Lucid

by Adrienne Stoltz; Ron Bass

  He must be able to see it happening because he reaches out and takes my hand, gently kisses each finger, and says, “I’m so happy I finally get to do this, and this, and this…”

  And all is once again well in the world, until he tells me he spoke to Edward Duncan after class this morning. The Dunc, as Andrew calls him, is the professor who’d admired my Inuit accent and who is kind of a mentor and a friend to Andrew. He also happens to be good friends with Macauley Evans. Andrew asked the Dunc to find out why I lost the role.

  “Macauley told Duncan that someone inside the situation, who knew you personally, confided that you have a serious drug problem and that your behavior is extremely erratic.”

  My whole life implodes before my eyes. All the work and sacrifice, the cattle call auditions, weathering every inch of me being picked apart and judged, all for nothing. I’ll be known as uninsurable, unbankable, unworthy. It had to be Thomas. How could anyone be so vindictive and evil and hurtful?

  “Duncan said you’d been Macauley’s first choice.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he come and talk to me about it?”

  “Because people are cowards and take the easy way out. And I guess he would never assume that anyone would be a big enough asshole to lie about something like this. Particularly since Thomas, the prick, recommended you for the role in the first place.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I jump up from the table and run out the door. I don’t know if he’s coming after me because I catch a cab so fast it doesn’t matter.

  On the way to Thomas’s office, I realize that making a scene there will brand me as an unbalanced druggie. So I call on all of my training, pull out my cell phone (ignoring Andrew’s third missed call), find my center (yep, we actually do that), and call Thomas. I make nice to his assistant, and when I get him on the phone, I’m bright and sunny. I tell him I miss him and that maybe now that I’m not going to be doing the show, we can pick things back up.

  He buys it. He asks about Andrew. I say Andrew who? And he asks me to lunch.

  I hang up and say a little prayer before I call to set the essential post-lunch appointment. It is carefully explained that I’m being squeezed in and there will only be a few minutes. That will be plenty. I turn off my phone after texting Andrew that I’m on a vigilante mission and will be in a much better mood by dinner. I need to focus.

  I sort of hide halfway down the street until I see Thomas walk into Nobu. I take ten minutes to both gather my wits and make him wait. When I finally enter, I head straight toward his table. He jumps up with a smile. I smile back and say in my sweetest voice, “Sit the fuck down.”

  Having thus established the proper tone, I take a seat, lean forward keeping my smile in place and my voice low. “Rule number one of this conversation, you have no lines. Here’s what’s going to happen: your career, your professional life, is over. Thank you for your attention.”

  I stand up and walk out of the place. I can’t help high-fiving a random businessman once I’m on the street.

  After scarfing down two victory sandwiches at Pain Quotidien, I’m feeling that a beer or something stronger at some bar that will serve me might give me extra courage, but would also let my afternoon meeting smell something on my breath. Accordingly, my breath becomes laced with hot chocolate.

  I walk into the lobby adorned with movie posters of all the films they’ve cast. The receptionist offers me a seat and a bottle of water. I take a seat as directed and pull out my Kindle. What will I do if Thomas shows up? I decide that if he gets in my face before I get into Rosalie’s office, it will be the second-biggest mistake of his worthless life. The rat never shows and the receptionist misses out on the throw-down of the century.

  Rosalie greets me warmly, probably figuring that this will simply be her chance to reassure a young actress that she has a bright future. Obviously, she has no idea that I know why I lost the role. She begins with all the expected positive and encouraging words, ending by telling me that it was extremely close between me and the other actress.

  “I know it was close. I also know that Macauley had chosen me. I was only denied the role when your employee, Mr. Randazzo, defamed me to all of you by alleging that I had a substance abuse problem. Why no one came to me with this ridiculous story is a bit of a mystery. Why Mr. Randazzo told the lie is not.” I sound a little bit like a lawyer on a procedural TV show, but too late to change tactics now.

  Rosalie sits, listening with attention, revealing nothing on her face. For all I know, she’s pressing some button beneath her desk to call security.

  “Mr. Randazzo has been sexually pursuing me from the moment he met me, trying to dangle this role as an incentive to get me in bed. As you know, I’m underage. When he learned that I was rejecting him and dating someone else…”

  “That nice guy who was with you at the audition. I thought so.”

  “So we have two choices. I turn this over to my attorney, and that’s the end of it. Or you can do some belated due diligence. It’s not possible for someone to have a serious drug problem with no trail of any kind. You can talk to my family, friends, physician, everyone in my life. Police. I’ll happily take a drug test for you right now…”

  “None of that is going to be necessary. You’re a wonderful young actress, but you’re not good enough to be faking this conversation. I will confront Thomas, and unless he can offer some kind of proof, he’ll be fired immediately. I’m sorry to say, terribly sorry to say, that the role has been given to Rebecca McNally; her deal has been closed. I’ll have to find some other way to make this up to you. I promise it will happen.”

  Then she looks at me in silence and says, “I’m sorry for my cowardice. It was easier for all of us to just take the other girl and let it go.”

  I don’t smile. I simply say, “Apology accepted.”

  I stand up. We shake hands. I walk out.

