“Well.” I certainly have his attention. “The casting director is this older guy. Maybe twenty-five, even. And he wants to date me. He said so. Just put it out on the table. And he says that this has nothing to do with my chance to read for the role. And he says that he has other opportunities I’d be right for. And, of course, that also has nothing to do with whether I see him.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
“Very.” I try to see if he looks disappointed, but in the fading light his face is hard to read.
“I’m sorry to tell you that you already know what you’re asking me. If you hook up with this guy, and I don’t just mean kiss him good night and lead him along, but if you sleep with him, he’ll give you a shot at this role. So you’ll keep sleeping with him. And that doesn’t make him evil. And it doesn’t make you opportunistic. And I don’t want you to do it.”
“The bummer part is, if he’d just been a lawyer or something, I might want to date him. He hasn’t been funny yet, and that’s sort of the last hurdle. But being who he is, I don’t know if I’d wonder that I was dating him for the wrong reasons. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. But I think you should absolutely trust yourself. If this is the guy for you, don’t let his job stand in your way. In fact, don’t let anything stand in your way.”
And then he said, “Finding the right person. The person you belong to. Is the most important thing there is.”
I tell him, “Today’s my birthday. My seventeenth birthday.”
“Get out of here! Your actual birthday?”
“All day.” I’m quite the phrase maker.
“Cancel your stupid casting thing and let me take you to Katz’s for pie à la mode and a fake orgasm.”
I laugh. That’s everyone’s favorite scene from When Harry Met Sally. I wonder how many fake orgasms those poor waitresses have to live through every night. I wonder what it would be like to have a fake orgasm with him.
Later, staring into my closet, I realize that I have no idea where Thomas is taking me for dinner. Major problem. I text and call. Nada. Well, I could dress down the middle, but what the heck does that even mean? What’s more embarrassing? Underdressed or overdressed? The obvious answer is overdressed because underdressed indicates too cool for school, what do we care what anybody thinks. Overdressed means desperate to impress. But my spider sense tells me to dress to the nines. This guy likes me, he knows it’s my birthday, he’s not taking me to the sushi place around the corner. We start with a little black dress. How little? Maybe not so little. Tight and short makes a girl look young; that’s not what I’m going for. Tight and longer is more sophisticated, which can be its own trap because you don’t want to look like a young girl trying to look older. But I go with that dress because it fits me best. Four-inch heels, no way to hide these, just have to take the shot we’re not going bowling. I raid Nicole’s jewelry box for some chunky cool pieces. I sweep up my hair and let one strand fall over my bare shoulder.
I feel confident, which makes me think I’m not so interested in this guy. Why would that be? I thought I was interested. I told Andrew I was interested. He even encouraged me to be interested. That’s why. I do not want one attractive male telling me to go for another. What I really want is every attractive male to want me for himself. Okay, that’s simple. There’s nothing wrong. I’m just self-centered.
When he appears at my door, I resist the urge to tell him that I’m going to run and change. There’d be no point unless I ran all the way to the magic closet at Elle. I’m wearing my very best and it isn’t nearly good enough. He is actually in black tie. And looks as fine as any model in a Tom Ford ad. He apologizes, explaining that after supper, we have to attend a private screening of a client’s film at Donna Karan’s co-op on Central Park West, after which we are “obligated to fall by the after party.” It turns out that the same film was having a preview downtown, which was too hoi polloi for us insiders, but all the little people would expect us to make an appearance at the party.
Subsequent remarks make it clear that he does not want to be labeled as someone who is impressed by wealth and fame and power. I sure am. I have serious stars in my eyes. It’s true that probably lots of those people are jerks. Probably lots of them are far nicer and more interesting than those of us down in the hoi polloi give them credit for being. I’m looking forward to finding out who is which. Believe me, if I had glass slippers, I’d be slipping them on.
