by Ewens, Tracy
The corners of his mouth pulled up.
“Sally has an image in her mind and she’s not always authentic. When she’s with Phillip, she can be . . . real.”
Peter was lost in his words, and everyone was silent. He found himself remembering her laugh that day and the touch of her body as they fumbled through the dance. What he wouldn’t tell his actors was that she eclipsed him. Her energy and her warmth made him forget everything, even himself.
“But,” he continued, pulling back to the present, “she’s still Sally, popular and a little superficial. She’s at home with all of this society business, and it’s exactly what I said, she’s the Queen of Pasadena. Everyone loves her, and she’ll grow up to live this life, she’ll grow into it. We need to see that. She belongs here, and Phillip, he, he knows she outshines him, and he knows he will need to make a life for himself someday. Phillip keeps everything at arm’s length. Sally, Sally needs all of this.”
He opened his arms to encompass the whole scene. The cast looked completely confused because they weren’t sure how they were supposed to project all of that business into a dance scene. Peter stopped when he saw Sam standing a few rows from the stage.
“So the dance should show Sally as the dominant force and Phillip . . . knowing he’ll need to make his own life?”
Spencer tried to make sense of it all, but Peter was clearly distracted.
“We need to show up their differences more?” Spencer asked as Peter broke away from looking at Sam.
“Exactly! They will never work. He wants the real world and can’t wait to get out. She, yeah, she’ll never leave, and she belongs right where she is.”
Peter looked right at Sam and tried once again in vain to sort out why he left.
You bastard! She seethed. You’re going to take your shit out on poor Sally?
“Excuse me, Peter.”
Sam raised her hand, walking a little closer to the stage.
Spencer, and pretty much everyone else, turned to look at her.
“Isn’t that a really generic take on Sally? I mean, with all due respect, she feels a little more complex than the . . . how did you put it? The Queen of Pasadena.”
Sam was angry and Peter knew it.
“Don’t you think people will see through that type of treatment for what it is: a way to make Phillip look worldly and interesting while Sally will always be remembered as a somewhat pathetic character in a sheltered little world?”
Spencer’s mouth was now open and he looked back up at Peter. Peter didn’t miss a beat and seemed just as pissed.
“Sam, thank you for that commentary, but I wrote Sally, the whole play for that matter, and believe me, my characterization of her is right on. Phillip and Sally are very different and at this point in the play, at this point in her life, she’s in her element. Peter . . . excuse me Phillip,” Peter was struggling to keep his explanation within the confines of the play, “Phillip is anything but worldly. He’s eclipsed by his feelings. She’s not pathetic or a victim. She is where she belongs. In Phillip’s eyes, she is the Queen of . . .”
Sam cut him off and she snapped.
“That’s a whole lot of bullshit. I’m about done, and I’m sure the audience will be too. What, you’ve been back a few weeks and every other scene seems to have a pathetic little Sam . . . Sally prancing around in a fairytale. Like the debutante luncheon scene. You didn’t include the part where I threw up in the bathroom and my mother had to take me home because I was so nervous and insecure. Why wasn’t that in there? I called you as soon as I got home and told you I was never doing that again. This wasn’t a fairy tale for any of us, was it Peter? But I supposed it’s easier to justify Phillip as a self-centered mess if you make Sally a caricature, a queen. Seriously, are you finished? Or are you looking to draw blood?”
“Come on, it’s a play. You’re assuming that Sally is . . .”
Julie peeked out from backstage, and the rest of the cast and crew perked up. Spencer was starting to look nervous.
“Oh, Christ! Who else would she be, Peter? Give us all a little credit here. Instead of dealing with me, you created her so you could act out your issues. Queen of Pasadena, hometown girl . . . that’s easier, right? Phillip really loved Sally, but she was a little too shallow, too attached to her town, and he needed to spread his wings? Really? If the goal was to make yourself feel better through your play, make me, oh, I’m sorry Sally, feel like a superficial airhead. Justify your exit, done. We’re there!”
