There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  “A letter? To the director?”

  “I think you’ll have a better shot at standing out that way. You’re smart. Show him that. Tell him why you think you’re right for the role. Tell him you’re sixteen, tell him who your grandpa is. Tell him you’ve been acting since you were a kid but that you haven’t been allowed to audition for anything professional. It’ll give you an air of mystery. Be original.”

  “Will you help me write the letter?”

  “No way,” Janine said, taking a prudent step back. “But I’ll overnight it for you. And if they call you in, I’ll take you to the audition.” Janine really wasn’t worried that Hailey would get called in, let alone get the part, but she thought her niece deserved to take her shot. And for whatever misguided reason, Hailey was asking Janine for help. Nobody had asked her for her help on anything real in a very long time. Amanda didn’t need to know about any of it. She curled up on the bed, exhausted.

  “Deal!” Hailey ran to her desk and opened up her laptop.

  “Handwrite it,” Janine said, closing her eyes. “Be original,” she repeated.

  “Right. Okay. You’ll FedEx the letter for me, right? If it’s good?”

  “Mm. I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

  When Janine woke up three hours later, the letter was on the pillow.

  Hailey

  Mr. Ransom Garcia

  Tiger’s Foot Productions

  2800 Sunset Blvd

  Los Angeles, CA

  Dear Mr. Garcia:

  My name is Hailey Loehman-Kessler and I am a sixteen-year-old junior at Fair Hills Academy in Los Angeles. I am a great admirer of your work and would love the chance to audition for the role of Undine Spragg in your upcoming film, The Custom of the Country. In the event nepotism carries any weight with you, I am the granddaughter of Martin Kessler and the niece of Janine Kessler. If you hate nepotism, forget I mentioned it.

  My mother is a drama teacher at Fair Hills Academy (you might have seen her mentioned in the LA Times calendar section?). Like Undine, I am ambitious. I will stop at nothing to get what I want. What is it I want? A chance, Mr. Garcia!

  Mr. Garcia, I am Undine Spragg. I am pushy. I know what it’s like not to be liked. I know what it’s like to want filet mignon and never get it. I also know what it’s like to get on people’s nerves. But I bet you’ve guessed that already!

  I understand Undine is not a “nice” character and that my relating to her so strongly might reflect poorly on me. That said, there is nobody who can play this role like I can. I know that Wharton’s masterpiece is as relevant today as it was in 1913. The world hasn’t changed that much, Mr. Garcia.

  What better way to introduce the world to The Custom of the Country than with an unknown actress who happens to have a Hollywood pedigree? It’s just the kind of story the media likes! This is the moment. I am Undine Spragg.

  I am available to meet with you at your convenience.

  Hailey Loehman-Kessler

  haileygirlmeme@gmail.com

  Two days later, an e-mail arrived in Hailey’s in-box.

  To: haileygirlmeme@gmail.com

  From: CClose@Tigersfootproductions.com

  Subject: Audition

  Dear Ms. Loehman-Kessler:

  Ransom will see you Thursday at 11:00. Please be prepared with two monologues. Address TBA. Good luck and congratulations on your hilarious letter. It got you in the door!

  Camille Close,

  Assistant to Ransom Garcia, Tiger’s Foot Productions

  Henry

  The ocean lay just beyond the bluffs under a blue, cloudless sky. Janine and Henry were walking slowly toward her car in the Directions parking lot, having agreed on the phone to meet in the lobby after seeing their respective parents. They would arrange the afternoon from there. The prospect of planning spontaneous fun had kept Henry up half the night.

  “Do you want to go on a hike?” Henry asked. He was hoping that Janine would say no.

  “Do you want to go on a hike?” she asked.

  He thought she’d sounded distant on the phone and now she seemed nervous, biting her nails and stealing glances at him. “Not in the least.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  “I thought women liked to go on hikes.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A friend.”

  “Huh. What else did he say?”

