The Luckiest Girls

by Nathalie van Walsum Fuson

  “Shit. We don’t have to do this, you know,” Connor tells me.

  I look back at the garden, and a dozen expectant faces stare up at me. He’s wrong. I do have to do this. There’s only so much contempt I can put up with at my own birthday party.

  My skirt is going to get in the way, so I wiggle out of it and throw it over the side to the garden below. Howls of appreciation from our spectators as my skirt wafts to earth. I put one foot on the edge of the roof, then the other, and place my hands on the edge of the wall before me. Directly below me is the drop all the way to the ground. One misstep, one slip of my feet, and I’ll fall.

  “Jesus, be careful,” Connor whispers.

  As long as I don’t look down, as long as I pretend I’m standing on level ground, I’ll be okay, I tell myself, but my heart is pounding so hard I can almost hear it. I take a deep breath. With a jump I hoist my upper body onto the wall, clutching the edge. I almost clear the top, but my weight shifts me backward again, and my feet frantically scrape against the wall. I get just enough traction to lift me up the side of the wall. With a grunt, I throw myself over the top, onto the other side.

  “Jane! Say something!” Connor calls.

  For a second I lie on the roof, panting, looking at the sky.

  “Something,” I gasp. When I do stand up I look over the edge at Connor, and he is wide eyed. He shakes his head. He’s not going to come across the wall, and that’s fine, but I’m almost there and I have to finish this. I creep to the edge overlooking the balcony. If I hang from the edge I can put my foot on the top of the window frame, then climb down holding on to the shutter. Piece of cake.

  I make it to the balcony, and a cheer goes up from the others below. Now just to take a couple of pictures with my phone through the windows so that I have something to show for my trouble. There’s not much to see; through the slim opening between the curtains I can spy a small section of a darkened bedroom, and through the next window a hallway leading to a stairwell, and the third room looks like it’s a study or something.

  Suddenly I hear a series of thumping sounds and Connor yelping in alarm. I glance up at the roof next door, and look straight into the barrel of a handgun pointing at me, clutched between the hands of a navy-blue uniform clad police officer.

  “Freeze!” He yells. “Let me see your hands!”

  I’m so startled I almost fall backward over the balcony. A second police officer appears and I see that he’s got Connor and he’s holding Connor’s arms behind his back. The first cop holsters his gun, then climbs onto the Watson roof. Next he’s clambered down to the balcony and grabs me by my upper arm.

  “Ohmigodohmigodohmigod,” I say. “We were just kidding. We were so totally just kidding.”

  What doesn’t help is that the crowd below is eating this up, they’ve actually started cheering and applauding.

  “I’m going to give you a leg up onto the roof, and if you do anything stupid like try to run away, my partner is going to take you down with his taser, do you hear me?” The cop says. He helps me back up, and when he joins me on the roof he dusts himself off and looks me up and down. “How the hell old are you, anyway?”

  “Fif--sixteen,” I answer, standing there in my fishnet tights and shaking like a leaf.

  “Stupid damn kids,” he mutters.

  Scaling the roof back to Gigi’s isn’t going to be a problem, it turns out, because the police officers lead us downstairs through the publisher’s house —he was the one who called them when he heard our footsteps on the roof — and out the back.

  “Party’s over,” the others murmur when they see us led outside by the cops. Quickly and quietly, they all disappear into Gigi’s house and out through the front.

  “I’m still not paying you,” Shane says to Connor. “You never did make it to the balcony.”

  “Stupid, selfish, irresponsible, inconsiderate, immature,” are just some of the word Gigi hurls at me as she stands over me. I’m sitting in the living room, my arms folded across my chest, chewing my thumb nail. I have never seen her so angry, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so angry, in my life.

