I show up at the hospital an hour before they are supposed to arrive. When they do, I scoop up Jade and take her off for a chat without acknowledging Nicole’s existence. She tells me she’s frightened of being stuck in the tunnel but hasn’t mentioned this to Nicole because you know how she worries. This is what happens when parents ask seven-year-olds to keep secrets from adults. I tell her that we will solve it by my going in with her and holding on to her foot while she is in the tube so that we can be secretly talking to each other between her toes and my fingers. She likes this idea, though preferring I could actually be in the tunnel with her.
She does great. Her sweet toes and my fingers have a Morse code conversation and listen to the pounding of the machine, just barely louder than the pounding of my worried heart.
Jade is, of course, fine. The test was just protocol but gives me peace of mind to know that there isn’t any reason for concern. We put the MRI image of her brain on the refrigerator and I scrawl on it with a Sharpie: Nothing going on in here. Jade thinks it’s funny. I forgive Nicole. Snickers become my sister’s fifth food group. And everything returns to normal. Except that I now think about the mortality of all of us a lot more than I ever did.
“What do you mean by that?” Emma asks at our next session.
“Well, it isn’t just a question of whether Sloane or I will disappear one day. Jade is at risk too.”
“If you give Sloane up, let her go, then you won’t have to worry about Jade anymore.” She sits back in her chair and tells me, “This is a pricey fantasy you’re indulging in. You’re starting to learn the true costs, and there will be more to come.”
Which just sounds cryptic and foreboding. But what if she’s right?
I take my petulance and depression to the Washington Square dog park with Jade’s Yorkie, Boris. She is sleeping over at her best friend Tomiko’s, so I am Boris’s bitch for the duration. I don’t like Boris. And I probably never will. He’s only a little dog, and never did anything bad to me at all. I don’t like his attitude, which is big enough to barely squeeze into an airplane hangar, but I also think he’s ugly, which is exacerbated by the fact that every young female I meet (and guys who have so little game they address their pickup lines to a girl’s dog) is constantly adoring how adorable Boris is. He’s not.
I like big dogs. Big, shaggy ones who love you to pound them with your fists because they can barely feel it. And they slobber all over you and are completely disgusting and are completely comfortable letting assholes like Boris pretend to push them around. Because they have the thing I admire most in dogs and men. Confidence.
So when I see some perfectly pleasant-looking guy being pushed around by some strutting, entitled bitch, I want to look the other way. I’m not sure why I don’t. There’s a couple across the grassy run, with no discernible dog, setting up some kind of home video something. They have claimed a prime bench under one of the leafy oaks. He is setting up lights and screens to replace the natural sunlight with the specific lighting angles he wants. And she is bitching at him nonstop, like she knows what the hell she’s talking about. I’ve been on enough sets to know that he does and she doesn’t. However, she’s totally gorgeous, which makes me tense up. Whenever I see an actress with a stronger look than mine, I try to resist the urge to go all alpha dog, but I never succeed. Thus assured that she could have no talent, I wander over, hoping to lose Boris in the process, figuring this is none of my business. I’m sure the guy is getting something out of it for the aggravation.
I sit on a bench, absurdly close. Obviously within earshot. Her complaints are all about the lighting. She has very specific ideas about what his setup should do to her bone structure. The guy pays no attention to her whatsoever. So now I like him. She is, however, incredibly hot.
Through masterful eavesdropping, I’m able to figure out that Andrew is in film school at NYU, which is pretty prestigious. Carmen, astonishingly enough, is his classmate. He’s making a student film and is confident in his abilities, obviously having made several before, and I realize that they must not be a couple at all. I hate to admit that it actually makes me feel a little satisfied. He’s too good for her.
Once he starts directing her scene, their dynamic changes completely. He is in total command. She eagerly follows his every suggestion, all of which are made respectfully, in low tones. She even lets him give her line readings, which always drives me crazy. She is actually good. Not just good for a film student, but good for an actress. When the scene is over, they do a second take, and he says it’s a wrap. She looks at him like a puppy waiting to be praised. He says, “Nice.” And she jumps into his arms like a trained chimp, jams her tongue down his throat, and I realize they must be a couple after all. I’m not even trying to pretend I’m not watching at this point.
Then she says she was channeling Audrey Hepburn from Philadelphia Story. I can see in his eyes that he knows. If he says the word Katharine, he’s in the doghouse.
“Katharine,” he says softly.
“Katharine who?”
“Katharine Hepburn was in Philadelphia Story. You’re thinking of channeling Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m thinking the purity, the spirituality, the grace…”
“So this is you being an asshole, yes?” She puts a hand on her hip.
He grins. “This is me making a little fun of you for being pretentious.”
“Except you’re the one being pretentious,” I say out loud. They both turn to me.
“Thanks,” says the actress.
“Fair enough,” says the director, and they proceed to politely ignore me as he shapes her performance for their next scene. So Boris and I sit and watch. We don’t discuss our reactions, but I sense that despite our differences, he agrees with my approval of their individual techniques. For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I begin to really like them as a couple. Even when they argue. It makes me wish I could find a guy to argue with. It’s not as easy as you’d think.
