We were almost home, and the highway was ugly. It was late afternoon, which is the most depressing time of day.
“You love Susan Blackford?” Corvis said.
“So what?”
“She’s worse than Heather Flynn,” Corvis said.
She flung her Keds into the back seat and rested her feet on the dashboard. This pair of socks had tiny Popsicles on them.
“Susan has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen,” I said.
“Kristen has beautiful cheekbones,” said Corvis, “but that’s not really what it’s about, is it?”
“I guess not.”
“It doesn’t feel this way, but I’m pretty sure this part of our lives won’t matter that much later,” Corvis said. “It’s just hard, you know, like, not knowing what else there is. Because there has to be something else.”
It reminded me of Johnny Moon. People need movie stars to give them something to look up to. Like God. The people in Hopuonk felt the same way about me. They probably thought I didn’t know, but I did.
“I’m not really a risk taker,” said Corvis. “I guess I’m just a weenus.”
“I guess you are,” I said, shoving her arm. She laughed.
Sarah Lawrence wasn’t as far away as it seemed. I mean, if you could just drive to Provincetown, you could drive anywhere else in the country. Or Canada, even.
After I dropped Corvis off, I came home to an empty house—Sandra was working. A letter addressed to me was propped against the coffee maker.
The Response
Dear Taylor,
To be honest with you, several of your letters reached me years ago, and there have been many occasions on which I sat down to respond, but did not, I admit, out of fear. This is not something I am proud of.
Some years ago, I had my assistant do some research on you. I’ve followed you loosely in the Hopuonk Mariner over the years. I was pleased to see that you were voted homecoming queen this fall, though I wasn’t surprised.
In short, I think that perhaps you are right about our relation. I’ve always speculated about this, from the time I saw your fifth–grade school photograph. (It’s in the nose.) You were wearing overalls with a paisley button–down underneath, and one of your front teeth was missing. I keep this photograph in a drawer in my office, and I take it out at least once a month.
This may be presumptuous of me, but I’ve enclosed a plane ticket to LA, leaving from Logan Airport, for the weekend after your graduation. I would like to invite you out here to visit, if you wish to meet. (I’ll be filming in Vancouver until then.) I’d also like to introduce you to my agent. You have a great face, Taylor.
I myself did not know my father. He died when I was 18 months old-he was standing in the doorway of his friend’s house when lightning struck the chimney, if you can believe that.
I appreciate your kind words about Mad Monk. Though, as you may know, that jerk Kevin Spacey beat me for the Oscar this year, the film did win Best Makeup. Kind of a consolation prize, if you ask me, but there will be more movies, more award ceremonies. Coming from someone who did not win, I urge you to take what is given to you. Your friend Susan sounds lovely, but you seem to be the star. That is a good thing, Taylor. Your mother was the same way-the only person in the room, as far as I was concerned, whichever room she entered. I would ask you to give her my warm regards, but I think we’d better wait. The media is relentless.
I ask for your total discretion on all accounts mentioned in this letter, until a future, undetermined date.
It might be a good idea, also, if you didn’t broadcast your feelings about Susan, or any other girls. I’m asking this of you for your own good-you wouldn’t want the media to get wind of that.
Please burn this letter once you’ve read it. (I confess-I’ve always wanted to say that.)
All best,
J. Moon
The Orphans
When Sandra came home at two o’clock in the morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table with the letter in front of me.
She paused in the doorway. She looked so small and pretty, her face flushed and her hair wild, her forehead shiny with sweat.
“Mom?” I couldn’t help but call her that. The word felt strange coming out of my mouth, like it didn’t belong to me.
She didn’t correct me this time.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. I’d been sitting there for hours, and my feet were asleep.
She came inside slowly, closing the door silently behind her. She sat down across from me at the table without taking off her coat. Her hair was dusted with snowflakes.
“I didn’t know for sure,” she said. “When I saw that letter, though, I knew who it was from. Look at the postmark. Who else do we know in California?”
Her face was bright, awake. I realized she’d been going on adrenaline, and that maybe she was just as surprised as I was.
“How could you not know?”
She sighed.
“Honey, I’m not exactly proud of certain things I’ve done.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Certain men I’ve done,” she said.
I nodded.
“Me either,” I said.
We stared at each other. I slid the plane ticket toward her.
“What does this mean?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do?”
“It means your father wants to see you,” she said.
“Can I go?” I asked. We both knew I didn’t need her permission, but I wanted her to act like a mother.
“You decide,” she said, “but I think you should.”
“This is crazy,” I said. I’d been staring at the kitchen wall all night, thinking about Johnny Moon—I’d never wanted to call Susan this much. I wanted to call her and tell her everything, but she wasn’t my friend anymore.
I had a feeling that if I could get her on the phone, Susan would want to talk to me about this. That if she knew my dad was a movie star, she would take me back, at least as a friend.
Somehow, that was worse.
Then I thought of calling Corvis, but we’d just spent the past thirty-six hours together, and she didn’t get a tattoo, and I was sure she was still upset about it.
