by Tash Skilton
“What does Janine want?” the sound tech asks me, while fiddling with the controls. We’re watching the battle play out from above, safe in our sound booth. “Does she give a single fuck?”
“Who knows?” A part of me died about five seconds ago when the term “mouth flaps” entered the lexicon. And since I’m not about to text Janine and ask her where she falls in the great peas-and-carrots/walla-walla war, I suggest, “Let’s do one of each and let the editors decide.”
The sound tech shrugs and unmutes his mic so I can be heard on the miniature soundstage below.
I address the actors in my sweetest, bullshittiest tone: “I hate to see you all hurting your voices right now when we need you in top form. Super Loopers, you march clockwise, Wallas, you march counterclockwise.” According to Janine, if a group of people tramp about in a circle saying their respective gibberish, it more authentically duplicates the sounds of a crowd.
I wonder if Ennis the Menace has an opinion. Mr. Voice-Over. I try to picture him doing voice-over work in that sleepy drawl of his, and the only thing I think he’d be suited for would be audiobooks where the listener is trying to fall asleep.
The reason we’re all here at a sound booth in Van Nuys is because at yesterday’s outdoor shoot, a car alarm went off, blaring out over the actors’ dialogue, and once the alarm stopped, the local birds mimicked the same noise. It was during a Roberto monologue, so I’m firmly Team Birds. In the outtakes you can see Roberto scowling and Francis Jean laughing. Anyway, the footage looked amazing—they shot during magic hour, that moment when the sky glows orange-pink as the sun goes down—but now the sound techs need to remove the car and bird noises and replace the ruined dialogue, as well as add believable background murmurs of the market-goers beneath it.
As I watch the scene on the monitor, I realize I haven’t been paid yet for my under-five role. It’s not a ton of money, but I don’t wear pregnancy bellies and bald caps for free.
Roberto and Francis Jean will fix their own lines at a later date. I’m relieved I don’t have to be there when it happens.
“You ever work with Her Royal Cheesiness?” the sound tech asks.
I frown. “Francis Jean? She was nice when I met her,” I assert, ready to throw down if the sound tech besmirches her good name.
“Yeah, no, don’t get me wrong—she’s a sweetheart. But one time there was a plate of cheese out and she kept going back and forth with herself. ‘Dare I? Dare I not?’ I figured it was a vocal cords exercise thing, she didn’t want to clog the pipes or whatever, but then her hand darted out and I’m telling you, eating that cheese changed her . . .”
I tune him out because a voicemail from Millie has arrived, with a text immediately following it: whoops i messed up the time difference ha ha just landed
It’s only four o’clock. I wasn’t expecting her for another two and a half hours.
Shit, really? I text back. I can’t leave yet, you’re going to have to sit tight.
While I’m waiting for her response, other messages swoop in from a group text. Matty checking in, wondering if Millie and I want to come to one of his baseball games while she’s in town.
I ignore him for now and wait tensely to hear from my sister. She finally chimes in: don’t worry, a free van service will drop me closer to you, halfway thru H-wood. it’s called Mad Men
“Janine has an emergency. Excuse me, please,” I tell the sound tech before ducking out into the hallway to call my sister.
“Mildred Digby Worthington!” I shout when she picks up. “Do not get in the Med Men van!”
“‘Med Men’? No, Mad Men, it’s a TV tour. Oh, wait, it does say Med Men.”
“It’s going to take you to a marijuana dispensary. STAY PUT.”
“Ha ha, even better!”
“Do not get in the van. Hold on, hold on.” I can’t leave in the middle of work. I’m on thin ice as it is; Janine noticed that one of the autograph forgeries looked wobbly and asked if I’d gotten the actors drunk first. (Which in retrospect couldn’t have hurt. I made a mental note to include a cocktail section in my cookbook.)
I thumb out a flurry of texts, receive a response, and then say to Millie, “Good news, Nina’s coming to get you.”
Millie gasps. “Is she there with you? Has she been listening? Does she know my full name is Mildred Digby? Oh God.”
