All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  I’d felt like this before. In my determination to make enough money to be independent of my parents, I’d started working side jobs in my second year of college. Between work, studying, and theater, I barely had time to get enough sleep. I felt achy and unfocused all the time. When one day a head rush swept over me as I walked down the street, strong enough that I lost my balance and fell on my ass, I got seriously scared. I went to the student health center, thinking I must have some fatal brain disease. After a few tests, the doctor told me I had a mild anxiety disorder—common among students, she added—which could be helped by meditation and deep breathing. “I think you’re all right, just tired,” she said. “Try to rest more.”

  I hadn’t succeeded at fitting meditation into my life yet, but I did at least remember to take deep breaths at these times. Besides, I could attribute half my exhaustion to the fact that I was getting over the cold that most of the cast and crew had caught.

  We filmed anyway, a miserable experience when you have a sore throat and fatigue. We shot the film’s opening scenes during one of those nights, outside in a dressed-up parking lot in the bitter cold. It had looked like such fun in the script, Taylor running from the authorities to avoid getting caught for overstaying his visa. Turned out, sprinting along frozen pavement when you felt like crap was not the least bit fun. I nearly threw up from the exertion, and bruised my knees and skinned my hands by slipping on icy spots.

  This week, we were running music-performance scenes, which was proving almost as taxing. It took immense energy to bounce around onstage with a guitar, even when you were only pretending to play it. I also had to mouth lyrics, looking pumped up and intense, plus get into a brawl, flinging myself into the crowd to swing fists at a guy putting moves on Jackie. And I had to do it all over and over again, full-time.

  Fiona had tasked Sebastian with teaching me to move like a proper rock star, and he took sadistic pleasure in the assignment, telling me he’d never let me in his band if I held a guitar like that, and what did I think I was doing knocking against his elbow when we shared the mic? Though I seethed, I listened and learned, and improved my moves until we’d reached the point where he said, “That’ll do, I suppose.”

  I lay draped over the chair, feeling the room sway as if we were on a ship. I hoped my equilibrium would return before the next take, so I wouldn’t stumble into Sebastian and have to run the scene again.

  I kept my eyes shut, even as someone’s fingers began arranging my hair. Our hair and wardrobe people were always doing that, stepping up between takes to fix whatever got messed up.

  But it wasn’t the voice of the hairdresser that spoke. It was Fiona’s. “You’re working so hard.” She said it softly, for my ears only. “I want you to know I know that, and I value it.”

  I opened my eyes and let my head roll to the side to regard her. “Not as hard as you’re working.”

  She continued styling my hair. “I keep long hours, but when it comes to physicality, you’re leagues ahead of me, or the rest of us.” Her voice was roughened; she had the cold too.

  “I don’t know. The caterers. The runners.”

  She left my hair alone and set her hand on my shoulder. “Stop deflecting praise. I know it’s hard, everything you’re being put through. But it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.”

  Her hand slid down my dangling arm. When it reached my fingers, I grasped it, still gazing at her. “Thanks,” I said, though my self-doubt really wanted to deflect praise some more.

  “Would you like a longer break?”

  I shook my head. “I got this.”

  She lifted my hand, kissed my knuckles, and jumped up to return to her spot.

  Her vote of confidence did the trick. I pulled off a good take, and we got through the day.

  After I’d washed off my glittery makeup for the evening, I stepped out of the dressing room to find Fiona in the corridor. She was tapping at her tablet, but looked up and smiled when I emerged.

  “A few changes for tomorrow. I’ve just sent them to you. Now your call time is later. You can sleep in a little.”

  “Sweet. Thank you.”

  We sauntered closer to each other.

  Fiona closed her hand around one of the lapels of my leather jacket. “Thank you again for your endurance.”

  “It’s my job. I like it.”

  “Goodnight then.” She tugged my jacket, lifting her face, and I leaned down in compliance, expecting a cheek kiss. She kissed me on the lips instead. I had just enough presence of mind to move my mouth in response.

