Rachel loved the editing bay.
She was cutting up the takes of her last shoot. She liked to make rough cuts as she went. It was easier to keep track of everything. Easier to import chunks rather than do an enormous and terrible editing import at the end. That was how you fried hard drives, not to mention crashed software.
To Rachel, editing was a state of mind. Close the door, turn down the lights, grab a soda or a can of sparkling flavored crap and the kind of food you’d only consume on a road trip and zone out everything that wasn’t the focus of the film. Didn’t have to be linear, didn’t have to be thematic. The work was whatever she needed it to be. The film, the reality of a whole world bending to her will alone.
Except Rachel’s will would have had Helen be the victim. The villain, even. The instigator of all of this unnecessary war, unnecessary evil. Rachel’s idea for the whole narrative was to have Cassandra be the tragic, truth-telling protagonist.
Sana had gone and thrown a wrench in those plans.
Worse, as Rachel watched and edited, she knew Sana had been right to pull Helen forward. Rachel hadn’t been interested in making the most beautiful woman in the world into the most fascinating woman in the world. But this was different. Sana had pulled on the thread of Helen’s humanity. Sana had found what makes any character relatable to so many people—her imperfections. Helen here was vain, but also trying to be brave. She was selfish, but also living in a world that had made her be selfless since childhood. She was a woman trying to walk her own path in this world, despite there being no such thing for her.
Sana was perfect. A perfect Helen. Rachel was beginning to wonder if there was anything the girl was bad at. Sana knew where the light was. Conscious of it after Rachel had pointed it out, without looking like she was aware of any of the individual lamps.
The Helen in the movie was revealing all sorts of things about Sana. Rachel did a hard save—just to be sure—and then downloaded the file. She sent a copy of the rough cut—it was only the first thirty minutes—to Douga, and then closed her laptop. She could save the rest of the edits for another day. Right now, the clips were making her dizzy. Right now, she wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
16
What’s Your Damage?
Sana
Sana hadn’t meant to lie to her mom about where she was headed tonight. She had called it a school project and had thought about it as a school project, and was currently refusing to give light to any of her other thoughts buried under the idea of school project.
So it was startling to realize as Sana took the keys to her mother’s car—which were right on top of a note that said Love you and good luck with your work. Back at dawn that she had left before grabbing a ride with a coworker—that she felt guilty. She hadn’t meant to lie, not really. She had just wanted to keep the truth from herself. But now, with this unsettling pit at the base of her stomach, Sana was starting to think maybe it was a lie, or a kind of a lie.
Was it the kind of lie she was allowed to tell her mother? Was it better or worse than not telling her that she still hadn’t sent in her deposit? That she didn’t know why she hadn’t sent in her deposit? That she had applied for a fellowship halfway across the globe?
But Sana didn’t have any sort of satisfactory answer for that.
Sana put the key into the ignition and turned the engine on. She was always surprised when the old boy started up. Mom had kept the thing running on a good amount of basic car know-how and a heavy amount of charm with the local mechanics.
It was a 1993 Mitsubishi Eagle Summit in red—complete with the side faux-wood paneling. The cloth seats always managed to grab ahold of Sana’s skirts like Velcro and refuse to ever let go. The car even had a weird holdover safety feature from the early nineties. The top part of the seat belt was attached to the frame—it slid into place as you closed the door. Slid into place at an excruciatingly slow pace. Sana sat, waiting for her seat belt to finish securing itself, when all she wanted to do was set the car into motion.
Mom’s attachment to a vehicle had seemed silly, overly sentimental to Sana. But now, driving out to an unfamiliar diner to meet Rachel, Sana felt the comfort of gripping the old, smoothed-down and worn steering wheel. Maybe that’s why Farrah liked it. There were so few constants in the life she lived, in the job she did. TV shows would reuse sets, but so many of Farrah’s shoots were temporary situations that got pulled down at the end of shooting. This car was as much home as their house was. It even smelled faintly of takeout food and warmed plastic, though not in an unpleasant way.
The worst part about driving anywhere in Los Angeles was that even once she’d gotten there, she still hadn’t really arrived, no matter what a map might declare. No, a girl still had to find parking. This was why Sana hated to drive. She could be somewhere and not actually be there at all. She could be on time and also arrive late. She was Schrödinger’s dinner date.
Sana did two laps of the block before miraculously finding parking outside the diner. The meter was already paid out for another hour and everything.
When Sana walked in, a small, plump blond woman stared at her for a solid minute.
“Excuse me?” asked Sana.
“You need something?” asked the woman.
Sana smiled her most winning smile. “I’m here to see Rachel. Do you know by any chance if she’s off yet?”
The woman’s eyebrows disappeared under her curly bangs at that. “Here to see Rachel?”
Sana looked around, to see if there was anybody else who had heard that, yes, that was exactly what she had just said. But the entryway was empty. “Yes.”
That’s when the woman whistled. “I’m Jeanie.”
“Hello,” said Sana, a bit at a loss. “I’m Sana. Sana Khan. Are you her manager? Should I wait here, then?”
The woman named Jeanie laughed like Sana had told the funniest joke she’d heard in a long time. “And you’re polite, too.”
