All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  Sinter: You can even tell him you’re fucking me if it helps ;)

  In high school we hadn’t dared make such jokes, but we eased into it during our college years. After all, even straight friends made those remarks with each other.

  Still, a frisson of … something … went through me as I sent off the message. Nerves? My brand of weird, possessive jealousy? Fear of annoying him?

  Luckily, he answered in a light enough manner.

  Andy: Ha! That would be more believable if we were on the same continent

  Sinter: I’d come visit you on my private jet every few days of course

  Sinter: Being a movie star and all

  Andy: Of course

  Sinter: I wish

  Andy: Me too

  Andy: Uh, about the jet and the visits. Not … well never mind ;)

  I smiled, glancing at the pigeons clustering around my shoes in search of crumbs. A wiggle of my foot sent them away in a clatter of wings.

  Sinter: Then I’ll ask the studio if I can have a jet :)

  Andy: So hang on, is this the 80s new wave movie?

  Sinter: Yep. Can’t wait to see wardrobe and makeup

  Andy: For real. You’ve got to send so many selfies. I mean if you’re going to look like this I need to see it

  Below his message a photo popped in: Adam Ant on the Prince Charming album cover, red stripes across his cheek, tiny heart painted above one of his asymmetrical eyebrows, frosted lipstick, dark glossy fingernails, hair plastered up on one side, and gaudy faux-military coat with metallic gold cuff-ruffles. A laugh snorted out of my nose. Adam’s look there was way beyond even my most Goth/emo days.

  Sinter: Niiiiice. Are you high on caffeine by any chance?

  Andy: Yes, yes I am. Couldn’t sleep last night. I am on so much espresso, you have no idea

  Sinter: Haha, well that’s what Seattle’s for

  Andy: Seriously though, thank you for cheering me up. This is ridiculous and therefore exactly what I need

  Sinter: You’re welcome

  Andy: Better get to work. Take care, Flock Of Seagulls

  Sinter: Later man. And please switch to decaf

  I shouldered my backpack and descended to the Tube, my brain full of Adam Ant’s wardrobe, sex scenes with me in them, my parents watching said sex scenes, and whether my flirtatious texts to Andy could be attributed to genuine attraction on my part.

  A question cropping up in my mind strangely often lately.

  I’m not gay. When I said that, I wasn’t lying to my parents, or to anyone else who happened to ask for the rest of high school. It was far less complicated to like girls. I’d been attracted to lots of girls. So clearly, I wasn’t gay. The possibility that I could be something else—say, bisexual—didn’t seem to occur to anyone. Not even to Andy, or at least, he never asked. It didn’t even occur to me.

  If I’d been attracted to him during that one kiss, well, I couldn’t quite process it, considering the kiss had been derailed so spectacularly with my parents walking in on us. The memory felt more like trauma than desire.

  The day after the kiss, at our locker, Andy asked if I got in a lot of trouble. I said yes, but my parents didn’t know he was gay and weren’t going to call his parents. He thanked me quietly, his gaze cast down. For a while it astounded me that they hadn’t told his folks. But gradually, I understood why: they didn’t want other people to know. They wanted to hush up the whole thing, hide the shame. It made me despise them more than ever, but Andy and I weren’t exactly eager to broadcast it either, so I let it be.

  Andy and I rarely talked about sexuality for the rest of high school, and didn’t talk at all about having kissed each other, but we were cool. We remained best friends. I told myself that any fondness I felt for him was simply a result of our long-standing friendship. I wasn’t gay, couldn’t be.

  Although … okay, bi-curious, maybe. I hadn’t ever said that out loud either, only inside my head when finding myself over-fascinated with, say, two guys kissing in a movie.

  Someday I might say it out loud. I might also someday be brave enough to try more than one kiss with another guy.

  But I didn’t have to figure any of that out yet. As for flirting in messages with Andy, it was okay if I got some secret pleasure from that. He took comfort in it too, at a time when he was hurting. I was just being a good friend. Maybe it didn’t even have anything to do with sexuality.

