“Can’t you just run them over?” Brian growled, “You guys are going to miss everything. We have seventeen minutes to get you there. Fuck!”
Suddenly his phone rang, and he replied, “Right. Okay, that’s what we’ll do, man. Okay, he’s going to come right out. I’ll bring his clothes now.”
Brian said, “Okay, JT. We can get you there faster if we get you out of the car here, walk you to the hotel room to change, do your makeup, and then deliver you by foot to the red carpet.”
“And where do we meet you?” Laura asked vehemently.
“I’ll call you. You’ll probably only be a block away by the time we’re done.”
“Brian, we are not missing the premiere, do you understand?”
“No, you won’t.”
“There’s no fucking way, Brian,” Laura insisted.
Geoff pulled my clothes off the hook and passed them to Brian, who swung the van door open with such force that it bounced back and hit Geoff in the elbow. Industry fervor. The clothes sparkled in their plastic bag. Brian started to herd me down the street to the hotel. It was hot out and smelled like gasoline and ocean. You could feel the brightness of the sea reflecting the sun. Brian was body-blocking now, pushing people aside, using a lot of force for such a little person. I could see Asia and The Heart’s press manager running up ahead of us. We passed boys in polo shirts and girls in dresses, all wearing ogre ears. We made our way across a road divider shaded by an even row of palm trees, their red fruit littering the well-kept grass. The Shrek fans moaned with excitement. Up ahead, on top of the premiere theater, a football goal-sized screen had been erected. The green ogre princess shimmered, and then Cameron Diaz appeared in a white evening gown, waving to fans on the red carpet.
Brian hurriedly dragged me into the hotel lobby, which was like a dim capsule, air-conditioned and sound-proofed. Asia’s manager pressed the elevator button. We all watched as the digitized numbers stood still and then flipped down through the floor numbers. Brian’s foot tapped impatiently. A group of people, talking loudly, exited the elevator, reeking of perfume. We reached our reserved room, where a brawny man with an orange spray-tan stood at attention with his palette and brushes laid out on a mahogany coffee table. Asia wiggled into her dress, leaving the zipper open. She sat down for makeup. The manager pulled my clothes out of the garment bag.
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Brian called out, rushing off somewhere.
The manager didn’t reply. He exclaimed to Asia, “I love this! Asia! Fantastic!”
“It’s such a boring dress!” Asia moped.
“It is not! It is classic. It says everything you want it to say!” he clapped his hands together. It was a ’40s-inspired cocktail dress in black silk crepe.
“Who made this?” he asked.
“Fendi,” she said, chagrined.
“Oh-la-la,” the makeup artist murmured.
“I feel like it’s so conventional and . . . prissy. I am doing it because of my contract with Fendi. It is to feed my child.”
“I love it! Darling! No excuses. Love it. Now, JT, you don’t have a cummerbund, do you?”
I shook my head. My shirt had sequins embroidered on it—wasn’t that enough?
He clucked his tongue.
“You will not look right without a cummerbund. Do you want mine?”
He pulled a bright red satin one from his Vuitton saddlebag.
“No. I . . . Let me just put my clothes on.”
I went into the bathroom.
When I came out he said, “Can’t you take that silly wig off?”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“And those silly sunglasses?”
“He won’t.” Asia said through pouty lips as the makeup artist applied the finishing touches. Her face was powdered like a truffle.
“Oddball. But you’re right, you don’t need that cummerbund. Oh merde, we have to go. Are we ready?”
Asia looked in the mirror.
“You put too much makeup on me! It makes me look like a transvestite!”
He had done her eyebrows a little heavily.
“I just wanted you to look glamorous! You must look good for the cameras,” the makeup artist said defensively.
Asia stood up, windshield wiping her face with her hands. As she examined herself in the mirror, she cried, “I’m fat!”
“You are not,” I said in a low voice.
“Darling, you are not fat! Though we all want to slim down for the cameras.” The manager lifted his hands and glided them down his hips. “Puts ten pounds on, Darling!” he said, zipping up the back of her dress. She rolled her eyes at him as if he were her great aunt and she were a teenager.
