“So…that’s a yes?” Scarlett said.
Billy’s studio was in a large and nondescript building, the kind that grow all over the middle of the city, like dandelions, and can be used for seemingly any purpose. They passed a nonresponsive guard on their way to the elevator, which creaked and groaned its way up to the eleventh floor. The hall they emerged on was fairly bleak, with a series of blue industrial-strength doors. Mrs. Amberson strode along to the very end of the hall with great purpose. Billy opened it in greeting before she could even knock.
“You have a distinctive walk,” he said. “Hello, O’Hara! Come inside.”
The room was massive, with a hardwood floor and a mirrored wall. There was a piano in the corner, blanketed by a quilted cover. Over by the mirrors were dozens of thick blue tumble mats, along with exercise balls, hoops, straps, beach balls, and jump ropes.
“Let’s get rid of this,” Billy said, switching off the overhead light. “Nothing kills the soul quite like fluorescent light.”
He walked around and switched on a number of standing lamps around the room, giving it a cozy glow.
All the actors looked as dazed as Spencer as they arrived. Billy was known to them all. They obeyed his every word, though he was extremely soft-spoken. He had everyone sit on the floor in a tight circle.
“Tonight,” he said, circling the group and distributing long strips of cloth from a box. “We are just going to speak the play to each other. Blindfolded. Please tie the cloths around your eyes, then join hands with the people seated next to you.”
Scarlett was mentally preparing herself for a night of intense boredom when Billy gestured in her direction.
“Amy,” he said, “please step in and join the group. You, too, O’Hara. Let’s get all of our energy down here, together.”
It seemed way too obvious to insert herself next to Eric, so she dropped down one spot over, between Spencer and Stephanie, the girl playing Ophelia. Billy passed her a blindfold, which she dutifully tied around her eyes. Spencer gripped her hand. She expected him to do something to make her laugh, like tickle her palm or try to make those farting noises from the suction, but he was all business. The grip was firm and serious. Ophelia had a cool, tiny hand.
“I will read the stage directions,” Billy said. “If you get confused at any point about when to speak, just give yourself a moment and feel it out. Try to work with the energy of the room, your fellow performers, instead of the visual cues you may have been relying on.”
The reading of the play took three hours. A three-hour reading of Shakespeare, blindfolded, on the floor, should have been deadly. Instead, it was one of the most electrifying things Scarlett had ever experienced. Sitting together so close, everyone connected…she hated terms like energy…but that’s what it was. The longer she sat there in the dark, holding hands with Spencer and Stephanie and by extension, everyone—her world physically seemed to expand.
Billy’s normal speaking voice was pleasant and smooth, but his performance voice was massive—not loud, just able to take over all the empty parts of Scarlett’s brain that she didn’t even know were listening. The events unfolded in her head. She could see the ghost of the dead king approaching the guards on the tower. There was Hamlet, arriving in the cold castle hall to find that his uncle had taken his dead father’s place, both as king and husband to his mother. Hamlet was young—not much older than Spencer or Eric—a university student with a lot of problems and a bunch of actor friends. He was in pain, confused, angry…and everyone around him was playing him.
Scarlett could hear Billy walking around the group as the play went on. She felt him brush her shoulder as he adjusted Spencer’s posture somehow. His voice came out clearer, more confident. And from across the darkness, she heard Eric reply. He spoke without a Southern accent now, dropping it with ease. Actors had other people living inside of them…lots of other people, other voices. There was something wonderful about this, this unfolding possibility.
When it was over, Scarlett reluctantly peeled off the blindfold. Billy had the lights way down, but still, it was a shock to see again. Everyone stirred like they were waking from a long sleep, one in which they had all dreamed the same dream.
Like several of the other actors, Spencer clustered around Billy when they were done, pelting him with questions. Eric, however, had slipped out with a few of the others, without so much as a good-bye.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” Spencer said, as they rode the bus home. “I’ve told you that you’re the best sister in the world, right?”
“You can repeat yourself. I will allow it.”
“I just spent the night working with Billy Whitehouse. Billy Whitehouse. Do you have any idea what this means?”
Scarlett smiled. It was good to see Spencer feeling like he was on top of his game again. But why had Eric left so quickly? Obviously, there was nothing going on between them. He barely knew her. Still…
“It means,” Spencer went on, “that something is going right. When I get rich and famous, I’m going to get you anything you want. Name it. Helicopter. Airplane. One of those hairless cats.”
He had no idea how close he was to what she actually wanted. He could probably even help. All she had to do was open her mouth and ask.
“An indoor pool,” she said instead. “With a shark in it.”
“You,” Spencer replied, throwing an arm over her shoulder, “are clearly my sister. We share the same practical streak.”
THE EXCITING LIVES OF NEW YORKERS, REVEALED
For two nights, Scarlett had watched the famous Billy Whitehouse lead the cast through their paces. Sometimes he just ran them ragged, forcing them to run the room while they said their lines, sometimes he put them facedown on the floor, or had them stand on chairs. Random as it all seemed, it was amazing what could come out when Billy was ordering everyone around. Lines that had sounded like gibberish to her before (either because she didn’t understand Shakespeare or the actors were saying them wrong) suddenly had meaning. Little gestures could produce laughter or tears. Hamlet became more menacing, the king more duplicitous, Ophelia more tragic. Billy tempered some of what Spencer and Eric had been doing, giving them a winsome edge.