  Andy: God almighty I’m pathetic

  I found his message when I woke up the next morning. It had arrived at 3:08 a.m. London time, yesterday evening in Seattle. I rolled out of bed and answered.

  Sinter: Sorry, just woke up. Why are you pathetic?

  Of course, now it was 1:30 a.m. his time, and he’d be asleep. So I went about my day: shower, breakfast, then out to resign from my pub job since the movie was going to be a full-time gig. My boss complained at me, congratulated me, and told me to get out.

  While I sat at my kitchen table, munching crisps and reading my New Romantic script, Andy responded at last.

  Andy: Right well, my caffeine wore off by the end of the day and I kind of crashed. I snapped at two different coworkers over really minor shit. I never do that

  Sinter: Ah everyone’s had days like that

  Andy: I did manage not to cry at work at least

  Sinter: Ha, that’s good

  Andy: Yeah except instead it was crying on the commute home, in traffic

  I winced. Pushing the crisps aside, I cradled the phone in both hands. His message conjured up a memory of the day in college when I wore sunglasses throughout a literature class because my girlfriend, Jo, had dumped me a matter of hours earlier, and my eyes were swollen from crying. “You’re not stoned, are you?” my professor had teased at the end of class. “No, of course not,” I had said, in a playful tone that implied I actually was, because I would’ve rather had people think I smoked pot (which I almost never did) than admit to being emotional over a breakup.

  I also remembered that I hadn’t told anyone the truth about that incident except Andy, in an emo-fest of text messages. He’d been sympathetic and outraged. (Dude, you totally deserve better. She’s a heartless excuse for a human being.)

  I slid my thumbs in to answer.

  Sinter: Ugh I’ve had those days too. They completely suck. I’m sorry

  Andy: See, pathetic.

  Sinter: So your commute … you don’t take the bus I hope?

  Andy: Lol! No, I drive. But thank you for making me laugh

  Sinter: No problem but are you really ok?

  Andy: Yeah it’s all right. See, then I got home and looked up new wave fashions and pictured you in them

  Andy: Which is inherently funny, so, here’s today’s

  He sent over the photo: Duran Duran at some point in the early ’80s, all in leather trousers and poet shirts, with fluffy teased hair and scarves around their waists.

  Sinter: I could live with these outfits. Except leather trousers are not the slightest bit comfy. I’ve tried

  Andy: You know, they look funny but also kinda hot. Which is part of why I’m willing to look such things up

  Sinter: So I should keep wearing eyeliner you’re saying? :)

  Andy: Hell yeah ;)

  Harmless. Flirtatious texts were completely harmless.

  CHAPTER 6: A LITTLE RESPECT

  “HUH, WELL, YOU’RE NOT BRADLEY MACCROSSAN.” THE DEADPAN REMARK CAME FROM THE LONG-HAIRED man dropping into the chair next to mine. It was the day of the table read, where the whole cast gathered to read the script aloud, start to finish.

  Bradley MacCrossan was an actor around my age whom I, along with the rest of the world, had admired in his starring role on a BBC sci-fi series. He was not there, nor did I expect him to be. He was, I presumed, off filming bigger things elsewhere.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I’m Sinter.”

  The bloke tilted back his chair and offered me a hand. “Sebastian.”

  We shook hands. “Right. Good to me
et you.”

  I had looked up the rest of the cast online, enough to recognize most of them as they came in. Sebastian Trevisani was the lead singer of the Swinburnes, and had been cast as the lead guitarist of the band Taylor ended up joining. The Swinburnes, along with other bands, would be contributing ’80s covers and original tunes for the film soundtrack.

  Sebastian looked a bit like a young Iggy Pop: long face, doleful eyes, wide mouth. His denim jacket bristled with silver studs and safety pins, and his thumbnails were painted black. Next to him I looked almost nerdy in my plain dark-blue hoodie. At the screen test, Fiona had been enthused to find I had various piercing holes (many of them healed over, but the ones in my earlobes still functioned), so I had scrounged up a pair of tiny silver loop earrings and stuck them in, but they were my only punk style points that day.

