“No.” Lukas stopped her. “Over here.” He moved her in the direction of the empty chair in front of the camera. “Unless you want to cast yourself,” he added kindly.
“That’d be great.” Evie took her seat. “Then I’d get the job.”
Rich, Kelly, Laurel, and Carmen all laughed. Even the corners of Jan’s mouth tugged up into a smile. Evie chuckled along thinking, Jesus. That wasn’t even that funny. Her coworkers never laughed at her jokes.
Laurel introduced herself, then ran down the panel; the college-aged Rich, Kelly with his steel-capped boots and slicked blond hair. The neatly presented Carmen in a definitely-from-Zara blazer. And, of course, Jan, wearing a thin cashmere sweaterdress and a curiously engaged expression.
Evie smiled at everyone individually. Her lips stretched over her teeth, feeling fuller and wider than usual. Chloe Fontaine had a no-doubt-about-it killer smile.
Lukas checked Evie’s form. “And this is Chloe.”
“With a C,” Evie added.
“That’s important, huh?” Kelly’s tone walked the line between joking and judgmental.
“I assume you’re not Kelly-with-an-I,” she responded.
She was expecting a titter. The collective reaction was closer to a guffaw. Kelly shrugged, grinning, like, I walked into that. “Do you have a head shot, Chloe-with-a-C?”
Evie shook her head. Her hair felt long and heavy as it brushed against her cheeks. “I just changed my hair and haven’t had the chance to get new ones done yet.”
“Oh. Okay.” Kelly pressed record on the camera.
“Go ahead and state your name and agency,” Laurel said.
Evie looked down into the bulbous black eye of the camera lens. It felt like it was sucking her in. “Chloe Fontaine. Unrepresented.”
Kelly pressed pause, frowning. “How’d you find out about this?”
Evie addressed Jan, praying this would be a good move. “I’m Evie Selby’s roommate.”
“Oh.” Surprise flashed across Jan’s face. “Yes, she mentioned you. I thought your name was Chrissie—”
“Krista,” Laurel corrected.
“She must’ve misspoken,” Evie said. “We’ve only been living together for a few weeks. I just moved here last month.” She was acutely aware of how much the panel was paying attention to her. Even Rich’s phone sat in front of him, untouched. She could feel them thinking about her.
“Welcome to New York.” Carmen beamed, all bleached teeth and shiny lipstick. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah.” Evie made herself smile. “Apart from the giant rats. I swear, the one this morning was the size of a football. I was worried it was going to mug me.”
The table burst into laughter. And even though they seemed more relieved than genuinely entertained, a warm glow of acceptance flooded Evie’s system. They liked her. And it felt good.
“Oh, and you have the cutest dimples.” Carmen’s face crumpled in delight. The sponsors evidently loved dimples.
“Let’s get started,” Kelly said. “Do you have the sides?”
Evie nodded. Kelly pressed record again, and Evie began. “Lovely lips are a must all year-round, but which lipstick provides the longest-lasting coverage? We road-test your favorite brands to find out.” She dropped her voice a little, aiming for seductive. “Watch out—we do kiss and tell.” And even though it felt sort of silly, she added a wink at the end.
Rich nodded, looking pleased. “Can you do it again, but try to make the beginning more of a question?”
Krista had told her directors would often ask for a different take, to make sure you could take direction. Evie obediently repeated the script, emphasizing the word which and trying to look more puzzled at the beginning.
“Very nice,” Laurel said when she finished. The casting agent looked particularly polished today, in a structured black blouse and a string of pearls Evie assumed were real.
“Do you have any story ideas?” Jan sounded the closest to hopeful Evie had ever heard.
“I do.” Evie extracted a manila folder from her bag and handed a printout to each panel member. “I listed out ten ideas, including the hook, suggestions of graphics, and who we might interview. Plus some additional reading I might do on the topic.”