By Saturday, they had come to the last of the sessions. Billy had the cast gather together in a huddle in the middle of the room. It was kind of an intense moment, and sort of not for observers, so Scarlett let herself out quietly to wait in the hall. She walked around, trying to get cell phone reception. When she looped back, she found Billy and Mrs. Amberson standing by the stairs, at the dark end of the hallway. They couldn’t see her.
“You’ll never guess who’s coming in later,” Billy was saying.
“Someone famous? Someone amusing?”
“Donna Spendler,” he said.
The name crystallized Mrs. Amberson. The smile fell from her face like it had come unglued.
“I thought you might react that way,” he said.
Something in the air changed. Maybe it was the air conditioning cranking to life, or the opening of the door in the background as the cast left, but something wasn’t right.
“Why is she coming?” Mrs. Amberson asked quietly.
“To get herself ready for a final audition on Sunday.”
“Final audition for what?”
“A new musical. She’s up for the lead,” Billy said. “I’m just getting her ready. I wouldn’t normally, but the producer is a friend. It’s purely professional. I plan on not helping her very much.”
“You should do what you have to,” Mrs. Amberson said.
“I’ll do the minimum. Was I right to tell you?”
She did not reply.
The full cast was coming out now, and everyone stopped to thank or hug Billy. Scarlett stayed in her spot, trying to figure out what she had just seen. It was a moment before Mrs. Amberson noticed her standing there.
“Is everything okay?” Scarlett asked.
Mrs. Amberson fumbled around inside
of her bag for her cigarette case.
“Change of plan,” she said. “I was supposed to see some potential rehearsal sites tonight. I’ll call and reschedule. Just tell the others—Trevor and Eric. They’re still inside. They were going to come with me.”
With that, she left. Scarlett went inside to tell Eric and Trevor the news. They were lingering with Billy a few more moments as he locked up the room. When Scarlett told them the message, Trevor left, but Eric walked with her.
“Nothing to do now,” he said. “I canceled my plans for tonight because of this. Are you doing anything?”
Was this really happening? Was Eric actually asking her out? And could she really not go because she was taking Marlene to yet another of her many social commitments, because Lola was in Boston lying her face off about being at a skin care seminar?
Yes, Scarlett, she said to herself. That really is what’s happening. Which meant that there was only one option.
“Do you want to…come?” she asked. “It’s free food. And you can be the first of your friends to have a Hard Rock T-shirt! They’re really rare.”
To her enduring amazement, he said yes.
There are a few places you don’t go to if you live in New York. Everyone who visits you will expect that you have gone to them—that you in fact go to them all the time, spend every possible free second at them. They include: the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, F.A.O. Schwartz, the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza, Times Square (unless you have to change subways there, but then you never go above ground), and any theme restaurant. It was a source of constant bafflement to Scarlett as to why the Powerkids always seemed to end up at these places. It wasn’t like cancer turned you into a tourist.
Eric, as an outsider, hadn’t gotten any of these memos. He was delighted to be at the Hard Rock. His enthusiasm made Scarlett view it in a more charitable light, as they negotiated their way through the huge gift shop with its 20,000 varieties of T-shirts.
“Do you come here a lot?” he asked.
If any of her friends had asked her that, she could have smacked them with impunity…but there would be no smacking of Eric.
“With Marlene, sometimes,” she admitted.
“God, I wish my life in high school was as exciting as yours. I wish I grew up in New York.”
Scarlett looked over a vista of Hard Rock shot glasses, unsure how to respond. He was so impressed with her now. What if he found out the truth…that everyone else in New York was leading a much more exciting life than she was? He would learn soon enough. Until then, she was ready to embrace the Hard Rock in all its kitschy glory.
The Powerkids were seated together at a massive, long table. The parents and escorts were relegated to whatever seats were left in the general area. Scarlett and Eric were given a small table by the kitchen door. Scarlett got hit in the head with a tray twice, but Marlene couldn’t see her, so it was a pretty good trade-off. It was just the two of them, tucked in a corner.
“Can I ask you something that’s potentially kind of rude?” he asked, after they had ordered.
This sounded very promising.
“How is it that you live in a hotel in New York, but you aren’t rich? From what Spencer’s told me, it’s kind of hard for you guys right now.”
Okay. Not what she was expecting. Still, a fair question.
“You could say that,” she said.
“I don’t want to pry, but I’m just curious about your life.”
“My dad’s family started the hotel. I don’t think my dad wanted to run it. But then they had us, and my grandparents wanted to retire, so that’s what happened. I think things were okay—not great, but okay—until…”
She looked down at the ketchup, unsure whether or not to continue.
“Until?” Eric prompted.
Scarlett nodded in the direction of the table of Powerkids.
“Until that,” she said.