“Yes, and she’s writing it in huge letters on a sign. Soon, everyone in Los Angeles will know.”
“Shut up.”
“No, she doesn’t know your full name and she doesn’t need to, if you listen to me and do what I say. And honestly your priorities right now are alarming.”
“Don’t be condescending.”
I know Millie’s almost twenty, but she’ll always be my baby sister and if I didn’t at least try to stop her from taking a free van to a weed store, what kind of brother would I be?
Was it wrong to enlist Nina in this task? Should I have called someone else to pick up Millie, like Heather? No, the very idea is ludicrous; Millie’s never met her, and Heather doesn’t owe me any favors, especially not that level of favor. Neither does Nina—it’s just what friends do for each other.
You’re the best, I text Nina before heading back inside the sound booth.
CHAPTER 22
NINA
“What does she look like again, babe?” Ennis asks.
“Like a girl version of Sebastian, but shorter,” I reply. “At least . . . I think.”
It took me a few minutes of looking into thirteen- and fourteen-year-old faces to realize that I haven’t seen Millie in person in five years. She’s an actual adult now and she probably won’t be shorter than me.
I get a text. I still can’t find you. Are you at the Tom Bradley Terminal?
“Er. What’s a Tom Bradley Terminal?” I ask Ennis as I look up to try to find the name of the terminal we’re in, but all I see is a number five.
“Oh, hold on,” Ennis says. “I think that’s the international terminal.” He looks up at the number too. “Righty-o, babe. We gotta get back in the car.”
Sorry! We went to the wrong spot. Hopefully be there in a few minutes, I text Millie back.
By the time we drive around to the right terminal, I don’t have to worry about Ennis parking the car again. Millie’s standing at the curb, a few inches taller, sure, but with the same blond hair, fair skin, and freckles I was expecting.
She sees me through the windshield and her whole face lights up. By the time I’ve undone my seat belt and stepped out, she’s already beside me, arms outstretched. “Hi!” she says.
I reach out and embrace her. Finally a Worthington I can hug without question, without constantly having to set boundaries for myself.
“Hi yourself!” I respond, and then step back to take her in. “You look great!” She really does. The braces she sported the last time we saw each other in person clearly worked out for her.
“So do you!” she says. Her accent is more pronounced than Sebastian’s, presumably owing to her having spent the past twelve years of her life in England. Though she also has something of a hybrid British/American lilt. “I’m so happy to see you!” She hugs me again and I laugh.
“Hi there,” Ennis says, reminding us of his presence.
“Sorry. Millie, this is Ennis. Ennis, Millie.”
“The boyfriend. Right,” Millie says as she sticks out her hand.
“That would be me.” He shakes her hand and then grabs the handle of her silver suitcase. “Let me put that in the trunk for you.” He wheels it to the back of the car.
“He’s nice,” Millie says, looking at me.
“He is,” I agree.
“Ready to go?” Ennis asks as he closes the trunk.
“Yup,” I say. “Hey, is it okay with you if I sit in the back? Millie and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Sure. Would be like my usual fare,” Ennis says as he gets into the driver’s seat.
Millie looks a little confused so I
explain, “Ennis is an Uber driver by day.”
“And Nina’s driver by night,” Ennis chimes in affably. There’s no malice in his words, but they still feel a little strange, hearing them said out loud since I have undoubtedly thought much the same thing for the last few months.
“Uh . . . yeah. I suppose that’s true.”
“Still not driving then?” Millie asks. “Even in Los Angeles?”
“Negative,” I say. “I’m just waiting for self-driving cars to finally go mainstream and then I’ll . . .”
“Dump Ennis?” Millie asks.
My jaw drops, but Millie immediately laughs and so does Ennis. In fact, he winks at her through the rearview mirror. “Exactly what I’m afraid of!” he says.
“Don’t worry,” Millie replies as she gets into the back seat. “I wouldn’t really trust Elon Musk’s word on how soon that’s going to happen. I mean the man said space tourism would be a thing, like, two years ago.”
