Camille—April Gilmartin, back then—was already pregnant. The pregnancy forced her to decline a small part in a Broadway play and she was almost immediately resentful, blaming both Sheldon and the unborn child for hindering her career. Almost as soon as she could leave the hospital, she left for L.A. and changed both her name and her look. Things were slow at first, but a year back east at Devon Drama School provided some key contacts, and before long she landed her first movie role—all of seven lines. But “Camille Thornton” was on her way.
For a fresh-faced Hollywood newcomer, though, an abandoned child and busted marriage were flies in the career ointment. Camille offered Sheldon full custody in exchange for signing a nondisclosure agreement. The whole affair, including the existence of a child, was officially buried. Sheldon was barred from telling Lulu about her mother’s identity until her sixteenth birthday. That would give Camille’s career some leeway. Sheldon’s resentment toward Camille ran so deep that this suited him just fine, although he hadn’t anticipated the guilt he felt every time Lulu asked him about her mother.
“I can’t even imagine,” Camille said. “I am so, so sorry. But please understand how different things were then. I was trying to make it in Hollywood, a place run entirely by men. There was a lot of pressure to … present a certain image.”
“Way to take a fucking stand,” said Lulu, still covered in cream. “Does Sheldon know you’re here?”
“It’s been a long time since your father and I have spoken.”
“I tried to call you, you know. When Sheldon told me. Many times. You never called back. That was only two years ago. I suppose you were still trying to present a ‘certain image’?”
“I know you did. I was scared, if you want to know the truth. I didn’t know what to do or say. I felt this horrible guilt and tried to put it—you—out of my mind. It worked for a little while, but then I saw you in the papers and in People, of course, and I just felt so awful about everything.”
“So now I’m famous you suddenly show up unannounced at my door? Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”
“No! I just so admire what you’re doing. Honestly, you’re taking the kind of stand I never did.”
The two were silent for a minute, each taking the other’s measure.
“I’m sure you know,” continued Camille, “that sexual assault has been a big issue in the film industry.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I myself have had the misfortune of seeing Harvey Weinstein discard his bathrobe, as if anyone wants to see that. Of course, I said, ‘It’s so cute,’ before I ran out the door. What a fat, self-deluded asshole, I hope he rots in hell.” Camille sighed. “I suppose that’s as close to taking a stand as I’ve ever gotten. Tell me, were you really attacked?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters, but you don’t have to tell me. Anyway, I thought … what you’re doing … perhaps I could help your cause.”
“My cause.” Lulu chuckled slightly.
“I thought I could bring … attention, maybe more press.”
“I seem to be doing pretty well with that on my own, Camille.”
“Of course you are, but we all want more attention brought to this issue, and it’s finally starting to happen. We women are in this together. Aren’t we?”
“Not interested. Go home.”
“Don’t underestimate celebrity, Lulu.”
“I prefer to think of it as not overestimating you.”
Camille turned toward Lulu. “Look, I’m not claiming to be a good person, and I know you got the short end of the stick in all this. I was quite selfish in my younger years. But when I saw your picture, staring back at me at a newsstand, it affected me deeply. I had this daughter out there, doing great things, and it tugged at my heart. I was so proud and so ashamed all at once. And I’m doing this film, you see, and it’s all about this! About what you’re doing, in a way. It’s called Gender Games, and one of the central characters could be you! When I read about you and the Crawl, I felt it had to be a sign, that I somehow had to make this right.” Camille wiped away a tear.
“Make this right. By doing what?”
“I’d like to march with you. And … I’d like to tell the world you’re my daughter.”
Lulu considered this. The wheels turned. “Really?”
“Really. If you’ll let me.”
Lulu’s expression softened for a moment. Camille took this for a sign and leaned in to hug her daughter at long last.
Lulu thrust a stiff arm straight out. “You are so full of shit.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Get the hell out of my room.”
Screw Warhol
CAMILLE DECIDED TO show at that night’s Crawl. It wasn’t as if Lulu could stop her. Camille had Noah Stein, her a
gent, slip word to some paparazzi. Havenport wasn’t exactly their beat, but the photo op was potentially good enough that a few made the drive up from New York. Camille had also slipped word of her plans on Twitter, so tonight’s Crawl was the biggest yet.