“Sam, I . . .”
“You know what? Forget it, and leave me the hell alone. Pretend. Write it how you want, but don’t try to convince those of us who were there that this is genuine. Phillip lives in the real world, give me a break. Phillip was a dreamer, and he, I thought he was so much more of a person, of a man, than what I see standing on that stage right now.”
Sam’s voice cracked, and she turned to leave right as tears welled in her eyes.
She would be damned if he was going to see her cry again. This was not professional at all, but she was tired, and she’d had enough. If Peter thought she was a shallow, small-town girl, if that’s why he left, there was nothing she could do about that. She only wanted him to stop, but Sam’s scene in front of his crew had embarrassed him. She could see it, and he hit back.
“Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Peter said with a clear edge to his voice.
Sam recognized that tone. She’d seen Peter pissed before. Spencer, who at this point looked like he was watching a juicy soap opera, tried to smile. Sam turned halfway up the house seats and entered complete meltdown.
“I did leave. You . . . egotistical ass!” Sam raged at the top of her voice.
She was always good at projecting her voice, and, boy, this was an exceptional performance.
Peter’s brow knit in confusion.
“Sam, What are you getting so upset about?”
“Pasadena, Pasadena, I did leave. Remember? The Queen set out to Hollywood. She was going to become an actress, and she fell flat on her face. Is that going to be in the play Peter? Does that make me, does that make Sally too . . . real, too human? Is it better to make her some idolized shell of a person? I mean you’re the big playwright, you tell me. You’re such a cliché. Poor brooding Phillip, he was the only one that had issues? Oh, let’s all feel sorry for Phillip because then we will understand why he ran. No one will believe it.”
By this time pretty much every actor and designer was peeking out from the wings as Sam made a complete lunatic out of herself, but she didn’t care. She was fuming. Just who the hell did Peter think he was? She wasn’t a child. She knew damn well what he was doing. He was rewriting history to make his point, to give his story meaning. Explain away why he ran and closed himself off from every feeling he’d ever had. Blame her, this town, put a stereotypical stamp on all of them, his characters.
“Sam.”
Peter tried to bring things down a notch before she blew up right in front of his eyes. Part of him was glad she was at least talking, at least mad at him, but she was dissing his play and that wasn’t fair.
“The play is not filled with caricatures. It’s seen through the eyes of one character, Phillip, it’s not necessarily an accurate depiction of what was, it’s how he saw it. I’m sorry if that’s painful.”
“Oh please. Thank you, doctor, I’m clearly losing my mind here because it’s too ‘painful’ for me? Anyone else you want to invite to the party, Peter? Now that your little,” Sam gestured to the woman she had seen him with when she came in, “your little friend’s here, who else? I mean before you show this crap to everyone who knew us growing up.”
Sam walked up toward the gorgeous woman and noticed she was even more stunning up close. She certainly looked like she, unlike Sam, had time to shave her legs this morning.
“Sam,” Peter called.
In retrospect she would recall that she should have simply left, but it was not to be. She swung around for her fina
l act.
“Why did you do this? Why are you here? It wasn’t enough the first time? Why did you prance back in here with your east coast entourage and . . . sorry, Julie.”
“No problem. I’m okay with the entourage reference, Sam. You go right ahead and get it out,” she said, peeking out onstage.
“Who the hell do you think you are? What did I ever do to you, but be your, your friend. I don’t deserve this, hell none of us do, Peter. Grady wasn’t some lothario with a carefree life. What about when Kara was in the hospital and Grady sat by her bedside for a month? If you’re going to put us in your play, why not show the audience our color, the shades of our lives too?”
“Sam, I’m not doing anything to you or anyone else. It’s only a play. It’s a perspective. I’m trying. Please stop.”
“Only a play, huh? Then why not make it fiction? Why put in just enough to hurt me? And when I call you on it, you hide behind your artistic license. Are you trying to tell me something, Peter? Why rehash all of this? What’s wrong with you? You went to New York, stay there.”