  She let go, and I drifted up to stand straight again. “Yeah.” I smiled. “Goodnight.”

  With a pretty flush in her face, she ran a hand through her unbound hair, then waved and strode away down the hall.

  I walked the opposite direction, toward the front entrance, my mind abuzz. When Sebastian popped out from another dressing room and fell in step beside me, it startled me so much I nearly yelled.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Didn’t see you.”

  “I hope you realize what you’ve got there.” He sounded chillier than usual, and nodded in the direction I’d come from.

  Crap. Had he been lurking, spying that kiss by peeking around the doorway?

  I coughed, my cold reasserting itself. I used the moment to collect my scrambled thoughts. “I don’t think I have anything. I do appreciate her. A lot.”

  “I’d say she rather more than ‘appreciates’ you.” Sebastian pushed open the door to the lobby and held it for me, but it seemed less like courtesy and more like an opportunity to skewer me with his gaze as I passed. “If you’re an arsehole to her, you’ll have me to answer to.”

  I clicked my back teeth shut and crossed the lobby at his side. “I absolutely don’t plan to be. But, warning taken.”

  “Good.” We paused at the front door, confronted by rain pouring onto the streets. “God, it’s pissing down. Well, see you tomorrow.” He strolled out, turning up his overcoat collar.

  Andy: Do you think it meant anything?

  Sinter: I’m not sure. I mean, people kiss in theater a lot. I assume film is the same. But then Sebastian said that, so …??

  Andy: Well do you want there to be anything with her?

  Sinter: Not in a serious way I don’t think

  Sinter: I am kind of enjoying the flirtation I guess. Which probably makes me a douche. Ugh

  Andy: Nah everyone enjoys flirtation sometimes. We get to do that, as humans

  Sinter: I guess. Anyway I really think she’s just … projecting. Seeing me as this character. It happens

  Andy: Complicated lives you actors lead :)

  Sinter: Yeah. Or not. I’m thinking it’s not serious, never mind. Anyway what’s new in Seattle?

  Andy: Well I will finally have a roommate, though probably just for a month or so

  Sinter: Oh yeah?

  Andy: Yeah, Peyton, knew him in college. He’s looking for work in Seattle and his own place. So he’ll stay here till he finds those

  Sinter: That’s good, splitting the rent and all

  I held my fingers back from typing the nosy question that nagged at me: was this Peyton gay? Bi maybe? Andy didn’t talk like he was interested in him, but what right did I have to ask that when I wasn’t telling anyone, Andy included, that I was bi?

  I ought to tell him. If an opportunity came up to slip it smoothly into the conversation, I swore to myself I would.

  My mom emailed in early December.

  Joel,

  Do you have Christmas plans? Will you be coming home? Your father and I have been invited to Cousin Grace’s in California, but we will decline if you plan to be here. Or you could perhaps come to California too.

  Let us know soon please. None of us wants to put off airline reservations too long this time of year.

  Mom

  I winced, reading it with groggy eyes in the dark pre-sunrise hours before work. My crumpet popped up from the toaster, and I set the phone down to pluck out the two halves
and spread them with Nutella, trying to imagine if there was any possible reason I’d want to fly all the way to the West Coast for Christmas, then back again a couple of days later. We did get a bit of time off from filming then, so I could swing it, but why bother? Unless …

  I grabbed my phone and messaged Andy.

  Sinter: Hey random question. Think you’ll be in Oregon for Christmas?

  Since I was up early, he was still awake before bed over there, and he responded soon.

  Andy: Nah probably staying here. My folks were talking about coming up to see me and Emma. Why? You going home??

  Emma was his sister, older than him by two years, and the sibling he was closest to. She lived in the Seattle area too.

  Sinter: Blah I don’t know, doubt it. Mom was asking today. The only possible reason I’d want to is if you were in town, heh

  Andy: Aw well thank you

  Andy: You could just come to Seattle and not tell them, ha

  It was kind of astonishing, the speed at which my brain filled itself with madcap travel scenarios, complete with kisses under mistletoe in front of a window showcasing the Space Needle. However …

  Sinter: Tempting, but ugh, guess I shouldn’t

  Sinter: I only get a few days off around then, and I’d be exhausted, the travel … etc.

  Andy: Yeah the airports are horrible that time of year. I’d avoid it if possible

  Andy: So when are you done filming?

  Sinter: Probably by first week of January. So hey, travel’s not near so crazy after that ;)

  Andy: Then come! Are you going to stay in the UK after this?

  Sinter: Well that is a good question. Agent has a BBC drama he’s trying to get me onto, but otherwise I’ve been too busy to look. If that falls through … I don’t know, work visa is a headache to maintain. And expensive. Coming home is easier in some ways

  Andy: Hmmm is it wrong to hope you don’t get that part? ;)

  Sinter: I can forgive it. Would be awesome to see you :)

  Andy: Hope so, one way or another! Hopefully peyton will have his own place by January and you could stay here

  Sinter: How’s that going btw? Living with him

  Andy: Not bad, he’s pretty chill. Although kind of a slacker. I keep having to remind him to lay off the video games and do his job hunt

  Sinter: “Daaaaad stop nagging me”

  Andy: Lol, I know, when did I become such a grownup?

  Sinter: Speaking of, I’ve got to get to work

  Andy: Yes back to your grownup life of putting on makeup and snogging models

  Sinter: They make me get up at SIX AM for this stuff, man, don’t disrespect

  CHAPTER 9: BOYS DON’T CRY

  THE DAY AFTER FIONA KISSED ME, I NUDGED HER PLAYFULLY WHEN WE WERE WATCHING THE DAILIES, TO show I was up for physical friendliness. Over the next week, she let her hands linger when positioning me for scenes, and spent more time fussing personally with my hair and wardrobe. And a few times that week, she found the opportunity to kiss me on the lips again.

  Never in front of anyone else, which suggested she was being discreet and not showing favoritism. Still, it didn’t feel like passion. The kisses were more “fond,” I would say, stemming from adoration of Taylor. And given no one else on set was all that fond of me, I appreciated it.

  Sebastian disliked me because Fiona liked me. The supporting cast and producers, Fiona’s dad included, treated me like I was a bit thick in the head when it came to how British TV worked, being American and all. Maybe they were right to a degree, but it was rubbing off some of the shine when it came to my delight about living in Britain. Ariel, with whom I spent the most time on-screen, didn’t particularly seem to care about anyone or anything. Her neutrality was actually something of a comfort.

  Finally we reached the day of the sex scene.

  The day before, I had nervously taken Fiona aside to ask how it would go.

  “Closed set,” she assured me. “Only the essential crew. The scene’s about four minutes in total, but only about thirty seconds of that is the actual act. Most of it’s lead-in action and the conversation afterward.”

  “All basically in shadow,” I checked.

  “Yes. Low light. Quite low.”

  Still, I awoke early on the morning of the shoot and spent awhile looking at my naked self from various angles in the bathroom mirror, critiquing the skin that film-watchers weren’t even going to see in any detail.

  Yeah, only the twelve or so “essential” crew members would.

  Chelsea, instead of the usual wardrobe assistant, brought me the costume this time. Holding up a tiny flesh-colored pair of underwear, she told me with reddened cheeks, “This in place of the usual pants, please.” (I’d learned the awkward way, long ago, that “pants” was UK English for underwear.) “You’ll still be in shadow. It’s just to help everything look convincing in those few glimpses the cameras might pick up.”

  Oh hell.

  I took the pants and mustered up a smile. “Okey dokey.”

  Before leaving, she gave my shoulder a stilted tap, as if to bolster me. “You’ll do fine.”

  I sank into the chair in my dressing room and messaged Andy.

