“What?”
“I see you in class and I see you at my place and your place and every time I close my eyes. I’m trying to figure this out and I’m going to get it right. I nailed that film class essay, by the way. I can do anything if I try. I hate asking you to wait anymore, but just give me a chance. I’m getting there, I swear.”
She takes a shaky breath. “What’s the hold up?”
My life in Avilla flashes before my eyes. That claustrophobic fear that my entire future may have been decided for me before I even got to live. But then an even bigger fear casts its shadow, and it’s the worry that I might not get that life. That maybe I don’t get this girl.
“I’m scared,” I admit. “And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”
“What could you possibly be afraid of?”
“You! And I’ll deny that, too.”
“Is this because of the rat thing? I’m sorry, okay? I caught a rat and I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“Putting it inside someone’s duvet cover is not the behavior of a normal person.”
“Do you really think—” Her gaze skitters away like she’s embarrassed to be asking if I could like her. If I could love her.
“No question, Andi.”
“Then why can’t you just say it?”
It starts to rain then, the skies opening up and drenching us in the span of two heartbeats. It plasters Andi’s hair to her scalp, rivulets running down her cheeks as she wraps her arms around her middle like that will keep her dry. I feel water trickling along the back of my neck, past my collar and straight down my spine. But I’ll stand out here until she’s convinced. It would be so easy to tell her what she wants to hear—what she deserves to hear—but I know it’s not the right moment. I’ve said all the right things to all the wrong women in the past, but with Andi I want to be sure. I don’t want to be my dad, telling the wrong woman he loves her and forcing both of them to live half a life, convinced it’s the right thing to do. I want everything. I want to say the words she needs, but I want to say them when I know without question that it’s time.
I see her sigh, resigned to more waiting. And I know I don’t have much longer. I’m not the only guy who sees her, who wants her.
“I don’t know,” I say, the only honest thing I can say. “I don’t know.” I’m waiting too, I want to add. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, holding me back, a way of protecting itself. Saying wait wait wait until the opportunity passes, the risk passes, and we’ll be safe again.
Andi sighs and shivers. “I’m going home.”
“Do you want to get the food to go?”
Water sluices down her cheek. “I’m not hungry.”
She doesn’t invite me but I follow anyway, back through town and across campus to the McKinley dorms. She hesitates at the entrance before swiping her ID card to open the door, glancing up at me through spiky lashes. This time I do wait for the invitation, five seconds that feel like a lifetime. Then she tilts her head and we leave muddy footprints in the lobby and in the stairwell, on the hall floor as we stop at her room for towels then proceed straight to the bathroom. There’s someone brushing their teeth but we don’t stop, just go straight to the last shower stall and step inside, closing the door and turning on the water as hot as we can stand it. We strip out of our sodden clothes, dropping them in a heavy pile at our feet.
I look at her. The first girl I ever saw naked, and maybe the last one. Definitely the only one I’ve never forgotten. And then I kiss her, showing her everything I can’t say.
* * *
“Just say it.”
“I can’t.”
“You know you want to.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“We’ll say it together. On three... One, two...three!”
There’s a long pause, then neither of us speaks.
“Oh, come on!” Crosbie protests. He returns the barbell to its rack and sits up on the weight bench, looking deeply unhappy. It’s one o’clock in the morning and we’ve been at the campus gym for three hours. One hour was rehearsal, one was waiting for the other late night users to clear out, and one has been this ridiculous video Crosbie insisted I help shoot to get him “camera ready” for the auditions next week.
I’ve watched his one-minute monologue no fewer than forty-seven times and I’ve said the tagline “Weight for it!” forty-six times. Enough is enough.
“Remind me why Nora couldn’t do this?” I ask tiredly. Watching Crosbie work out has been exhausting.
He takes a swig from his water bottle. “She has to open Beans tomorrow.”
“Dane? Choo? Marcela? Nate?”
He ticks up his fingers. “Will sabotage my idea, will steal my idea, will just film herself, couldn’t find a gym if his life depended on it.”
I sigh because those are all true.
“Seriously,” he says. “Do you think this is any good?”
“Yeah. You really started to loosen up around take forty-one. Is it just water in that bottle?”
He takes another drink. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He continues to wait for my honest answer, and eventually I tell him the truth.
“The more comfortable you were, the better it got. The less scripted it felt. And the first twenty times I pitched in with ‘Weight for it!’ I liked it. You just have to figure out a way to show up to the audition with the first forty takes out of the way.”
“I’m going to need you to hang out with me the whole morning of the audition.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
He smirks. “Have you decided on your pitch yet?”
“I’m just going to wing it.”
“Sh—”
“Shirt on.”
“I wish I had your confidence, man. This is a huge opportunity—I heard like five thousand people applied and only a few hundred get to audition.”
I remember Ivanka at my doorstep, telling me the numbers. It seems like so long ago. So much time to prepare and somehow I still don’t know what to say. Not when it matters.
“Then you should feel confident,” I tell him. “I’m only winging it because I still have no idea what I’m going to do and I’m hoping inspiration strikes when I get there.”
