But in real life she reminds me of the girl I tried so hard to become when we first moved to New York, when we first lived in an apartment on East End Avenue and 89th and my brother came back from Dayton one day and said he’d just met the girl I was to model myself after—a rich girl named Serena Van der Ebb who had a brother named Phil whom my brother fell in love with. If Serena had ever deigned to become something as lowly as an actress, she’d have been just like Eve—a type I would’ve steered clear of but my brother couldn’t avoid.
Sounds like art imitating life, right?
Think again.
All these young people playing people who remind us of the real people in our lives, that’s what art is —only it goes deeper than that because Eve actually knows Serena and her brother. When Eve first told me, I didn’t let it freak me out. I figured there was some rich-bitch website all of those girls had secret passwords for. Besides, this “small-world coincidence” gave me an advantage over her from the start. I knew Eve’s mannerisms. I studied her the way a good actor studies a character she wants to become. All those girls on the Upper East Side were just vampires anyway, with gestures I’d learned to read like secret signs, and secrets they held as tightly as their money from generation to generation.
But I’m not afraid of Eve anymore. I know what I have to do to win.
A knock on the door. A technician enters and informs me we have to re-shoot the crane scene from yesterday. Be ready in five minutes. The technicians attach cables to my bodysuit and then a crane lifts me fifty feet above the fake snow and rubble. I hear a series of cracks. A pulley the size of a watermelon comes loose from the top of the crane. It’s headed straight for my face. I close my eyes and just before it hits me I hear the thumping of wings and the pulley swerves aside. The safety cable pulls me back up like a bungee cord. I land lightly with a thud and try to shrug it off but I just can’t shake that sound of thumping…and something I’d seen, too. I look down at my feet, that harness wrapped around my waist, and think I should be dead now or my face should be smashed in. I close my eyes and see it again; a small circle of light over a stage…It feels as if a giant hand had pulled back a veil and I’d gotten a glimpse of what the backstage of life looks like—all those invisible hands pulling ropes, pushing scenery to make things appear real.
It wasn’t a stage. It was a real place, a place I’ve been to.
My first impulse is to run home to my Nina—I need a hug and a brownie—but I take another breath and follow the cables that had been attached to my waist all the way back to the crane and its operator. I race back to my trailer and find the phone on my bed, but I’d left it off the charger and the battery is dead.
Had Nina called? Maybe she needs me.
And then in the silence, I take a deep breath and tell myself I have to let go. My arms feel lighter, my legs less sore as if I’ve stumbled into a new space where I could just let go of my past and give that speech I was born to give. Yes, there would be hugs and brownies at home, but there would also be those pregnant pauses and the questions about the past, my character, about what had really happened between James and me on the last night of his life. I step out into the cold with the down comforter wrapped around me. I lift my arms to the cloudless sky.
So that’s what Being Saved feels like?
But no sooner do I feel this when the panic returns, that horrible aloneness I felt in Manny’s studio during my interview. I run back and throw myself on the bed. I take my pillows and sandwich my head, trying to re-create that sound.
A thumping like wings.
I mash the pillows against my ears. Harder and harder. I close my eyes, see the night and the broken glass, the wounds on my brother’s face, and the only thing to stop his fall was a rope round his neck.
Saved? No. It’s a trick, Cease. That’s all God is, just a bastard magician, a giant puppet-master who pulls at our heartstrings. Life’s just a sick joke; that’s what I thought the morning I woke up and found James hanging in the closet.
I look down and see I’ve torn a hole in my down comforter. Feathers hang in the air overhead. It makes the girl standing overhead look like she has wings. Maybe she is an angel. Maybe there are angels with New Jersey accents, but I doubt it. A production assistant gives me a gentle nudge and says it will be at least another hour and to call if I want to run lines.
I call Nina. I tell her I’m staying over in my trailer tonight, that I need my space. She says she understands.
“Cease. Where are you?”
