Happy Messy Scary Love

by Leah Konen

  The food comes out and we dig in, family-style. Sicilian pizza, the crust crispy and buttery on the bottom, tomatoes tart and crushed to perfection on top. Forkfuls of linguine and layers of eggplant; bites of chicken marsala and pork scaloppine. I sip my dad’s wine to wash it down, because after they’ve each had a glass, they grow slightly less up-tight about the rules. The sauce, the cheese, the pasta—all of it is like a big warm hug after today.

  My mom is pouring herself a second glass when she eyes my dad. “Shall I?”

  “Go ahead,” my dad says. “Tell her your news. Tell her what you found for her.”

  I don’t let them see it, but I feel a prickle of excitement in my gut. I set my fork of linguine down on my plate, eager. My mom has contacts in the art world, contacts she alluded to when I told her I didn’t get accepted into my program. I was sure it was too late for her to drum up anything, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe something actually panned out.

  “Well, since it didn’t work out with NYU—”

  “Screw that bougie-ass school,” Chrissy says. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

  “Chrissy!” my mom says, horrified.

  She only shrugs. “What? It’s true.”

  “Well, anyway, like I was saying, since it didn’t come to fruition, I put some feelers out, like I said I would.” She takes another sip of wine. “You’re in luck. One of my contacts came through.”

  I feel a sense of overwhelming relief, and I tell myself never to doubt my mother and her methods again. My dear mother and her art world contacts.

  “Wow,” I say, jumping out of my chair and wrapping her in a hug across the table. “Thank you so much, Mom.”

  I sit back down and try not to focus on how much she looks taken aback. I make a mental note to thank her more, whoops.

  I pick up my fork and take another bite of linguine, swallowing it down quick. Our town in the Catskills, Woodstock, is artsy. And Hudson, just across the river, has lots of galleries. I imagine returning to Xaverian High, telling all the girls about the summer I spent interning at a gallery or museum. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have on a film school application, would it? Art and cinema go hand in hand. Maybe even something with the word “collective” in the title, like Elm’s place. I wouldn’t be a failure after all. I’d be a cool gallery girl. Perhaps I’d start drinking almond milk. And reading the New Yorker. And using the word “ubiquitous.” Might even wear a beret, unironically. “Er, do we need to go shopping or anything? I don’t have a ton of, you know, professional clothes. Or maybe there’s not a dress code? I don’t know what the art scene is like up there.”

  “Easy there, killer,” my dad says.

  “Huh?”

  My mom slowly sets down her wine. She and my dad exchange another glance.

  “Go ahead,” he says again.

  These two are full of surprises, like a horror movie that won’t end. What is it that they’re not telling me?

  “It’s not in the art world,” my mom says cautiously.

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh my god, it’s not in film, is it? I know the Woodstock Film Festival is probably beginning to plan already.”

  “Not exactly,” my mom says.

  “It’s still great, though,” Dad says, finishing off his scaloppine. “Really.”

  My heart sinks. The “really” is like a nail in the coffin. He wouldn’t say it like that if it were anything that didn’t need a true hard sell . . .

  I glance to Chrissy, but she only shrugs. She doesn’t know what they’re up to, either.

  “My old high school friend Marianne lives up there now,” my mom says.

  Marianne? I’ve never even heard of a high school friend Marianne. Boy, she must have really had to dig deep.

  “Marianne?” Chrissy says. “You guys are still in touch?”

  My mom nods dismissively. “Yes, and—”

  “Wait, I think I saw something on Facebook. I don’t get it. Doesn’t she—”

  “She owns a zip-lining company,” my mom interrupts, her voice unnaturally bright.

  My fork clangs against the plate.

  I turn to see Chrissy, jaw agape.

  “Zip-lining?” I ask. “Like, harnessing your body to a string and catapulting through the air for no reason?”

  “I suppose that’s the gist of it,” my mom says with an awkward laugh. “Anyway, we got you a job there.”

  “A job? Like manning the zip line? Did you tell her I’m not exactly . . . outdoorsy?”

