The Secret Ingredient

by Stewart Lewis

  I meet Lola at the coffee shop on Sunset and Fountain, and before I have a chance to sit down, she starts filling me in on her current crush, the Asian kid who works at the taco place.

  “Duality,” I say, kind of under my breath.

  “What are you on about, Livie?”

  Lola grew up in London but has lived here since she was twelve. I love having a British best friend. It makes me feel intercontinental even though I’ve never left California.

  “I’ve just been noticing duality in everything lately.”

  “Well,” she says, wiping her upper lip, “as you should.”

  Lola’s mother runs a yoga studio in Atwater Village, and her dad is a documentary producer for the BBC. She always has way more money than I do and pays for everything. It sometimes makes me uncomfortable, but she’s not the type to hold it against me. Apparently, her father still gets his salary in British pounds, which go way farther than the dollar. Especially when you’re buying fish tacos, which we do on a regular basis, not only because we like them, but because they are served by her crush, a guy named Jin.

  “So what is it about him, anyway?” I ask her.

  “He just seems like he could clean up well, you know? Put him in a dinner jacket, and he might just hit the mark.”

  “Lola, he’s like, fifteen.”

  “A girl can dream.”

  I smile, thinking of Jin serving tacos in a suit.

  “And I know it’s a bit of a stereotype,” Lola says, “but he seems very intelligent, you know? Like he’s solving math theorems on his breaks from … tortilla rolling or what have you.”

  “Kneading.”

  “Right. Well, what you ‘knead,’ darling, is a job.”

  So much for keeping my mind off my interview.

  “Yeah. I saw an ad for a babysitter—”

  “No offense, Livie, but you’re a bit on the mellow side for that, don’t you think?”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. When I called, they said they wanted someone who had experience with children. But actually, I have a lead on something way better. Papá set up an interview for me with a casting agent who needs an assistant.”

  “Now we’re getting warmer. You’re always on about nuance. You’ll need that for casting, don’t you reckon?”

  This is why I love Lola. She always seems to say the right thing. And even when she doesn’t, it still sounds great in her accent. I pull out the address Enrique gave me and look at my watch. “I’d better get going, the interview’s at eleven.”

  “Right. Why don’t you come by the studio after? I’ll be taking roll for all the pudgy ladies at Mum-yoga. We can go get tacos!”

  I try to leave some money for my chai, but Lola waves my hand away.

  “Okay, we can get tacos only if you let me buy them,” I say.

  “We’ll just see about that. Good luck, Livie!”

  She kisses me on each cheek as we get up to go, then leaves in a flourish, her scarf trailing behind her. Lola is glamorous, funny, and so naturally beautiful that some people find her intimidating. I’ve had a fair amount of friends growing up, but she’s the first person who really got me. When she transferred to my school two years ago, all the popular girls wanted to become her friend because she’s British. But she didn’t really care for them. It’s almost like she has this X-ray vision that can see through fakeness. We became lab partners in science, and when I named our frog Toast, she took a shine to me. I invited her over after school and taught her how to make oatmeal cookies from scratch. I added dried cranberries, which she thought was the coolest thing ever. Even though it’s only been two years, I can’t imagine my life without Lola in it. It’s like I used to live in black-and-white, and when Lola came along everything was suddenly in color.

  * * *

  Walking up Sunset toward Vermont Avenue, I pass a random schizophrenic discreetly talking to himself, a Hispanic family, and a couple of twentysomething dudes with guitars on their backs. When I get to the building, I realize it’s the tallest one for miles.

  The lobby is shiny and stark, with hard sofas that look more like warped benches. I slip my sunglasses onto the top of my head and step into a huge elevator with white walls and a metal ceiling, and press 17. It stops at the twelfth floor, and a woman is revealed, as if the automatic doors were theater curtains dramatically drawn. She’s probably early forties, draped in loose-fitting, earth-toned clothes. She has a clear complexion and alert eyes. There’s a streak of gray in her otherwise black hair. She clutches a small leather bag.

