The Girl On The Half Shell

by Susan Ward

  “Let me read the caption. ‘Manzone, the edgy rock superstar lead singer of Blackpoll touches down at JFK with Rene Thompson, daughter of legendary civil rights attorney George Thompson…blah, blah, blah, the couple has no comment on the singer’s unexplained six month absence.’”

  Rene slaps the newspaper and grins. “The New York Post, Chrissie. Eliza is going to die.”

  I curl in a ball and hug the blankets more tightly around me. Things just seem to work out for Rene without her even trying. Front page of the New York Post. Eliza thinking we’ve taken Manhattan by storm. At the club last night, every man in the room after Rene.

  “I have a terrible headache. I want to sleep,” I whisper. I hear sounds from the kitchen and lift my aching head. “Rene? Is there someone else in the apartment?”

  “Oh, that’s just Jimmy Stallworth.” Rene does a dismissive shake of her head and then her eyes settle on me and widen. “Oh shit, I knew you were wasted last night, but I didn’t think you were so fucked up that you wouldn’t remember.”

  I sit up, alarmed. “What?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  What’s the last thing I remember? What’s the last thing? I frown. “I don’t know. We were playing some drinking games with some guys…Oh god, was one of them Jimmy Stallworth?”

  Rene makes a face. “Yep.” And then her eyes sharpen intensely. “Do you remember seeing Manny?”

  I don’t like how she asks me that. “Oh god. On the monitor?” I ask nervously.

  Rene shakes her head.

  My eyes round. “Alan was at the club last night?”

  Rene nods. “Yep, with Nia,” she says with heavy meaning.

  Nia? Nia? The latest tall, brunette supermodel du jour. I saw Alan last night. Alan was with Nia. Why don’t I remember any of this?

  Rene’s expression shifts into anger and disgust. “He was such a prick. Pretended he didn’t even know us, which is probably good because you were pretty fucked up by the time he strolled in.”

  My face scrunches up. “I didn’t do anything stupid last night, did I?”

  “You mean other than getting totally shitfaced?”

  “How did Jimmy Stallworth end up here?”

  “Well, that I’m not surprised you don’t remember. By the time we left the club you couldn’t even walk, Chrissie. Jimmy had to practically carry you to the car. We put you in the car. David brought you home and put you to bed, and we went to a party and ended up here.”

  Now I’m alarmed and furious. “You left me and let David put me to bed? How could you do that, Rene?”

  Rene shakes her head in aggravation. “Well, you were pretty much done for the night, Chrissie.”

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  Rene springs from the bed. “Don’t blame me. You were the one who was the downer. I’ve got to go get rid of Jimmy. He’s a total bore.”

  Rene slams the bedroom door behind her. Between the hangover, Alan, and the paper, I feel completely deflated. My emotions cascade over me in relentless waves, like the nausea that never quite makes me vomit.

  According to Rene, Alan ignored me last night. I’m glad I don’t remember, it would hurt even more than it already does if I remembered it with clarity. Why do I even care? He’s a total asshole sometimes, like how he treats Rene, and last night pretending he doesn’t know us. Maybe he’s already forgotten about me.

  God, I made a fool of myself and the only saving grace is that I don’t remember.

  I need to forget about Alan Manzone and focus on why I am in New York. I roll over in bed, agitated in my flesh. You don’t really want him, Chrissie. It’s not like there could ever be a relationship. With a guy like Alan Manzone it would just be a fuck and a goodbye. Nothing more.

  I close my eyes and begin to drift. Yes, sleep will be good. Very, very good.

  * * *

  I jerk awake to the sound of the phone ringing. I open my eyes. Crap, its morning. I’ve slept an entire day away. And how is it possible I still feel lousy? What day is it?

  I grab the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey baby girl, I wanted to wish you luck before your audition.”

  Crap, it’s Jack! Crap, it’s Monday! I haven’t practiced once since arriving in New York. And I have an audition—I check the clock—in an hour.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  I remember the New York Post. I tense wondering if Jack has seen it.

  “So how is it going? You girls keeping busy in the Big Apple without the old man?”