  My mom brushes bread crumbs off the table with one hand, literally brushing my concerns aside. “They’ll train you properly, I’m sure.”

  “And that I’m not into heights?” I don’t have full-on vertigo or anything, but heights are not my thing. Five minutes at the top of One World Trade Center, and I wanted to be back down. Stat.

  Chrissy grabs her glass of wine, takes a gulp. “That’s what you got her? Geez, I thought at least it would be a restaurant or something. Making the poor girl work at a place she’s afraid of? It’s a little much, even for you, Cam.”

  My mom’s eyes shoot daggers at Chrissy, but she doesn’t respond.

  “Chrissy’s right,” I say. “If it’s just about a job, I can work at a restaurant. Or a shop or something.”

  My mom crosses her arms. “Have you applied to any restaurants or shops, Olivia? Woodstock is small. I’m sure everything is all booked up for the summer. Jobs don’t just grow on trees, you know. Plus, this will get you out of your comfort zone.”

  “Oh, come on, Cam,” Chrissy says. “This is supposed to be a celebration. Did you really have to tell her like this?”

  “Can you stay out of it?” my mom snaps.

  My dad takes a deep breath. “Enough, you two.” He turns to me. “Olivia, it’s all incredibly secure. Most of the time, you’ll be on the base of the mountain anyway, checking people in and sending them up and all that. Don’t worry, we looked into it.”

  I look from my dad to my mom and back again. “So that’s it?”

  Silence as they stare at me. Yes, that’s it, their eyes say. That’s definitely it.

  I rack my brain, trying to think of an excuse. “I was thinking about working on my screenplay, you know,” I blurt out. “Taking some time to actually write.”

  My mom smiles. “That’s perfect, actually. Marianne said she doesn’t need anyone until high season, which isn’t for a couple of weeks, so you’ll have time for all that.”

  I stare at my mom. I want to shake my head, tell her no way, no how, but how can I? I’m the one who procrastinated on the NYU application, the one who didn’t try and figure anything else out.

  “All right,” I say finally. “If that’s what you really want.”

  “It is,” my mom says. “Now, let’s not let this ruin our dinner. Shall we look at the dessert menu?”

  Beneath the table, Chrissy reaches out, grabs my hand in hers, gives it a squeeze.

  Sometimes I swear she’s the only one out of all of them who gets me.

  What Would Meryl Do

  It’s nine by the time they drop me off at Katie’s, a colonial brick home set back from the road with a little patch of lawn and everything. I dash up the walk, the Subaru idling behind me, and knock three times. In seconds Katie is at the door, waving hello to my parents and ushering me in.

  I step into the hallway I’ve come to know so well. Everything in Katie’s world is shiny and new. The tiles are this cool slate color, and the floors are dark chocolate hardwood. The walls are painted a perfect neutral gray that a decorator picked out.

  “Hey, Olivia,” Alice, Katie’s mom, says from the leather sofa, where she’s snuggled up with their dachshund, Cooper. “Happy last day!”

  Like Katie, Katie’s mom is pretty awesome. She’s a writer, for one thing, with a stash of her own books sitting in the color-coded bookshelves in their living room. But more than that, she’s not uptight at all. She watches loads of TV, including the really dumb reality stuff. She’s a
lways taking the two of us to the newest Broadway shows. And she and Katie have all these mother-daughter dates together—Russian Tea Room, mani-pedis, that kind of thing.

  “Hi,” I say as I follow Katie to the kitchen: a big open room about twice the size of my family’s, covered in white tiles that make it look like the walls in the subway, only fancier.

  Katie reaches for a bag of popcorn, tossing it into the microwave.

  “Please,” I say. “I can’t eat for days after the meal I just had.”

  She ignores my objection, pushing the start button. “You’ll want some, trust me.”

  Katie knows me inside and out, better than any of the other girls at Xaverian High. Tessa is always joking that Katie is the assistant manager of my life, running the day to day. When we’re out together, she usually ends up choosing where we go, where we stop to eat, and what have you. It sounds weird—and maybe it is—but I kind of like it that way. The pressure is off of me to take the reins.