  “He suggested a picnic, a bike ride, or some yoga.” Yoga! What an ass he was making of himself. He saw a smile working the corners of her mouth as she reached into her purse for her keys.

  “What friend?” she asked.

  “Google.”

  Janine’s face softened and she laughed. She pointed to Henry’s vandalized car and looked at him with raised brows. “I know Google. He advised me to avoid men on the rebound.”

  “I’m not on the rebound. I’m on the run,” he said jokingly.

  She tossed her backpack into the rear of her car and looked at him, her face pinched with worry again.

  There was a long silence as Henry mentally revisited their evening together last Tuesday. They’d spoken since and texted flirtatiously, but his teaching schedule had made seeing each other near impossible. Now she looked almost as embarrassed as he felt. There was nothing quite like daylight to expose the false intimacies of spontaneous sex between near strangers. And yet, he thought, it had been thrilling and oddly poignant. She was an unusual person, but after all, so was he. He felt companionship with her, as though they were together emotionally rather than just occupying the same physical space. Being with Janine was so comfortable and unexpectedly lovely.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve got to tell you something. And I don’t know how.”

  “You’ve got syphilis.”

  “No!” Janine said. “God.”

  “Well?” he asked. “Whatever you have to say won’t seem so dreadful now. Compared to syphilis.”

  Janine looked down at the asphalt and kicked away a pebble with the tip of her sneaker. “It’s about your mom, actually.”

  “I take it back about the syphilis.”

  “She was married to my dad.”

  A short pause. “What’s that?”

  “Our parents were married. You know, before they were our parents.”

  Henry looked behind him for support and leaned back against the closest car.

  “Your father is the—” Henry stopped himself. “You’re Amanda?” he said, jaw dropping. “No,” he said. “Of course you’re not Amanda. You’re Janine.”

  “That’s very good,” she said, obviously irritated and confused. “How do you know Amanda?”

  “You’re the plain one?” he said, regretting the words the minute they left his mouth.

  “Apparently.” She hardened, folding her arms over her chest. “Though I can’t say I’ve ever been accused of it quite so directly. It’s one of those things civilized people generally say behind my back.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said, flustered. “I mean, I don’t think you’re plain. Not at all. In fact, just the opposite. It’s just that my mother saw a picture of the two of you and somehow thought that—”

  “That you should meet my sister?” Janine said, finishing his sentence. “That’s perfect. Why don’t I give you her phone number? She’s got great big boobs and a fantastic personality. I’m sure you’ll really like her. And God knows both of you have equally arrested communication skills.”

  Henry stared at her, at a loss for words.

  “Bye, Henry,” Janine said, turning around. She tried to open the car door, fumbling with the handle.

  “Whoa, Janine. Wait a minute.” He pressed her arm so that she’d face him again. “Stop. Please. Give me a moment here, please? That was startling news. I had no idea you were Mum’s first husband’s daughter. And I don’t know your sister. But I can tell you I’m not in the least bit interested in dating anyone my mother thinks is suitable. Forgive me?” he asked. “My social skills ar
e…what was that word?”

  “Arrested.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Arrested. Please. I really enjoyed our evening, it was more fun than I’ve had since I can remember. I’d love to spend the day with you. I’d like it more than anything. My mother and your sister with her giant titties can hang it, for all I care.”

  Janine laughed. Henry suspected it was easier than crying.

  “I didn’t know my dad had been married before my mom,” she said. “And he acted like not telling me was just an oversight. Like it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Mm. Perhaps marital obfuscation is a generational thing? My mum told me your father—um, her first husband—died, so consider yourself lucky things didn’t work out between them. Anyway, you narrowly escaped a life of humiliation and parental neglect. You’d be named Georgia Garrick and you might be missing a limb,” he continued, referring to one of his mother’s characters who was all the more lovable because she was born without a left arm.