When they finish, he begins to strike the set, and she walks straight over to me and sits beside me on the bench.
“I have a dog at home in Barcelona. But he’s a big dog. I prefer bigger dogs.”
“This is Boris. You hate him, admit it.”
“Well, hate is such a strong word. Let’s just say that he repels me on every level. At heart, he’s probably a loving and gentle creature, but I somehow doubt it.”
“Wow, you’re a shrewd judge of dogs.”
“Men too,” she says, glancing at Andrew.
It’s clear that he was listening to everything we were saying because he turns and nods his appreciation for the compliment. Boris merely yaps. The actress holds out her hand, tells me her name is Carmen (which I already knew from my eavesdropping) and that her boyfriend (which is exactly how she introduces him) is Andrew, don’t call him Andy.
“What will happen if I do?” I ask, just to see how she’ll respond.
“Tell her, Andy,” she commands without a hint of a smile.
Without missing a beat, he says, “I’ll feel marginalized, diminished, and be reminded of my inferiority in every way to Andy Bachman, who was my nemesis in first grade.”
Carmen studies me. “You’re an actress.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I told her I thought you were an actress,” Andrew pipes in without looking up.
Carmen nods. “You were mouthing my lines, after the first take. Would you like to try the scene?”
I laugh. Actors are such a competitive species.
“This is his short film for workshop; I’m just helping him out while I’m working a shoot on the Upper East Side. Believe me, you’d be doing me a favor if he cast you instead.”
He reminds Carmen that her call is in an hour, offers her cab money, and to my surprise she grabs my shoulders and kisses my cheek as she leaves.
Meanwhile, her boyfriend has packed up and is ready t
o go. He glances at me.
“You weren’t only mouthing the lines, your face was in character.”
He looks at me so directly. His eyes are deep brown with nice lashes I hadn’t noticed before. Then a smile, which is somehow shy and lopsided. I instantly want to be his friend.
“I was trying to pretend I wasn’t watching you,” he says, “but I was. You were really good. I mean, in that moment when she says, ‘It’s been a while,’ your eyes went straight to anger, which I think was the best choice.”
“Then why did you wait a take to suggest it?”
“I wanted to see if she’d find it for herself.”
For a second he looks as if he’s afraid he was being disrespectful, and he quickly adds, “She’s very experienced. She did eight films in Spain, including two with Almodóvar.” I nod, impressed. He keeps looking at me as if he has something more to say. But instead says, “Nice meeting you.”
“I’m Maggie,” I say.
He smiles. “Nice meeting you, Maggie.”
And heads off toward his day.
Boris is now humping a labradoodle of indeterminate gender, who doesn’t even seem to notice. I pull out my phone to snap some doggie porn for Jade and notice a text from, oh my God, Thomas. It says:
Drinks at 6?
Now. There’s an art to this. Which unfortunately I have yet to master. Boris will be no help. Andrew probably wouldn’t have either. Where is Carmen when you need her? If I write Yes, does that seem too perfunctory or, on the other hand, too eager? How about Why not? Nope, too obviously straining for casualtude. Okay, let’s go with Sure. It’s incredibly boring but avoids any negative I can think of at the moment. Wait a minute. What if I try Love to I just have to move something around? Less available, but dishonest. And I’m saying it’s so important that I’d cancel something else. Is that bad? I mean, I do want him to know that I’m desperate for the role. Maybe Can’t make six, let’s do six thirty. Only if he has a seven o’clock, he’ll just cancel and who knows if I’ll get another chance.
And then, a whole other debate crashes down on me. What kind of drinks are these? Professional—or personal? Is this a date?
If I keep this going until six, I won’t have to worry about it.
I text I think I can make that work. Looking forward. A little bit of everything. Push send. Push send.
“Boris?” I say. “What do you think?”
Thomas chooses a place that is notoriously impossible to get into. Not that the doorways are small, but they are guarded by snippy hostesses whose only pleasure in life is to pretend that they are better than you because they won’t let you into a restaurant that nobody would let them into either.
I’ve actually made it past the sphinx guards of this joint before. A celebutante named Crystal in my acting class likes to take me and Andrea places. I would say that Crystal, like Genghis Khan, has been sadly misjudged by history, but she has been sadly correctly judged by Page Six. I like her, though. And I love the truffled mac and cheese at this place.
I find Thomas at a quality table in the garden. He’s dressed impeccably but casual, and I can’t help but wonder how I’d look in his cashmere sweater. His hair sits soft and perfect, his face relaxed and handsome. The garden is lit with a glow, and I feel like I’m walking into a romantic movie where Thomas is the hunky lead.
Seeing me, he pockets his BlackBerry, stands, kisses one cheek, and holds my chair. He smells good. He asks what I’m drinking. I ask him what this meeting is going to be about so that I can properly select. He likes that. He says, “Chapter one of you taking over the world. Or at least New York.”
I order champagne and immediately feel the stab of fear in my belly that I might get carded. Then I remember he already knows my age. The waitress doesn’t ask and leaves us to the business at hand.
In these situations, an actress has to consider, or act by reflex or instinct, with respect to certain bodily movements. Does one touch one’s hair? Does one cross one’s legs so as to carelessly reveal only the knee or a hint of thigh? Does one lean forward while touching (though certainly not unbuttoning) the top button of her shirt? What is expected? What will be interpreted in what way? Body language while being interviewed by a male casting director can be a type of nonsexual foreplay. Having said all this, at my age I think all of the foregoing is risky. Consequently, I have to be careful not to do it. Which is not as easy as you might think. Particularly when confronted with someone as foxy as Thomas.
“I’m a little nervous,” he says, which makes me feel better.
“Don’t worry,” I respond with my best smile. “I promise I’ll take the part.”
He does seem nervous. He keeps unfolding and refolding the napkin in his lap.
“I’d like to see you have a real shot at this role. The truth is Rosalie or either of the two other actresses could knock you straight off the list. There are high stakes on this show, and networks tend to go for safer choices, which means faces they know. Although with the fourth lead they might well take a chance, particularly if we can lock in the star we want for Lara. I want to be completely honest, I don’t yet know if you’re best for the part or not.”
“Look, I appreciate the lack of bullshit. And I appreciate the shot.”
“I want to be honest about something else,” he says, and my heart jumps. “I want to get to know you better. There are nine years between us, and if that doesn’t scare you, it sure scares me. But I hate the game of pretending I’m not really interested. Like you say, all the bullshit we all live through every day.” At this point, I must have been the one to look nervous because he adds, “I swear to God that nothing about any of this will affect your chances in the slightest.”
The first bullshit. Even if he doesn’t mean it to be. He just rang a bell that can’t be unrung, and my response will not only affect my chances, it well might determine them completely. I’ve been here before, though never with stakes like these. Still, I made my rule on this long ago and promised myself I would never reevaluate it on the spot or on impulse. The rule is to only respond with complete honesty about the personal side of it, with no business considerations whatsoever.
“Okay, I’ll be honest too,” I say. “You’re obviously very attractive. I’d like to get to know you. But I’m not at all interested in casual dating. I only want to be with someone I care about right now. And that takes time.” I know that what I’m saying is totally dorky, but I barrel on. “Truthfully, with me, considerable time. If all that is something you’re really comfortable with, I’d like to know you better.”
He stares in my eyes, and I try hard not to blush. I feel really nervous and a little excited.
“Are you free for dinner Saturday night?” he asks.
“It’s my birthday,” I say, instead of answering.
“Thank God, fourteen at last!” And I laugh. He says he has a business thing and can’t pick me up until eight thirty, but if that was okay, he would be “so honored” to have dinner with me on my birthday.
For the next hour we talk about business. He makes several strategic suggestions, including a way for us to encounter Rosalie socially, that he might never have made without my having agreed to a dinner date. He also talks about a pilot and two films that he is involved in casting and how I might be considered for roles. I have an idealistic heart, but it’s latched to a practical mind. As I listen to Thomas, I have to put aside my illusions about the ideal platonic relationship between casting agent/mentor and little me. If he doesn’t want what he wants already (and he does), he’s going to eventually. And I’d better start thinking about how I’m going to feel about that.
The problem is that I don’t know.
The other problem is, I’ve been thinking about this for so long that I’ve lost track of what he’s talking about, and since I’ve been doing that actress audition thing of looking deeply into his eyes and leaning slightly forward, I’m in trouble.
“So what do you think?” he asks. How convenient.
“Actually, I’m torn.” Please fill in the blanks. Please. Please.
“Well, it’s more a basic career choice.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Two roads diverge in a yellow wood and all that. But which path to take?”
“My advice is, follow your instincts.”
“Thank you. My instinct is to take your advice.”
Boy, he loves that. He changes the subject (to something else I’m not following) and I never do find out what I was covering my butt about. Before I can decide whether he’s a letch in sheep’s clothing or the future father of my future children, he stands up. So I do too.
He kisses me on both cheeks, asks if he can drop me, and when I tell him I’m good, he actually says, “A lot better than good.” Ugh. Okay, nobody’s perfect.
When he offers to put me in a cab, I suppress the instinct to say that it’s only a couple of blocks and I can walk, for fear that he would walk me home and try to kiss me or something. Or something. So I get in the cab, go around the block, overtip out of guilt. And go to bed thinking about him.
Unfortunately, I know I won’t be able to dream about him.
CHAPTER SIX
sloane
I was so distracted this morning I forgot my lunch, so I’m destined to try to digest this slimy-looking cafeteria pizza. In line to pay, I scan the tables for the one face I hope to see. No sign of him. I take my sorry-looking lunch outside. In the past week, I haven’t actually spoken to the guy. More to the point, he not only hasn’t spoken to me, I don’t believe he has ever once looked at me or acknowledged my existence. Admittedly, it seems completely unintentional on his part, as if I’m just any other kid in a world of kids to which he is simply indifferent. It’s a weakness of mine that I take this kind of thing personally. In other words, I would have preferred that he avoided me instead of forgetting that I exist. After all, hadn’t we had this titanic battle of wits? Hadn’t we proved to be two genuine literary intellects at a mediocre school?
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