  Besides, when I try to do things on my own—case in point, NYU—I always find a way to screw them up.

  Katie grabs two glasses from the cabinet and fills them up with the sparkling water that’s always at her house, then pushes one over to me.

  “Where’s your dad this time?” I ask, taking a sip.

  “Tokyo,” she says. “Eating sushi every day. Asshole.”

  I laugh, and she does, too. Her dad travels a lot, but he’s not one of those absent fathers married to his work or anything. Sometimes he even takes Katie on his business trips, if she can get time off school and isn’t in the middle of school play rehearsals. It’s part of why Alice feels different from most moms. When Katie’s dad, Peter, is gone, it’s kind of like they’re sisters or something. Katie’s an only child, like me.

  Up in her room, we arrange ourselves on the sofa, the steaming bowl of popcorn between us. Katie’s bedroom is huge, like a teenager would have on a TV show. It’s painted the same pale shade of gray as the rest of the house, but with bright colors everywhere—a multi-colored bedspread her dad picked up from Morocco, a blue velvet sofa in one corner that’s set up perfectly for watching movies on her huge TV. The walls are lined with shelves topped with different curiosities from all over the world. A Mardi Gras mask. A wood carving from Indonesia.

  Katie reaches behind her and dims the lights, then flicks on the TV and queues up Netflix, hand already digging into the popcorn.

  “I have bad news,” I say.

  She chews her popcorn quickly and swallows it down with sparkling water. “Oh god, what?”

  “Nothing horrible,” I say. “I just . . .”

  “Spit it out, Olivia.”

  I sigh, grabbing a brightly colored pillow her dad brought back from Thailand and hugging it to my chest. “My parents are making me work at a zip-line company.”

  Katie’s mouth pops open. “What? Like, to fly through the woods?”

  I nod. “Helping people catapult through the air.”

  Katie laughs. “Let me guess, your mom cooked this one up.”

  “She thinks it will get me out of my comfort zone,” I say. “Direct quote.”

  Katie pauses, hand hovering over the bowl of popcorn.

  “What?”

  She grabs a few kernels. “I don’t know. Maybe it will.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She sighs. “I mean, maybe you need a little push.” She smirks. “Even if it is off the side of a cliff. I mean, fear of change or success or whatever is obviously an issue for you. You completely self-sabotaged the whole NYU thing.”

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “What?” she asks. “It’s true. I told you not to wait till the last minute. I worked on my application to the New School for ages. If you want to do something, you have to, you know, do it.”

  She’s right, I know this, which is why I can’t argue. And since she’s Assistant Manager of My Life, I do look to her for advice. Still, she doesn’t understand. I’m not naturally fabulous at things like she is. The Dracula auditions proved that. Had I not procrastinated, I still might not have gotten in.

  “Anyway,” Katie says. “It’s up in the mountains. I bet there will be hot guys working up there. Maybe one of them can help you with your pulleys or whatever.”

  I laugh, reaching absentmindedly for the popcorn. If I were Katie, maybe I could simply distract myself with thoughts of all the cute boys that may be waiting upstate. Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s a natural extrovert, and I am decidedly not—it’s no wonder she’s inherently good at acting. She has that je ne sais quoi, charm and beauty that lights up the room, draws people closer—like moths to flame. “You know how I am around new people,” I say. “I get all awkward. Besides, I hardly think I’ll attract a guy by having a vertigo-inspired panic attack when I’m trying to do my job.”

  Katie smirks. “Come now, don’t be dramatic. That’s my role.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But you have to at least come up on the weekends, give me something to do that’s not fear-inducing.”

  Katie purses her lips. “You know I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  She ticks off her fingers. “First off, I’m going to be mega busy with whatever sort of productions they have us doing. Secondly, this summer is all about making connections, Olivia. I can’t just come upstate every weekend while everyone else in the program is becoming besties. WWMD.”