  “Going down?” she asks.

  “No, up to seventeen.”

  She draws a circle in the air with her finger, as if calculating the journey, and says, “Oh well, I’ll take the scenic route.”

  The doors close with her inside, and I can immediately smell her. Cloves and lemon. As we ascend, I notice her perfect posture. She stands so straight you can almost imagine a wire pulled taut from the bottom of her spine to the crown of her head. Lola’s mother has it too. She does yoga every day and only eats blueberries for breakfast. I usually don’t talk to strangers, so I’m surprised to hear myself say, “Do you do yoga?”

  Before she can answer, the elevator stops abruptly. After a few seconds, we both realize we’re not on a floor.

  “I believe the word is practice, but yes,” she answers sweetly.

  I look around the elevator stupidly, like there’s a trapdoor or something. The woman is very calm, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. We decide to wait a minute or two before pressing the emergency call button.

  “Maybe it’ll just start up again,” I say, trying to be positive.

  The woman pulls out some grapes and offers me one. I take it to be polite, but then realize it has seeds—awkward. She notices my discomfort and says, “You can just crunch and swallow them, like a nut. They actually have more nutrients than the grape itself.”

  A grape doesn’t have a self, I think. But instead I say, “Good to know,” and stare at the red button.

  The woman steps closer and puts her clear eyes on me acutely, and suddenly I feel exposed. Since we’re trapped, I can’t really claim personal space.

  “I was only stuck in an elevator one other time,” she says, crunching on a grape seed, “and believe it or not, it was with the queen of England.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I was hired by her estate manager to do some channeling work.”

  There are a lot of bohemian types in Silver Lake, and I’ve heard about channeling—basically when people summon spirits of others who then speak through them—but it still seems a little far-fetched to me.

  “You’re a … channeler?”

  She gives me a look so sharp I wouldn’t be surprised if darts start shooting out of her pupils. I move out of her way just in case.

  “I like to say visionary. I do psychic work, but I also do guided meditation and past-life integration. I get called to consult with, well, powerful people.”

  I think of Enrique and what he’s always saying about the class system. “So the fact that you’re a psychic for people with money makes it more credible?”

  I can’t believe I’ve said something so rude. I reach out to push the red button, but before I can, she grabs my wrist, not too tight, but enough to make me tremble a little.

  “Hang on a minute,” she says.

  I wonder if this is some sort of setup, if she knew we’d be here all along. I try to remain calm and wait. She looks at me like she’s examining a lab rat, and I can feel my forehead getting moist. Then she says something that makes everything else disappear.

  “I know what it’s like not having a mother.”

  I feel a dropping sensation in my stomach, and a tightening in my throat. “What?”

  I slowly back up until I reach the elevator wall and sit down. Even though I’m freaking out, I can almost hear Bell laughing. He’s never bought into the whole New Age thing.

  �
��How did you know that?”

  “It’s what I do,” she replies evenly.

  I decide to test her.

  “Okay, how come I don’t have a mother?”

  A look of pity colors her face, as if my test is too easy.

  “She gave you up for adoption.”

  I stare at her and realize my jaw is slack.

  “Um, this is getting a little creepy,” I say. “Can we press the button now?”

  She sits down directly across from me. I do my best to remain calm.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she says, arranging herself into a cross-legged position. “While we’re here, why don’t you let me read you?”

  “Look, I don’t believe—”

  She holds up her hands. “Take what you want from it. I usually get thousands of dollars for this, and I’m offering—”

  “No, it’s okay, really.”

  “No charge.”

  Her gaze softens a little, and I think she’s going to smile, but suddenly her expression goes blank. “You have an older brother. There’s fire in him.”

  I can feel my heart banging on the wall of my chest. I try to think of Bell, who would still be laughing at this point. Or would he?

  “He will soar.”