This was the truth never spoken among the Martins. No one talked about the fact that the financial troubles were directly related to Marlene’s long illness, the piles of bills that medical insurance didn’t cover, the single injections that cost thousands a dose, the hospital costs that ran into the hundreds of thousands. Obviously, there was no price too high for her cure—but it had taken its toll. If Marlene had been well, life would have been very, very different.
“Oh…right,” he said, understanding.
“She doesn’t know,” Scarlett said. “We’re never supposed to say it. I mean, she’s alive.”
“That must have been so scary,” he said. “I can’t imagine my brother getting that sick.”
“It kind of wasn’t,” she said. “Actually, that summer was kind of fun. I knew something was going on, but they didn’t tell me the whole story until she had to be moved into the hospital.”
“Kind of a tip-off that there was a problem.”
“Yeah. Kind of. I always felt bad, though.”
“About what?” he asked.
There was real concern in his voice. Eric was having a conversation with her—a real one. She never talked about the Marlene stuff except with Spencer, and occasionally with her friends, but never in much detail. There was one fact she often left out of those talks.
“For not feeling worse,” she said.
“You feel bad for not feeling bad?”
“My parents told Spencer first,” she explained, “since he’s the oldest. He just went into his room for a while. I think he really got it, how bad it was. Then they told Lola, and she got really upset. My parents couldn’t calm her down. That was bad.”
The food arrived, but he waved his hand to show he was still listening.
“Everyone was terrified of telling me,” she said, “but I’d figured it out by then, and I guess I was…okay with it or something. I just thought that if you got sick, you went to the hospital and someone made you better. Which is kind of what happened. I’m the mean one, I guess.”
“You’re not mean,” he said. “You’re just kind of…fearless.”
Was he high? Fearless? There were a lot of words that Scarlett could have used to describe herself…well, actually, there weren’t, but…if she had had a few, fearless would definitely not have been one of them.
“You just seem like you’ll tackle any problem put in front of you,” he said, thickly spreading ketchup on his burger.
“They don’t go away if you don’t,” she said. “And my ideas are usually bad.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think you get my point,” he said. “See, I lived in fear of coming here. I come from this little town where everybody knows each other. I was a big star there. I was, like, the actor. Here, there are real famous people. Every other person you meet is an actor. You go to auditions, and there are a hundred people in line ahead of you. Everyone’s talented, everyone’s good-looking, everyone has a good agent. Everyone has a story. Like you.”
Before, liking Eric was like a mirror—it was just a shiny thing, and it only went one way. But he was looking back at her now, and with interest. This was it. This was what people were talking about when they described falling in love. She was almost watching it happen to herself, like she was on the outside of her body.
So it was a bad time for her phone to ring. Mrs. Amberson’s name popped up on the screen.
“She never leaves you alone, does she?” Eric said, pointing at the screen with a fry.
Scarlett slipped away from the table to answer, just on the outside chance that Mrs. Amberson could somehow sense the fact that Eric was nearby.
“I need you, O’Hara,” she said, urgency rippling through her voice. “Whatever you’re doing, I need you to drop it at once.”
“Are you okay?” Scarlett asked. “Do you need a doctor or something?”
“I need you! Be here within the hour!”
Scarlett returned to the table, completely frazzled.
“Something’s wrong with her,” she said. “She was telling me she
needs me, now. I’ve never heard her like this. But I can’t…”
“Don’t worry,” Eric said, all too quickly. “It sounds important. I’ll bring your sister home.”
Oh, no. This could not turn into playtime with Mrs. Amberson and bonding time with Eric and Marlene. But Eric was being his absurdly courteous self and was already on his feet, offering to get someone to wrap up her food. Before she knew it, he had introduced himself at length to the head Powerkid parent and been taken into the fold. He even walked Scarlett out and hailed the cab for her.
“I’ll take good care of her,” he promised, as he helped her in. And with that, Scarlett was speeding across Forty-fourth Street, away from Eric.
THE PLAY’S THE THING TO CATCH THE KING
Mrs. Amberson was sitting up in her bed for once—not smoking on the balcony. She was dressed in a long, vaguely oriental set of baby-blue silk pajamas and a never-before-seen pair of glasses were balanced on the edge of her nose. The silver drapes were closed and the wall sconces were lit, giving the room a warm, rosy glow. The expensive Parisian notebooks and papers were all over the bed, and the Montblanc pen (the one without the inkpot) was out of its box.
It appeared that she had actually been writing something. Even in Scarlett’s flustered, heightened state, this registered as being unusual.
She was also not, as Scarlett had been led to believe, dying.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Sit down.”
Scarlett sat down on the dressing table stool opposite the moon mirror. Mrs. Amberson took a moment before speaking, opening and closing the red cigarette case several times. She held it up.
“Did I ever tell you about this case?” she asked. “It’s a very special item…from the thirties, made in Berlin. I saw it in the window of an antique store when I first moved to the city. I promised myself that if I got a big break, I would buy it. I checked on it for months, making sure no one took it. And then one day, I got that big break. I went over to buy it. And it was gone! Gone!”
Suite Scarlett Page 13