I had Sandra to share it with. My mother.
“You’ll have to tell me what California is like,” said Sandra, smiling. “If everyone is actually made of plastic, if everyone wears high heels.”
“Can you please tell me more about him?” I asked. “Anything at all?”
Sandra sighed.
“I wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted from me. He was nice, but it was almost like he didn’t live in the real world and he wanted to know what it was like. He came, he shook things up, it felt wonderful, and then he was gone,” she said, “like a song you love that you know is eventually going to end.”
I nodded.
“He bought us this house,” she said. “He offered more, but I said no.”
I had so many questions. If he bought us this house, he must have known about me. Why didn’t he reach out sooner? Did he want to keep Sandra? Did she want to keep him? Did they ever talk to each other? Had he seen this house and picked it out for us, or did Sandra pick it out and send him the bill?
“So he’s been here all along, in a way,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “in a way.”
Sandra’s expression was almost wistful—and more alive than I’d seen since Mr. Blackford died. It was almost like she’d been wanting to share this with me for years, but didn’t know how, or couldn’t.
“I went to Provincetown,” I said. “I got a tattoo.”
Sandra’s eyes widened.
“When?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “It was amazing. Actually, it felt kind of good.”
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t yo
u?” She sounded proud, which was the opposite of what I thought she’d be. She shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the floor. “Don’t you have to be eighteen to do something like that?”
“I’m almost eighteen,” I said.
“Two and a half months,” she said. “Then you won’t have to steal my cigarettes anymore.”
“Can you tell me everything you remember about him one more time?” I asked.
“I think this calls for some coffee,” said Sandra.
She stood to make it, and I had this delicious feeling, like I was being cared for, but also like we were both adults, like we were friends. I watched the muscles in her arms jump as she lifted the pot and filled it with water, and I settled into my chair, the smell of coffee filling the kitchen.
* * *
—
My eighteenth birthday was June 14, and by then, my life would be completely different, because I would have met my father. Graduation was at the end of May, which seemed both eternities away and also scarily close. Everyone’s obsession with prom stemmed partially from the fact that they were still holding on while also trying to feel grown-up, as if floor-length tulle could age you, as if it could make you ready for what comes next.
I’d never imagined that Susan wouldn’t be my friend when I turned eighteen—that she wouldn’t be the one to make me a cake and throw me a party.
I kept thinking of my seventh birthday. Sandra asked me what theme I wanted my party to have, and I just said, “Old-fashioned.”
She looked at me strangely, with her hand on her hip, probably wondering where the hell I came from.
“What do you mean?” she asked me. Then she asked if I wanted fifties diner food, doo-wop music, and poodle skirts.
“No,” I said. “Old old-fashioned.”
I explained: We would wear bonnets. We would use candles. We would drink tea with cubes of sugar—the square kind of sugar—in a china pot. We would eat salmon. We would jump rope. We would not use flashlights. We would say “alas.”
This was the time when we had all just received American Girl dolls. I had Felicity, the colonial one, whose red hair was like Sandra’s. This was where I got the idea for the party.
Sandra threw me the perfect old-fashioned birthday party. She actually made the salmon for us and laid it out on nice plates with asparagus and lemon wedges on top. She made little canvas bags and filled them with white street chalk, jump ropes, and paisley bonnets. One for me, one for Susan, one for Heather, one for Corvis. She built a fire and got one of her boyfriends to loan us a phonograph. None of us liked the salmon or the asparagus, but it was beautiful, and we enjoyed not liking it.
We sat at the dining room table, cloth napkins in our laps.
“Alas,” I said. “My father died of cholera.”
Susan put a sympathetic hand on my leg.
“My horse ran away,” she said.
“I think I’m catching smallpox,” said Corvis.
Heather leaned in, the bonnet slipping down her forehead, and she rearranged her face into a snotty expression.
“We are orphans,” she said solemnly. “It’s a good thing we have rich grandmothers to adopt us.”
Even though it was eighty-eight degrees in my living room, we didn’t use the air conditioner that night. Sandra laid out plain white sheets over the couch cushions, and even got us linen nightgowns to sleep in. We sweated and complained, and Sandra said, “You can’t use what isn’t invented yet, girls.”
What Sandra gave me was a gift, a gesture in trying to understand me. Even though Sandra insisted I call her by her first name, she was my mother. I belonged to her.
The Prom
I carried the letter around with me—everywhere I went—in my wallet. Sometimes, in the secret bathroom, I took the plane ticket out and ran my fingers along the smooth edges of it—over the typed flight number, over my name.
Taylor Garland. Destination: Los Angeles.
Of course, Heather and PJ forced me to join the prom committee, and we had less than one month to make it “perfect.” Susan wasn’t on the committee, because Heather had taken my side.
I wasn’t positive, but it seemed like Susan and Brad were together now. They sat together alone at lunch, and they didn’t come to parties anymore. They floated through the halls like beautiful ghosts. Sometimes Brad held Susan’s books.