He looks unconvinced. “You’re winging it because you’re Kellan McVey and everything you touch turns to gold.”
“That’s King Midas, and that’s not true. This has been the hardest year of my life.”
“Why? Because you had to take a film class? Because a girl you like didn’t like you back right away? Most people would kill for those ‘problems.’”
I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Of course I know my “problems” aren’t a big deal. I’m not dying. Everyone I know is happy and healthy. I have a scholarship to an Ivy League school and I’m on track to graduate. I have a good thing going with Andi, even if I don’t know exactly what it is yet. And I have a best friend who helps keep me in line, even when I wish he’d just smile and nod and tell me I’m so right.
“Shut up,” I say.
Crosbie grins and lies back down on the bench. “One more time. And this time, don’t miss your cue. Say it so I know you know the line.”
“Of course I know the line. It’s three words.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Go for it?” I guess.
He throws his water bottle at my head.
* * *
I do my best to brainstorm something for my monologue, but unlike my inspiration for the film essay, my mind remains steadfastly blank. Ivanka sends me an email that wishes me luck and tells me she’s looking forward to my audition tomorrow, but instead of encouragement it feels like a noose tightening around my neck, strangling me with her impending disappointment.
I watch the end of a hockey game, then the hour-long sports analysis that follows, then devote another hour to reading sports blogs. The World Series has wrapped up, but even though his team won, all anyone can talk about is Marco He
wlett’s dismal post-season performance. It’s like they’ll never get sick of analyzing the countless ways their hero has been less than heroic.
“You don’t sign a seven-year, ninety-nine million dollar deal and go three for twenty-eight...” is a common refrain.
“They may have won the World Series, but let’s not forget the throwing error in game two that cost them that win. For ninety-nine million dollars, I want a guy that can keep a ball out of the dirt...”
“In three years with the Cardinals he batted .310 with a hundred-plus batted in each season. In his first season in L.A. he had a disappointing sixty RBIs and an OBP of...”
Thinking I could do a bit about grace under pressure or something, I scour social media for Hewlett’s response to the criticism, but he doesn’t seem to be acknowledging it. There are the standard messages of thanks to his teammates and the fans, photos of the smiling, champagne-covered players wearing their championship gear, and an inspirational quote about never giving up. No apologies, no explanations.
I mull that over for the rest of the day and the whole next morning. As I get dressed and walk over to the Arts quarter for my audition, I think I have something that might be, well, something. And I’m going to need something awesome. I’ve seen all my friends’ monologues, and they’re pretty amazing.
The film production building is a large glass structure with enormous framed posters of successful student works hanging in each of the windows, and when I arrive for my audition Ivanka’s standing next to the front door, smoking a cigarette. She looks super hot in tight red pants and a black leather jacket. “Hi, Kellan.”
“Hey, Ivanka.” I’ve been scheduled for the very last slot, which everyone tells me is the best spot to have because I’ll be the last thing the producers see and the first one they remember.
She stubs out the cigarette, offering me a vaguely apologetic smile. “Nervous habit. Don’t tell anyone.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?”
She blows out a stream of smoke. “Everything. Nothing. The problem with looking for the best is finding it—and realizing it’s not you anymore.”
“You couldn’t possibly get any better.”
She gives me a broad wink. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But don’t let that stop you.”
The building is quiet on a Sunday, just a few students fiddling with cameras on the grass out front and a couple more chatting nearby. It’s only four o’clock but the sun has already started its descent, watery rays of light washing through an atmosphere that’s just waiting to condense on us again. I’m wearing a navy suit and red tie and now I unzip my jacket as I follow Ivanka inside.
The building is dim and warm, and the first four doors we pass have QUIET PLEASE signs taped over the windows. The walls are lined with bulletin boards and more posters, and at the far end of the hall we come to a green room studio that’s been set up like a much cheaper version of Ivanka’s She Shoots, She Scores set. A large plywood news anchor desk has been arranged in front of the screen, a pair of plain white mugs and a blank notepad the only props.
Two huge cameras loom in front, glinting in the glare of what looks and feels like nine dozen stage lights. I’m twenty minutes early so I say goodbye to Ivanka as an assistant leads me to a tiny storage room at the side. The walls are lined with shelves overflowing with props ranging from fake knives to doll heads and treasure chests. There are four folding chairs set up, two of which are occupied by other guys in suits. I don’t know either one, but they exchange meaningful looks when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say, taking a seat.
“Hey,” they mutter, continuing to study their phones.
I nod and amuse myself by examining the contents of a toy toolbox.
The assistant appears at the door. “Greg,” she says. “You’re up.”
Greg stands and smoothes the front of his suit.
“Good luck,” the other guy says.
“Good luck,” I add.
Greg glares at me suspiciously, then strides out of the room. The other guy continues to ignore me, so I continue to ignore him. Low voices filter through the closed door, then Greg’s too-enthusiastic monologue begins, booming so loudly the toolbox falls to the floor. By the time I’ve collected the tools, Greg is finished and the assistant is back to collect his friend.