Kelly read out loud. “ ‘Rise of the Feminist Action Hero.’ ”
Evie nodded eagerly. “I thought we could kick it off with heroines in young adult literature, which is a really interesting space for female-created heroines, but then dig a bit deeper into how many female action heroes have true agency, and how many are just, you know, submissive sexy sideshows.”
The panel nodded, looking somewhere between taken aback and intrigued.
“I see why you moved in with Evie,” Jan murmured, her eyes moving quickly over the printout. “You must have a lot to talk about.”
Evie nodded, smiling a tight-lipped smile.
“This looks cool: ‘Who Makes a Better Date?’ ” Rich looked up at her. “Can we see some of that?”
Evie repositioned herself, channeling her inner Krista: bubbly, vibrant, flirtatious. It wasn’t hard. She could feel the energy of the panel expanding and solidifying, breathing fire underneath her. They were ready for her to nail this. “Last week, I went on two first dates. One of these dates bought me dinner and peonies, the other ended with me faking a family tragedy in order to get the hell out of there. So far, so standard. But in my case, one was a woman, and the other was a man. After five years of dating both genders, it got me wondering: Who’s a better date, men or women?” Evie paused and looked over at the panel. “So then I have five categories: confidence, manners, sex, enthusiasm, and follow-up. We could have a score count and some cool graphics. And we could interview people on the street about their best and worst dates, or who they think makes a better date.”
The panel’s faces seemed to be frozen, twisted into strange grimaces. Then as one, they all exhaled at once, laughing with what sounded like a combination of shock and relief.
“Wow,” Carmen said. “That was fantastic. I just think she’s fantastic.”
Kelly leaned back in his chair and offered Rich a high five. “Boom.”
Evie felt as if the Death Star had just exploded inside her. Her heartbeat was rushing, racing, pounding. The acceptance. The enthusiasm. She could practically taste it.
Laurel looked at Jan and nodded confidently. Jan’s eyes didn’t leave Evie’s. She nodded too. “I’m glad Evie . . . suggested you.”
Evie’s excitement stopped short. Why did she pause before suggested? Did Jan look skeptical? No, Evie decided. She probably just assumed Evie coached Chloe, told her exactly what the panel was looking for, and there was nothing wrong with that.
No one suspected a thing.
15.
“Hello? Claire?” Willow’s voice sounded as cautious and experimental as a kitten. “Maria?”
Nothing. Which was what she expected. Claire was teaching summer school at Columbia, her father was in Europe until next week, and Maria didn’t come on Thursdays. Willow stood in the foyer, listening. It was strange being back here. It felt like she was breaking in. Nothing looked that different, except for a new flower arrangement on the side table where the elevator opened. Yellow lilies. Willow had a vague memory that yellow lilies signify falsehood. Lies.
She moved through the empty rooms like a ghost. The kitchen looked alien: too big and aggressively clean, silent except for the hum of the water filter. As always, the fridge was full, neatly arranged with Claire’s kale and blueberries and almond milk: she was annoyingly healthy. Willow grabbed a half-open bottle of white wine.
Claire’s bathroom cabinet was just as organized, just as healthy. Vitamin D, Tiger Balm, organic sunscreen. Her father’s cabinet was more helpful. Klonopin, Ambien, and yes, Valium. Willow had been on a low dosage of Paxil a couple of years ago, but the effect flattened her out more than she liked, numbing her creativity along with her social anxiety. But these days, the occasional Valium didn�
��t hurt. She liked the way they made her feel like she was behind glass, watching the world like a stage show. She slipped a handful into her pocket.
Willow was half expecting her bedroom to be clean, even though Maria was under strict instructions never to touch a thing. She imagined Claire, in some passive-aggressive move, deciding to clean up the dirty coffee cups, splayed novels, and dried flowers crushed into the carpet. But a dim, familiar mess greeted her. A pang of disappointment. She almost wanted an excuse to work herself into a meltdown.
Underwear, tops, flats. Sleeping mask, phone charger, vaporizer. It was still strange to see these new fingers, slimmer and longer than her real hands, pick at the things she wanted. What was even stranger was how fast she was getting used to them.
A mouthful of wine tumbled down her throat, and then another.
She powered up her Mac and opened Photoshop. The last images she’d imported popped open. Mark. The portraits she’d taken, the night she’d turned Pretty. His mouth open, midquestion. A goofy expression, to make her laugh. The serious expression she’d been asking for. In her mind, these portraits had been moody and dark; containing something about the inherent sadness of masculinity. But there was nothing in these pictures. Nothing sad or secret or newly exposed. And certainly nothing worthy of a show.
A well of sadness, of inevitable failure, rose inside her like a thin mist.
She wasn’t just a bad artist.
She wasn’t even an artist.
She dragged the files to the trash.
Her phone rang, making her jump. Mark. Her stomach kicked hard. “Hello?”
“Willow?” Mark sounded shocked.
“Yeah.”
“Hi! Hey.”
She tipped more wine into her mouth and swallowed. “Hi.”
“Hang on a sec, I’m just going to . . .” She heard muffled, indistinct noise, then footsteps. Chatter and music burbled in the background. She assumed he was at work. Then the chatter dropped away. Mark’s voice reappeared, clearer now. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
“Sorry about that.” Willow slid onto the stool she’d had Mark sit on, back curved like the letter C. “I’ve been sick.”
“Yeah, your voice sounds strange. Look, I really want to talk about the other night.”
Willow froze before she realized he was talking about the freak-out in front of the mirror. That all seemed like it happened to a different girl, one she’d only ever heard about, never actually met. “Don’t worry about it. I was . . . don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried about it,” Mark said. “I—” And for a second she was afraid he was going to say “I love you,” but then he paused and just said, “Of course I’m worried about it. You haven’t been returning my calls.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Willow rubbed her face, hair curtaining around her. “I should’ve gone to see you at Lenny’s.”
A pause, and then, “I didn’t go.”
Willow felt a hot snap of alertness, like an animal sensing a hunter. “What?”
Mark blew some air out. “I ended up working late. It’s nuts in here right now.”
Willow tried to keep her voice calm. “No Lenny’s? You must’ve been bummed to miss the game.”
“Yeah, look, why don’t we do dinner? At that Japanese place you like, Noshi Sushi Sumi whatever. Tonight? I can be out of here by seven.”
“I have to go.” Willow ended the call, dropped her phone to the carpet. The room swooped, dipping like a roller coaster.
Mark lied to her.
She couldn’t believe it. Mark, who never tipped less than 20 percent and called his mother every Sunday. Why would he have done that?
Because of Caroline. Because he wanted to keep meeting the blond, beautiful Caroline to himself. What did he see? Who was that girl?
Willow’s camera was still set up, aimed at the stool. She switched it to automatic and sat back down, holding the wireless remote like a grenade. All she could see was Mark, smiling nervously, sitting next to her at Lenny’s.
A single hot tear trailed down her cheek.
The flash went off, blinding her.
16.
Krista almost didn’t make it to CPU because she had the address on her phone, but then her phone died, and she thought it was Fifth and Twentieth (nope) or maybe Sixth and Twentieth (nope again), but then she asked a bunch of people and eventually one of them knew.
Creative Professionals United, Fifth Avenue and Thirtieth Street.
The foyer was much fancier than Clever Casting. The couches alone were nicer than anything in her apartment: bright red and firm, with no armrests and no throw pillows. The only artwork on the wall was a painting of a man in a suit with a green apple in front of his face. This was obviously meant to be a metaphor, but Krista was too hungover to work out what for. She was also highly, excessively caffeinated. In an effort to thwart said hangover, she’d drunk the entire pot of coffee that Evie had left. She hadn’t had that much caffeine in years. Her heart was beating alarmingly fast. Her underarms prickled with sweat.
“Can I help you?” A girl with neatly combed dark hair smiled at Krista from behind an imposing front desk.