  I laugh at the comment “old man.” I wonder if he’s fishing and what he knows. I can’t tell.

  “Not too busy. I slept most of yesterday. Jet lag I think.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hold you up. You are going to be magnificent, Chrissie.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. The phone clicks. I spring from the bed and dart into the kitchen. Rene is sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I exclaim, grabbing a bowl and filling it with Corn Flakes.

  “You were dead asleep. I thought it better to let you sleep.”

  “I have my audition in less than an hour.”

  Rene frowns. “Is that today?”

  I stare and I know. “You went out last night, didn’t you? You just left me here and went out.”

  I think she flushes, but I can’t tell for certain.

  “I just went to a party with Jimmy Stallworth. It wasn’t your kind of scene, Chrissie. I thought it better not to wake you to ask if you wanted to go with us.”

  I grab a cup of coffee. “Well, don’t do it again. I hate it when you ditch me.”

  My hands are shaking as I try to add cream to the coffee.

  “Jeez, Chrissie, we’re not in eighth grade. We don’t have to do everything together. Next year we’ll be at different schools. I’ve got to get used to not having you around.”

  I slam down the creamer. I really didn’t want to think about that today and I hate that it all seems no big deal for Rene.

  Rene sits back in her chair. “Chrissie, are you OK?”

  I sink at the table and attack my bowl. “I’m just stressed. You know how I am when I have to perform.”

  “It’s just an audition.”

  “It’s Juilliard.”

  “So?”

  So? So! How could Rene not get this? I hate how self-absorbed she is at times. “The committee will all know Jack. They will all know my mother. Every time I perform I am measured against them. And it’s Juilliard, so I don’t want to suck.”

  Rene takes my face in her hands. “No one measures you against them except you, Chrissie.” She drops my cheeks and goes back to her cereal. “So stop worrying. You’re in. The audition is just a formality.”

  I laugh in frustration. “God, I hate you at times.”

  Rene smiles. “I know. That’s why we are friends. You better hurry and shower. You smell like booze.”

  I take a whiff of my arm. Is that what that hideous odor is? Booze seeping from my pores?

  I dart into the bathroom and turn on the shower. The warm streams of water feel good. I wish I could just stand here all day. I quickly lather my body with Chanel No.5 body wash. As I wash my face, I remember Alan kissing me on the forehead, a kiss for luck. Such a bit of drama, and yet sweet. He said it wasn’t what he intended. What did he intend? He said he wanted to meet me. Why? I still don’t know why. And it’s driving me crazy.

  Stop thinking about Alan Manzone. You need to focus. You’ll never see him again. I switch off the shower. I dust my skin with the matching Chanel powder wondering if I still carry the smell of booze on my skin.

  Once I’m done brushing my teeth, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Jeez, I look awful today and that’s after twenty hours straight of sleep. Angry at myself, I twist my hair into a tight ponytail and then tuck it into a neat French twist. A little mascara. A touch of lip gloss. Nothing more.

  I go back into the kitchen, cello ca
se in hand. “I shouldn’t be more than two hours. Don’t take off, please. I want you here when I get back.”

  Rene nods. She crosses her heart. “I’ll be right here waiting. You’re not wearing that, are you?”

  “Why?”

  “Too California. Shouldn’t you wear something black? Something elegant. Something New York?”

  “I feel comfortable in this. I play better when I feel comfortable.”

  “Suit yourself.” She puts the bowl in the sink. “Besides you are already in. It’s just a formality.”

  Why does she do this? Why build me up then shake me down? Then tell me not to worry about it. Why?

  “I have to run. Maybe we can go out for lunch when I get back.”

  “Sure, Chrissie. Whatever you want.” She points. “You stay sweet.”

  I point back. “You stay cute.”

  “And don’t fall on your ass. It’s just Juilliard.”

  I drop the extra elevator key on the entry hall table. “I’m leaving the extra key, but don’t go anywhere.”

  “Yes, Mother!” I hear from the kitchen before the elevator doors close.