“Please, can we please have this conversation without an audience?”
“Why? You do great with an audience, right? Isn’t this how you like it? Let’s tell the story in front of everyone. Isn’t that what this damn play is all about, Peter?”
“I’m not going to do this.”
“Of course you’re not.”
Sam walked past his, God, look at those cheekbones, friend from New York.
“Sweetheart, run and run fast. He’ll take you and . . .”
Sam made a bomb with her hands and made it explode in her face. She had lost her mind. She was not sure what was fueling her, but it was powerful.
“Samantha, is it?”
Ms. New York in one fluid motion uncrossed her legs and stood to try and help.
“I assure you that we’re only . . .”
“Friends, right. I get it. Peter’s friends with everyone. It’s all so damn friendly. Good Old Peter, my buddy.”
Sam walked back down toward the stage and slapped Peter on the back. He sent her a warning look. She was dialed in and pushing his buttons now. Good! she thought.
“Sam,” Carmen said from the stage.
“Honey, you’re really tired. You’ve been running around for me and keeping up with your own stuff. It’s too much, you need to sit down.”
“Carmen, thank you, but I’m sick and tired of sitting down. I am tired. Tired of smiling while everyone else gets to say whatever they want.”
Sam looked at Peter. He had had enough.
“Spencer, can you take over here? Work a different scene for the rest of the morning?” Peter asked.
Of course he would work a different scene. It wasn’t every day you got to watch a woman have a complete meltdown. Spencer nodded, they all did. Peter took Sam by the arm and tried to gently move her toward the lobby.
“Go away, go home. You don’t want any of us, right? So why the hell . . .”
“All right, that’s it.”
Peter tightened his grip on and pulled her toward the door. He glanced back and caught Spencer’s eye.
“Sorry for interrupting everyone. Sam obviously has some feelings, so we’ll take this . . .”
“It’s all good, Sam. Get some sleep,” Spencer added as Peter pulled her out of the theater.
She was already beginning to feel incredibly foolish. She’d lost her mind, she’d let him back in. Sure enough he’d messed with her calm, ordered life. Now, worst of all, he had messed with her job. He did this. He couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Let me go, you jackass. I can see myself home. I don’t need you. Everything was fine, we were all fine. Then you . . .”
“Really? Everything’s fine? It sure as hell doesn’t look fine. I said it right at the very beginning, when I first got here. If this was going to be too much, maybe we should . . .”
“Oh Christ, don’t flatter yourself. Too much, I really don’t need you right now, Peter. I have my own responsibilities, my own life. I can’t play good old reliable, understanding Sam. The one who is there to help with everything Peter’s going through. I don’t have the room. I’ve got my own problems and right now . . .”
“Right now you’re playing the woman scorned, is that it?”
“The woman what? Jesus, you’re so self-absorbed. I’m not the woman scorned. What would that make you in this stupid play? The misunderstood hero? Please! I’m the friend, the girl who grew up with the boy. He was her very best friend in the whole world and he took everything she had to give. And then, because he’s a self-centered jerk, he ran off to New York. I’m the friend who never fully understood the rejection, was left with no answers from the guy who changed everything. But you know what? I have made a life for myself and lo and behold the big ass comes back into town with his sophisticated New York set and his award-winning play tucked under his arm. Woman scorned? Hell, that’s the least of my . . .”
Nothing was working, so he grabbed her, needed to kiss her. He’d managed control for weeks, but she was standing there yelling at him, and damn it he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had tried talking, approaching the topic from different angles, he was trying to make amends, but she kept ignoring or avoiding or getting pissed or pissing him off, so he grabbed her. He grabbed her and kissed her. Holy Christ! He was starving for her. Soft lips, hair spilling through his fingers, and when a gentle moan drifted past his ear, he felt like a king, no better than a king . . . he was a god. Her hands feathered through his hair and then she pulled, she pulled his hair hard. He opened his eyes to a breathtakingly pissed woman. Peter went from a god to a gnat in three seconds.