Sana was uncertain of what to say in response. Usually when she was uncertain, silence would do the trick.
“Come on, little lady,” and then Jeanie gave Sana a once-over, trying to see if there was another word she ought to use. But after her perusal she gave a light nod to herself. “I’ll grab you a seat and a soda. You do drink soda, don’t you?”
Sana didn’t, not really. “Sure.”
Jeanie snorted in a way that made Sana feel sure that the woman hadn’t believed her. But she came back in a minute with a menu and a fountain soda with pellet ice. “On the house, little duchess.” Jeanie seemed more satisfied with that nickname than the other.
Rachel walked up to the table without looking up. She was digging through her apron looking for a pen to write with, a pan in the other hand. “What’ll it be?”
“An order of French fries, please.”
Rachel’s head snapped up so quickly Sana was worried the girl would get whiplash. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking you up?” Sana hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question. Rachel had been so startled by her presence. Like they hadn’t made plans. Like she hadn’t expected Sana to follow through with them.
“You couldn’t wait outside?” Rachel hissed.
Sana drew herself up to her full seated height. “I’m sorry. Is my presence here an embarrassment to you?” This time, Sana had meant her tone—loud enough to carry to the next booth over and cause a couple of olds sitting there to turn and take notice.
“I’m not embarrassed.” This was more of a whisper and less of a hiss.
“You sure seem not-embarrassed.” Sana raised an eyebrow.
“You caught me off guard.”
“Do you often find yourself surprised by the people you make plans with being in the spot you planned to meet them?”
“No.” Rachel put both palms flat on the table.
Sana’s throat went dry. Their faces were so close.
“You’re supposed to wait outside. Not in my section.”
“Jeanie
said I could sit here.”
“You talked to Jeanie?”
“Should I add that to the list of definitely-not-embarrassing offenses that I have already committed today?”
The old couple turned again. Rachel stared back at them until they turned around.
Rachel leaned in close, clearly ready to give Sana a piece of her mind. But she was so close to Sana now. Sana fluttered her eyelashes, just to see what kind of reaction she could get. Whatever Rachel was about to say stopped with a halted little squeak. Sana batted her eyelashes again, mesmerized by her own effect on Rachel.
Rachel, however, recovered by pointing a finger at Sana and creating a barrier between their faces. “Don’t for a second think you can bat your pretty little eyelashes and make ingénue faces at me and you’ll get your way.”
“You think my eyelashes are pretty?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s an ingénue?”
“It’s also not important.”
“I’ll just look it up later.”
“Wholesome. An ingénue is wholesome.” Rachel wiped her hand over her forehead.
Sana felt her face scrunch up. “Wholesome?”
Rachel dropped her hand. “For fuck’s sake, Audrey Hepburn is an ingénue.”
Sana ignored the curse word. “You think I look like Audrey Hepburn?”
Rachel put her head back into her hand. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
“You’re the one who called me wholesome,” said Sana.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What did you mean? Personally, I feel like a perfectly balanced meal. Or like whole milk. Fresh from a cow. Full of calcium. Very wholesome.”
Rachel looked up. Her lips parted, her eyes wide. She was at a loss for words. Sana had done that. She had to suppress a smile.
Jeanie came back to the table, refill in hand. “Get out of here, Recht. Your shift’s over.”
Rachel squeaked again. “But. I’ve got fifteen minutes left.”
Jeanie put her hand on her hip. “You haven’t. Besides, I like the girl.”
Rachel snorted, like Sana couldn’t understand the meaning.
But Sana had, loud and clear.
And Jeanie gave Sana a wink. “You’ve got to be patient with this one.”
Sana nodded. “Oh, I know.”
Rachel stared between the woman and the girl like they had both lost their minds.
“Come on,” said Sana. “I got a spot right out front. I’ll meet you back outside. Thanks for the soda, Jeanie.”
“Anytime, little duchess.”
Sana waited outside for a minute, the triumph she felt warding off any feeling of cold she ought to have from the brisk night air.
When Rachel came out, she still wore her work uniform, though she had swapped out her apron for a backpack. “I didn’t bring a change of clothes.”
“We’re just going to your house.”
“Still.”
“What? Did you not think I was going to show or something?” Sana walked over to her car.
Rachel followed her but got out her car keys. They both stood there, each holding their car keys in hand, each refusing to hop in the car with the other.
“More like hoped you wouldn’t.”
Great. “Seriously? I met you at work and you clearly refused to get in my car. You’re ashamed to have me meet your coworkers. I thought we were over this by now. Past it somehow. What gives? You afraid I’m going to contaminate your precious home?” Sana was breathing heavy by the end.
Rachel went silent. Didn’t say a word in response. Sana knew something was amiss. She’d misstepped again. She didn’t know when or how, but the stricken look on Rachel’s face spoke volumes.
But Sana couldn’t seem to stop herself, couldn’t contain her irritation. “That’s it? You won’t tell me? I’ve screwed up yet again and I have to berate myself for an unknown crime. Speaking to you? Asking questions?”
“Jesus Christ,” shouted Rachel, like she’d remembered it really upset Sana to blaspheme. “I’m embarrassed of where I live.”