  “I had to leave the Sophia’s party early, after weeks of planning and preparation, because I get a call from a police officer who says he has my granddaughter in custody! I almost had a heart attack!” Gigi paces up and down, flailing her hands. I hear the models whispering from behind the half-open doorway. They must be enthralled; Gigi never loses her cool, ever, but tonight all her composure has gone out the window and it’s a spectacle that none of them would miss for the world.

  “Then I arrive home to learn that you were caught in the process of breaking and entering…”

  “That’s not exactly true,” I interrupt, “since we neither broke nor entered anything.”

  “Quiet! Do you realize…” she pauses, only just noticing something. “WHERE are you skirt or trousers?”

  “I think my skirt is lying in the garden next door.”

  “Do you realize you could have gotten yourself killed? You could have gotten your friend killed, and you could have gotten a police officer killed trying to chase you across the roof!”

  I didn’t think of that. “I’m sorry.”

  “And WHO in the world gave you permission to have a party? How dare you? What in the name of heaven made you decide to give a party?”

  “It’s customary, when you have a birthday.”

  “What?”

  “My birthday. It’s today.”

  Gigi rolls her eyes and throws her hands out to her sides. She looks at me and shakes her head. “You should have told me,” she says.

  “I shouldn’t have had to.”

  “I don’t know what to do with you, Jane, I really don’t.” She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “I’m done for tonight. We’ll continue this tomorrow. I want everyone to go to bed. GIRLS! GO TO BED!” she bellows, her first indication that she knew the girls were listening at the door all along. There’s a squeal from behind the door, then a scrambling as they trip over each other to get upstairs before Gigi comes out.

  Before I go to my room I stop by Sophia’s. I figure I owe her an apology for dragging Gigi away from her party and ending the evening on a bad note.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know this was your night. I didn’t want mess it up. I just wanted to do something with my friends instead. For what it’s worth, my party was a complete disaster.”

  “Don't worry about it. At least your party was your own,” Sophia says.

  Gigi losing it last night was unpleasant, but Gigi cool and collected after a night to think about my transgressions is far worse.

  “We need to talk about how things are going to be, going forward,” she says after she calls me to her room.

  “Okay,” I answer. I’m glad, for a moment, that we’re talking at all. We haven’t had a real talk since I arrived and it’s long overdue.

  “I think you need more attention and supervision than I’ve been giving you.”

  I nod silently.

  “Which is why I don’t think this arrangement is going to work out.”

  Wait, what?

  “I want you to finish out the school year at Egleston, and then go to Overbrook Academy, a boarding school in Vermont, in the fall. The headmaster is a friend of mine and he’s assured me of a place for you. Meanwhile, during the summer, you can attend their summer camp.”

  “Wait…you’re sending me away?”

  “I can’t have you running wild in New York unsupervised, Jane. It’s not fair to either of us.”

  “But I haven’t been running wild. I just had a few friends over!” It’s not like I’ve been sneaking off to nightclubs like some of the other girls. “And I like Egleston!”

  “Overbrook is an excellent school and they’ll take good care of you. Trust me, Jane, it’s the best thing for you.”

  “But I don’t want to go to camp in the summer. I want to do the New York Film Sch
ool program. I’m entering a film in their competition.”

  “That won’t be possible. Besides, summer is when I have the most new girls coming, the ones who are still in school during the rest of the year. I could put two new girls in your room.”

  Now I get it. This isn’t about what’s best for me. It’s about what’s best for the Towers Agency.

  “That’s the real reason, isn’t it?” I retort. “You need me out of the way so that you can take in more girls. I’m just taking up room from girls who could be bringing in money.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jane.”

  “I’m being honest. I wish for once that you would be honest with me! You never wanted me here anyway.”

  “I’m not going to let you turn this into a melodrama. A girl your age needs supervision and structure, and I’m not in a position to provide that. I have no control over you, and I can’t take that responsibility. Boarding school is a much more practical solution. It will be best for both of us, truly.”

  She really doesn’t see anything in any terms other than practical ones. I wish I was as cold and calculating. Then nothing would hurt me.

  18

  Campbell

  Wow. I’ve never seen Gigi that mad. I have to give Jane credit, though…nobody ever stands up to Gigi the way she did. Now Gigi is in a horrible mood and she’ll take it out on anyone who crosses her path, so we all spend the rest of the weekend lying low, trying to stay out of Gigi’s way. I’m glad when Monday finally comes and I can get out of the house.

  The table reading for the film is scheduled for nine o’clock Monday morning. The object of the table reading is for the entire cast to read through the whole script, including the set directions, in one sitting so we can familiarize ourselves with the story and get an idea of the final production. Everyone — the director, producer and all of the cast — will be there and it will be the first time that I’ll meet them all together. I’ve planned my outfit, washed my hair, re-read my script and double-checked to make sure I know where I’m supposed to be and how to get there. As I get into bed, Maya breaks the uncomfortable silence that has been wedged between us since I interrupted her and Brigitte with Sophia earlier.

  “Campbell, I didn’t mean what I said to Sophia. I was just trying to make her feel better. I’m happy for you, really.”

  She sounds rehearsed and uncomfortable, but it’s better than nothing.

  “Thanks,” I reply. “I feel bad for Sophia, too, you know. But I can’t pretend I’m not happy either. And I’m not going to let someone like Brigitte ruin it for me.”

  “Brigitte’s just jealous,” Maya says. “You’re going to have to get used to people being jealous.”

  When my alarm wakes me in the morning Maya is already up. She walks into the room, sweaty from her early morning run. She runs every morning, even when she has an early shoot and it’s still dark out.

  “Do you mind if I shower first, or do you need to?” she asks me.

  “Go ahead,” I say, getting out of bed. “I’ll shower after breakfast.”

  Ling and Brigitte are downstairs having breakfast. Jane has left for school, and Gigi is already at the agency. Brigitte is being ever so slightly nicer today, at least she’s not being openly hateful. I’m too nervous to eat a big breakfast but I manage to get down some whole-grain toast with almond butter and sliced bananas. When I’m finished I hurry upstairs to shower.

  In the shower I take deep, calming breaths. I imagine the steam filling my nose and lungs and cleaning my body as every negative, toxic feeling is washed away. After the shower I dry off, wrap myself in a towel and brush my teeth. When I’m finished I reach for the door knob.

  But the door won’t budge. I rattle the knob and push, but it’s locked. The key, which always stays on the inside of the door, is gone. Someone reached inside while I was showering, removed the key and locked the door from outside!

  “Hey!” I shout, banging on the door. “Not funny, you guys!”

  I wait a few seconds, but I don’t hear anyone. I bang on the door again.

  “Open the door! Maya! Somebody! I’m locked in!” I shout.

  Are they kidding me? Are these bitches for real? Someone must still be in the house. Maya can’t have left already, can she? Even if she’s not on this floor anymore, she must hear me from downstairs. Surely Brigitte or Ling or Sophia are still around, after all, it’s just a little after eight.

  I listen, and sure enough, I hear footsteps. Someone is still in the house.

  “BRIGITTE!” I scream. “LING! Open the door! I know you can hear me!” I scream so loud my throat hurts. Through the door I hear the soft creak of the stairs between the fourth and third floor. I bang on the door and call out again, but nobody responds. Incredibly, the footsteps continue past the bathroom and down the next flight of stairs. They’re leaving me! Somebody is deliberately leaving me to rot.

  “No!” I shout. “Please!” But all the way downstairs I hear the front door slam. I know from the agonizing silence that I am alone in the house.

  I let loose a string of every curse word I know, and a few more that I make up. My phone is in my room, I can’t call anyone for help. If I’m late to the reading, or don’t show up at all, they could still cast someone else for this part. I’ve seen how easy it is to lose a job in this business.

  I make up my mind to break down the door, and throw myself against it with all my weight and strength. But all I do is bruise my shoulder. I kick the door repeatedly, but my kicking does nothing to the heavy oak door. This can’t be possible, I think. It’s too ridiculous. I can’t let a simple door stand literally and figuratively between me and my entire future. Crumpling to the floor, I dissolve into tears.

  Gradually my sorrow is surpassed by fury and I stop crying, rubbing my eyes angrily. I will not let whoever is trying to ruin my life have the satisfaction of succeeding. I yank open the cabinet under the sink and start pulling out every item I can get my hands on. Toilet paper, shampoo bottles, lotions, tampons, curlers, a hair dryer, everything goes flying onto the floor. If I could maybe find a wire hanger or something like that, perhaps I could pick the lock. Of course I don’t; there’s no reason a wire hanger would be in the bathroom cabinet. I find some hairpins. I don’t know the first thing about picking a lock but I’ve seen people pick locks with hairpins in movies, so I give it a try. But after jamming a hairpin into the keyhole and twisting it around, all I manage to do is push the key out of the hole and drop it on the floor outside, where it doesn’t do me any good at all.

  Or does it? There’s a thin crack between the bottom of the door and the floor, and if I could reach the key with something, maybe I could slide it toward the crack and under the door. The only thing that comes close to being the right shape is the hairdryer cord, but the plastic plug is too big to pass under the door. I try to tear the plug off of the cord but I can’t. Finally I jam the plug between the cabinet door and slam the cabinet shut hard, several times, until the plug cracks and I can break it away from the cord.

  The cord fits under the door, and I think I see the shadow of the key when I press my face to the floor and peek through the crack. I push the cord in the direction of the key. From this angle it’s hard to see if I’m reaching it, but maybe…

  Suddenly there’s a flurry of motion as something swipes at the cord. I see the pink velvety pads of Dovima’s paws, her claws extended like tiny needles.

  “No! Bad cat! Go away!” I say. But she thinks it’s a game and attacks the cord, clawing and biting at it. That stupid cat! She’s the most stuck-up, useless creature in the world, and NOW she wants to play?

  “I said GO AWAY!” I bang on the door, hard, and I think I scared her off because she disappears. By some miracle, however, Dovima has knocked the key a little closer, and I can bring the cord around the key. Gently, slowly, I edge the key closer to the door, terrified that it won’t fit through the crack. When it slides under the crack I grasp it with my fingers and give a sob of relief.


  I open the door, run to my room and throw on my clothes. A minute later I’m out the front door. I don’t have time to call a car service and good luck getting a taxicab in Manhattan between eight and nine a.m., so I sprint for the subway. I jump through the doors of the train just as they’re closing, gasping for breath.

  When I arrive at the studio downtown it’s a couple of minutes past nine, so I’m late but I’m not too late. Fortunately, I don’t think anyone even notices. Slowly my heart rate decreases from total panic to merely terrified. I’m certain that I’m the only person in the room who’s never been to a table reading, but I do my best to look like I know what I’m doing. To my surprise there’s not even a table. Instead, we’re all spread out on sofas and comfy chairs with our scripts in hand.

  Alan welcomes us all on board, and all the actors introduce themselves. There’s Lucas, of course. There’s also Emily Helms who is in a British Regency period series on BBC but she can do a perfect American accent. She plays Zoey’s best friend. There’s Rory Hewitt, who, even though he’s two years older than I, plays my younger brother Tim. Rory has had supporting roles in about a half dozen films, including one as a soldier in a Spielberg film. When I meet George Milton, who plays the middle-aged and very handsome Ian, I’m so star struck my hand is actually trembling as he shakes it. This is partly because George Milton is a legend in theater and film, the winner of an Academy Award and author of a best-selling memoir, and also because at some point I’m going to kiss him. Zoey kind of gets around. He’s very kind, though. He can tell how nervous I am, and he gives my hand a gentle squeeze with both his hands.