“Ow!”
Sam pushed him away and stared. Her lips were raw, as she begged for breath. God help him, all he wanted to do was gather her back in his arms and do it all over again.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I was in the middle of a sentence and you can’t . . . well, you don’t . . . damn it, Peter you can’t . . .”
“Kiss you?”
“No! No, you can’t kiss me.”
“You gave up, you quit, and I’m sorry but I’ve moved on and it’s inappropriate. Now I know that my tirade in there was an unprofessional mess, but your play is not . . .”
“It hasn’t actually won any awards.”
He tried humor, humor always worked for with her before. He could usually make her laugh.
“What?”
She was confused.
“The play, you said award-winning play tucked under my arm, and it hasn’t actually won any awards, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Sam blinked.
“You’re making a joke? Right now? After you? Do you think that’s wise?”
He moved toward her, and she pushed him away. He tried grabbing, he tried humor, and then realized he was all out of options. Peter took her shoulders and said softly, “I’m sorry.”
Sam started to cry. Just like that, her eyes spilled as if they had been brimming for weeks. Peter wanted to die for the hundredth time.
“At the time it seemed like the right thing to do. It was four years ago, and I was, I’m sorry. Please let me drive you home.”
Peter felt a flood of relief, and he wanted to cry with her, but he’d given up crying a long time ago. He had finally gotten it out, told her he was sorry. Such simple words, but they needed to be said if he was ever going to reach her.
“No, I can drive myself home. I, I can’t do this.”
Sam wiped her eyes and walked away. She had made a complete ass out of herself, and if she still had a job, there would be plenty of apologies tomorrow, but at least she let some of the ugliness out. The damn play was the last straw, it was too much. She finally blew up, and as the wind hit her face, she somehow felt better. How’s that for keeping up appearances, Peter? Queen, my ass! She hissed and tried desperately to ignore his apology and forget that kiss.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam had been ho
me almost an hour. She was in her favorite boxer shorts and a tank top, sitting on the couch watching The Bourne Ultimatum. Action was always good for a confused heart. Her friends Ben and Jerry joined her and she was feeling better. She didn’t fool herself, she could still feel his hands on her face, that kiss, but she had this strange realization that angry had felt better than sad and hiding. She hit the pause button after the knock on the door. Opening the door and getting cash from her wallet, Sam fully expected to see some high school student with her takeout Chinese. Peter walked right through the door and stood in her living room. He looked a little wound up, like he still had something to say. He took a deep breath.
“So what went wrong with the acting, why’d you move back?” he asked.
“Well, hello, Peter. Come on in, and, um, go screw yourself.”
“All right, you’re mad. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. I’m not too happy either. That was quite a scene, and I’m not much for airing my business in front of other people.”
“Weird, I thought that’d be right up your alley, Mr. Man of the World. Who cares what anyone else thinks, right? Careful Peter, caring what people think is very Pasadena.”
“I said I was sorry. I’m sorry for my comments during the scene, I got carried away, but it is a perspective piece and you’re personalizing it. Most importantly, I’m sorry I left. There, it’s out. Thank God! I screwed up, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m not sorry I kissed you.”
“Yeah, well you kissed your little friend in the audience too while poor Sally was getting her ass kicked up there. Someone had to come to her rescue.”
“I kissed Alexis on the cheek. I missed your cheek by a mile, Sam. Alexis is my friend, and she’s also my agent. When did I ever say you were Sally?”
Sam laughed.
“Alexis, of course her name is Alexis. Listen, I know us sheltered set are a little dense, but seriously? Phillip, Sally, and Greg? Hmm . . .”
“Fine, not incredibly creative, I’ll admit, but they’re only based on us. There are differences. The play is written to address larger themes than simply growing up. Sam, I’m not talking about the scene. Did you hear me? I’m sorry for . . .”