  I put my head in my hands and pretend this isn’t happening. But when I look up and see her pure, honest expression, something tells me to trust her.

  “Okay, just do it.”

  She studies my palms, writes down my birth date in a little notebook she has, tells me to stick out my tongue (I laugh a little during that part) and look her in the eye for as long as I can. I last several minutes, then lower my gaze to my sneakers. She takes my hand and holds it gently.

  “This summer.”

  “What?”

  “Last summer there were some changes for you?”

  I think of Jeremy moving out, and my breasts suddenly appearing.

  “Yes.”

  “This summer will be different—pivotal.” I try to smile at her to lighten things up, but nothing seems to crack her concentration. She becomes visibly emotional, like she’s holding back tears. “You must be aware of your choices. I know you’re young, but you’re an old soul. Please remember—all your choices are connected.”

  A single tear falls from her left eye and makes a tiny splat on the elevator floor. For some reason I think of William Hurt’s fake tear in Broadcast News. Bell’s always quoting the old movies we watch together, and he does a pretty good Holly Hunter.

  “Yours is a delicate spirit, but it will get stronger, and fast. I see your roots taking hold. You will have guidance from someone in the past. I also see a young man. And I’m not sure why, but food is important somehow.”

  She stares at me for what seems like an hour, then finally pushes the button and goes back into stranger mode. As we wait for the maintenance guy to radio in, she barely looks at me, until the elevator finally starts to move and we reach the casting agent’s floor.

  “Do you have a card?” I ask.

  She lets out a quick, hearty laugh and says, “If you need me, I will be there.”

  “Okay, well, thanks,” I say, but it comes out as more of a question.

  CHAPTER 3

  The door to the casting agency is metallic silver and says J. TUCKER CASTING in dark red letters. I stare at my reflection in the door, wondering if opening it will really be of any significance. Is it true that every decision we make is connected and is a catalyst to a string of reactions in the universe? Like a caterpillar becomes a butterfly in Japan and then a baby cries in Russia, and a dog dies in Spain? I open the door slowly, telling myself to “just chill,” as Jeremy would say.

  To my left, there are two skinny girls in miniskirts sitting on plastic chairs and looking nervous and twitchy, eyeing me as possible competition for whatever they’re auditioning for. It must be so belittling, the whole auditioning thing.

  When I was fifteen there was a photographer friend of Enrique’s who tried to get me to model, who said with the contrast of my red hair and blue eyes that I had a real shot. But when I got the pictures taken I was so anxious it caused me to sweat under the lights, and the photos came out pretty lame. I remember bringing them home to my dads, who said they were “wonderful,” which was code for “awkward.” I told them that I no longer wanted to be a model, and they accepted it with a hint of relief. I smile at the girls, thinking of that experience and how grateful I am to be beyond it.

  There’s a reception desk that is unmanned, which must be for the job that needs to be filled. A woman in a sports coat, jeans, and loafers comes out of an office door behind the desk. She’s one of those beautiful tomboy types who could totally change her look by letting her hair down and taking off the sports coat, which actually works for her. Her glasses have jewels embedded in the sides, and her thin lips settle into a smirk, which seems like their default position.

  She looks about thirty, maybe younger, but you can never really tell in Los Angeles, where some people think Botox is a necessity, like getting your teeth cleaned. Speaking of, her teeth are so white I may need to put my sunglasses back on to fight the glare.

  She addresses the girls first, holding up her hand, then turns to me and says, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, hi, I’m Olivia. I’m here about the job?”

  She lets out a quick laugh, and I realize hundreds of people come in here all the time for “jobs,” so I specify. “Enrique got me in touch with your office. You’re Janice Tucker?”

  “Oh! Yes, you’re Enrique’s daughter, right?” I nod.

  “Great, why don’t you sit down. I’ll be right with you.”