  When I hit the street, I try calling Andrew to explain and apologize. When he doesn’t take my call, I try texting Andrew to explain and apologize, asking him to call me right away. Four ignored stalker calls later, I’m beginning to feel I’m in trouble.

  I go by his apartment. Nope. I could wander the gaggle of buildings that comprise NYU’s non-campus, but I wouldn’t know where to look. I could go home to my apartment and wait, but the idea of being in my empty apartment, alone, makes me feel restless.

  So I sit at Union Square Café and drink tea and worry. I stay there because it’s the only place he knows I go to a lot. Maybe his phone broke again and he’ll come find me here.

  Jimmy puts the bread basket on the empty place setting and takes away the silverware. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says, and touches my shoulder.

  “No. I’m not alone. I mean, I’m alone right now. But that boy, he’s my boyfriend,” I try to explain. I think he’s still my boyfriend.

  At six o’clock, my phone rings. Finally. I give him my cheeriest, “Hi. I’m so sorry.”

  “You ought to be.” But it isn’t really Andrew’s voice. It’s a voice I can’t place at all, apparently a wrong number.

  For some reason, I say, “Excuse me?”

  “I think you should know that I saw Mr. Wonderful with his arm around some French chick shopping for groceries at Puritan and Genesta. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”

  And now I know the voice. It’s Gordy.

  “Sloane? Are you there? I mean, great choice. Just wanted to congratulate you.”

  “Gordy?”

  “Who’s Gordy?” Because the voice now belongs to Andrew. My brain freezes. What is happening? I can’t deal with this, but I have to say something. Of course, I come up with the worst possible alternative.

  “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Well, that was pretty clear, unless you’d forgotten my name.”

  I swallow hard. Close my eyes. “Please. Please don’t be mad at me. It’s been a tough day.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But who is Gordy?”

  “Go
rdy’s nobody. It was a bad connection, and I thought some guy said ‘this is Gordy.’ That’s why I said ‘excuse me.’”

  He buys it. Or maybe not. I beg him to come meet me. There’s a moment of silence. I’m sure I’ve lost him forever. Then…

  “I don’t think I want to see you tonight. Look, I’m really hurt. If we’re together, that’s the last time you shut me out. I’d never do that to you.”

  I try to agree and beg forgiveness, but he cuts me off: “Don’t do that. Just sleep on it, think about it. Okay?”

  “I promise.”

  “Just one more question,” he says. “How did the Thomas thing turn out?”

  “I lost the role. I cleared my name. I got the prick fired.”

  “Two out of three, not a bad day’s work. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

  And he hangs up. He loves me. No boy has ever said that to me before. It feels like a life raft I can cling to.

  I walk around the city for hours. Tonight I’m not making up stories about other people. Amanda this morning, Gordy on the phone. My stomach is in knots. This has never happened before. I have to keep Sloane’s people in my dreams where they belong.

  And as euphoric as I am to hear that Andrew loves me, I walk dark streets knowing that this is the very thing that will ultimately drive him away.

  As I get undressed for bed, usually there is kind of a rising excitement that now I’ll get to be Sloane for a while. Tonight it’s a different feeling. I’m so scared to be in the real world, it’ll be an escape to go to sleep, to run to Mystic, to the world of explaining myself to a fantasy boyfriend who can’t really hurt me even if he leaves.

  Just as I slide under the covers, there’s a knock at my door. A little strange, only because both Nicole and Jade would open the door a nanosecond after knocking. But it doesn’t really register, so I say, “Come in.”

  My door creaks open, slowly. Too slowly to be Nicole or Jade. Who is in my house? Who is coming into my room right now?

  “Sweetheart? I know that every rule has its exceptions. And I know how much your time with James means to you…”

  It’s Sloane’s mother. Walking into my room. Coming toward me, like she is going to touch me or something. I open my throat to scream, but nothing comes out. I pull the covers up so violently that my head bangs against the wall. But she keeps coming, like a ghost, a zombie…

  “We have to talk about this, Sloane.”

  “Stop it!” I yell. “I’m not Sloane!”

  I shut my eyes so tight they hurt. I plug my ears but can still hear…

  “Your curfew is eleven o’clock, and that’s perfectly generous for a girl who’s just turned seventeen.”

  I can feel her body sitting down on the edge of my bed. And I actually say out loud, “Go away, go away, please, please, please…”

  Her voice stops. I open my eyes. Of course there is nothing there.

  But my door is open.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  sloane

  I’m awake, but afraid to open my eyes. So this is what a nightmare feels like. My heart beats in a way I can feel at the base of my throat. I’m sweating all over and my T-shirt is drenched like I have a fever. I force myself to open my eyes, and there is my tree and my room and the real world. It’s raining outside.

  I was right. The dam is leaking. I can’t hold it all back anymore. My tears. My secret. The real world pouring in on Maggie. James punctured the dam. Maybe now that I have him I don’t need her anymore. Maybe it’s all for the best.

  In the shower, I keep thinking about the relief I felt when I told him. I have been protecting and guarding this part of me because I believed it would be horrible for someone to know it. But the release of the pressure that had built up made every detail just gush out of me. And it felt good.