  “I love your album,” I added. The Swinburnes had one album out, new this year. I had listened to it this week. Indie pop with an ’80s influence, I would have said—the kind of thing I tended to like, and theirs was no exception.

  “Mm. Cheers.” Sebastian surveyed the cast and crew, still milling around and talking. “We’ve had to put off the next album in order to work on this. But it’s worth it for Fiona.”

  “For sure. So were you expecting Bradley MacCrossan, or …?” I was still lost about that opening remark.

  “Oh, no one told you?” He kept his gaze on Fiona. Ariel had arrived, once again looking like the most bored person in all of London, and Fiona was sending interns scurrying to make coffee for her. “They almost had him for your role. The scheduling didn’t work out, though. He wasn’t able to commit. Everyone was pretty pissed off.”

  Hoo boy.

  “Ah, no, I hadn’t heard. That would’ve been huge, getting him.”

  “But, you know, Fiona loves you in the part. She says you’re perfect. She pushed for casting you, got her father and everyone on board. So, she’s happy.”

  Ahhh shit.

  “Always good when the director’s happy, I guess.” I dropped my gaze to the script in front of me.

  Every time you’re cast for a role, someone will be unhappy about it, because they wanted that part or had hoped to see someone else in it. I’d dealt with that jealousy in theater all the time, had felt it myself. It made sense that films would be no different. Still, British TV politics? Wow, was I ever out of my league.

  “She’s quite amazing, you know,” Sebastian said, still watching Fiona.

  “Definitely. You know her from before?”

  “We served as the background band in another of her films. We’ve hung out. Became friends.”

  “Awesome, that’s great.”

  “Awesome.” He mimicked my Yank pronunciation and smirked. “You come with the right accent, at least.”

  I spread my hand across the cover of the script. “Actually, Taylor’s from New York, so it’d be more like, ‘Awesome, that’s great.’” This time I slanted my vowels into a generic New York City accent.

  Sebastian glanced at me with guarded interest, but said, “I don’t hear the difference.”

  I shrugged, affecting casualness. “I’ll work on it.”

  The others at the table kept chatting. Hardly anyone looked at me. How many of them wished Bradley MacCrossan were sitting in my seat instead? Probably almost all, and it wasn’t like I could blame them. My spine sagged, slouching me down into my seat.

  The last chair got filled by a thin young man. “Is Bradley MacCrossan here yet? Oh …” He made the last word a falling note of disappointment as he looked around the table, then broke out a cheeky grin. Everyone chuckled.

  I smiled too, though I sank my nails into my thigh under the table. Fiona, across from me, glanced at me in commiseration, but her smile soon shifted into a steely I’ve got this look. She raised her voice to quiet the room. “Okay, everyone! I’m so excited to have us all here at last. I’m especially excited to have you meet Sinter, who fell into my lap from the heavens at the very moment we needed him. We’re so lucky, because I know he’s destined for great things, and you’re going to love working with him.”

  Bless the woman. However, those were big accolades to live up to. I flapped a wave at the group and mumbled thanks.

  She poured praise on Ariel, Sebastian, the rest of the Swinburnes, and the other cast and crew. When we had all been properly feted, we began the read-through.

  I wasn’t at my best at first, New York accent sliding all over the place. But the others were stilted too, as expected at any first rehearsal. By the midpoint we hit something of a stride, and by the end were all throwing some real emotion into our lines.

  Afterward, a few cast members came to talk to me, friendlier now. I got a “Bye bye, good read” from Ariel before she left, and an aloof “See you on set, then” from Sebastian on his way out.

  Fiona waited for me, arms wrapped around a thick pile of documents. “There, you’ve completely won them over. I knew you would.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  She made a derisive “psh” sound. “It’s simply that I’m stubborn, and when I’ve got my teeth into something, I don’t easily let go. My mum and dad call it my bulldog tendency.” She tipped her chin down and smiled up at me. With her small frame and soft, messy hair, she looked more like a kitten than a bulldog. Still, kittens did have claws and teeth.

  “I like that. So …” I curled my script in my hands. “Almost got Bradley MacCrossan, huh?”