At one point the night before, when we met outside on the stone steps of the villa, Asia had grabbed at her belly through her layers of T-shirt and moaned, “I am so fat,” in the same tone. She wore sneakers and her Bic-scrawled jeans and a dowdy sweater. Her hair fell in her eyes. She plunged into her pasta carbonara, saying with a full mouth, “God, I need a glass of wine to go with this.” I agreed with her, and she gave me a look like, “You don’t need it like I need it.” I had ordered the crudités, an anorexic meal consisting of whole radishes, endive, carrots, and different kinds of anchovy paste. I could feel her staring at my raw vegetables, and suddenly she said, “You, with your Capoeira, and your healthy meals.” She had never mentioned my Capoeira or vegetables before. I was surprised she had noticed. I was still the same size, which in my mind was never skinny enough for her to be attracted to me. For a moment I felt kind of smug, though. There she was: toppled, humbled. I thought, ungenerously, “Welcome to our club.” Then I caught myself shift to motherly worry, thinking, “Better that you are eating than doing drugs.”
I had recently gone again to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. But again, I had not been ready to utter that preliminary sentence, “My name is Savannah and I am a compulsive overeater.” Was I really compulsive? And why couldn’t I talk about it? I still hadn’t told my mother or sister about any of it yet. When I went to the meeting, and the members exploded back in my face, “Hi Savannah!” I felt like saying, “Don’t call me that.” I wished I had given them a false name.
I had hoped I could fix this problem myself. But my attempts weren’t really solutions. I thought, for instance, that I should just become obsessed with something else. But I exercised too much to get heavily into drugs or alcohol. Since I love to poke myself with needles while I listen to a really great song, I thought maybe I should consider cutting. Sitting with Asia, I wondered if she had always had issues with her body. And it made me wonder, is it always going to be like this? Can’t we live without some obsession, or compulsion, or addiction breathing down our necks? I looked up to Asia and Laura, two exceedingly powerful women, both acclaimed for their art. Well, Laura’s case was different, but you see what I’m getting at. Didn’t we figure it out at a certain point?
Asia, the manager, and I piled back into the elevator. Asia wiggled her hips, shaking her underwear down underneath her tight dress. We met Brian in the lobby, hunched over his phone, and ventured back into the crowd. We crossed the street and forced our way into the nucleus of ogre ears.
The manager stood behind us murmuring, “Now, walk with confidence. You look stunning, Asia. Make sure you pay respect to the Madame and Monsieur at the top of the stairs.”
I could see flashing lights as the gates opened. The manager gave me a little push. In front of us was a tiered structure, stacked with a tidal wave of paparazzi. The lights were blinding. All I could see were white blotches, as if my eyeballs had been melted by exploding light. I began to walk very fast. Asia grabbed my hand and slowed me down. Her touch induced something strange in me. A calm settled into my fingertips and up into my torso. She walked very gradually, stopping every few steps. She dropped my hand and put hers on her waist, posing and smiling.
I followed her, hamming up JT’s nervousness. I was little JT, someone who didn’t belong, walking w
ith a short gait like Charlie Chaplin, turning his head from side to side as if he were looking for someone. I even looked up at the sky, thinking, ham it up if you want to. No one can tell who you are or how you got here. Between the dark glasses, the gaucho hat, the wig, and the slumped shoulders, JT was impenetrable. We made our way past the wall of cameras up the steps to a regal man and woman. Were these the founders of the Cannes Film Festival? Royalty? Asia gracefully said her thank-yous. I mumbled my own, “Thanks,” to the exalted ones. The woman strained to hear what I was saying and I snapped my head back as if a dog were trying to bite at me. She pulled back too, pursing her lips, a little confused. We made our way out, towards the back of the building.
“You were fantastic, Asia. Ciao!” screamed Asia’s manager.
All of a sudden Laura, Geoff, and Thor appeared.
“Baby, you were fantastic! There you were, walking in front of Angelina Jolie!”
“You looked nervous,” Thor piped in.
Brian came up behind us and tugged on my sleeve, “We need to get to the premiere. Come on.”
