by Eliza Gordon
Georg*e
FIFTY-FOUR
FAX
From: PENELOPE “MOMMY” STEELE
Hello, Danielle,
This is your mother. As you were unable to come for dinner last Saturday night because of “having to train”—honestly, are you competing in the Olympics here, or are you just avoiding me on purpose? Regardless, your sisters showed up, and we sat down and had an excellent discussion about this whole catastrophe of late, and both girls made me understand that this hacking incident was not your fault at all, and that I should not be angry with you about exposing our family’s dirty laundry to the entire world. Even though I am still quite miffed, Jacqueline and Jake are concerned about my blood pressure so I have instead refocused my energies elsewhere to keep myself calm and out of the kerfuffle.
Georgette says I should thank you: My healing-wand business has taken off. Seems people have read your blog and then contacted me for more information. Apparently not everyone is as cynical as my own daughters. Why I even reproduced is still a question I ask myself on a weekly basis—just wait until you have your own daughters, Danielle, although if you don’t hurry up, your eggs will drain out of your body, no good to anyone. Even though I must admit, I do love you all.
Jacqueline and Jake and Georgette and Samuel are helping me apply to become a certified grower of medical-grade marijuana for the state of Oregon. (You remember that Georgette’s husband is a lawyer, don’t you? Maybe he could’ve helped you with your hacking problem?) That way I won’t have the federal government knocking on my door and arresting me for the few plants I had that I was using to help my friends. Just wait until you get older and things start to hurt, Danielle. Marijuana is nature’s most perfect medicine.
Lastly, I did want to thank you for the package you left on the porch. I must’ve been at my Greys (Alien) Anatomy meeting when you stopped by, so I am sorry I missed you. The signed first edition from Mary Balogh is one I did not have—wherever did you find it? Even though I am disappointed that you are not able to accompany me to the UFO convention, I am grateful for your gift of the three nights’ stay at the Best Western. It looks like a lovely hotel, not far from the conference venue. That was very generous of you, especially given that you are unemployed.
Speaking of, have you started looking for a job yet? Have you considered returning to school to finish your studies so you might find a higher-paying job? I would never turn you away if you found yourself homeless, but your old bedroom has been repurposed into the headquarters for my wand business.
Best of luck with your competition event. Georgette said you have been training very hard for it? I am still flabbergasted that you’d rather spend the weekend doing sports instead of with me at the beach where you might find a nice young man. Try not to pull any muscles—your body doesn’t heal as fast as it did when you were a kid, and thanks to you, I am out of medicinal herb. I have half a mind to send you a wand to keep in your purse, just in case you do get injured.
I have to tell you, it was embarrassing to read that your former boyfriend Travis has a curved penis—you sure write some strange things in your diary, Danielle. But FYI, that isn’t such an abnormal thing. Gerald Robert Steele also had a peculiar anatomy, though your sisters both said that was information they did not need to know. I’m going to assume the same is true for you.
Okay, I have to run. I have a planning meeting for the UFO group. Dante told me about those flying drone devices, so our group is building a papier-mâché spaceship that will fit over a drone so we can fly it at the beach. Doesn’t that sound like a hoot? That Dante is so clever for a five-year-old, although he stole a Twix candy bar last week when I took him shopping at Target. Georgette said this is your fault he loves Twix?
Thank you again for the hotel gift certificate.
Love and light,
Mommy
FIFTY-FIVE
“Steele with an e, get off your phone!”
Marco hollers at me from across the gym—I’m supposed to be doing my cardio warm-up, but when this call came in, I had to take it.
I hold up a finger to my lips and walk over to a quieter corner. Davina Gudbranson—a colleague of Janice’s who found my blog when the email bot was doing its nefarious deeds—runs a small theater in Los Angeles, and she’s on the phone talking with me about her ideas for putting together an original three-act play about my insane family.
“. . . I know that having that diary up for the whole world to read was probably not how you imagined things working out for you,” Davina says, “but I have to tell you that I loved how real it was.”
“Diaries usually are. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Janice and I had a good chuckle over some of your entries. I got the email from her, and I thought it was something she wanted me to see.”
“Yeah, the emails—that was part of the hacking. Long story involving terrifying technology.”
“Janice says you used to live in LA? Whereabouts?”
“All over the Valley. Last in North Hollywood, off Magnolia. Wherever I could find a cheap couch or room to rent.”
“Yeah, I remember those days,” Davina says, laughing under her breath. “So what I was thinking—we’re just off Cahuenga—near Barham, in the Universal Studios neck of the woods. Do you know it?”
“Yes.” I can hardly keep the excitement out of my voice. I know this theater! I’ve had two friends do shows there, and they run a top-notch company.
“I was talking to my assistant director, Jayda—she also read your blog—and we’re interested in writing a show based on the Steele sisters, and Mommy, of course—we love strong women and the families that made them who they are—plus, we could mix in some of your undying love for Dwayne Johnson, because who doesn’t love that guy?”