She followed solemnly just behind Lulu, listening to the ball go scrape, scrape. A single candle was held in her hands; it would make for a good visual. She had hoped the story line was going to be more dramatic than simply another celebrity backing a cause. An anguished mother comes to her long-lost daughter’s side in her hour of need. Now, that would have been solid gold. But she would take what she could get.
Cameras flashed and dozens of spectators were livestreaming. A few reporters yelled questions, but Camille thought she would let the imagery speak for itself, at least for now.
She cringed just a bit at the ten-foot vagina on wheels. That might have been a bit more abstract, she thought. Very cinematic, though. Noah might be able to pitch this.
When they reached Duffy, Lulu crawled up the three stone steps and stood. As the crowd came to complete silence, she screamed. Only, it wasn’t her normal scream, the full-throated roar of a woman releasing her pain. She was losing her voice, and it sounded almost like a desperate whisper, like when you try to scream in a nightmare but nothing comes out. Her faithful could see she was trying harder and harder to project, but the harder she tried, the more her voice failed. As the whisper-scream faded to nothing, many were moved to tears. The imagery was one of an anguished, defeated woman.
Camille sensed an opportunity. Before anything else could happen, she hopped up next to Lulu and took her hand. The camera flashes were blinding. She drew in a deep breath and began to scream herself. As a trained actress, this was something she could do. There were those one or two regrettable horror films early in her career.
When her breath finally gave, there was a moment of awed silence. The crowd was profoundly moved. Then they responded, not with their usual responsive scream, but with unbridled, joyful cheering.
Camille raised Lulu’s hand over their heads as if they were politicians who just won nomination. Camille then leaned over and whispered in Lulu’s ear, “A good actress always knows how to improvise, my dear.”
* * *
Camille followed Lulu inside, and Lulu knew she couldn’t very well do anything about it. She’d been outfoxed. She let Camille into her room and slammed the door shut. “Very clever,” Lulu said, unclasping the iron ball.
“Only trying to help.” Camille lifted the iron ball, as if to test its weight. “Jesus, this thing is heavy.”
“You are so transparent, you know that?” Lulu removed the clasp from around her ankle.
“I don’t know what you mean. You sound horrible, by the way. Can I find you some tea somewhere?”
“It’s your movie. It’s having problems, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Gender Games. It’s in … what do they call it out there? Development hell? Google makes for fascinating reading sometimes.” Lulu had kept quiet track of Camille ever since she’d learned her true identity. She knew Gender Games was supposed to be Camille’s big comeback, but it was in Hollywood purgatory. Lulu knew few movies ever made it out. People moved on.
“It’s coming along. The script just needs one more rewrite.”
“Sure it does. How many would that make, exactly?”
“If you’ve been doing all this research, then you know it’s part of the process.”
“So, correct me if I’m wrong on any of this.” Lulu rubbed Nivea cream around her ankle. “You haven’t had a role in years, this movie is your way back onto the red carpet, and you think announcing to the world I’m your daughter, a daughter who conveniently has become a feminist media hero while you’re trying to make this girl-power movie, will kick-start your career. So you come in here and think if you cry a few phony tears we can get the show on the road. That about right, Camille?”
“Lulu! I never would—”
Lulu glared. “Cut the shit.”
Camille sighed, sensing defeat. “You’re a smart one. I guess that’s why you’re here. I’d like to think you got that from me, but those genes are probably Sheldon’s. You’re right, I could use the help. Women my age, Hollywood has little use for us. And yes, Gender Games is stuck in the mud. I confess I thought coming here … might ignite something. Maybe we can help each other. But I also wanted to get to know you. I truly did—do.”
Suddenly, this was a relatable person, one Lulu understood. Camille was an operator, but who was Lulu to cast the first stone? It was almost something she could admire. Could she forgive Camille for nineteen years of absence? Probably not. But it was nice to be needed. This bitch needed her. Camille’s fame was fading while Lulu’s was on the rise. Still, the name Camille Thornton was known the world over. If Lulu let her get involved … the possibilities popped in her mind rapid-fire …
The Crawl was coming to an end, and Lulu needed a follow-up act. Fifteen minutes of fame was not an acceptable outcome. Screw Warhol.