  She reached out and closed her hand around my forearm. “We were in talks, it didn’t work out, and honestly, you’re so much better a fit for Taylor. Don’t let people bother you. It’s the gossip for now, but they’ll have forgotten in another few days.”

  “It’s all right; I just hadn’t heard.”

  She wrapped her arm back around the stack of papers and looked me in the eye. “I want you for this part, and I want the rest of them to love you in it, and I’m the bulldog, so that’s what’s going to happen.”

  I chuckled and let the script uncurl. “Cool. Well, thanks.”

  “Give us a hug.” Around her stack of documents, we hugged, then she let go. “Now off to hairdressing with you.”

  CHAPTER 7: PROBLEM CHILD

  Sinter: You do not have to send me a new wave photo today because check this out

  I sent Andy the selfie of my new hair: trimmed up to mid-neck length with shorter pieces layered in, black dye renewed to inky darkness, and four streaks bleached and dyed a Kool-Aid orange.

  Andy: Duuuude. So cool!

  Sinter: They did nice work. But I smell like hair dye now, like really strong. Like flowers and wet dog

  Andy: Lol. Sexy

  Sinter: Yeah hoping that fades. So how are things?

  Andy: Better with my coworkers. Still no word from mitchell and I haven’t tried contacting him. Sad, bitter. You may have to send me some black eyeliner

  Sinter: I can recommend some cheap brands :)

  Sinter: Well it’s been what, a week? May be ok to send him a “how’s it going?” or something. If you think it’d help

  My phone began buzzing with an incoming call. A video call, in fact. From my mom. I grimaced—this wasn’t my parents’ style—and tapped the green icon to accept it.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Her face appeared on the screen, frowning down into the camera. She had a suit on, and ceiling lights gleamed above her. “Joel? Hello?” She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I must have tapped the wrong button.”

  They’d both gotten iPhones recently. To paraphrase Douglas Adams, this had widely been regarded (at least by me) as a bad move.

  I heard my dad’s voice offscreen. He sounded uninterested. “Yes, it’s too easy to do that with these.”

  “Okay, should I hang up?” I said.

  Mom squinted at me. “What happened to your hair?”

  “It’s for a part. A role I just got.”

  “Playing what?”

  “A guy in the ’80s. You know, back when you guys w
ere my age.” I couldn’t resist.

  “Well, we didn’t look like that.”

  “Nope, you didn’t.” They’d looked like less-glamorous versions of Charles and Diana, to judge from photos. Despite having lived through the entire 1980s, they didn’t own a single new-wave album, or any rock albums at all besides some early Beatles. When David Bowie died, I’d had to explain to them who he was, which nearly made me give up on them forever.

  “Are you at work?” I asked. They worked at the same bank.

  “Yes, on lunch break.”

  The phone tilted and Dad’s face loomed into view, examining me through his half-moon reading glasses.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  No smile, just scrutiny. “Joel. Is this role in London as well?”

  “Yep. So I meant to tell you guys; I’ll be staying longer. At least a couple more months.”

  A notification of a new message from Andy scrolled in at the top of the screen, then vanished. I tightened my mouth, impatient to get back to that conversation.

  “Is that legal?” Dad said. “Working there that long, as an American?”

  “Yeah, it’s legal, the studio takes care of my visa.”

  Mom leaned into the screen so it became half of each of their faces at a wildly diagonal camera angle. I tilted my head to make sense of it. “Studio?” she said. “I thought you worked at a theater.”

  “Usually, but this time it’s a film, for a satellite TV channel. A big corporation.” I felt like the words “big corporation” might win them over. Why I cared about winning them over, I’d never quite understood.

  “Royal Shakespeare Company hasn’t taken you on yet, huh?” Dad said.

  The remark irritated me but also hooked me deeper into the conversation. They took at least some interest in what I did. If I acted at the RSC or the Globe, they would be proud. Nonsensical fringe theater or new-wave movies, not so much.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Still hoping.”

  “They show those on PBS sometimes,” Mom said. “That would be neat.”