Lucid

by Adrienne Stoltz; Ron Bass

  “And obviously, you told her you were crazy about this new girl and she was simply too late.”

  “I told her there was someone new. She asked if she could just come and talk to me. And I said yes. And I said it because I didn’t know how I’d feel when I saw her. I mean, you’re a normal person, you can’t imagine what it’s like to have been obsessed with someone, believing they are the key to your happiness, knowing that they will never want you, and all of a sudden hearing that they do.”

  Of course I know exactly what he means, and I know whatever the outcome of this story, I can never hate him for this.

  “All the way to the airport, I was thinking about how I treated you last night.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Like I had something else on my mind. Which I did. And I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “So what happened? Where is she?”

  “She got off the plane, there was one kiss, and I knew. I knew that I had been a stupid punk who had talked himself into some big tragic romance because a pretty girl had dumped him for the first time. And I knew that the girl who I really wanted to be with was probably hating me for being an asshole, and I couldn’t believe that I’d blown it. And there I was with Caroline.”

  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t.

  “So. We had the awful, awkward day of my telling her that this wouldn’t work and hoping that she was feeling the same.”

  “Did she?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “If you’re saying that you want us to start over, then I don’t care about anything else.”

  He looks so relieved and so happy. He actually didn’t know how this would turn out. He doesn’t know how much I want him to be mine.

  Then he slides his arms around me and gives me a kiss so soft and so beautiful that I know I’ll remember it forever.

  He wants to go somewhere so we can talk. If only I was Maggie or Caroline and not a high school junior living at home, but since I’m already late for curfew and don’t want to be grounded, I tear myself away. He walks me to my door. There is one more kiss, which is long and deep and completely thrilling. Then I’m inside, my house is still standing, the world is still spinning, and James Waters belongs to me.

  It takes a while to fall asleep. I stare up at the constellations glowing above me. The Field of Wildflowers, missing my wish star. I have a boyfriend. He is going to call me, and be excited to see me, and hold my hand, and we’ll make out, and every future in the world is possible.

  Everything I thought about James this morning has been absolutely turned upside down. Except for one thing. Nothing on this earth or in heaven above will ever make me tell him that I am insane.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  maggie

  I wake up on Andrew’s couch, snuggled in the down comforter that he took from his bed and placed over me while I slept. To a normal person, this wouldn’t be a terrifying realization, but my stomach turns into a block of ice. What if he had woken me up in the middle of the night? What would have happened? I know the answer in a split second, and I know that Emma would be smirking triumphantly when she came to the same conclusion. If I were to be awakened in the middle of the night, Sloane’s day would disappear, and there would no longer be the luxury of sort of pretending both lives exist. I would know that Sloane is simply a character I’m making up, like any stranger on the street.

  Emma would say, of course I’ve always known this. And I have. But the big thing she misses is that the thrill of it is the ability to almost forget that I know it. To 90 percent believe that I can be two different people in two different places with two different lives. And as much as Emma denies it, I believe in my heart that anyone would do the same if they could.

  Andrew’s one-bedroom apartment is impeccably neat with thoughtful pieces of furniture he obviously put effort into finding. It’s not your average nineteen-year-old’s college dorm room with IKEA bookshelves and a ratty couch. He’s clearly decorated the space on a budget, but rather than spending $129 on a flimsy Swedish bookcase you put together with an Allen key, he made one from rough planks of wood and glass blocks. Like all directors, he pays attention to detail: the books are organized by subject in a visually pleasing way.

  He walks into the living room and sits on the couch, his body actually touching mine through the comforter.

  “How did you sleep?” A loaded question.

  “Sloane had the best day, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Details.”

  I take a breath. This is the Pandora’s box I opened. Now he’s going to be constantly interested in Sloane, and I will be defined by my craziness and he won’t be interested in just me anymore.

  “She is beyond ecstatic because the boy—”

  “Wasn’t cheating on her after all?”

  “He was, sort of, but he dumped the other girl because he’s in love with Sloane. Or at least really into her.”

  “So you’re creating a situation where the guy who represents Thomas turns out to be a good guy after all so you can work it all through in a dream.”

  “First of all, one shrink is bad enough. Second, Thomas is absolutely nothing like James, and it doesn’t work that way. I don’t control Sloane’s life. I just watch it. And the people who inhabit her world don’t have anything to do with anyone in the real world. Or I should say, in my world.”

  He smiles. “No, you should say ‘in the real world.’ The only thing wrong with all of this is if you start to get confused.”

  I sigh. “That’s the fun of it. To see how close I can come to believing she’s real and not actually me at all. Otherwise, it’s just like a story I’m writing.”

  “So what does your shrink say? Does he think that’s a dangerous game?”

  “She thinks it’s dangerous. She thinks I could go truly crazy. Which I must be to be telling all this to you.”

  He strokes my arm, still through the comforter. “I’m honored you shared it with me. And I’m sorry if I’m prying. We can talk about this never, or always, or whenever you need to. I mean 24/7. Really.”

