by Denise Dietz
“Thanks, kiddo,” I said, zipping up the back of her uniform.
She zipped up mine, and together we entered the gym.
Chapter Thirty-three
Due to time constraints, Madison couldn’t shoot scenes over and over, ad nauseam. Forget fifty takes! Three seemed to be the max, and he appeared to be satisfied with every actor…except one.
The kid who played Robin’s boyfriend.
Physically, the kid fit the part, and I could understand why a Texas-based casting agency would pull his photograph from the heap, then pat themselves on their overworked, underpaid backs.
Davy Crockett Brakowski was a high school senior. He’d never be baaaad, like Jeremy Glenn, but except for his dark hair, he resembled William Katt in Carrie. The sensitive type. Just what the doctor ordered. Just what Madison wanted.
The kid’s experience, if he had any, was probably a bit part in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet. Or West Side Story. He could have played Romeo…or West Side Story’s Tony…except Davy Crockett Brakowski couldn’t act worth a damn.
He’d memorized his lines, and confidence oozed from every pore, until our esteemed director began cutting him down with sarcasm. Had Madison yelled, it would have been better. I had a feeling Davy often endured yelling, even triumphed over the occasional this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you disciplinary drubbing with a belt or a broom handle or maybe a horse whip; after all, this was Texas.
His father, who sat in the bleachers, looked the type. I hate to categorize, but Mr. Brakowski sported a beer belly, a stubbled double chin, and a quart of Pennzoil beneath his fingernails. Every time Madison chastised, Mr. Brakowski glowered at Davy. Every time Mr. Brakowski glowered, Davy forgot another line.
Lynn Beth kept saying things like: “That was my fault” or “I gave Davy the wrong cue,” but it didn’t help, and by the time Madison signaled for a lunch break, poor Davy looked as if he wanted to burst into tears.
Except he couldn’t cry, not with his father still glaring and baring tobacco-stained teeth in a rabid wolf-snarl. Davy headed for what I assumed was the boys’ locker room, maybe to cry, maybe to re-learn his lines. I had never felt so sorry for anyone in my life, and I damned Madison for his insensitivity.
Since I was powerless to alter the situation, I headed for the school cafeteria, my tummy growling with peckish anticipation, and ran smack-dab into Madison.
“Frannie,” he said, “I need another big favor.”
He put you on top of the pyramid, I reminded myself. And yet I knew my reply would sound brusque, if not downright rude. “What favor?” I snapped.
“That kid, the one who plays Robin’s boyfriend…”
“Yes?”
“Could you find him and tell him I’m not pissed off?”
I didn’t say anything, but my expression must have said Find him yourself, dipshit.
Still facing me, Madison put his hands on my shoulders, and I felt a not-unpleasant electric current course through my body. Confused, I turned my gaze away from his dark, earnest eyes.
A little farther down the hallway was the cafeteria, double doors propped open by two chairs. I saw tables topped with cutlery, napkins, soft drink cans, and humidity-streaked water pitchers. Glancing out the window to my right, I saw caterers carrying sandwiches, salads, and plates heaped with yummy-looking pastries.
One of the caterers stood under a tree, not far from the window.
He looked like my friend Samson.
Holy shit! He was my friend Samson. If I hadn’t shared his loft for nine months, I’d never have recognized him.
He wore a white kitchen jacket. A chef’s hat hid his long hair. Lost in thought, he negligently flicked a lighter. I’d begun watching James Bond movies when I was knee-high to a Munchkin, and Samson didn’t smoke, so I knew the lighter concealed a tiny camera. Samson was still furtively stalking Madison for the unauthorized bio. It occurred to me that I could do my friend a favor, make up for the skimpy Cat Sands interview. Maybe, just maybe, I could set up a Victor Madison interview. That would make the bio an authorized bio, much more valuable than un, a shoo-in for the NY Times non-fiction bestseller list. Logic, however, told me I’d have to do Madison’s favor first.
His fingers had left my shoulders to tilt my chin and caress the curve of my cheekbone. Again, I felt a sensual thrill. I sighed and said, “What do you want me to do for you, Madison?”
“Victor,” he said, his voice a caress.
“What?”
“You can call me Victor, only not in front of the cast and crew.”
“Okay…Victor.” Briefly, I thought about his Disney obsession. Hell, I could always play Thumper.
He maneuvered my body against the wall opposite the window, so that, to anyone passing by, it would look as if we merely conversed. His hands reached beneath my short skirt and he began to sculpt my butt. His first finger edged along the elastic at the bottom of my blue stretch panties. My legs quivered. Instinctively, I spread them far enough for his finger to rub.
A lazy smile creased his mouth as his finger furrowed my clitoris. His rapid-fire motion, in sync, seemed impelled by a song inside his head ‑‑ “Come Saturday Morning,” maybe. In another moment, less than a moment, I’d come.
Oh, God, I wanted to come so badly. But I couldn’t push away the thought that he’d slept with two of my friends, one of whom still craved his attention, so I pushed Madison away.
“The fa-favor,” I stammered, trying to catch my breath. “You want me to do something for you.”
“Yes, please.” He straightened up, all business. “I need you to work with that kid, Robin’s boyfriend ‑‑”
“Davy.”
“Right. Davy. Cue him. Direct him. I can’t do it, he’s scared of me. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Lynn Beth. Give her a few more lines, so she can fill in if the kid forgets his lines again. I’m running out of time here.”
“I’ll do it, Victor, but only if you get rid of Davy’s father. Move that bastard out of the bleachers, out of the goddamn school, or you’ll never get any kind of performance from Davy.”
Madison nodded. “No problem,” he said.
He gave me a quick kiss on the lips, then turned and walked away, and I thought it would be just my luck if Davy brooded inside the boys’ locker room.
The boys’ locker room isn’t the same as walking into the boys’ bathroom, I told myself. And even if it is --
My thoughts were interrupted by a new thought.
Witnessing Tenia’s Black Mass had been like my old dream of walking into the boys’ bathroom by mistake. Only worse.
Chapter Thirty-four
I needn’t have worried.
Davy Crockett Brakowski wasn’t inside the locker room.
He was in the gym, standing at the foul line, shooting hoops.
Every time he shot, he missed. Every time he missed, he shouted, “You’re such a fucking freak, Brakowski!”
He wore a basketball uniform, and his orange-numbered shirt with JEROME on the back was still damp from nervous perspiration.
His non-movie street clothes were on the floor, neatly folded behind the foul line; black suit jacket, black slacks, white tee, and a leather belt with a huge silver armadillo belt buckle.
Davy’s basketball hit the backboard and missed the net by a good eight inches. As he retrieved the ball, he shouted, “You’re such a fucking freak, Brakowski!” Then he saw me walking toward him.
“Mr. Madison sent you to fire me,” he said. “It’s okay, Frannie. I didn’t want to be in the stupid movie anyway.”
“No, Davy, you’re wron ‑‑”
“I’m putting together a motorcycle, and as long as they pay me for today, I can buy more parts.”
“Whoa, wait a min ‑‑”
“My dad thinks I’m crazy, building a cycle from scratch. He says I’m wasting my time. He says if the cycle don’t run, he’ll…” Davy paused.
Beat the shit out of me, I finished. Aloud I said,
“You’re not fired!”
“Well, I’m gonna be.” He twirled the basketball on top of his index finger, as if he were a white Harlem Globetrotter. “Last night I knew the part perfect, Frannie. My dad even bragged to his friends ‘bout me being in the movie. Today I don’t know nothing. I’m supposed to kiss Lynn Beth…Robin…but why would she want to kiss a fucking freak like me?”
“First of all,” I said, “you’re not a freak. You’re a good-looking kid.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen.”
“Right. Sorry. I think I know what the problem is, Davy,
(the problem is your fucking freak of a father)
and I can fix it.”
Hope flared in brown eyes that reminded me of Bambi’s. “How can you fix me, Frannie?” he said, his voice negating his eyes.
“I can’t fix you, Davy. You’re not a broken toy. The problem is, you’re not thinking like Jerry, Robin’s boyfriend.”
“How can I think like Jerry? He’s the captain of the Rockets. I can’t even shoot a goddamn basket.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Maybe Davy can’t shoot a basket, but Jerry can. You’ve got to be Jerry inside your head. Jerry wouldn’t have any reservations about kissing Robin. He’s probably slept with half the cheerleaders.”
“No, I ain’t. My dad thinks I have, but ‑‑”
“Please listen, Davy.” I led him over to the Rocket’s bench, sat him down, then sat next to him. “The point is, you’ve got to shed your skin like a snake.”
“A snake,” he repeated, and I gave an involuntary shudder.
“Or, if you prefer, a caterpillar. Davy isn’t into sports, but Jerry is. Davy gets good grades ‑‑”
“Yeah, so what? My dad don’t give a shit if I pass or flunk.”
“Then use your father for Jerry. Jerry’s father smacks him around,” I said, and this time Davy gave an involuntary shudder. “Jerry knows a college basketball scholarship will get him out from under his father’s thumb and…I’ve got an idea. Try this, Davy. Pretend Jerry writes poetry and the only person he’s ever shown his poems to is Robin. He’s liked her all along because she’s the only one who appreciates his sensitivity. But when she suddenly turns drop-dead gorgeous, he’s a little shy, knowing she’s read his poems, afraid she might be laughing at him behind his back.”
“So when he starts to kiss her, he’s not sure she’ll kiss him back,” Davy said. “He thinks she’ll laugh in his face.”
“Very good, except I think Jerry knows Robin will kiss him back. What Jerry feels for Robin is love, not lust, so he’d kiss her very gently, pull away, then kiss her again with more passion.”
“Because she doesn’t laugh in his face, right?”
“Right. Well, sort of. Look, I’ve got another idea. Sometimes my boyfriend…” I hesitated, picturing Andre who slept on the couch, then Jem who wanted to know if I swallowed, then Madison who wanted me to call him Victor. “My ex-boyfriend,” I amended, “would cue me, tell me when I said something wrong. Will you let me cue you?”
“I didn’t bring my script, Frannie, ‘cause I knew my lines.”
“I have a memory like a sponge, Davy. I know all the lines.”
It was a good half hour before I felt that Davy Crockett Brakowski could successfully, if not brilliantly, portray Jerry.
No one had entered the gym. Everyone is too busy feeding their faces, I thought, wishing I could feed mine.
And yet, helping Davy had helped me. For the first time in weeks I felt like my old self, rather than some unorthodox puppet in a far-fetched morality play.
Bottom line: every recent occurrence had been generated by my drinking. In New York I rarely, if ever, chugged down wine and beer. I didn’t even like the taste
(what about the audition, Frannie?)
of liquor, unless it was diffused by lime juice,
(the audition inside Madison’s hotel suite, Frannie)
like maybe a nice salty margarita, or vodka and
(you didn’t drink before the audition, Frannie)
cranberry juice. Shit, anyone would hallucinate if they drank enough booze.
Turning to Davy, I said, “You’ll be fine, but I’ll give you something for luck, a talisman.” Dumbo’s feather, I thought, as I reached behind my neck and unclasped my Star of David. “I have a sneaky suspicion you’re not Jewish, Davy, so you don’t have to wear this ‘round your neck. Maybe you can put it in your sneaker. The important thing is to know it’s there.”
“Thanks, Frannie. I’ll give it back after I’m finished.”
Rising to his feet, Davy grasped my hands and pulled me from the bench. I felt the Star of David’s six sharp points dig into my palm. Worse, my legs were full of acute, knifelike pins and needles.
I staggered forward. Davy, still holding the necklace, caught my shoulders. We hadn’t rehearsed the Robin kiss, but “Jerry” had learned his lesson well. Removing one hand from my shoulder, he traced the contours of my face, then bestowed a gentle kiss upon my lips.
I smiled, said, “Perfect,” and Davy turned animalistic. His hands were everywhere, squeezing my breasts, pulling my body against his, painfully kneading my ass like bread dough. Vaguely, I saw that he’d dropped the necklace. Still stunned, I felt him bend his knees until his groin was on a level with my panty-clad vagina. He pressed me closer and began jerking back and forth, but his cock wasn’t hard enough to make a dent.
“Stop it, Davy!” I yelled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Which had to be the second most inane remark I’ve ever made, the first being my response to the dream spider when I saw it wasn’t Nana Jen. Because Davy knew perfectly well what he was doing ‑‑ trying to fuck me through my clothes.
He loosened his grip at my words. I pulled away and laughed. I don’t know why I laughed. Yes, I do. In my whole life, no one has ever thought me juicy enough to initiate a violent seduction. Andre had come close, the day we played our “John!-Mary!” scene inside my dressing room. But, to be honest, I initiated the Andre seduction. In fact, except for the Night of Wine and Roses, I’ve initiated all his seductions.
A cameraman ducked into the gym, but turned tail when Davy shouted, “Don’t laugh at me, Frannie! Don’t you dare laugh at me!”
“Calm down,” I said. “I wasn’t laughing at you. This isn’t the time or place, Davy, and a guy should ask a girl if she’s in the mood first.” I couldn’t resist adding, “You can use some of what you just felt when you play Jerry, but not when you kiss Robin.”
“Okay, Frannie, sorry,” he muttered, retrieving the necklace. His cheeks were as red as twin stoplights. “If you’d been in the mood, would you have said yes?”
“Absolutely,” I fibbed sincerely.
As I walked toward the gym’s double doors, I glanced over my shoulder. Davy had a goofy grin on his face. My “absolutely” had salvaged his wounded pride, and I was fairly certain his performance this afternoon would be better than satisfactory.
Strolling down the hallway toward the cafeteria, I wondered if I should go back and ask Davy if he wanted to join me for lunch.
No! He might run into his father, who’d nullify my coaching.
My neck felt strange without my Star of David. Maybe I should have “Dumbo-feathered” Davy with an earring. I’d worn my favorite pair, diamond studs, not unlike the studs Sol Aarons sported. Instinctively, my hands reached up to touch my earrings.
Shit! An earring was missing. It must have fallen off during my scuffle with Davy.
My mother equated pierced ears with waitresses, musicians, and “those colored people in National Geographic,” but Daddy had given me the diamonds, a don’t-tell-Mom birthday present, so finding the stud would have to be my number one priority…well, maybe number one-and-a-half.
Sandwich first, I thought, increasing my pace. I can eat the sandwich on my way back to the gym.
I scooped up two sandwiches, ham and cheese, then smeared the bread with mustard. B
onnie leaned against Madison. She looked purry. As I headed for the hallway again, I feigned external indifference.
I hoped Davy had already spotted my earring. Because once the cast and crew resumed filming, the odds of me finding my diamond stud would be the about the same as me pocketing a winning lottery ticket.
Speaking of pockets, where would I put the damn sandwich crusts? My cheerleader outfit didn’t have pockets.
I’m eating the crusts, Mom. Hope you’re happy.
Except for my missing earring, I felt happy --