Finally alone, I take a second to pluck my too-tight collar away from my neck and inhale. It feels like I’m sweating so much it has to be showing through my jacket. I get up and pace, hearing the low murmurs of instruction through the door, then a more modestly toned performance. Even when I strain to hear I can’t make out most of what’s being said, so I give up on eavesdropping and repeat the opening lines of my own monologue so I don’t get up there and draw a blank. I didn’t write a full speech, hoping to avoid the robot-like qualities of Crosbie’s performance, but I made enough bullet points to feel like I have a minute’s worth of material and some semblance of flow.
I’ve almost convinced myself I’m calm and prepared when the assistant raps on the door and tugs it open. She leads me back to the stage where Ivanka sits at one of the two stools behind the cheap desk.
“Hello again,” she says.
“Hi.”
“You ready?”
“I hope so.”
She picks up a pen and flips back the top page of the notepad, which is now filled with scribbled notes. “What’s your piece called?”
I try not to look like a moron. “It has to have a name?” Shirts Off with Kellan McVey, I think. Stuff with Kellan McVey. “Um...” I rack my brain desperately. “The...People...”
A flicker of impatience crosses her face even as she nods encouragement.
“Behind...the...”
She’s actually writing these words down.
“Faces,” I finish.
She stops writing. “What?”
I clear my throat. I think I’m choking a little bit. “The People Behind the Faces,” I reluctantly repeat.
“The People Behind the Faces.”
“Yes.”
Tiny lines bracket her lips and I’ve seen the same look of disapproval on my mom’s face to know Ivanka does not think this is a killer title. She looks over at the cameramen, both of whom are studying their shoes and obviously trying not to laugh. The guy I assume is the director just looks tired. I’m the last audition. Surely they’ve heard worse.
“Right,” Ivanka says, crumpling her paper. “Got it.”
Or not.
“We’ll count you in,” the director calls, sounding bored. “Look right into this camera the whole time.” He points to the camera immediately in front of me and I stare at its giant glass eye like it’s a time machine and I can travel back three minutes to come up with a better segment title. But I can’t. I can barely remember my opening lines. Something about...about...
Oh shit.
“Five,” the director calls.
What am I supposed to say?
“Four.”
Shirts with Kellan McVey, I think. The lowest rated program on television!
“Three.”
I’m not just a guy with a sex list.
“Two.”
I’m not just a guy who—
“One.”
The red light turns on and everything goes blank.
I hear my own heartbeat, each thud feeling like a lifetime.
Ivanka shifts beside me, preparing to be disappointed some more.
I see the cameramen exchange knowing looks.
The People Behind the Faces.
“Marco Hewlett,” I say a little too loudly, making everyone jump. “He needs no introduction. Four years ago he took home the Rookie of the Year award as the starting shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals. In three years with the team he had an impressive .310 batting average, with twenty-nine homeruns in his first year and thirty-seven in his third. By the time his contract came up for renewal, every team with a serious shot at a post season title was lining up to sign
him. He ultimately went to L.A., a choice that paid off when they won the World Series three weeks ago. But despite the ring, despite—or perhaps because of—his ninety-nine million dollar salary, Hewlett’s gotten a lot of grief. His numbers have dropped significantly in all the areas that count, and risen in all the wrong ones. He made twenty-one errors this season, more errors than he made in three seasons combined with the Cardinals. He hit .260—not an embarrassment, but certainly not what management—and fans—were hoping for. Did the pressure to perform get to him? Or did he just get lucky in St. Louis? Maybe he’s just human. Or maybe not—he did, after all, start 160 of 162 regular season games. Watch any Best Of list for the year and he’s got two plays in the top ten. But instead of celebrating what Hewlett’s done right, we’ve done what comes easiest and focused on what he’s done wrong: stopped being perfect. Sure, you can hold someone to a higher standard of perfection when they come with an eight-figure price tag. But maybe it’s time to look at the man behind the statistics—Hewlett hasn’t been the star on the field we saw in St. Louis, but off the field is a different story. He spends an extra hour each day at practice, working on his game. He volunteers his time with four different youth sports organizations, buying uniforms and equipment that keep kids on the field and off the streets. His teammates say the diva-like attitude that preceded him before his trade from St. Louis has yet to make an appearance. And while his hecklers keep heckling, Hewlett keeps his head down and doesn’t respond. Why not? Because he has better things to do, and he’s trying to do better at them. And that says a lot.”
The studio is dead silent. It’s meant to be, while I’m talking, but now I’m finished and it’s still quiet. I wonder if I’m supposed to say more. That felt like a minute, but what if it was only twenty seconds? Is this what they mean by dead air? You wish you were dead on the air?
Then the director starts clapping. It’s a significant, slow clap that the camera guys echo, and though it’s flattering, it’s also kind of weird since there’s only three of them.
“Wow,” Ivanka says, giving me an impressed nod. “Maybe there is something to The People Behind the Faces after all.”
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 24