  He tells me that he doesn’t want to know what I want for breakfast because what he is going to make me would be better. Andrew grew up on the Upper East Side. His parents divorced when he was eleven, and Andrew moved to Long Island with his mom while his brother, Todd, stayed with his dad. His mom is apparently an amazing cook, and Andrew always loved being in the kitchen with her. He proudly shows off a binder full of recipes they created together. Complete with photos of the dish and some shots of Andrew eating. His smile has always been like that.

  He makes little pizzas with fresh buffalo mozzarella on top of English muffins topped with fried eggs. Then he sautés prosciutto with garlic and porcini mushrooms. I almost lose consciousness it is so delicious.

  As we are eating, I get a text from Thomas. He hopes I’m okay and apologizes again for last night, as if he did something wrong, which he didn’t. It is pretty sweet. I immediately get a second text (thereby separating business from business) apologizing for the late notice (forty-five minutes), but I need to get my scrawny butt down to a rehearsal stage because some actress they were flying in from LA missed her flight and Thomas has persuaded Macauley to give me a shot at a scene with Ryan O’Donnell, who has been cast as the male lead in Innuendo.

  I just stare at the screen, having a total brain melt. But when I tell Andrew what’s up, he swings into action. Pulls me out of the chair, throws me toward the bathroom, telling me Carmen left makeup in there. He irons my shirt. Seriously. He even pulls a full-size ironing board from the depths of his closet.

  We jump into the GEM. “You realize, of course, I’m wearing my walk of shame clothes, and Thomas will see them. And it will be over between us.”

  “Okay. What exactly will be over between you? The not-having-a-relationship part? Or did he send you a text that made you fall in love?”

  I have to smile. “Well, his text was pr
etty sweet.”

  “Concentrate. How well do you know this scene?”

  “That’s hard to answer. Since I have absolutely no idea what scene they want.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “They will know this, and it will be easier for you to exceed their expectations.”

  He weaves through traffic at what seems like three hundred miles an hour (the GEM tops out at a maniacal thirty-five), defying all traffic rules, and occasionally gravity.

  “Just one question,” I say. “Is there anything I could say that you would interpret as bad news?”

  “Absolutely not. Positive! Energy up! Confidence, confidence, confidence. You are going to absolutely blow this guy away; he’s gonna can Blake Lively and you’ll get the first lead.”

  He drops me off at the place, and I tell him there is no way I can do this without him. He is clearly delighted. As we sprint through the lobby, he is inspired. “We’ll tell them I’m your dialect coach from a workshop at NYU!”

  “Brilliant!” I exclaim.

  Thomas isn’t buying it. He looks at Andrew (who despite being very tall does not look older than his nineteen years) and my clothes from the night before and draws a logical conclusion. At first, I think this means he’ll never speak to me again, after burying me with Macauley behind my back. But it eventually becomes evident that this has only fired up his competitive instincts; he’s certain that he can mop the floor with this nobody. I leave them to compare whose bicep is bigger.

  The PA hustles me into a makeshift wardrobe room and puts me into a nightgown, which is basically see-through. I feel a little weird about it, but I want this role so much that I try not to care. She insists I take off my bra and offers Nippies (which are every bit as repulsive as they sound). Then we argue over my underwear. The best she offers is a nude-colored thong, because if my butt isn’t bare, they won’t even do the scene. I steady myself and tell her to ask the director to come in so that I can discuss this with him. She gives me a look that means I’m not only risking her job, but that she will personally make it her life’s work to ruin me.

  “Fine,” I say, “I’ll go ask him myself.”

  The PA disappears. Macauley knocks on the door. When he comes in, he apologizes for Cheryl’s behavior, tells me that of course I can wear my underpants, and asks if I’m comfortable without my bra. I lie and say that I am. I would not be truly comfortable with this even if I didn’t personally know two of the guys watching the audition. More than the embarrassment that Thomas was fondling my bra strap last night, I’m so sorry that I invited Andrew to this rodeo.

  Macauley then goes over the sides with me. It is a scene I know well, and it is pretty sexy. I have to hug the outrageously gorgeous Ryan from behind, nuzzle his ear, and sort of use my body to convince him to do what Robin wants him to do. He will then turn, kiss me, I will get incredibly turned on, he will tell me how beautiful I am, bury his hands in my hair, and that’s it. Nothing terribly intrusive, except for the way I’m not dressed.

  I tell Macauley that I understand why he chose this scene. The dialogue reveals the complexity of Robin’s apparent desire being only a cover for her taking revenge on Blake Lively’s character, but in a subtle enough way that the viewer will only realize this in retrospect.

  Macauley nods like he appreciates I actually have a brain, but we are really all here to judge my ass. He is honest enough to say that the wardrobe choice is because he needs to see if we are physically right together on camera. Which means, can I play hot enough for the role. Which also means that I will have to really work it.

  Quite an experience. Naked, in the arms of a godlike beautiful twenty-five-year-old man with a twelve-pack, while my once-and-possibly-future boyfriend watches alongside my platonic-friend-you-could-cut-the-sexual-tension-with-a-knife.