Ennis nods. “Good point.”
I climb into the back seat after her. She leans forward to check Ennis’s Waze app where his phone is mounted on the windshield. “Okay, it says it’ll take us thirty-two minutes to get home . . .”
“First rule of LA,” I say. “Always tack on an additional thirty minutes for traffic.”
“Forty-five if it’s between eight and ten a.m. in the morning and four and six p.m. at night,” Ennis chimes in.
“Excellent!” Millie says. “That gives us well over an hour for you to fill me in on your life over the past five years.”
I blush a little. “Ha! Well . . . I’m embarrassed to say it probably won’t take that long.”
“What happened right after college? Where did you go?”
I think I know what she’s asking, but I’m going to pretend I don’t so I answer her literally. “New York City. Well, first home, to Long Island. And then to New York City. I got an internship with a clinic that worked with high-needs children.”
“Wow,” she says, her eyes bright. “New York! My parents only took me once when we lived upstate, to see The Nutcracker. Did you like living there?”
“I liked it,” I admit. “It was frenzied but in a good, energetic way and, best of all, I didn’t have to drive.”
“So why did you leave?”
“I was there two years,” I explain. “And the internship turned into an administrative job. And though I really liked working with the kids, I realized . . . I don’t know. I think I didn’t have the passion that was necessary to really be good at that job. And I wanted to be really good at my job, you know?”
Millie nods. “Yeah. I think about that a lot. It’s what my gap year is meant to be for, to figure out what I want to do for real. I always thought it’d be journalism, but lately I’m wavering.”
I laugh. “Well, if you still haven’t figured it out at twenty-seven, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”
“That’s a relief,” she says. “I was starting to get worried since I only have three months before uni begins.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Ennis pipes up from the front. “Nina knows she wants to be a screenwriter.”
I look at the back of Ennis’s head in surprise. I mean, I’m sure I told him once in the beginning that’s why I initially moved out here, but I didn’t think he remembered. Lord knows I don’t really remember what he wants to do in voice-overs. Animation? McDonald’s commercials? Is that even his end goal?
“Oh my gosh, that’d be so perfect for you!” Millie gushes. “Do you still keep up with the fanfic? I . . . okay, I admit I subscribed to your Wattpad account. But I haven’t seen anything posted in years.”
“That’s sweet of you, Millie. I haven’t posted there in a long time. Though I . . . well, I actually started another secret account a few months ago.”
“OMG! Please tell me what it is. Please, please, pleaaaase! I would love to read more of your work. I think I read that Jeffcan-trapped-in-the-dungeon story at least ten times.”
I laugh. “Thanks! But I don’t know if it’s any good. I’m a little rusty.”
“Pleeeeeease?!” She grins and bats her eyelashes at me. I have a hard time saying no to those hazel eyes or either of the faces they occupy.
“Okay. Fine. Hold, please.” I take my phone, navigate over to the URL and text it to Millie.
She grabs her phone and hits the link, looking as if she’s settling into the seat to read. I laugh as I gently push the phone down from her face. “You can look at that later. Now it’s your turn to tell me what you’ve been up to for the past five years.”
“Oh, you know. Sixth form. A-levels. Gap year. Giant crush on someone I’ve left behind for America because I have great timing. That pretty much sums it up.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, glancing at Ennis again. “We’ll have to dissect some more of that later. Girl talk,” I whisper.
“Sure.” She smirks at me. “So how long have you guys been together again?” She points to Ennis. “Three months?”
“Um, let me think . . .”
“Yeah, that’s exactly right!” Ennis replies cheerfully. “Our three-month anniversary was last week.”
It was? I blink. But then I just turn and shrug at Millie, who’s smiling in an odd little way, like she’s in on some sort of secret.
“Cool, cool,” she says. “By the way, you guys have Netflix, right?”
“Obviously. We’re not savages, Millie. Why?”