He bundles me into a Town Car, nothing extraordinary, but it was a royal carriage for me. All the way to dinner, he keeps telling me how incredible I look. It’s repetitive but doesn’t get tiresome. He sounds like he means it and that I’ve sort of exceeded his expectations. I have no mixed feelings about any of that. I like it.
Dinner is only at Jean-Georges, which is walking distance to Donna’s place and one of the half-dozen best restaurants in Manhattan. Thomas apparently eats here a lot; everyone knows him. I like that too. I like wondering whether the day would come when everybody there knew me. Sitting there with him, I felt like there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to have this be my actual life. Not meaning on the couch, but how hard I’m willing to work to make premieres and elegant dinners part of my existence.
Tonight, he orders champagne. As if he can read my mind, he smiles and says that if they card me, it would be the first time in a place like this that the staff want their other customers to know how young the most beautiful woman in the place actually is. No card is requested.
Throughout the meal, he has impeccable manners, never seems in a rush to make our screening, gives me all his attention. In fact, he makes me feel as if he would be happy just sitting here and talking to me and looking at me for the rest of his life.
There is never an awkward silence and he never brings up business. The entire conversation is about me. My background, my preferences, my ambitions. He still hasn’t been funny. But he really thinks I am. Which makes me wonder what it would be like spending my life with a guy I could always make laugh but who could never make me laugh. I do love an audience.
At a quarter to ten, they bring a hunk of baked Alaska with a sparkling candle. When I blow it out, my silent wish is that Sloane will have a date with James as perfect as this one.
We walk the six blocks to the building that I recognize as the place from Ghostbusters. I smile to myself, thinking that it’s totally in keeping with my birthday theme. I’ll have to bring Andrew here sometime. Thomas is taller than I remember as he walks beside me. That’s a good thing. His hair is still spectacular, but the rest of him has sort of caught up to it. An even better thing.
The apartment is breathtaking. I’ve never been in a more sophisticated home. Light-filled areas flow into one another in a loungey, sexy way. Everything is decorated in a classic black-and-white palette with sumptuous fabrics and smooth surfaces. The glass external walls open up to terraces overlooking the park. Gorgeous people mill and mingle.
I’m introduced to two dozen persons of power; several are names I know, and above all, Rosalie Woods, who is super-nice and treats me as if I belong here. In fact, there is a moment when we are alone, and she tells me that Thomas has been telling her how great I’d be as Robin and she can now see why. She says she can’t wait to see me read for the role. And then we are ushered to sit down.
My heart is in my throat through the entire screening. I’m barely aware of the film we are watching. I can only think, Is this the moment? Is this my chance?
Thomas sits between me and Rosalie. He never holds my hand or does anything overt. Our thighs brush occasionally, and I feel a charge from the warmth.
When it’s over, everyone looks me in the eye during the goodbyes, one producer gives me his card, a talent agent from ICM suggests lunch, Rosalie squeezes my hand and says, “See you soon.”
It is thrilling and feels like a dream I’d have—if I dreamed about my own life.
Before we head out, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. On
my way I bump into one of the actresses from the film. She is gorgeous and groomed and glares at me as I begin to compliment her performance.
She interrupts me with, “So how long have you known Thomas?” There is an edge to her voice that really sets me back.
I mumble something clumsy about scarcely knowing him at all and that he is interested in me for something they are casting.
“Sure he is,” she says, brushing by me. “Nice shoes.”
Of course I’m now incredibly insecure about my shoes. I curl my feet under my dress in the Town Car as we head to the after party. I decide to tell Thomas about my encounter with the unfriendly starlet.
There’s a moment of silence. And then he tells me just a little too casually that they used to see each other. “It was no big deal, it ended a while ago, but actresses are competitive by nature, no offense. It’s all just stupid industry stuff,” he says.
None of that lands well with me. And I suddenly worry that the guy I’ve been painting as a prince all night is really a wolf in a nice suit.
Then he turns to me. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Nope. Are you?”