Lulu started changing out of her crawling clothes. The khakis were shredded and the blue button-down frayed at the cuffs. “The answer to your question last night … it’s no.”
“I’m sorry, which question?”
“No, I wasn’t attacked.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Then…”
“The Crawl? I wasn’t having a great time here, if you want to know the truth. It started because I was pissed about some other stuff and I just had a feeling it would strike a chord, even if it’s total bullshit.”
Camille’s jaw dropped. “Jesus.”
Lulu smiled slightly. “Honestly, it was something to do. The people here are so pathetic and predictable, so I’m using it. I’m building a brand.”
Camille was stunned. “You’re doing all this … just for exposure?”
“Why not? College sucks anyway. And have you seen how many followers I have?”
“Oh, my God. That is so … brilliant.”
“Cool, right? Honestly, I’ve been dying to talk to someone about it. But at this point I can’t wait till it’s over. I’m losing my voice and I have hands like a migrant worker.”
“So … now what?”
Lulu looked up at Camille. Was that admiration in her eyes? Lulu then looked down at Camille’s phone and smiled. “Go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Camille picked up her phone and opened Twitter, where she had over three hundred thousand followers. She typed:
So proud and honored to tell the world Lulu Harris is my birth daughter. Reunited at last! C u at #Crawlpeace tomorrow!
She then sat next to Lulu and they hugged each other for a selfie, which she attached to the tweet. She handed her phone to Lulu for approval. “So, we’re doing this?”
“We’re doing this.” Lulu held the phone up and hit send.
“Holy shit. People are going to go crazy.” Almost immediately, Camille’s phone buzzed with a call. “My publicist. His head is probably exploding.” She declined the call. “I can talk to him later. Listen, would you get a bite to eat somewhere? I know it’s late, but I’m starving.”
Lulu smiled. “Why the hell not. Let me just call Sheldon before he hears this from someone else. I owe him that. But tell me something first.”
“Anything.”
“When Harvey Weinstein dropped that robe…”
“It was like being threatened by an angry kidney bean.”
They both laughed like schoolgirls.
“Tell me more,” said Lulu.
The Fling
IT WAS THE largest event Rufus—RoofRaza—had ever played. He figured that at least three thousand people were stretched across Bingham. Several beach balls were getting knocked about. The crowd throbbed up and down in waves to the EDM beat as he warmed them up. The feeling was godlike.
A bow-tied a cappella group, the Swell Fellows,
had been onstage as an opening act. (Devon was lousy with a cappella groups—you couldn’t throw a stick on campus without hitting one.) The crowd politely tolerated a few numbers, but then “Surrey with the Fringe on Top” proved a musical bridge too far. The crowd booed and someone hurled a pillow shaped like a poop emoji, inexplicably. The Swell Fellows wisely cut their gig a couple of songs short. This teed up Roof to really start the party.
Sure, he was only an opening act, but still. Things were on track. Backstage he even got to meet Killa C Note. The man had two Grammys!
It was unnaturally hot for April and the skies to the west looked threatening. The forecast was favorable, but Rufus didn’t like the looks of it. There was a lot of sick equipment up here, better and louder than anything he’d worked with before. He told members of the Fling Committee they should go find some tarps, just in case. There was apparently a lot of confusion about the exact location of spare tarps at Devon.
But it wasn’t Rufus’s equipment, so whatever.
“How you all doin’ out there!” he yelled. “Who’s ready to paaarrrr-tay?!”
The crowd threw fists in the air and roared. Oh, yes, they were. Officially, this was a dry event, but college is college. Who they kidding? Rufus thought. Drinking had begun in earnest hours ago. He saw one passed-out dude get carried out already before the music even started.
Rufus didn’t have long before he had to give things up to Killa, so he made sure to play an extended cut of “I Want to Love You.”
Love you!
Love you!
“Well, all right!!” he yelled, as the song faded. “Let’s put our hands together and give it up for the one, the only, Grammy-Award-winning artist … Killa C Note!”
Rufus yielded his turntables to Killa’s DJ, and Killa emerged, strutting, stripped to the waist, baggy jeans held perilously in place by unseen means. The video screen beamed a twenty-foot Killa to the far reaches of the crowd as he launched straight into one of his hits, “Pigs in Blue.”
Brothers cryin’
Souls say why in
Hell we gotta take
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