“Oh, there’s just this new rom-com that came out yesterday that I’ve been dying to see. Maybe we can even have a rom-com marathon? You know, for our girl time?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She grins at me as she leans back in her seat. “I really missed you. You were the only person who ever felt like the sister I never had.”
I smile back at her. “Me too. Well, the missing part I mean. I guess I, uh, have a sister. Though, frankly, I think you and I have a lot more in common.”
Millie beams at me.
* * *
“Hello, sister!”
I’m at the door of the apartment, blocking either Ennis or Millie from entering, but it’s probably going to take a minute to unstick my jaw from the floor.
Is Sayeh like Beetlejuice? Or more accurately, Mary Jane? Does the mere mention of her make her appear?
I take in the unfathomable sight of Sayeh and Sebastian sitting on the couch together, chatting. Sayeh has toe separators and a fresh coat of polish on each foot. So she’s clearly been here awhile and, naturally, made herself at home.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Good news! I’m moving to LA,” she says.
Sebastian gets up and looks over my shoulder to see his own sister. “Millie!” he yells with much more warmth than I just greeted mine. I finally realize I should stop blocking the door and get out of the way so that Millie can run into her brother’s arms.
Sayeh and I look at this display of sibling affection, her from the couch and me from the door, and make no move to create one of our own.
“How was your flight?” Sebastian asks Millie just I walk closer to the couch so that I can start my own interrogation.
“What do you mean, you’re moving to LA?” I ask.
“I had a lot of meetings set up for possible sponsorship deals. Plus the distributor of the makeup line is based here. It just seemed like a no-brainer.” She waves her hands over her wet toenails.
“So that means you’re never going back to school?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Like I told you. I don’t actually need a business degree when I’m already on my way to becoming a mogul.”
“And what does Maman say about this?” I ask. I have a vague notion that Sebastian is taking Millie into the kitchen to offer her some food and probably give us some space for our bickering.
Sayeh reaches into her bag. “She sent this for you.” She holds out a plastic container and I lean over to see that it’s filled with noon-nokhodchi, crumbly, clover-shaped cookies made
out of chickpea flour.
But I won’t be distracted, not even by my very favorite dessert. “Right, but what does she say about your plan?”
“She’s fine with it as long as I’m with you,” Sayeh says with a smile. “That’s what you get for being the ‘responsible one.’” She puts the container down long enough to make air quotes and then picks it back up, about to return it to her bag. “Sounds like you don’t want these?”
“Give me that,” I say as I grab for the container. There’s a part of LA that’s known as Tehrangeles because there are so many Persian people—and therefore Persian restaurants, grocery stores, and bakeries—there. I’ve kept meaning to go, and pick up things like noon-nokhodchi for myself, but it’s hard without a car. Though, I suppose, I could always make a date at a kabob place with Ennis. If I ever get around to asking him if he’d want to eat at one.
“Hello,” Sayeh says over my shoulder and I realize Ennis is, obviously, still standing right there. “You must be . . .” She drags the sentence out long enough that Ennis is forced to give her his name, without his learning that I’ve never once spoken to her about him. Infuriatingly clever as always.
“Ennis, right,” Sayeh says as she shakes his hand. “I’m Sayeh. Nina’s little sister.”
“So who wants a snack?” Sebastian says from the kitchen. “How about some homemade spinach dip and pretzels?”
“Yum,” Sayeh says. “After you, Ennis.” She lets him walk ahead of her to the kitchen, then stops in front of me to say, “Don’t worry. I’m not staying here permanently. Just crashing until I find a place.”
I snort. “Um, great. But even if you were staying here temporarily, you should’ve told me. Asked me, even . . .”
“Where’s the surprise in that?” she asks.
“I don’t like surprises,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I know. That’s what makes this so fun.”
“For you.”
She shrugs, but doesn’t deny it. “This”—she points back and forth between Ennis and Sebastian, who are having a heated debate about the merits of pretzel twists versus pretzel rods—“is interesting.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply.