Scarlett gave this the expected smile, but wasn’t feeling very amused. This conversation was ridiculous. She had never actually imagined how you did this—she thought it just happened. A mutual wave of understanding passed over both your heads, covering you both completely in the warm waters of relationship status.
But no. Like most things in life, it required an unexpectedly awkward moment of bureaucracy.
“I just mean…”
She tried to lift her voice and say that last bit in a joking way—but not too joking, as if her entire being didn’t exactly depend on the answer.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I didn’t think people in New York had these conversations.”
He was still smiling, but he had taken out his keys and was bouncing them nervously in his palm.
“We don’t,” she lied, poorly. “I was just kidding.”
“Oh, right,” he drawled.
Scarlett had no idea what that meant. He was playing with his sunglasses now, polishing them on his shirt. The ease had disappeared.
She had messed this up very, very badly. If her friends had been here, Scarlett thought ruefully, this would never have happened. Dakota would have come to the stupid Empire State Building, leapt out of the shadows, and tackled Scarlett before she would have let her ask that question. This is why her friends shouldn’t have been allowed to go anywhere. She got stupid when they were gone.
There was only one thing to do—get out of the burning plane. Put on the parachute. Jump. Salvage what she could. Make it seem like she didn’t care too much.
“Oh my God,” she said. “I completely forgot. I have to go home and…fix up a room. There’s a guest coming. I’d better get back.”
Again, this wasn’t smooth, but he accepted it graciously and gave her a little kiss before she escaped. It was a good kiss, but it didn’t have that same incapacitating energy as the one before.
In the Empire Suite the next morning, the silver walls were covered in taped up notes and Mrs. Amberson was in downward dog.
“Media!” she exclaimed. She pushed herself up to stand and folded her hands prayerfully in front of her chest. “We’re less than a week away from opening. Can you believe that this company had no publicity plan? Don’t answer that. Anyway, we’re about to change that. Do you see this?”
She waved her hand at the notes.
“I’ve spent the last few days reestablishing every contact I have. These are the names of agents, casting directors, reviewers, producers…and do you know what we’re going to do?”
Scarlett shook her head and went over and got out the organic cleaning products. She wasn’t in the mood for any more fill-in-the-blanks conversations.
“We are going to have a special preview. Very special. Catered.”
Scarlett nodded and sprayed the dressing table with ylang-ylang.
“What?” she said. “What is that face, O’Hara?”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You most certainly do. Look at this wonderful work! Do you realize what this means for the show?”
“It’s great,” Scarlett said.
Unable to rouse any enthusiasm, Mrs. Amberson went back into her position.
“I won’t be coming to the theater today,” she said. “This is much more important. But I need you to be there. It’s the first dress run. Be my eyes. And for God’s sake, smile. You’re representing me! You have to emit positive energy!”
To her credit, Mrs. Amberson had provided fantastic costumes—and there was something fascinating about what happened to the actors once they put them on and did their makeup. Everyone really seemed to change.
Mrs. Amberson’s concept was a twenties silent movie, so they all had at least a dusting of white with dark lining around the eyes and coloring on the lips. The female cast members were in sequined dresses, and the guys were outfitted with elegant suits. The silver trim she had sewed onto Hamlet’s looked strangely appropriate against all of the other outfits. Spencer and Eric had been directed to apply heavier coats of white makeup, with more lining around their features. They also wore suits, but ill-fitting ones, several sizes too large with the hems on the pants raised up high. This was partly for comic effect, and party for safety when they rode.
Scarlett stood out in her simple summer skirt and T-shirt. Her face felt bare. (Thankfully, in the heat. Also, actors seemed to sweat more than other people—what was that about?) She plastered on the requested smile as well, until Ophelia asked her if she’d hurt her jaw.
There were a lot of hiccups in the run. People forgot lines all over the place (including Eric, three times). The ramp going up to the stage shifted when Spencer was riding up it, and he just barely caught himself when the wheel jammed and he was sent pitching forward. Gertrude went into a panicked meltdown for ten minutes when she couldn’t get one of her scenes right. Hamlet bent the tip of his sword when it struck the wall.
It was Paulette’s job to deal with most of these things, but Scarlett dutifully wrote them down for Mrs. Amberson, only leaving out the problems with the ramp (it wasn’t Spencer’s fault, and Paulette was all over fixing it) and Eric’s flubbed lines. The group seemed exhausted by the end of the day, gratefully accepting Scarlett’s help with their clothes and props. Many of the outfits were pretty foul by the day’s end, and Scarlett started to fear for what things would be like when they’d been wearing them for a few days.
Scarlett had been avoiding approaching Spencer directly, but as he sat by himself, removing his makeup with some tissues, she saw a good chance to get a natural conversation going.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “The thing with the ramp…”
“I’m fine. I didn’t even fall.”
“I know, but…”
But nothing. He hadn’t actually fallen.
“The offer for dinner still stands,” she said.
“What?” he asked, rubbing hard at the white coating on his forehead.
“No plans?”
“No,” she said. “Come on.”
“Can’t. We’re all going to Leroy’s apartment tonight. It’s a cast-bonding thing. Can you tell Mom and Dad I’ll be home late?”
As soon as he said this, Scarlett became aware of the fact that everyone was zipping up their bags and congregating as if about to depart collectively. How she had missed this all day—not been aware of the event—was a little disturbing. Sure, she wasn’t exactly part of the cast, but she practically was. She had helped dress them. She had taken their skanky clothes when they were done.
“Sure,” she said. There was an audible droop in her voice that he had to have noticed. Either he was still angry, or he was feeling guilty, but he packed up and left even though he hadn’t completely removed his makeup.
This wasn’t okay. It really couldn’t go on. Scarlett followed right on his heels, all the way outside, where he had stopped to talk to Claudius.
“We need to talk,” she said, catching him by the arm. He put up no resistance and let her drag him a few doorways over, to a quiet spot in front of a nail salon.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “When do we get normal again?”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I don’t get it. You like Eric. He’s your friend.”
“I work with him,” Spencer clarified.
“He’s not your friend?”
“I’m just clarifying. I have to get along with Eric no matter what in order to do my job.”
“That’s why he just thought it would be better if we didn’t…”
“He thought?” Spencer said. “He said not to tell me?”
“You can’t blame him. I’m the one who didn’t tell you. I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry every single second since I did it.”
Spencer was shaking his head and almost laughing, a grim laugh.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” he said, still smiling the rueful smile. He rubbed the re
mnants of white makeup off his eyelids with his hand. “There’s nothing I can say.”
This was infuriating. For one second, she understood some of the frustration that Lola felt when dealing with Spencer. It had never made sense to her before.
“He likes me,” she said. “Can you just get over the fact that it’s someone you know? I won’t hurt your show. Just let me be happy, please?”
This got rid of the smirk.
“You don’t really look happy,” he said.
Which was true—she wasn’t at the moment. Not with Eric, and not with life in general. And really not with Spencer. She would have started screaming at him except the other cast members were coming out, so she just turned and walked away from him, back to the theater.
Most of the cast had gone out by now, saying their good-byes to Scarlett as they went. None of them asked her along, but they didn’t look like they were hiding anything, either. Maybe they all just assumed that Spencer would bring her along.
Eric was still there, packing away his spare clothes and makeup into his bag. He had done a slightly better job getting all the white stuff off of his face. He gave Scarlett a friendly wave and nod as she approached.
“I heard there’s a thing tonight,” Scarlett said. Her voice still had a touch of a quiver from the argument with Spencer. She tried to play it off like she had to cough, but it just came out a bit odd.
“Oh,” he said. It was an apologetic, long ohhhh. “Yeah. It’s a cast thing.”
There was a long pause in which an invitation, if it was going to be offered, would have gone.
“I’ll give you a call later, okay?” he said.
“Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
Those four words strung together were the most insincere in the English language.
As they stepped outside, Scarlett turned one way, and Eric and the remaining actors turned another.
And then she went home.
THE LONELIEST GIRL IN NEW YORK
Lola, still on her campaign to be the most efficient person ever, was both manning the front desk and studying up on career choices. There was a clear plastic file full of brochures and letters about different schools and companies, and she was researching online at the lobby computer.
“You staying here tonight?” Scarlett asked, mooning around the front desk.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m going out later with some friends who are home from Smith. You remember Ash and Meg, right?”
“Oh. Yeah…”
“If you’re not doing anything, we need all these mailers addressed and stamped. It would be a huge favor.”
She pointed to a huge box next to her full of newly minted Hopewell Hotel brochures.
“We’re doing a massive mailing to travel agents booking for fall tours,” she said. “I tucked the list and stamps into the box.”
The box was absurdly heavy. There had to be hundreds of brochures packed in there. Scarlett lugged it on to the elevator and dragged it along to her room. It was much, much too hot in the Orchid Suite. Much too hot, and much too dark. Scarlett peeled back the purple sheers and turned on all the lights, but it still seemed dim and unpromising. She looked out over the view. Saturday night in New York. And here she was.
Her neighbor who could never decide what to wear was fully dressed and obviously preparing to go somewhere. Anything for Breakfast Guy was unloading several six-packs of beer on his kitchen counter. Even Naked (now clothed) Lady made an appearance, dressed in some kind of coordinated blouse and pants thing with beading on it. She was going somewhere, too.
Only Scarlett was staying in to stamp and address.
She fell back on her bed, feeling the heat crushing on her lungs. Why couldn’t they live in a suburb where you just got in your car and went to the mall when nothing else was going on…like normal human beings? Not that Scarlett felt like she could have lasted very long in the suburbs. She’d spent two weeks with her grandparents in Florida once, and once the initial shock of all the sun and the proximity to Disney World and manatees wore off, the fact that there was nowhere to walk to except some fast-food seafood place and a pet supply store about a quarter of mile away got a little old.
Really, nowhere was good. Except with Eric. He had both perfumed and poisoned her entire world.
She picked up the box and lugged it down a few more doors to the Jazz Suite, the one room on the fifth floor that was decently air conditioned. She switched on the TV and tried to get lost in a Crime and Punishment marathon.
Crime and Punishment was very soothing—the most wonderfully predictable show on television. Murder in the first ten minutes. Police investigation in the next ten. Wrong suspect cleared by half past. By quarter of, the correct suspect was on trial, and after a surprise twist about eight minutes from the end, all was resolved in the last moment. This is what she needed. Something that did what she expected it to do, that didn’t let her down. Slimy suspects and cops with good quips. It was all balm to her frayed nerves. That is, until Marlene came stomping in just after the real murderer had been fingered.
“I have the TV now,” she said. “I called it.”
“What do you mean, called it?” Scarlett said. “Called it to who? Is there a TV committee that I don’t know about?”
Marlene ignored this. She took the remote control and changed the channel.
“I was watching that!” Scarlett said.
Marlene dropped Scarlett a devastating look over her shoulder.
“Why are you home?” she said. “Where’s your guy? Did he dump you or something?”
There is a limit to everything, and Scarlett had reached it.
“You know what?” she said. “It isn’t always going to work. Not everyone, for the rest of your life, is going to care that you used to be sick. You’ll have to act normal, like the rest of us. Because if you don’t, everyone will just think you’re evil and miserable. I’m not even sure they’d be wrong.”
Even as she was saying them, Scarlett was regretting the words. They were true, but they landed like a hammer. Marlene’s face, which usually looked slightly contemptuous, begin to sag. At first, Scarlett felt a kind of relief that she’d finally made a point with Marlene. Then Marlene began to cry. Scarlett held her stance for a moment or two. She went over and tried to sit down and put an arm around her sister.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Look, Marlene…”
She got a push off the couch. Then Marlene really began to wail.
Scarlett went back to the Orchid Suite and sat on the bed. Her phone sat there, its screen depressingly blank. No call from Eric.
It took about fifteen minutes for the general alarm to be sounded and the footsteps to come to her door. Those were her mother’s. She let herself in after a sharp knock.
“What did you say to Marlene?” she asked. “Did you tell her she was evil?”
Obviously, she already knew the answer. Why was she bothering to ask?
“Scarlett, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking what everyone thinks,” Scarlett said. “She’s rude. She does things that other people can’t get away with. She’s eleven. I couldn’t act like that at eleven.”
“She isn’t like you. And you thought the solution was to call her evil?”
“It just came out,” Scarlett said.
“You know what she’s been through.”
“That was over four years ago. And what—no one is ever allowed to tell Marlene she’s wrong? Other people aren’t going to care that she was in the hospital once. No one is going to want to deal with her.”
There was too much truth here, seething under the surface. It wasn’t a fun truth, but it could not be denied. There was little to be done, though. Scarlett was already inside. She was already stamping brochures. She had practically grounded herself. Her mother didn’t even sign off on it with a “I’m disappointed in you, Scarlett,” the most meaningless and chilling of parental rejoinders. She just left the room.
Lola knew all t
he details by the time she arrived home. She let herself into the Orchid Suite quietly, wearing an infuriating expression of placid righteousness.
“Don’t,” Scarlett said.
“I wasn’t,” Lola replied, going to the dresser to take off her pink stud earrings. She pulled her hair up into a knot, changed into shortie pajamas, applied moisturizers and toners, and generally did everything but give herself highlights until Scarlett couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fine,” she said. “I lost it. I told her off. You’re going to say that she actually really likes me, aren’t you? That she really admires me, and I’ve just jumped all over her and crushed her.”
Lola turned, still rubbing something into her face in a light circular motion.
“No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t think she really hates you, but she definitely doesn’t like you. She probably will when she’s like, twenty, but then again, maybe not. Some siblings hate each other for life.”
On that note, she settled into her bed to read one of her brochures.
“Spencer’s home,” she added, crisply flipping a page. “He looks as miserable as you do.”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, stop it, Scarlett. Hanging out with these theater people has made you dramatic. Go down there, open the door, and sit on him until you’ve talked this out.”
“He’s probably locked it.”
“So knock.”
“What if…”
“Go!” Lola said. “You can’t be fighting with all three of us at once. And don’t come back until you’ve fixed it.”
She sounded serious enough that Scarlett found herself getting off the bed and walking robotically down the hall toward the Maxwell Suite. Lola had that kind of presence, if she really wanted to use it. That was how she managed to become one of the top salespeople on Bendel’s makeup floor before she got herself fired.
Spencer’s door was shut, but there was a light on underneath. Scarlett reached up to knock, but then recalled his strange reaction that afternoon. The smug look, the odd laugh…it made her angry and uneasy all over again. She turned and went back to the Orchid Suite room, but the door had been locked.
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