“We’re in the Meadowlands. Doesn’t it say that?” Francis lists all our locations online.
“They’ve taken it all down.”
“Nina. What’s wrong?”
“Are you wearing your scapular?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” And I am. In fact, I feel stronger in my new space as I look out my window at the extras being assembled in the open field. “I just had a meeting with Francis,” I say. It comes out so grown-up. “He’s giving me a big monologue he wants me to—”
“Cease—he’s up to something. I knew there was something wrong with him. His ego’s too big. He has to outdo everyone. He has to outdo the reality shows.”
“Nina. This is a drama and I’m a historic character—”
“I think he’s going to let you kill each other.”
“Nina, c’mon. Do you really think he’d let a bunch of teenagers—”
“Maybe that’s why he chose a bunch of unknowns, did you ever think of that? To a director like him, you’re all just—how do you say it, my precious, qu’on peut sacrifier.”
“Expendable?”
“Yes.”
“Nina. I don’t think he would ever allow any of us to get hurt.” I think about Rex and his broken nose, but I dismiss it. Isn’t that why Francis came to visit me? Didn’t he say to make nice with Eve because he doesn’t want any more real violence on the set?
Her voice sounds shrill as she says, “Find out where you’ll be tomorrow. Keep your phone on. Keep it hidden in your—”
“Nina. I’m gonna be fine. I’ve got to go. I’m staying over. I think it’s time I have my space.”
“Be careful, my precious.” I hear a sob. “Cease, call her. She wants you to call her—please, my humble maid. Jeanne is the only one who can—”
I hang up. I feel a strange exhilaration, as if all this time I was hiding behind my character and now I’m free—no longer crouched in her shadow; a veil has been pulled back. I don’t believe I can talk to her like my Nina keeps insisting, but I feel as if she’s out there, somewhere…
On top my messy desk I find a scrap of paper with the reasons I want to be the last girl standing.
To buy my Nina a cottage in the country—maybe even Provence.
To make up for the things I said on the last night of James’ life…
I fish out a piece of paper from a stack of old reference material on the desk. I write out her name and feel like a little girl practicing her autograph.
Jeanne d’Arc.
Nina showed it to me after my first audition, in a letter Jeanne had written to the British occupiers warning them to surrender. My hand relaxes as I practice the gentle slopes of the J and the A—I must’ve written it a hundred times before my final audition with Francis and the producers and with each stroke felt a little more confident, as if she were standing behind me gently, confidently guiding my hand. I don’t want to believe in God, Jeanne. Not after what he did to my brother. But I do believe in you… How did you learn to write at all? You were supposed to be illiterate.
I turn on my tablet, toggle the mouse. The screen goes blank and then opens on an inbox I’ve never seen before. It’s the address the studio had assigned me to get messages from fans, all the emails my publicist Jenny told me about but I’ve been too scared to read—fourteen-hundred messages, unopened—mostly from boys and girls who’d seen me in the trailers and must have thought they could confide in me. And they certainly have a lot of secrets to share:
Hi Cease,
A boy groped me in chemistry class last week and I think you’re the only one I can talk to about it. He didn’t just squeeze my thigh or touch my breasts, things that boys get away with at my school a lot. He took his thumb and forefinger and put them between my legs, then made some disgusting comment about my clit. I pushed his hand away, but no one saw us and I knew if I told, nothing would happen to him because he’s the star of the basketball team and his parents own a big house on Highland Avenue, the rich part of town. I went home and cried in my room. And then I thought of you and what you did to that total shit-head, Rex. You were so awesome and spontaneous in that scene, almost as if it were unrehearsed. Well, two days later, the boy passes me in the hallway and gives me this ugly fucking smirk that makes me feel totally helpless and scared that he’s going to do it again. And then I did something I’ve never done to anyone before. I walked up and punched him right in the face. I was thinking of you when I did it, wondering who you really are in real life, but also as if you really were some kind of superhero.