Miss Donovan, the cheerleading coach, was our faculty advisor. We met in the health classroom on the first floor, and the prom, as always, would be held in the gym.
The health classroom was decorated with posters that made you want to puke. For example, one had two kittens on it, sharing a ball of yarn, and it said TEAMWORK! in pink script across the bottom. Another poster had an unnecessarily graphic explanation of gonorrhea. I tried not to look at them.
At our committee meetings so far, I’d started suggesting the worst prom themes I could think of. The plane ticket made me feel reckless.
At one meeting that took place after last period one Tuesday, we pulled the desks into a circle. Everyone had an Emmylou’s cup in front of them—some, like Heather, chose no whipped cream, because they were watching their calories. Others, like PJ, went for whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
Because PJ was a peripheral member of our group, it was her job to do the Emmylou’s run. She sat with her spine straight, shoulders back, waiting for instruction. Miss Donovan, who smelled metallic, like cheap hair spray, looked like she needed a cigarette.
“Since we had ‘An Evening in Paris’ at homecoming, why not an evening somewhere more exotic this time?” I said.
Heather crossed her arms and looked at me.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like . . . ‘An Evening in Detroit’!” I said enthusiastically. Everyone was still obsessed with Eminem.
“You’re insane,” Heather replied. She had a notepad in front of her, because she was mostly in charge. She did not write down “An Evening in Detroit.”
I suggested “Prom on the Moon.”
“We can put trampolines everywhere,” I said. “We can eat astronaut ice cream!”
Heather didn’t write that down either. She glared at me, tapping her manicured nails on the table.
That was how, a week later, I got the committee to land on “Hollywood Dreamland.” The “Dreamland” part wasn’t my idea, but still, I liked the idea of Hollywood. We could make cardboard mountains, with the Hollywood sign on one of them. We could put posters that said the words Director and Producer over the restroom signs, which would confuse everyone, which meant I could go into the boys’ room just to see it. We could have spotlights going back and forth, and a red carpet.
Our budget was crap, though. Miss Donovan showed up with a few cardboard boxes of dusty streamers, paint, Christmas lights, and felt, and told us to make the decorations from that. The stuff in these little boxes was supposed to decorate the entire gym.
PJ, unloading the contents of the boxes, frowned. She held a string of Christmas lights and looked at Miss Donovan.
“We were promised spotlights,” she said. PJ, being the theater girl, wanted it to look realistic. She had been talking about the spotlights for days.
Duxbury, the rich town next to Hopuonk, had agreed to loan them to us from their theater department, but Miss Donovan now explained that since our lacrosse team beat theirs, all bets were off. We called them Deluxe-bury. They called us Hop-poor-onk.
“But . . . we were promised spotlights,” PJ said again.
PJ was actually looking at me when she said this, like the whole thing was my responsibility, and therefore my fault. It didn’t matter that I was not a lacrosse player, that I didn’t even want to go to prom—the theme was my idea, and even if it hadn’t been, I knew that everyone considered it my job to make things magical.
Not going to prom was not an option. Without the spotli
ghts, everyone would have to try harder to imagine that they were in Hollywood, and while they were good at imagining, the gym was still the gym.
“Why are you looking at me?” I said to PJ.
“Can’t you do something?” she said.
“I’m not a magician.”
PJ slumped in her chair.
“This is so unfair,” she said.
“Well, tough shit,” Heather said. She leaned back and tossed her long blond braid over her shoulder like a whip, then folded her arms over her chest. “You’d better get used to it.”
* * *
—
The red carpet was a long roll of paper, which was destroyed by high heels as my classmates walked through the door.
I wasn’t wearing heels. I’d dressed as a director—my hair in a French twist, wearing a suit and oxfords from the thrift store out by the highway. I figured there was no way they’d queen me in boy clothes.
Susan, who still wouldn’t look at me, who I missed so badly that every part of my body hurt, showed up with Brad. She looked perfect, in a sparkly red floor-length dress. Her hair was down, curled. Her eyelashes were so dark that you could see them from yards away.
My disease was threatening to come back. I had that tingling feeling you-know-where. It even hurt when I walked, where the seam of my underpants touched it. The pamphlet said it could come back with extreme stress.
I showed up to the prom alone, and got ready in the secret bathroom so Sandra wouldn’t see me cross-dressing. I wore no makeup. I’d brought a handle of Smirnoff raspberry vodka with me, and I accidentally got drunk. I left the bottle in the secret bathroom, right there on the sink, still mostly full, hoping they’d find it and expel me.
The gym was dark, but the Christmas lights we hung didn’t look like stars to me, even though I was drunk. They looked like Christmas lights.
The DIRECTOR sign was ripped off the boys’ bathroom door less than an hour into the dance. The cardboard mountain we topped with the Hollywood sign looked like a mound of trash. The basketball hoops were too visible, and my classmates, all dressed in sparkly gowns and rented tuxedos, looked so out of place that it felt like I was in a strange nightmare.
We Were Promised Spotlights Page 15