  Sinter: They just handed me nude toned underwear for the scene today. I … I can’t even

  I knew the message would make him laugh when he woke up and read it, and sending it to him gave me enough backbone to strip down, put the freaky thing on, get into the rest of my costume, and move along to makeup. I felt tightly strapped-down under my jeans, and hoped maybe the constriction would contain any untimely erections. It was seriously unlikely that would happen—I didn’t desire Ariel at all, and everything I’d heard about sex scenes indicated they were anything but sexy. Still, you never knew when your body might decide to be contrary.

  Chelsea arrived and summoned me. I popped the snog-preparatory peppermint gum into my mouth and walked onto the closed set, my stomach tying itself into knots.

  Andy: Was it horrible? Traumatizing?

  Sinter: More just … weird and embarrassing and exhausting

  Andy: “So, here’s how *I* climax … does this look normal to the rest of you?”

  Sinter: Ha! Yes. That. Not to mention all the “grab the breasts harder please” type of directions

  Andy: Oh gawd. Was it weird for Fiona too, directing that?

  Sinter: Definitely, she was almost as nervous as me. Meanwhile Ariel was like, “Sure, whatevs, I’ll strip and fake orgasms. No big”

  Andy: Haha! Was she good at it?

  Sinter: Strangely yes. Freaking surreal day

  Andy: That is an honestly rough day at work. Poor guy

  Sinter: True but it is kinda funny. I do see that. :) Just, wow. I thought it couldn’t be harder than the times I’ve had to cry for a part, but it really was

  Andy: Yeah crying on command, how do you do that? Chop onions?

  Sinter: Ha, well eye drops are one possibility, but most of us try the “think of something sad” method

  Andy: Oh, like a pet dying, or your favorite cheesy movie scene or whatever

  Sinter: Yeah I have a few go-to scenarios

  Tell him? Not tell him?

  Impulse made the decision for me. I started typing.

  Sinter: One is actually … heh ok this is stupid …

  Andy: Oh now you have to tell me :)

  Sinter: The day you left for college. You probably don’t even remember

  Andy: Omg. Dude. Now I’M tearing up. That day sucked!! Wow good one

  I caught my bottom lip in my teeth, pleased beyond reasonable limits. He remembered. I had moved him.

  Sinter: Well there you go. You’re one of my trade secrets

  Andy: A high honor it is too

  On a mild morning in September, I had walked to Andy’s house to help him pack up his green Volvo. He was about to leave for California for his freshman year. I’d be heading to the University of Oregon the next week, in Eugene, a much shorter drive south.
/>   I was utterly freaking out, but I wouldn’t let anyone see it. I kept the panic locked down, telling myself this transition was no big deal, a good thing even. College was bound to be better than high school.

  Except the part I’d avoided thinking about until that day: the part where I had to be five hundred miles away from my best friend.

  His two sisters, his parents, and I carried boxes out for him. His other sibling, his older brother, lived in the Bay Area and would be meeting him at Stanford to help him move in.

  Though I was in full emo gear that day—spiky black hair, eyeliner, earrings, studded belt, wallet chain, band T-shirt with holes in it—his family welcomed me and treated me like one of their own. They’d long since grown accustomed to my look, even when my own parents still hadn’t.

  Andy gave them each an emotional but jubilant hug in farewell, and I climbed into the car with him. He had offered to drop me at my house on the way out of town.

  “I could’ve walked,” I told him with a chuckle as we rolled off down the street. I only lived two blocks away, after all.

  The breeze blew into our open windows, smelling of suburban lawns.

  “Yeah, well.” His voice sounded rusty, and it finally occurred to me that he wanted to say goodbye to me alone, without an audience.

  Something in my chest had clenched up into a knot by the time he stopped on my street. He parked the Volvo a few houses down, next to a stand of trees that blocked the view of my parents’ house.

  “Here, I’ll …” He turned off the car and got out.

  I climbed out too.

  He came around to the sidewalk and we stood under the trees in the dappled, gold-and-green morning sunlight. He stared downward a moment, then lifted his face. Tears shone in his eyes. He didn’t speak.

  The knot in my chest rushed into my throat. I was in agony, though I couldn’t have articulated why. I was scared; the future was huge and uncertain; I’d be alone; I was worried about him …?