“I hope so. I mean, yeah, totally. I’m here to see Cameron Mitchell?” She had Googled the young agent-to-the-stars before she left.
“Your name?”
“Lenka.”
“Last name?”
What had she decided on? She’d whittled down hundreds of odd, curling names to something as cool and arty as Lenka. Mishra, Prajapati, Dwivedi . . . The short list swam before her, refusing to settle into a solid, believable name.
“Your surname?”
Krista stared back at the receptionist. In front of her was a stack of Post-it notes and a felt-tip pen. “Pen . . . ka.”
“Lenka Penka.”
“Yeah.”
She could have kicked herself. That was the stupidest name in the whole entire world.
The receptionist gave Krista an almost imperceptible once-over. Then she picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “I have Lenka Penka here for Cameron?” She listened for a second, then hung up. “Cameron’s out of the office right now, but if you take a seat, he’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
“Awesome, dude,” Krista said. “Sweet.”
She tottered over to one of the couches. The skirt she was wearing was so freakin’ short she couldn’t cross her legs without treating the guy waiting across from her to a full view of her punani. She dug through her tote for a stick of gum, wishing her phone wasn’t dead, but also glad it meant she could stop screening her dad. She couldn’t bring herself to listen to the voicemails: long-winded speeches about why she needed to reenroll at law school, no doubt. With a wince, Krista realized she couldn’t even use any of Lenka Penka’s potential acting achievements as argument fodder: her dad wouldn’t even recognize his own daughter right now. He better not show up at the apartment, uninvited . . .
“Nice boots.”
The guy opposite was smiling at her. Soft wavy hair, soft easy face. Faded jeans, flannel shirt. The kind of guy who’d cry at a Disney movie and listen to folk music. First thought: not interested. Second thought: I would murder this guy for a cigarette. “Oh, thanks.” Krista glanced down at them. “I guess I went for the more-is-more vibe today.” Every time she moved, she jangled.
“I can see that.” The guy smiled again, nodding at Krista’s furry waistcoat, feathered ear-cuff, and seven million rings.
“Yeah, but to be honest, I’m feeling less ‘it girl’ and more ‘stoop sale.’ ”
The guy chuckled. “You look great. I’d definitely shop at that stoop sale.”
Somehow, he didn’t sound sleazy when he said it. Krista found the gum and popped it into her mouth, relieved to have something to do.
“I’m Greg.”
“Kris—Lenka. I’m Lenka.”
“Were your parents hippies or foreigners?”
“Um, both?”
H
e laughed again. A pleasant, inviting laugh. “And what brings you to these hallowed halls, Lenka?”
“I’m an actress. I mean, actor. I act.”
Greg cocked his head at her. “Did you do True Blood a few years ago?”
“No. Mostly indies. And theater. A lot of theater.”
“Like what?”
The only play Krista had scored a role in so far had been a trippy one-act at the New York Fringe Festival, about a suburban family who turned into potted plants. She’d played a fern. She cast her mind back to high school, groping past memories of beer bongs and groping. “Um, Hamlet.”
“Fantastic.”
“Our Town.”
“Wow.”
“I’m working on something with The Wooster Group,” she added, recalling a recent New Yorker article.
Greg nodded, eyes alert with low-key awe. “You’re part of the current company?”
Krista nodded, barely, as if the tiny movement diminished her duplicity.
“What are you guys developing?”
Her eyes flicked to the painting on the wall. “ ‘Apple . . . Face . . . Man.’ What do you do?”
“I direct feature films.” He announced this rather proudly, as if it was still somewhat new.
The fact Greg was a director was definitely cool. But Krista got the impression that beautiful, cool thespians like Lenka Penka met feature film directors every single day. She nodded, laid-back, channeling her inner heiress. “Neat.”
Greg snapped his fingers. “That’s where I recognize you from.” He pulled out his phone. “Ravi Harlow!”
Krista stopped breathing. “What?”
Greg scrolled through his phone. “What a small world.” He lifted up the screen. “That’s you, right?”
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