“No. I told you that I wanted to date you. Why would I say that if I was already seeing someone?”
That was pretty direct. My faith in him restored, I relax. But the best I can respond with is, “So since I’m out with you tonight, why would you have to ask me that question?”
“Because you haven’t said you want to date me. Because sometimes women spend time with me because I have something to offer, like the girl you just met. And you haven’t said anything that would be misleading or unfair if that were the only reason we were together tonight.”
“That’s a mouthful. What does it mean?”
“It means I want to kiss you.”
In the next nanosecond, my thoughts flash from first, do I want to kiss him? Definitely yes and no, which is not uncommon for me. Second, what’s the consequence of not kissing him? He’ll be hurt; he really stuck his neck out. Maybe I’ll never get a second chance. Although that might not be a bad thing. Draw the line now. He sure can’t say I led him on; in fact, he just acknowledged I hadn’t. I might lose the role. Or he might take rejection as a challenge, making him even more interested. My last flash of thought was what would Andrew say?
Then I lean and kiss him. I try to keep it tender, sweet, and sincere. His lips are soft; up close his skin smells like something I can’t name but really like. But I feel this kiss is letting us both down. Because as it’s happening, I can’t stop wondering why I’m kissing him. I know that I want this life, the life that this one night promises, more than I know I want him. If that is terrible, it is at least honest. Luckily, he’s not a mind reader and seems to very much enjoy our kiss.
The party is in some fancy club, a blur of people he wants me to meet, and I feel so conflicted about the kiss that I’m not paying much attention to anything but my disappointment in myself. So of course, the party lasts about ten years.
Then at my front door, he suddenly grabs me and kisses me hard, and I feel the jolt that I want to feel in a moment like that. So I kiss him back and feel happy. He can see that and it makes him happy too. He says he’ll call me. I say he’d better.
The apartment is dark. I have a text from Nicole that she’s working late. Jade left me a note reminding me she and Boris are sleeping at Tomiko’s. The postscript wishes me a happy birthday. She’s drawn a picture of her and Boris holding a big cake with stars as flames on the candles. It’s not baked Alaska, but it looks pretty delicious.
As I put on my pajamas, I think of that kiss at the door. And I go to bed smiling.
Best birthday in a long, long time.
CHAPTER TEN
sloane
I open my eyes to blinding sunlight. The sunniest, brightest morning I can remember. My elm looks like she’s dancing. And I want to cry. It’s my birthday.
The weight of Bill is all I can feel. Maggie just had this amazing day, even though she was sad about her dad. Maggie chooses the healthy perspective every chance she gets. And I have trouble not focusing on the darkness. Sometimes I wish I really were Maggie. Only Maggie.
Maybe I am.
There’s one sharp knock on my door and then it flies open and Kelly flashes through it and pounces on my bed and me.
“Happy birthday, Kitten Breath. Wow, you look awful.”
“Do I know you?”
She pulls a small leather pouch from her pocket.
“Gordy told me he’s kidnapping you for the whole day, so I wanted to get in while I could. Here, open it. And don’t forget to look excited.”
Kelly is an incredible artist. She made me a necklace from two exquisite pieces of malachite. It is unique and so lovely. She can tell how much I appreciate them and her. She gives me a kiss.
“So how was the big double date? I mean Lila is jonesing for details.”
“Well, it was nothing special. The minute our eyes met, we knew we belonged to each other, and ignoring our dates, we climbed on the table, tore each other’s clothes off, and fulfilled Lila’s every fantasy.”
She stares at me with a funny look. “You sure it’s only Lila’s fantasy?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not doing as good a job as you think you are of hiding how you feel about him,” she says, snuggling next to me. “And I think you’re only obsessing on him because you can’t have him.”
Then she wrinkles her nose and says, “I think you’re forgetting that not having him is the good news. You were right when you said he’s not going to bring anyone any happiness. He’s like a heart pulverizer. Dating him would be a constant angsty stomachache. You’ve been gloomy enough this year.”