Well, the bad news was the punch didn’t really do anything to him. He stepped back, turned beet-red and then grabbed me by the shoulders and twisted me around, and then I remembered that move you used on Rex, and luckily I was wearing my heels. I drove my right heel into the arch of his foot and he let me go. I spun around and smashed my elbow into his ribcage. And he went down. He tried to shrug it off to the crowd that always gathers to watch, though he was really pissed and wanted to hit me, but everyone was watching by then. His rich-bitch girlfriend walked up and called me a dyke.
“I’m not a dyke,” I shouted at her. “I’m Jeanne d’Arc.” I don’t know where it came from—it felt as if you were standing right next to me, and I said Jeanne—not Joan—just the way you told the talk-show host how to say it. So I’m rooting for you all the way but I’ve got to ask what you’re going to do in the lovemaking scenes that I know they will probably put you in. I mean you’re a virgin, but you’re going to fall in love—don’t you have to? How else are you going to be chosen by a boy to save the world?
Anyway, I text all my friends and said to vote for you. And they promised to write all their friends. I think you’re going to beat Eve in your next confrontation, mostly because she’s just like all the queen bees here at school and you’re like the rest of us, and the fact is there will always be more of us than queen bees, so more votes for you.
I think Eve’s a total slut, anyway. I hope she’s not a friend of yours off-screen, but I saw the video of her stroking Rex’s cock that someone put up on You Tube. There’s something about her that’s just too cold and calculating to go the distance. And that leaves Stephanie, who does look like a queen and has the same magnetic aura you’ve got, only she’s more regal.
Brad’s really cute and I think you two would make an awesome couple on the podium. Have you visited any of the chatrooms that talk about the show? Everyone’s asking how much of it is rehearsed and how much is not. The rules they posted say each actor has to recite the lines they’ve been given, but it doesn’t say what you can do after that. So we’re all thinking the same thing. If you’re matched with Brad, will you go all the way? Cease, is there any other way you can win? It’s not Eve who will beat you in the sex department. Because who would you rather see take it off, a slut or a virgin? All the girls will like it because we know you—not the boy— will make the final choice on who you have sex with, and that’s what we need to see. And the boys will want to see you with your clothes off. So I guess it boils down to if Stephanie will decide to go all the way, too.
She’s you’re only real competition now and everyone is guessing that she’ll have the first crack at the Latin hunk, whoever that will be. Cease, you taught me to stand up for myself. I hope you win.
Jennifer Hastings
I couldn’t believe what I was reading.
—A girl in Spokane wants to know if the You Tube video of Susan and Rex was real.
—A girl in Boston writes that her school is a lot like the battlefield in one of the future war zones I’d visited. All the jocks and the cool boys fight over the most popular girls in our school. At first, I felt glad to be popular. Now, I’m sick of it. When I saw your face, I knew you’d understand…
—A boy who’s just come out in Houston asks me if he should have sex on the first date.
—A twelve-year-old named Petit Fleur wants to know if her dog has a soul.
After a while, I do a search on how many of the emails contain the word “Love” (over seven hundred) and how many contain the word “Sex” (over a thousand). All these girls and boys from different parts of the world with the same simple question: What is love? I think about Rex, his crude manner and how he could have easily taken advantage of me. He probably bragged about his conquests online to his fans. I feel suddenly envious of Jeanne’s world, a world of fire and faith that didn’t allow pictures of naked teenagers to be displayed on the internet 24/7. Is there really a kind of love that goes way beyond sex? I think so. I’ve felt it. What secrets can I share about surviving the battlefield of love and sex? I grope for the right words.
Stay strong and wait for the right boy? But what the hell do I know…stop messing with the universe, Cease. Girls are supposed to be beautiful—boys are supposed to be like Rex.
I close my eyes. I feel the soft glow of light in the space I found in my free-fall, and remember the speech Francis showed me; I’ve got what it takes to be the last girl standing, so long as I give the right speech. I turn on my tablet.