  “But, Henry,” she started, distracted by something pressing. “There’s the possibility that we’re, you know”—she winced—“related.” She said this with such an agonized expression that Henry wanted to take her in his arms. Clearly she’d been very worried. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, selected a photo, blew it up, and held it next to his face.

  “My father,” he said, smiling like Sam Holter.

  Janine cried out with relief. “Wow, Henry, you look just like him.”

  “I do. Mum wouldn’t have pushed your sister on me had there been any question about that. She’s very proper. Very well versed in the comings and goings of her uterus. So we can definitely still do it. It’s all perfectly incest-free, you see.”

  “If it’s too weird now, please don’t feel obligated.”

  “Obligated?” he said. “I don’t feel in the least bit obligated. It is a bit weird,” he admitted with a laugh. Henry extended his hand and Janine took it, almost bashfully. He smiled as her delicate fingers folded inside his palm. “Settled, then,” he said. “What shall we do if not hiking or yoga?”

  “I don’t know. What would you do if you had the day to yourself?”

  Henry guessed that searching online auction sites to find a replacement for his corn goddess wouldn’t be a good answer.

  “Henry?”

  “There’s the Marbury Hall Zeus, of course.”

  “Ah.”

  She didn’t sound repulsed. In fact, she looked genuinely interested.

  “And a beautiful marble Cycladic harp player. Very rare. It’s right here at the Getty Villa. One of my colleagues was also raving about a fifth-century Roman Samson mosaic I’ve seen only in reproduction. It’s on loan so I really wouldn’t mind having a peek, since we’re so close.”

  “We are close. I think you need a reservation, though.”

  “When you’re with me, my dear, no reservations required. This privilege, sadly, applies exclusively to museums.”

  Janine looked pleased, perhaps a little impressed. Risa had never cared a lick about art or the meager perks of academia.

  “There’s a café too,” he added. “And while I don’t want to sound too arrogant, I believe I get quite the lavish discount. They may even have wine. You know, to kill the pain?”

  “It doesn’t sound painful.”

  “No?”

  “No. It sounds fun.”

  “We could get very drunk,” Henry said, nudging her gently against her car while lifting her chin with the back of his hand.

  “Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  “If we get too pissed we might miss the Hall of Colored Marbles and the—”

  She kissed him then, maybe to stop his rambling or maybe because she wanted to. Either way, it was a superb kiss, just the sort to make him want to skip the museum altogether. Henry understood that Janine was circumspect, that she must fancy him to bravely take his hand and kiss him in a parking lot. He pulled her in close and she made a little whimpering sound so uncontrived, he went wobbly with desire.

  She leaned back and smiled. “Let’s go, then.”

  He walked round and slid into the passenger seat. Henry couldn’t remember ever having felt so content as he did in that moment. It might have been the sun warming the buttery leather seat of her father’s Range Rover, but he didn’t think so.

  Janine

  Janine was as surprised as Hailey that Ransom Garcia had agreed to let Hailey audition and that his office had responded so quickly. Hailey’s letter was cute but Janine suspected that dropping the Kessler name hadn’t hurt. Hollywood was about whom you knew, and Marty Kessler, despite his age and current residency at Directions, still commanded respect.

  She spent the drive over to her sister’s second-guessing the wisdom of agreeing to help Hailey. When she realized the gorgeous girl with the long, auburn hair standing outside Amanda’s apartment building was Hailey, she thought about not even stopping. Why was she wearing a fucking wig? Janine pulled up slowly, staring. Hailey waved and sashayed over to the car, allowing Janine ample time to absorb her niece’s physical transformation. She slipped into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. Then she turned to Janine and laid a light hand on her shoulder. “Why, hello! I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said in an artificial voice.

  Janine stared at the wig.

  “I borrowed it from the costume department at school,” Hailey said. She twisted the long strands into a thick rope and knotted it into a low bun. “Wharton said Undine’s hair was long and tawny. I looked it up and tawny means ‘reddish.’ So this does the job, right?”