I smile, a little uncomfortable with both the transparency of my crush and the confirmation that it’s delusional. I’m also worried she’s probing into why I’ve walled myself off. So I squirm. “What are you even saying?”
“I’m saying that you’d rather moon after some unobtainable fantasy than risk having a real relationship with the guy who’s right in front of your nose.”
I blink. “You mean Gordy??”
Kelly rolls her eyes. “Thanks for proving my point. Yeah, how stupid of me to think that the best-looking guy in our town, who also happens to be the sweetest and nicest guy ever, and completely perfect for you in every way since preschool, is a guy you should be interested in. What a crazy idea!”
I laugh. “Kel, Gordy is like…”
“Don’t say it. Don’t say he’s like your brother. That’s your choice. That’s been your choice. That’s how you keep yourself safe from going for it. And I think it’s crazy.”
She climbs off my bed. Takes my hands in hers. “Sloanie girl, you are seventeen; this means you are officially, legally, only one year underage. You are allowed to be kissed with a moderate amount of tongue. Make me proud and give Gordy the first shot.” She kisses me, without any tongue, and disappears.
As I’m getting dressed, I decide to wear my good jeans and a cotton flowy top that shows off my shoulders. I wear my new necklace. And take the time to do my hair. I mean, it’s just breakfast with my folks. And then hanging with Gordy. But it’s my birthday, so maybe I should make a little effort.
I can smell my dad’s special pancakes being slightly burned, I can hear Max’s excited yelp and mom’s soothing voice, and I recognize how lucky I am. Maggie’s family doesn’t make much of her birthday. Jade gave her a card and a hug. Nicole sent her an e-card and a gift certificate to Net-a-Porter (both sent from Jerome’s email address as if a reminder had popped up on his calendar that morning).
A little chill runs through me. Why would I want to fantasize that I’m a lonely girl with an inattentive mother and a tragically dead father and no real friends to speak of besides my little sister? Doesn’t it make more sense that I’m Maggie, dreaming of a life where she’s about to scarf pancakes burned with love? That’s craziness, I know. But maybe
I need to think of my life as the dream life. Maybe that will help me appreciate and enjoy it more.
Downstairs, the birthday brigade has decorated with balloons and a big cheesy banner and they are all wearing those shiny cone hats and Daddy has piled like eight pancakes with a huge candle that is already lit. They applaud as I enter the room. I curtsy, like the royalty I am this morning. The first hug comes from Tyler; Max is lined up next and actually nuzzles in. He doesn’t even de-slime himself after. My mom holds me tight and rocks me in her arms.
“I’m not entirely sure that I’m willing to give you up to Gordy for your whole birthday. He really is too possessive.”
The last hug comes from the only dad that Maggie and I have left, and in that sense it is the most special of all. He murmurs in my ear, “Sleep well?”
“Very. With lovely dreams.” I can feel his relief. At least for the moment. And I’m relieved. Protecting my secret is sometimes exhausting. There have been moments like yesterday morning, where I test the water, consider telling the truth. But the fear of the dam crumbling and the tsunami of my insanity drowning us all is far greater than the burden of secrecy.
They gather in a circle, waiting for me to blow out my pancake candle. My silent wish is that they could always be safe and be together. Even if someday I disappear. If it ever happened, I couldn’t bear the thought of dragging them down with me.
I stuff myself with about half the pancakes. Tyler takes pity on me by stealing several from my plate, and I pretend to be angry.
Gordy arrives. He seamlessly fits into the picture of breakfast in our kitchen. He helps himself to pancakes and admires Max’s present to me. It is a frame he made himself out of clay. The photograph inside is of me and Max and Bill from just over a year ago. We are all climbing the elm. Bill’s strong arms are supporting Max on a low branch in a way that made Max feel like he was doing it himself. I’m upside down like a monkey.
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