Dear Petit Fleur,
I’m no authority but I bet your dog does have a soul. I know he/she loves you. Thank you for believing in me.
Cease de Menich
I wish I could write it in cursive so the little girl can see how good I’ve been getting at copying the autograph of my character. I pull the hood of my parka over my head, step out onto the snow-banked steps of my trailer and look up to the lead-sheathed sky as I walk to the caterer’s truck. I pass through a motley crew of extras being outfitted in mangy clothes; armed with swords and knives. They hover over a food table like mangy cattle. I pick up my shake and see Claude’s ordered me another soup. I eat the soup and take the shake back. I look down at my tablet on my desk.
Dear Cease de Menich,
Thank you for writing me. Thank you for believing in me. I’m a girl and I’m here to protect girls.
Jeanne
Hi Petit Fleur,
You sound so grown-up. Are you really just twelve years old? Is your real name Jeanne? What a coincidence.
Hi Cease,
Yes. But I’ve been a girl for a long time. I watched you grow up, in fact. I’m concerned that you still don’t know why you were chosen to play me. You’re not just any girl, Cease. You’re descended from a long line of strong girls. Your brother was trying to tell you this when he died.
I drop the shake and it hits my navy-blue cashmere sweater on the bed. I study the email address, try to find the button to block it. This is why Nina has told me to stay off the internet. But I read on:
I know you’re scared. I was, too. Believe me, becoming a saint can be really scary—it’s a bit like getting a call from God the way you got a call from your agent and were told he’s got this part you need to play. I didn’t have a phone. It was just a bright light and a serious voice. I’d wake up on the battlefield some mornings and just want to run home to my parents. There were times I thought I was going crazy, because when God pulls back the veil on your personal life for the whole world to see, it’s pretty scary…but you can’t go back once you’re chosen for the role of a lifetime. You’ve got to go for it.
Jeanne d’Arc
P.S. I didn’t think you’d read my messages if I told you my real name. But now you know.
P.P.S. Don’t be afraid to call me. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. And you’d better warn the others about just how real things are going to get.
I chuckle—it grows into a despera
te, nervous laugh that rings off the corrugated ceiling. I wave my hand over my tablet as if I’m trying to swat a fly, dispel a myth. I laugh at the child-logic of those lines; how they should make me laugh because I know saints—at least the saints Nina told me about—don’t talk like that. Petit Fleur is just some crazy girl with some advice that suddenly makes a lot of sense. I look down at her name and it’s in cursive, identical to the real Jeanne’s signature. (She must have gotten that from the same biography.)
Well, at least I’m not the type of actress who gets voices in her head—now, I’m reading crazy things from fans, and that’s what they are, right? Crazy Fans.
OK, I admit it. I feel like some teary-eyed wannabe who can’t believe this so-called gift I’ve been given would really get me anywhere. You’re writing me. You believe in me, but you’re asking me questions I don’t have answers for. I try to dismiss the compliments.
“You’ve got an earnest face, and look approachable—” That’s the kind of thing a loving mother says to her homely child. Nina says I’m beautiful, but I just can’t see it—it isn’t just my big nose. I think my chin’s pointy. You say my eyes are beautiful?? Not alongside Stephanie’s peepers. “You glow…” “Your whole face lights up when you look into a boy’s eyes…” “You’re not exactly beautiful,” the most honest of you writes, “but I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
Well, yeah, maybe. But there’s something I’ve got to tell all of you. This so-called gift I’ve inherited feels like a curse sometimes, and if I could share with you the reasons why, it’d be a great speech. It might not get me on the podium, but it sure would release this horrible bolt of grief. I turn off the tablet.
Don’t be afraid to call me.
How? I wonder what goes through my Nina’s head all those times she bows at that rickety pew in our living room. I know some of the things that went through my head all those times on the battlefield I bowed in prayer; rage—pure and simple, a big Fuck You to God for taking away the person who never got a chance in this world.
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