“Seriously, he’s pretty much the greatest.” My thoughts are aflutter with the idea of being involved with a production in Los Angeles—here I thought my family was fodder for Jerry Springer, but no! We’re going onstage, ladies!
She chuckles. “We’ll need to option the rights first, get permissions in place from you and your family members, so I’ll talk to Janice about putting together a deal. If we can come to an agreement on that, we were hoping you might be available via Skype or otherwise as a consultant during the writing process. Beyond just the rights deal, we’d pay you for your time to come down to LA, offer comp tickets, what have you. I know Janice will have your best interests at heart.”
“Wow, absolutely, yeah, I’m totally interested,” I say, a little flag of concern waving in the background. “When you say rights, does that mean I would lose control over this material forever?”
“No, absolutely not. We can work out a limited rights deal so that we could use just what you grant permission for.”
“Okay, cool. I just don’t want to sign away my life, you know?”
“Totally, I get it,” Davina says. “Our initial thoughts were to write a one-woman gig, but then we got to talking, and the cast of characters could be so incredibly colorful.”
“You do know I’m an actress, right? Janice told you?”
“I’m glad you mentioned it—we’d love to have you read for us on tape.”
“I can have Janice send my reel.”
“Perfect. Okay, cool—if we have a spot for you, would relocating for this show be doable?”
My voice echoes inside my head: Yes, yes, yes! But the practical side of things . . . “I’d love to be offered the opportunity to figure it out,” I say, hoping she can hear my smile in my words. Although, would I have to audition for a role in a show about my life?
“Excellent. Let me talk to Janice about that too.”
I jump up and down on the spot as quietly as I can, earning curious smiles from my gym family.
“Either way, if you’re just collaborating long distance, we’ll definitely get you down here for opening night. We’d love to have you be as involved as you’re able and willing to be, given that it’s your life, and your hu
mor is really what drew us in.”
If I could scream out loud, I would.
And I can hear DJ in my head: Find the good in this mess. Silver lining and all that jazz.
Davina continues talking, telling me how they’re a small production company, but they’re covered by all the local theater trades, that reviewers are always interested in seeing what the Three Ring Players are up to because they push the boundaries of “safe” theater, but their most popular shows are comedies, of which they try to mount at least one original production a year. I let her give me the spiel, even though I know so much about the Three Ring Players already, given that it’s one of those troupes my friends and I admire and aspire to perform with. Unfortunately, I left Los Angeles before I’d gathered the nerve to audition for them.
Davina explains that since it’s now summertime, they’d like to get started working on the project in the next six weeks so they’ll have something to put up for the first of the year when people are dying for something funny to get past the midwinter/postholiday blues.
“That’s so fast. Can this even be done?”
“Missy, you’d be surprised how fast we work around these parts,” she says. “We have a show already in rehearsals for January, so if this doesn’t work out right now, we’re not screwed. But the sooner we can put something together, the better. The really fascinating thing about all of this—it’s greater than just your obsession with The Rock. It’s about the cult of celebrity that has defined your entire existence. I mean, your mom named you and your sisters after romance novelists! You’ve had this famous name your whole life, and it’s obviously shaped your personality and experiences. And so for you to have this undying affection for another celebrity, it makes a great story. It’s like you’ve come full circle.”
“But . . . what if Dwayne Johnson hears about this and thinks I’m a complete nutjob?”
“Part of the fun, Dani. You’re crazy but lovable. And even if we can’t get permission to use his name, it’s easy enough to work around.”
My heart deflates a little. I feel weirdly possessive of Dwayne Johnson—which is ridiculous, I know. He’s not mine. But I loved him long before any of these bandwagon latecomers.
A phone rings in the background on Davina’s end.
“I have to grab this other call, but take a day or two to think about this, and get back to me. We’d love to move forward as soon as possible!”
“Okay! Okay, wonderful, thank you!”
When she hangs up, I don’t know if I should do a backflip or faint or maybe both.
I really do not need a day or two to think about it. I want to call her back immediately.
But before I do, and before Marco has a chance to holler at me again, I bound onto the treadmill and crank it up, energized by the possibility that: a) I could be actively participating in a theater production that doesn’t involve opening the show by thanking a local hardware store for providing the evening’s popcorn and Folgers Crystals; b) I could be involved in a theater production that does not include Shithead Trevor; c) I could be involved in a theater production that might get my foot back in the door that is Los Angeles—which could segue into a real life back where real auditions happen and real movie deals are made. What’s keeping me here? My mother is healthy, my sisters can take care of her, I don’t have a job anymore . . .
“What are you so giddy about? Good phone call?” Marco says, his voice startling me out of my euphoria.
I slow the treadmill down so I can talk without growing dizzy. “Great phone call,” I say. “A theater company in LA wants to write and produce a show based on my blog and my crazy family and my Rock obsession, and they want me to consult—maybe even audition!”
“Whoa, hey, that is good news.”
“Right? And it might be a way to get me back to LA. Now that I’m not tethered to the insurance company, there’s nothing really keeping me here.” I watch his face, not sure if it’s just the naive romantic in me hoping Marco will endorse himself as a “thing keeping me here.”