  I have to get into Robin’s sexuality, which is hard for me because I need to make it just manipulative enough to show a hint of hidden agenda while being totally hot on the surface. And, let’s face it, I’m still fumbling through my own sexuality. Someone might ask if it’s a turn-on to have Ryan’s hands on my body. Sure. But at the same time, I don’t have to think about where this is going or what is going to happen between us, so my mind is on my performance while my hormones are on autopilot.

  Thomas thinks I’m wonderful, and very sexy. And tells me that was the biggest question to be answered in Macauley’s mind. When we are alone back in wardrobe, Thomas asks if we are okay. I tell him, of course, and that all the apologies were on my end. He kisses me very sweetly and tells me we can take it as slow as I need to.

  Then he gives me the grand inquisition about who is Andrew, how long has he been my dialect coach, what are his credentials, why have I never mentioned him, and why am I in last night’s clothes.

  I lie. Like a Persian rug.

  Andrew is a friend of the family, who used me once for a student film, where he coached me on my Inuit accent. We became friends, and he needs me to see him through his breakup with a Latin bombshell. As to the clothes, I point out to Thomas that he gave me thirteen seconds notice, and I made the snap decision that last night’s clothes were the best outfit to present myself to Macauley, all things considered. And by the way, what the hell is he implying? That I slept with Andrew last night?

  He laughs and answers my lies with one of his own. That’s the last thing on his mind.

  This settled, he leaves my dressing room, Macauley enters, gives me an enthusiastic hug, and tells me I was nothing short of perfect. He thanks me for coming in and tells me that the role is now between me and the girl from LA, whom he still will have to read because he committed to her agent. I can’t believe it. I feel giddy. And so grateful to Thomas for making this happen.

  As Andrew and I are leaving, a male voice calls my name. I turn to see Ryan hurrying toward me in a shirt unbuttoned down to his pants. He looks too good to eat. An innocent smile lights his face as he takes both of my hands in his.

  “Mags, you were magical. Where have you been? I mean did you feel it too?” He stares deep in my eyes.

  “The gentleman asked you a question,” says Andrew in a pleasant and neutral voice.

  So gazing into Ryan’s eyes with the required “I would do you right here on the floor” look, I say, “My God, I so did. All I’ve been wondering was whether you felt it too.”

  “How could you doubt it? I’ve been talking to Macauley and telling him that you can’t waste chemistry like this. The show deserves it.”

  “Well.” I smile. “Anything for the show.”

  “Mags. I want you. To work with me.”

  Andrew and I skip downstairs.

  Doing a reasonable imitation of Ryan’s voice, Andrew waggles his eyebrows: “Mags. I want you. To have sex with me. So that you’ll think I’m getting Macauley to give you a role, but I’m also having sex with five other actresses, promising them the same thing.”

  “Hey. At least I’d get to have sex with him.”

  That stops him cold. It also reveals that he is utterly and overwhelmingly jealous. I love, love, love that.

  He has schoolwork and a life to deal with. I promised Jade that she could pick a matinee, so of course she picks the debut feature of some chick from the Disney Channel who has yet to become a star, develop any discernible talent, or go to rehab. Although the film sucks and is completely cringe worthy, Jade loves it. To the point where she nearly loses my respect. She does bust me on humming along to one of the power ballads.

  Afterward, she asks if we can have dinner with Andrew. I say, “Andrew who?”

  “I made him cinnamon buns to thank him for my skates. I was only the fourth-worst skater at the party, so I fit right in.”

  So she texts him, he comes over and makes bucatini for us, and we have Pillsbury cinnamon buns for dessert. Nicole has a date with a bald guy in a turtleneck (don’t even ask). Jade and Andrew have a dance-off with Wii Just Dance! He wins to a raucous rendition of Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” She asks if he’ll put her to
bed, and once she’s asleep, I make tea and we plop on the couch.

  He takes a New Yorker from the coffee table and flips pages so he can look casual when he asks, “You wouldn’t really date that guy, would you?”

  I laugh. “Depends on my alternatives. Which brings us to, what’d you think of Thomas?”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “I think he’s boring, I think there’s a lot less there than meets the eye, and I think his manicure cost more than his hair goop, his eyebrows have been tweezed within an inch of their life. He’s shallow and high maintenance. That was my first impression. The longer we spoke, the less I liked him.”

  “Then I guess we’re back to Ryan. I mean I don’t have other alternatives. At least not that I know of.”

  “Well, we don’t want to disrespect Sloane’s new boyfriend, do we? What’s his name?”

  “His name is James Waters.”

  “Who do you think James would prefer if he had the choice? Sloane or you?”

  So I actually think about that. “Maybe me.”

  “Fascinating! I’m sorry, I know I promised not to bug you about this, but it is the single coolest thing I’ve ever heard of. Has James kissed you, I mean her, yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes which? You or her?”

  “Her, of course. He hasn’t met me, yet.”

  “So how are you and Sloane different, besides the blond and the boobs?”

  “Um, would it be okay if that’s enough about Sloane for tonight?”

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  Then I make the mistake of offering, “Don’t pout. You can ask one more question.”

  And straight back like a shot, “Who would I like better?”

  I pause and pretend to be thinking it over, but really I’m digesting my annoyance at the question.