  I lean against the cool, polished walls, struggling to calm my breathing. I need to stop rushing. Rushing will only make me more nervous. I stare at my reflection in the doors, the distorted shape of my features caused by the reflecting metal and the strange glow from by the dim, orangey light of the elevator. I study my simple blue sundress and flip-flops. Rene is right. This is all wrong. I make a face at myself. Welcome to Juilliard, Miss Parker.

  I dash out of the elevator and Elliot the doorman takes my cello case. “Do you want me to ring for a car, Miss Parker?”

  Damn. A car. I should have arranged for a car yesterday. I always forget the entire world is not Santa Barbara. You don’t get from one edge of town to the other in five minutes in New York.

  “No, I’m running late. Just hail me a cab, please.”

  He gives me a dubious look. He steps out to the curb, holds out his hand and blows a whistle. He opens the door for me, and then puts my cello in the trunk.

  The driver asks: “Where to?”

  “Juilliard.”

  Reluctantly, I sink into the backseat. The interior of the cab smells. It’s dirty. They say you’ve not had a true New York experience until you’ve taken a New York cab. I could do without this experience and the Turkish disco music blaring out of the speakers. I block out the sounds of the city and the car stereo blasting. I move my fingers along the neck of an imaginary cello. The last eight bars of the prelude I never do well. I need to play the notes through.

  “Are you a musician?”

  I open my eyes. What gave it away? The cello case or the imaginary cello I’m playing or that I’m going to Juilliard? God, that was a bitchy thought. Hangovers make people rotten.

  I smile. “Hopefully someday. I have an audition at Juilliard.”

  That is it from my New York cabbie. So much for conversation. I stare out the window. Everything is so close and large and crowded. There is nothing around me familiar. Not a single thing here looks like anything at home. I fiddle nervously with the hem of my dress. Nothing familiar except for my dress. I give it a harsh glare. What is the matter with me? I couldn’t have advertised more that I don’t belong here.

  That makes me think of Mom and her stark black dresses and knee high boots, the stylish scarves and expensive Italian bags. Lena was always East Coast chic. Mom definitely belonged in Manhattan. She always looked a touch like a fish out of water in Santa Barbara. Or was it the melancholy of her career ending prematurely, was it her illness and the process of dying?

  I wish Mom were here with me today. I look up. The cab has stopped. The driver is getting my cello from the trunk. The door is opened and I stare out at the sidewalk.

  The driver points. “Juilliard.”

  Yep, I recognize those fountains in the courtyard leading up to the doors.

  “Forty-seven dollars.”

  How could it be? We only went a few blocks. I look at the meter and the bright red lights do say forty-seven dollars. I rummage through my purse, pay the cabbie. I don’t know if I’ve tipped him well or tipped him badly. He doesn’t look as if I’ve done either. He looks irritated that I am getting too slowly from the cab.

  I rush through the fast-moving lanes of people, ignoring the stylishly dressed New Yorkers swirling around me. Inside the building I ask where the auditions are, then flush, because there is a giant sign directing me only few feet away. Everything is just so big, busy and crowded here.

  Outside of the audition room, there is a long bench, crowded with waiting applicants. I settle on the edge. Twenty minutes pass before someone comes into the hallway.

  A confident, urbane voice inquires, “Are you Christian Parker?”

  I nod, feeling instantly lame that, for some reason, I’m cowering on the stark waiting bench. The woman doesn’t seem to notice my discomposure, offers her hand, introduces herself, but I am unable to catch her name through the buzz in my head.

  The woman makes an almost impossible to see gesture with her hand, ordering me to follow, and walks briskly down the long hallway.

  “I should have recognized you at once,” she says, in a voice that is neither friendly nor revealing. “I knew your mother very well. Remarkable woman. Such a tragic loss. Is your dad here with you? I haven’t seen Jack in ten years. You’re the mirror image of him, though I imagine people tell you that all the time.”

  Breathe, Chrissie, breathe. Smile and pretend you’re not on the edge of freaking out right here. Why does this woman have to play This is Your Life right before I have to perform?

  “Go on in.” She smiles. “Good luck.”

  And then she is off in a puff of perfume and a chorus of clicking heels. Steeling my nerves, I try to empty my mind, try to ignore the chide that it is a mistake to dare an audition at Juilliard. I pull back the heavy wood door and enter.

  * * *

  Jesus Christ! How long have we been sitting in silence? How long have they been staring at me?

  The music director looks up over his clipboard. “I expected you, Miss Parker, to be better prepared. Your mother was the consummate professional.”

  OK, so the Bach came out a little rough. There is no need to bring my mother into this. I take a deep breath. Smile, Chrissie. Smile.

  “Do you want me to play my original composition now?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I thought an original composition is required.”

  The music director stands. “It is. The second piece is unnecessary.”

  * * *

  The elevator doors close behind me and I drop my cello case onto the tile. I find Rene lounging on the bed watching TV in my parents’ bedroom.

  Rene frowns. “Oh, Chrissie, what happened? It can’t be that bad.”

  I sink down on the bed beside her. “It was so awful, Rene. I sat frozen, unable to play, and then when I finally did, each move was jerky and slow and just awful.”

  “It’s all right, Chrissie. It’s all right. It’s only Juilliard and fuck them if they were rude to you. It’s just a formality. You know you’re in.”

  “But I’m glad I screwed up. I don’t really want to get in.”

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t want Juilliard.”

  Rene smiles and throws her arms around me. She sits back. She puts on sunglasses. “Well, Chrissie, looks like University of California Berkeley.”

  She says it dramatically, like Tom Cruise at the end of Risky Business. I laugh.

  “How long have you not wanted Juilliard? Why are we here?”

  I struggle to answer her, but it’s as much a mystery to me as to her. I came here on autopilot and something pushed me here, toward something I don’t want.

  “I don’t know why I auditioned.”

  “You look better than when you left.”

  I feel better, sort of like a stay of execution. I would
never have expected this failure to feel like such a relief.

  “I’m glad you’re in a better mood, Chrissie. I’ve got bad news. Dad wants me down in DC tomorrow. And he asked me to come alone. Something is up. I can’t reach Mom.”

  I sit up. “You’re leaving me all alone in New York?”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve never heard my dad like this. I’ll be back next week.”

  “You don’t think it’s because of the papers?”

  “No, Chrissie. Something is going on. I can feel it. Something he thinks is going to turn into a shitstorm between us, otherwise he wouldn’t care if you were there.”

  I stare at Rene. I hope she is wrong for her sake. I don’t really like Mr. Thompson. He’s a narcissistic jerk.

  “I don’t like you going alone if there is going to be drama,” I whisper.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m used to the shitstorms. I just feel badly about leaving you. Don’t do anything I would do, not without me.”

  Rene explodes into laughter and I force a smile. She reaches over me to grab the joint I didn’t notice before on the bedside table. She fires it up, takes a deep inhale before handing it to me.

  I stare at the fiery tip. “Where did you get this?”

  “Jimmy Stallworth. I snaked it from his apartment.”

  I take a hit. “What is it about rich, preppy guys always wanting to be called by their first and last name?”

  “I don’t know, Chrissie. What does it matter?”

  The next morning Rene leaves on the 7 a.m. train to DC. The walls of the apartment close in around me and I am anxious in the quiet rooms, anxious and scattered. Now that I’ve blown my admission to Juilliard it truly feels like there is nothing ahead of me.

  I should be reading since I’ve got about five books to finish before the end of break. It doesn’t seem important now. My admission to UC Berkeley is not conditional, unlike Juilliard, which required an audition. I am in. It is where I’m going. Is that good or is that bad? I don’t know.

  I go into my parents’ bedroom and curl on the bed, clicking on the TV to flip through channels. There is nothing to watch. Midday TV sucks. I hug the pillow and try to focus on a game show.

  I’m trapped in a void. Not a woman. Not a girl. Going somewhere. Going nowhere. Wanting too much. Wanting nothing. Having everything I want. Having nothing I need. I am completely alone in my life, thinking of a raspy voice whispering Chrissie while I fade into sleep.