Please say it. Please say it.
“You are a free agent. We would certainly miss you, though.”
I stop the treadmill. “Would you miss me?” I ask quietly.
He looks down at his feet for a second, and then back up. “You know I would,” he says, his smile wistful, “but you have to do what’s best for you. Not anyone else, Dani.”
“Have you ever thought about it? Going back to LA?” I ask.
His eyes darken. “I have.”
“You could be a trainer there . . . lots of LA bodies need hardening too.” I slap my own ever-hardening butt.
He laughs under his breath. “There are as many trainers in Los Angeles as there are Subarus in Portland.”
“Still . . .”
Marco’s eyes, the deepest brown, like the bark on a Douglas fir, lock with mine for a beat. I don’t know what else to say to him; in that moment, he looks genuinely sad, and now I feel like shit for bringing up the topic of him returning to his old life. His best friend died under Marco’s watch. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for all the people on that crew—when most people have a bad day at work, that means a mocha when you ordered a latte, or you’re given bangs when you just asked for a trim.
“You and I have talked about that life before,” Marco continues. “I do miss it at times.” The melancholy on his face is evidence enough that it might be too soon for talk of LA.
And really too soon for me to be dreaming about a future where he follows me to chase my dreams.
“So, we’re down to three weeks. Is there anything magical you’re going to pull out of your trainer hat to make me the champion?” I restart the treadmill, desperate to erase that unsure look on his face.
His demeanor changes, back to professional-trainer Marco. He rubs his healing hand, the incision line now a pink scar. “Absolutely. Yes.” He rolls his shoulders and leans over, cranking up the machine. “I was on the website, looking at the schedule of events for August 6th. The competition starts at ten sharp Saturday morning, so you’ll need to be there no later than eight to sign in. Seven if you want to size up the competition and the course before everything gets too hectic.”
“Seven. Wow. Okay. That’s so early.” My stomach knots.
“Hardest worker in the room, right?”
I nod, but it’s not very convincing. “Um, you’re going to be there?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t let my star warrior go into battle without a lieutenant.”
“I cannot believe it’s already here. Time flies when you’re crying through the Bengay.”
“You’ve put in a great deal of effort over these past four months, and I do honestly believe you have a fighting chance,” he says.
I’m winded again—damn treadmill. “Marco, what if I don’t win?” Subtext: Will you be disappointed in me? Will you stop being the one thing I look forward to every single morning when my eyes open, and the last bright spot I think about before I fall asleep?
INT. HOLLYWOOD FITNESS - DAY
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Someone’s in love.
DANIELLE
Shuddup. I’m on the treadmill here. Don’t distract me.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Dani and Marco, sittin’ in a tree . . . K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . .
“Well, if you don’t win, then you know you gave it your best effort. You can only go into this experience with the expectation that you will give it everything you have. Victory is secondary, even though I know you desperately want to meet The Rock,” Marco says.
“I cannot thank you enough for all the great things you guys have done.” I wipe at the sweat pouring down my neck.
“Not a second has been wasted. Win-win all around, remember?” He rips off and hands me a paper towel from the towel station next to the treadmills.
“Thanks.” I smile, blotting self-consciously. “I’ve taken up so much of your attention, though. I almost feel guilty
about all the help and cheerleading you’ve had to do.”
“You have been a bit of a handful,” he says, smirking. “Never a dull moment. But that’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
Right. Except I don’t. Trish has continued charging me per the great deal they gave Janice initially. So I’ve been paying Marco half of what he’s worth, and even then, he’s spending way more time with me than I’m paying him for.
This in itself ignites a sparkler of hope in my heart that he’s working with me because he chooses to . . . because I’m more than just a client, or friend. And even that scares me, because hoping for someone like Marco, someone so positive and strong and selfless and beautiful, to love me back—I’ve had run-ins with hope before, and she can be unsteady on her best days.
“Ten more minutes. No talking,” Marco says, and saunters away, stopping at another machine down the way where his next training client awaits—the beet-faced guy from the first night I was here, when I barfed in the trash. We’ve met once—Ken is his name? He offers a polite wave when he sees me looking. He’s slimmed down nicely, and like me, not barfing, Ken no longer turns into an eggplant when he’s been on the machine too long.
The whole place simmers with progress and positivity and productivity. The first night I stepped in here I was so nervous that everyone would point and stare and laugh and judge, but it’s been absolutely the opposite. Minotaur is on the other side of the gym adding an insane amount of weight to the leg press; Limping Lady is working through her exercises assigned by her physical therapist with Trish with Muscles’ patient help; Alex the Vet is teaching his new, very cute girlfriend how to use the bench press; Handstand Man just walked in and is chatting up the new girl working the check-in counter. Whereas I used to think that creepy, I know he’s probably giving her a history lesson on how some Iroquois and other Native Americans living in New England fought alongside the colonists in the Revolutionary War.
These people, they are a weird, funny-shaped, sweaty family, and they’ve adopted me into their ranks.