“Thor and I aren’t going to stay for the movie. We have an ice-cream date. We’ll see you soon. Break a leg, JT.” Geoff said. I gave them each a kiss.
“Come on, we’ve got to go,” Brian exclaimed impatiently, pulling on my hand. Laura followed as he dragged me through a marble lobby, up some stairs, around a corner, and up some more stairs. He held his Blackberry out like a compass.
“We need to split up,” he said to Laura, “and get JT and Asia in first.”
Now the manager led us, while Brian blocked Laura. I couldn’t understand why everything was so complicated. I could hear Laura bickering with Brian. We entered the dark theater. People with flashlights directed us to the front of the audience. A spotlight descended onto us as we walked up the stairs in front of the screen. I kept my head down and began the old shiver.
Asia recited a succinct list, thanking everyone who’d made the movie happen. She passed the microphone over to me. The shadow of my hat swallowed it up in darkness. I could vaguely see silhouettes of people, their eyes flashing like cats in the dark.
“. . .”
“. . . I want cha all to watch this with open hearts.” A little voice. Timorous, twangy, girlie.
“It’s a . . . very . . . courageous movie. . . . Vive la resistance !” I had decided to say that when I was on the airplane over.
People began to clap, and I followed Asia down off the stage.
Just then, I recognized a silhouette moving down the aisles in wrestling boots, sunglasses, and a cloche hat. I knew that walk. I had followed it when we entered the Virgin VIP lounge in our pajamas, the Ritz-Carlton breakfast buffet—so many places I never expected to be. Brian trailed behind her. Asia and I joined her and we all slid into our reserved seats. Laura grabbed my hand and whispered hoarsely, “I almost wasn’t let in because of shit-bird over here. Had to tell him a few things, but we made it! I love you!”
“I love you, too.”
She reached over me and grabbed Asia’s hand and said, “I love you!” to her in the same tone. Asia gave her a cockeyed look and then squeezed it back. As the lights dimmed, I territorially kept my arm on the divider, my hand next to Asia’s. Maybe we would hold hands. I felt the old fantasies stewing. Maybe we would fuck, maybe we would fall in love, maybe we would elope. A dream from the night before flashed before my eyes. Asia and I were standing together on a cliff overlooking the sea. The afternoon light flashed gold on the water. Cicadas ground their wings so loud that we could barely hear one another, but it didn’t matter. The theater’s digital surround sound boomed, and Jeremiah came up on the screen. He was being wrenched from his foster family.
I lifted my hand off the divider and laid it gently in my own lap. I thought, maybe not. This isn’t grade school. I don’t need her to tell me who I am.
At the end of the movie I started clapping so hard my hands burned. I had been sobbing without realizing it. I could feel people looking over at us. I had gone past the point of stopping, like when you throw up so much that you get the dry heaves. I was sobbing so deeply that it sounded like a horse braying. A flash flood—everything that had happened with Asia in Tennessee, JT’s story, Laura’s story, and all of my yearning to be someone else, to be someone who Asia wanted, who other people respected, not just some kid, some stand-in, some puppet.
Laura got up, dragging me with her, and took me by the shoulders along the aisle. We went into a marble toilet stall. Uncontrollable sobs racked my body. She hugged me, and I held onto her torso like an inner tube.
“We’ve come so far! Shhh. Shhh,” she whispered, holding the back of my head. I threw off my wig.
“It’s so dark. It’s like a punch in the stomach!” I wailed, trying to pin my tears on the movie.
“I know. I can’t believe it came out of me.” She was crying too. Her mascara ran down her face. Suddenly, she pushed me away so that she could look me in the eye, “I think you need to tell Asia how you felt about Tennessee.”
“Why?”
I had no intention of doing that.
“I saw it. I saw you seal up. It’s like when you have a sore, and it scabs over, but you still have all kinds of dirt underneath the scab. You still have shit under there. You need to go back in and take out that dirt.”
My body tensed up.
“I can’t do that. It’s over between us. She’s not going to change even if I talk to her.” I wasn’t into processing. And couldn’t imagine Asia was either.