  What Would Meryl Do, a common refrain of Katie’s, one used so frequently that Fatima even translated it into French—Qu’est-ce que Meryl ferait? Tessa and Eloise have grown completely tired of it, but Fatima and I still (usually) find it endearing.

  “Maybe Meryl would connect with her acting roots in the cool, refreshing mountain air,” I say.

  Katie shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but this is everything to me. I have to give it my all. Come on, let’s start a movie, okay? I’m sure everything, even zip-line running, will feel better once you’re up there.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she flips through her Netflix queue, landing on Kramer vs. Kramer.

  “Really?” I ask. “We’ve watched this one already.”

  Katie pouts. “Not for at least a year! You said it was my pick, anyway. She kills it in this, and I need to brush up on how to play a really negative character for auditions and stuff.” Without another word, she presses Play and grabs another handful of popcorn.

  We’re not two minutes into the opening credits before Katie pauses it, turning to me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you really not want to watch this?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not that,” I say. “I’m just mad at myself . . . I should have tried harder. I shouldn’t have procrastinated.”

  Katie holds up a finger. “Look, I know I just gave you a little tough love, but what’s done is done. There’s no point in dwelling on regrets, okay? I know I sound like your mom and all, but I really think this will be good for you. When you’re not sending people through the air, you can have some peace and quiet to work on your screenplay. I wasn’t bullshitting this afternoon. Lots of people do their most creative work outside the confines of schools and programs.”

  I nod. “You’re probably right. I just have to write the damn thing, stop putting it off.”

  Katie grins. “Exactly! WWMD doesn’t just apply to actors, you know. It’s a whole spirit of living. Going for the gold, that kind of thing. You know Meryl was in She-Devil and Death Becomes Her practically back-to-back. She could have been written off as someone limited to campy comedic horror—no offense.”

  I laugh. “None taken.”

  “But what did she do? She kept on fighting, and within a few years, she was killing it in Bridges of Madison County. It put her back on the map! It helped make her the national treasure that she continues to be today. Never forget, Olivia. This is only your Death Becomes Her moment. This is only one step of your story.”

  “I’m no Meryl Streep,” I say.

  Katie raises an eyebrow. “We
all have a Meryl inside of us, Olivia. You should really know that by now.”

  I force a smile, but what Katie’s forgetting, or what she’s pretending to forget, is that I already had my Death Becomes Her moment.

  It’s half of what’s made it so easy to self-sabotage in the first place.

  The First Death Becomes Her Moment, Explained

  I was the one who told Katie about the Dracula auditions freshman year. It was me who convinced Katie to try out, who watched different Dracula adaptations almost every night, getting into character. For Katie, it was nothing more than an afterthought.

  I was all set. I’d memorized the monologue of Lucy, the female lead, her character weak as anything after Dracula lets her blood: “Oh, I do feel so thin I barely cast a shadow . . .” I’d practiced it: in front of the mirror, in the shower, after pausing Dracula on my laptop, whispering it to the posters on the walls in my room. Not to mention, it was horror, something I’d been obsessing over since middle school.

  It’s not like I expected to get the part of Lucy—I was only a freshman and totally new to acting—but I was hoping for a vampire, at least. I was hoping for something.

  Katie and I went to the auditorium together, sat in the itchy fabric seats, waiting our turns. She held her monologue in her hand, on fresh white paper, as if she’d only just printed it at the school library. Looking it over, she mouthed the words to herself.

  “Didn’t you practice?” I asked.

  “A little,” she said. “But I’m mostly doing this for you, anyway.”

  I shook my head, mentally running through my lines again. I didn’t need a sheet of paper. It was all there, etched into my brain’s gray matter. I’d done a video recording that morning. I’d aced it.

  “Katie Dry,” Ms. Sinclair, the drama teacher, called. Katie stood up, walking down the aisle and up the stairs to the stage slowly, casually, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

  She took one glance at her paper, then folded it quickly, shoving it into her pocket. She cleared her throat, and then she started.