  He didn’t back away in horror as I’d expected. The more I explained, the more he seemed to think it was the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard. He kept saying that I must be brilliant and incredibly creative to be “doing something like this,” as if it’s something I can control.

  The one question he asked over and over again was whether Maggie’s world seems as real to me as my own. I told him that my world was the only real world to me, just as Maggie’s was the only real world to her. So it’s equal.

  He noticed that sometimes I speak of Maggie as if we are separate people. I told him we couldn’t be more different. I described her appearance. I told him all these stories and anecdotes about things that happen to Maggie and how she handles them. About Nicole and Jade, and acting, and Emma, even her flirtation with Thomas. I told him about everything. Except for Andrew.

  I told him how Maggie makes up stories about people and how she sees the world so differently from me.

  “So you get to be things as Maggie that you aren’t willing to be in real life,” he said.

  “She’s very exotic and free-spirited and imaginative and, well, glamorous, I guess. If you knew her, you’d probably prefer her to me,” I told him.

  “Actually, I’d prefer you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I prefer you to anyone.”

  I study my reflection in the mirror and expect to see an entirely different girl. A girl who James would prefer to anyone. A girl who doesn’t have to keep secrets. But it’s just me staring back.

  When I walk into the kitchen for breakfast, my mom turns to me with a serious look. I shudder as I remember seeing my mom in my dream.

  “We have to talk,” she says.

  “We do?”

  “Your curfew is eleven o’clock. And I think that’s perfectly reasonable.”

  I try to remember if those are the exact words she said to Maggie last night. They aren’t. They’re similar, but that shouldn’t be frightening. I did miss curfew, and there are only so many ways to say that.

  “I’m really sorry. James and I were talking, just talking, and I know that’s no excuse, and I’m going to be really careful that it doesn’t happen again.”

  I gulp down my breakfast and hurry out to make the bus, grabbing an umbrella by the door. I skip down the porch steps zipping up my backpack, realizing I’m really late. But when I look up, I’m stopped cold.

  The rain has stopped and there he is. Parked at the curb. Just beautiful and smiling at me, lit like in a movie, like a special ray of sunshine is streaming down just to illuminate those lips I get to kiss. All the snakes and demons in my mind are gone. Because the real world is my perfect boyfriend, deciding to surprise me with a ride to school. This is going to be my real life. Being taken care of by him. Belonging to him. I will cling to this, and never let it go, and everything will be all right.

  I jump in the car and he kisses me. As if that is a small and normal and perfectly understandable thing to do.

  He asks me if we can go somewhere tonight, promising in the same sentence not to break my curfew again. He has a gig playing with some guys at the Bank Street Café in New London. He can’t wait for me to hear him play. He seems nervous and excited about the chance to impress me.

  My boyfriend is a rock star driving a Porsche. Eat that, Maggie. I start to fantasize about the summer; maybe we can drive up to Cape Cod with the top down and I’ll wear big sunglasses and a scarf in my hair, and we’ll rent a shingled big house and roll around together in the surf. I’m already starting to plan my pitch to Mom; I mean, I’ll be almost seventeen and a half—it is the twenty-first century.

  “You know what we should do this summer? I was thinking maybe we could rent some place on the Cape?” I’ll blow out my vet money.

  He’s silent and just keeps looking at the road.

  “Unless you want to do something else,” I say, backpedaling.

  “It isn’t that,” he says. “I just have plans to go surfing in Costa Rica with these guys. I have been thinking about going to Peru and doing the Inca trail after that. I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time.”

  I am in shock. He’s abandoni
ng me and I look like an idiot for thinking otherwise.

  “But,” he adds, “I could come back like a week before school starts, and we could do something. Anything you want.”

  He throws me a bone. And I’m grateful. And even more embarrassed, my expectations in check. I’ve always wanted to do something different during the summer, something other than working at the vet, going to the beach or out on Gordy’s boat on my days off, having dinner with my family every night on our back porch. I was getting ahead of myself by thinking James was my ticket out of town.

  He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh. As if that will make everything all right. And of course, it does. For the moment.

  All morning long in class, it isn’t so all right anymore. I mean, even if he isn’t going to cancel on his buddies, he could invite me along. And certainly Peru, where it sounded like he was going alone anyway. Maybe he thinks my parents won’t let me go, but that’s no excuse for not asking. Maybe Kelly is right.

  At lunch, we are all crammed into the cafeteria because the rain has left the grass muddy and messy. It is noisy and there’s nowhere to hide. I still feel like an animal in the zoo the way people are staring at me. No one is gawking at James that way, of course. I watch him walk with his tray and sit down with Lee Parker and a bunch of guys from Double Negative, a surprisingly good local band that plays hot venues like the Elks club. No one is glaring at him or whispering when he walks by. They save it for me.

  Kelly and Lila download me on the latest about my reputation as a backstabbing slutty man stealer. Not to worry, that rep is completely intact. Street cred to spare. Apparently, Amanda has put the word out that she and James broke up before I shamelessly seduced him. So technically, I’m not a complete felon. Just a hooker in the right place at the right time. You can imagine my relief.