  “I guess,” Janine said. She was suddenly panicked that Hailey might get the fucking part and that her father and sister would string her up and then stone her to death. God knows Hailey was crazy, pretty, and narcissistic enough to be an actress. Janine could only hope she wasn’t talented.

  She entered the address of the studio into her phone, grateful that Amanda and Jaycee were both still at school. Come to think of it, why wasn’t Hailey back in class? Wasn’t it obvious the girl had made a full recovery, no matter how well she’d mastered the art of playing an invalid?

  “I’m so nervous I could die,” Hailey said in an affected tone. She pulled down the passenger sun visor and quietly admired herself in the mirror before snapping it shut.

  “Hailey, I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “Do you like it? I think it’s becoming.”

  “You’re already in character?” Janine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Still, Hailey’s accent wasn’t half bad. She pronounced her vowels just right, with her tongue slightly closer to the front of her mouth.

  “But of course,” Hailey said. She rolled down her window and looked into the side mirror to get another peek at her reflection. Hailey had managed to make the cheap wig look somewhat real and she’d been careful to apply only minimal makeup, just some rouge and lipstick. She wore a simple cotton dress that cinched tightly around her tiny waist.

  There was no traffic, almost unheard of in LA. The drive to Robertson and Third took only twenty minutes. “Did you ever know such luck?” Hailey asked as they pulled into a parking spot right in front of Ransom Garcia’s office building. Janine was eager to get Undine through the audition and back home before Amanda could find out about any of this.

  The outside of the building was black and modern, a replica of so many uninspired edifices that had hijacked the Los Angeles skyline since Janine was a kid. Automatic glass doors opened onto a furniture-less lobby, forbidding in its lack of homeyness. Men and women in business suits, a woman with a little boy, even a doctor in scrubs spilled out of the elevators at regular intervals. The security guard directed Janine to Ransom’s floor.

  Hailey pretended not to notice people watching her make her way to the elevators. Her erect posture and challenging walk seemed to encourage the stares. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, but Janine could almost feel the girl’s heart pounding with the victory of each appre
ciative glance. Pretty girls were like palm trees in LA—nice, but ubiquitous. Hailey was turning heads. Janine grew tense. She remembered watching people stare at her mother the same way. Of course, she’d been a kid back then and she’d been confused by the attention her beautiful mother attracted. Now she knew what it meant.

  “Maybe you should take the wig off,” Janine suggested in the elevator. “It might be too much. You don’t want to annoy him.”

  “No fucking way,” Hailey said. “I mean…I think it’s fetching.”

  As they waited in a small lounge outside Mr. Garcia’s office, Janine’s thoughts drifted off to Henry. He’d handled the news about their parents really well, considering. Maybe being Bunny Small’s son had forced him to deal with uncomfortable situations, not unlike what she’d been through growing up as a former child actress. She’d meant to ask him why he hadn’t changed his last name, imagining it must be a nightmare going through life as a famous children’s-book character. She’d wanted to change her own after the show ended but her father was emphatically opposed to the idea. “Your last name is Kessler!” he’d shouted. “I won’t have the consequences of that goddamn show strip away one more ounce of your dignity.” Even then, Janine had suspected Marty’s outrage had more to do with his pride than her dignity, but it was easier to let it go. Maybe Henry had done the same. She’d ask him later.

  Janine liked Henry. His occasional social awkwardness belied a deeper self-confidence. He was funny and self-effacing, and there was absolutely nothing awkward about how he’d expertly moved around his kitchen cooking for her or about the familiar way he always placed his hand at the base of her spine and pulled her in close. He was completely unapologetic about his opinions, almost gruff at times, but then there was this tenderness about him. She was touched by his careful consideration of everything she said, the way he seemed to really listen. And he was extremely smart. His animated tour of the Getty had been inspiring, particularly when he’d talked about a limestone funerary sculpture called The Beauty of Palmyra. A large group of visitors had latched onto them in the Hellenistic gallery, probably assuming he was a curator or docent.