“But what about you?”
She pulled a towel off the counter, wet it, and leaned into the mirror rubbing the smears off her face.
A few minutes later, Laura and I emerged to find Asia waiting in the hallway, surrounded by a throng of moviegoers. I felt slightly embarrassed. People stared at me curiously, giving me that look: “Are you sure you’re alright?” Somebody handed me a bar of chocolate. Everyone seemed like they needed a pick-me-up. A stiff drink. I didn’t want all these people surrounding me, thinking, “Oh, the poor fucked-up little guy!” But they weren’t going away. I kept at Laura’s side, not making eye contact with anyone, just staring down at the floor. We left with the producers and had a bad dinner, then went to a crowded rooftop party, where the temptation of getting drunk floated by me in crystal goblets balanced high on silver trays. I resisted to keep my promise to Laura that I wouldn’t drink. But I was hoping that I would see Asia and that we would hang out together. Instead, Laura and I ditched the party shortly after we got there.
The next day, I decided that I would talk to Asia after the press conferences were over. The first meeting was on a dock on a little stage, and a group of about fifty reporters sat down in front of us on fold-out chairs. Asia dangled one foot off the other and shook her hair into her eyes. She was less graceful in her movements than she had been last night. More twitchy, ready for battle. She wore jeans and a black short-sleeved sweatshirt with a leather cap on underneath the hood.
A reporter from Variety asked, “You delve into this poor child’s life in such a way that it is almost exploitive, one horrific thing after another. Were you referencing Courtney Love?”
Asia cleared her throat, smiling a little and showing her teeth.
“You know, people keep saying this and it surprises me. I think it is the blond hair. And the punk-rock mother archetype. JT and I had been talking about this . . .” I guess we had. I couldn’t remember the last time that I had talked to her about anything except telling her that she wasn’t fat. She continued, “In the ’50s we had the archetype of the stay-at-home mom. In the ’60s it was the hippie mom. The ’70s was the single, disco mom. And the ’80s, well, we are just barely coming up on this archetype. And punk rock was one of the most profound subcultures. So people keep associating Courtney Love with the Sarah character because they don’t know where to place her. The mother is not a black-and-white sort of character. I was interested in capturing that which was in JT’s books,” sh
e points to me. “Those shades of grey. Sarah loves her son, but it is a complicated love. Ah,” her voice collapses. “She almost considers him a part of her, an extension, an appendage.”
Spurred on by Laura’s voice in my head, I chimed in. “Not everybody has the courage to make this story. It ain’t like this hasn’t happened to kids everywhere. You know, it’s like . . . um . . . it’s happened before. And it’ll probably happen again. Like, in America, not just anybody can drive; they have to take a test. But anybody,” this is how Laura had said it too, “anybody can have a child. They just pop ’em out, you know?”
The answer fell flat. They didn’t believe me. I looked over at Asia. She didn’t seem to be there with me either. That’s it, I thought, I’m not saying anything else. Music echoed through the open door, then suddenly somebody addressed a question to me.
“JT, you claim that your fiction is based on true-life experience. And yet we have no idea who you are under your wig and sunglasses. Your voice, as well, sounds like a woman’s . . .”
My stomach dropped. This, again.
A few months ago, I wasn’t ready to answer this. Now I knew what to say with confidence.
“Yeah, I do. I mean, I could be. I could be anybody. I could be a two-hundred-pound black man in Idaho right now. It doesn’t matter. My work is out there. Y’all know me through the work.”
“JT, how did you and Asia discover one another?”
A safe enough question. Unfortunately, one I don’t know the answer to. How had we met? I mean, I knew how we had met. But if I made something up she’d know it. How could I not know this? I could feel Asia staring at me.
“Um, uh . . . Well, uh.”
Thankfully Asia jumped in: “A mutual, friend Billy Chainsaw, who lives in England, gave me JT’s books to read. I was dumbfounded. I had never felt so akin to a book. I had never had that kind of reaction to a piece of literature. And then a funny thing happened: JT’s Italian publishers contacted me to read his work at a literary festival.”
Girl Boy Girl Page 14