Sana opened her mouth, but all that came out was a puff of air and a sound resembling “Oh.”
Rachel heaved a sigh. “Whatever. Follow me there. I’m in the black Lincoln Continental right around the corner.” And then she walked off without waiting for any kind of confirmation from Sana.
Silent, Sana got in her car, letting the door slowly block her back in.
Ashamed of her home. Where she lived.
Sana felt about as big as the tip of a razor-sharp scalpel as she drove around the corner to find Rachel. Rachel was pulling out of her neighborhood parking spot. Sana followed her into Palms, wondering the whole while how she could possibly make it right again.
Rachel
Rachel and Sana sat a foot apart on the couch like everything was perfectly fine. This was all okay and nothing weird had ever happened.
Just admitting to shame over my current home. Nothing to see here. Move along, everyone. Just Sana sitting on the couch like that greyhound in a sweater labeled “Nervous.”
They were fine and this was fine, and if the earth could just open up right now and swallow her whole—that would be ideal for Rachel, honestly.
Sana looked straight ahead and politely at the screen. She’d been doing that since she arrived—looking at nothing and touching nothing without seeming like she was consciously touching nothing. She didn’t even touch the computer when suggesting edits. She just pointed vaguely in the direction of the right minute mark on the timeline of the film. It was like treading lightly and looking nowhere were natural to her state of being. It was so awful Rachel didn’t even have a sarcastic thing to say about it. She willed Sana to say something that wasn’t directly about the film. Say anything.
Because Rachel certainly couldn’t. All she could see were the chips in the paint on the walls—had those been there before? And the dust she missed while vacuuming. She only now remembered she was supposed to use a special attachment to vacuum the baseboards. Not that their vacuum even had that attachment anymore. It had been lost in one of the moves and they had simply soldiered on in their infrequent vacuumings without it.
Sana took a deep inhale. “I brought a movie.”
“Oh.” It was still all that Rachel could manage.
“I mean, we don’t have to watch it.” Sana sounded so sad and dejected. “We can keep editing.”
“No,” said Rachel. “We can. Sounds fine.”
That’s when Sana reached out and finally touched something—Rachel’s hand. Rachel’s eyes snapped to Sana’s.
“I’m sorry, you know. I shouldn’t have pushed. I get an idea in my head and I can’t let go. I’m like my mother. And my grandmother.”
Rachel imperceptibly winced at the mention of mothers. Sana must have thought she was flinching away.
Sana released her hand. “I can go.”
“No,” said Rachel, hardly sure of herself. “I don’t want you to go.”
Where the hell had that come from?
Sana must not have known either because she stared at Rachel all agog.
But it was true. Rachel didn’t want Sana to leave. “I didn’t want you here—” Rachel helped up her hand to stay Sana’s movements. “I didn’t want anybody here. Not ever. But now you are and the worst is over. Let’s watch whatever you brought. I don’t think I can edit anymore right now anyway.”
“I brought Pakeezah.” Sana ducked her head into her bag, her normally swishing ponytail now arrested upside down. The only sound in the room was the cars going by outside and the clattering of the impossible amount of crap Sana carried around in that tiny bag.
How did she even fit that much stuff into such a small receptacle?
Sana finally pulled the movie out. Relief coated her face.
Rachel wished she could go back in time and unsay what she had said. How had she let her embarrassment get the better of her? How h
ad she managed to say it out loud? That was the worst. Even worse than Jeanie winking at Sana. Like Sana could possibly be into a girl like Rachel.
Rachel didn’t want to melt into the couch. She wanted to turn into the couch and never regain sentience ever again. That was the only way these moments would stop looping over and over again in her head like a blooper reel from hell.
Why did all of Rachel’s worst moments always have to involve this impossible girl?
It was one thing to relive your own worst moments. It was something else altogether to have to relive them standing next to a girl who looked like she had stepped out of a reel from the golden age of Old Hollywood. Rachel didn’t even look like the leading lady of her own memories.
Rachel was jolted back to reality by singing that started ringing through the still apartment. Sana began scrambling for the remote, trying to get the menu to stop playing and getting the movie to start. It was refreshing, honestly, to watch Sana scramble at anything. Even if situationally, it made sense that she had no idea where the remote was in another person’s home.
The movie opened up with a tragedy. A woman was meant to go from courtesan to wife, but her lover’s family shamed him into giving her up. The woman fled, dying in a cemetery, but not until after giving birth to a daughter. It was the stuff of classic melodrama, no matter what tradition of cinema you followed—would the tragedy of the mother revisit itself on the daughter?
Would it indeed.
But Rachel could see why this movie was a classic, why Sana had picked it. It was the lead. She was clearly too old to play the ingénue, but it didn’t matter. She was shining, magnetic. Gorgeous, too, but that was beside the point. Her beauty was almost like a costume—an adornment to be put on, a piece of a character, another bit of backstory. No, the actor, she had a tragic face. A tragic pull. The way Billie Holiday had a tragic song inside of her. The way that Emily Dickinson poetry that they had been forced to read sophomore year had a tragic literary tone.
Tell Me How You Really Feel Page 15