  During the next twenty minutes, the two girls are called in to Janice’s office to read what they call “sides,” which I gather are basically the lines the actors have to read. The walls are so thin I can hear everything. One side is a commercial, and the other is a dramatic monologue in which the girl is about to run away and is saying goodbye to her dog. Her speech is supposed to be truthful and deep because she’s talking to her dog. It’s written so poorly that it’s almost good.

  When the last girl leaves, Janice actually says, “I’ll call you,” and then turns to me with a big smile.

  Strangely enough, I bet Janice Tucker is her real name. As one of many steps in their plan to be bigger than themselves, everyone in Hollywood uses fake names. Part of the illusion of fame, I guess. Out of character for L.A., J. Tucker Casting has an authenticity to it, and so does Janice’s straightforward demeanor. I bet she could host a dinner party and gut the fish beforehand. She seems tough but kind—like you could tell her secrets and know they were safe, but she’d be honest about what she thought of you.

  Janice motions me inside her office, where I sit in the same chair as the hundreds of actors and actresses who have come through this door.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “Relieved that I won’t be confessing to a dog,” I say.

  Janice dabs some antibacterial liquid into her hands and chuckles as she rubs them together.

  “I know, it’s a Lifetime movie. They’re horribly written but strangely addictive once you start watching them. Olivia, right?”

  “Yes, but you can call me … whatever.”

  During the next five minutes, Janice’s phone rings seven times, and we have a choppy conversation about the job. I tell her I have “assisted” Enrique, which is, to say the least, an embellishment. I also tell her that I cook a weekly special at FOOD, which seems irrelevant but feels good to say. Even though I sense that we have a strange connection, the whole process is a bit random and rushed, which is why I’m somewhat surprised when she puts down the phone and says, “Listen, I’m in a bind here. My former assistant took off yesterday for India to go to a … meditation school or something. So, how about tomorrow at ten? Can you start then?”

  “Yes.”

  It was that easy? I didn’t even ask her how much she’s paying. I’m just so happy I have a job.

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nbsp; “Dress business casual, and bring a photo ID.”

  “Great, thanks …”

  She senses my hesitation and says, “Call me Janice.”

  “Thanks, Janice.”

  I realize I’m blushing as I head toward the door. As I press down the handle, again I hear her steady voice.

  “Oh, and Red?”

  I turn around, and her smirk is slightly more pronounced.

  “No sneakers.”

  I nod, looking down at my Chuck Taylors. Whoops.

  The faint smell of the psychic woman is still in the elevator when I get back in. During the swift ride down, I can’t help but think she’s right. Maybe J. Tucker Casting is a door to something bigger than I could know. Maybe right now a bird is flying for the first time, a forest is burning down, a storm is wiping out a village. Maybe a seed is being planted in rich soil by an old wrinkled hand, a key is being dropped into a deep lake, and my life will be forever different. I try to feel it. The moment that changes everything.

  CHAPTER 4

  When I get to the yoga studio, a class is already in session. Lola is at the front desk listening to her iPod and flipping through an L.A. Weekly. When she notices me, she shuts the paper dramatically, comes around, and gives me a huge hug.

  “You got the job!”

  She can tell from my smile. They say that best friends finish each other’s sentences. With Lola, sometimes we don’t even have to speak at all.

  “Tops!”—British for “Great!”—“How much does it pay?”

  “I forgot to ask. I start tomorrow. What’s business casual?”

  When it comes to fashion, Lola’s the expert. I really don’t put too much effort into my clothes. I’ve never understood why girls in my school are so obsessed with designer jeans and “accessorizing.” I find most of my clothes at Out of the Closet, a secondhand store that benefits AIDS research. I got teased a lot when I was in seventh and eighth grades for my thrifty look, but then of course vintage became cool, so I guess you could say I was ahead of the curve. It sounds weird, but sometimes when I buy used clothing, I imagine who the previous owner was, where she liked to eat and travel. Every day, I’m carrying the history of other girls and women on my back. I like the idea of being a walking patchwork of other people’s lives.