Off the Record

by Camryn Garrett

  Alice jabs me again. Her elbows are pointy.

  “Thank you,” I say, looking at the folder instead of at Ms. Jacobson. “This was nice of you.”

  “Well,” she says, pulling at her purse straps, “it’s part of my job. And so is answering any questions you might have. If anything goes wrong, you can text or call me. Do you still have my number?”

  I nod. She emailed it to me last week and I already programmed it into my phone. There have been a couple of moments when I wanted to text her—when I was wondering what to wear, what to say, who to hang out with. But I figured she’d find me annoying if I texted her a million times before I even got my first assignment.

  “Good.” She smiles, glancing between Alice and me. “And I already got approval for your sister to join you as a chaperone, so there shouldn’t be much of a problem. Do you need anything else before I go?”

  My stomach drops. “You’re not staying?”

  “Well, no,” she says. “I spoke to your mother about this on the phone—I thought she would’ve told you. Normally I’d function as your chaperone, but since your sister is here, we figured…”

  I glance at Alice, who is already walking toward the entrance to the conference room.

  “Josie?” Ms. Jacobson snaps me out of my thoughts. “If you’d like, I could join you for this first event. I just won’t be able to in the future, since I’m based here in L.A.”

  “Oh.” I swallow, but my throat is still dry. “I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s all right,” Ms. Jacobson says. “We’ll mostly be communicating via phone and email, but I promise I’ll be available for any questions or issues you may have.”

  I look over at Alice. She’s lingering near the door to the conference room, arms folded, tapping her foot. Like she’s waiting on me.

  She technically is.

  Like I’m acting like a baby.

  I’m not. At least, I don’t mean to be.

  Like I can’t even do this one thing, this thing I begged Mom and Dad for, by myself.

  I swallow. My stomach is still in knots, but I don’t know if having Ms. Jacobson there would even make me feel better. Do I want her watching me during the press conference? Analyzing every choice I make?

  “No,” I say. “I think we’ll be fine.”

  It’s pretty much a lie. But I hope it ends up being true.

  * * *

  I’m not sure what counts as “fine.” If sitting in the middle of the crowd of journalists and trying my best not to be noticed counts, I’m doing pretty well. But it’s probably not what Ms. Jacobson had in mind.

  “Hello,” a woman says, standing up and speaking into the microphone she’s passed. “Art, you’ve spent the past few years on television. What was it like to return to your independent roots with Dennis, who you worked with on your first five films?”

  Up on the dais is Art Springfield, probably the biggest star in the movie, wearing a cowboy hat. Beside him is Penny Livingstone, a former Disney Channel actress who somehow got a part in this movie. There’s also the director, Dennis Bardell, and Grace Gibbs, who plays the mom and is the only Black person in the cast besides Marius Canet. He’s there, too, and I can’t wrap my mind around how normal he looks. Light brown skin, pink cheeks. His hair is long enough that, if my dad knew him, he’d probably bother him about getting it cut. And every few seconds, he smiles, just a little bit, showing white teeth.

  I force myself not to look for too long. I focus on making sure my recorder is going, catching what everyone is saying, while I write in my notebook. Around me, some people have iPads and a few even have laptops, although I didn’t realize that could be a thing.

  “Come on,” Alice hisses. “Aren’t you going to ask something?”

  I don’t know what to ask. Well, that’s a lie, actually. I look down at my notebook. I’ve been working on a bunch of questions, separated into categories—but most of them are for Marius Canet. It would be weird to stand up and ask a question that’s just directed at one person, wouldn’t it? Even though that’s what everyone has been doing with Art Springfield and the director.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “Everyone else seems to have it down.”

  The crowd laughs at something Art Springfield says. I wince, hoping it doesn’t mess up my recording.

  Alice’s brow furrows. “Have it down?”

  “Know what they’re doing.”

  It’s true. No one looks nervous when they stand up to ask questions. This isn’t the same as when special guests, like local musicians or professors, visited my high school for assemblies and students from my journalism class got to interview them. Everyone here has a question that makes sense. Everyone here sounds official when speaking into the microphone. Everyone here has done this before.

  “This film takes a very raw look at the insidious nature of homophobia,” another reporter says, standing up. “Grace, your character loves her son but also sends him away to ‘fix’ him. How do you think she can have both of these feelings at once?”

  “See,” I say, frantically writing the question into my notebook. “That sounded so good.”

  I was going to ask Marius about his high school experience, since there’s a sequence at the beginning where his character goes to school. But that seems stupid when everyone is asking these hard-hitting questions.

  Alice shakes her head, facing forward.

  “Well, we didn’t just want her to be a caricature,” Grace Gibbs says, pulling her microphone closer to her mouth. “It would make things too easy. She loves her son, and she thinks she’s doing the right thing because this was how she was raised, because this is how she and her husband think. But when she realizes what she’s doing to him, it crushes her….”

  Alice leans over to whisper in my ear. “Listen,” she says. “If you don’t ask something, I will.”

  My face starts to drip with sweat almost instantaneously.

  “Alice,” I say. “Come on.”

  “I’m serious,” she says. “I’m not just going to sit here in silence for an hour. What’s the point of us coming here, then?”

  I want to scream.

  “All right, folks,” the moderator says, shifting in her seat. She’s a tall lady who has a microphone of her own. “We have three more minutes—enough time for one more question.”

  Alice glares at me. I almost throw up.

  What would be more embarrassing: to ask my own question and have everyone look at me, or to have Alice ask something ridiculous and be associated with her for the rest of this trip?

  About half a dozen hands shoot up.

  “Um, hello!” Alice grabs my hand and holds it high. “She would like to ask a question!”

  Heads turn in our direction as a low laugh rumbles through the crowd. My face burns and I haven’t even asked a question. I was already worried about people treating me like a baby because of my age, but now Alice has made it even worse by making me look like a teenage fan.

  “Well, all right,” the moderator says. “Let’s pass the microphone over, shall we?”

  Someone shoves the microphone into my hand. Alice forces me to stand. Everything feels too hot, even though there aren’t any lights shining on me. Art Springfield is looking at me, which is so weird, because I’ve always seen him on TV when my parents were watching his movies. They’re all looking at me—not just the people on the dais, but all the journalists, too.

  “Um.” I do something wrong with the microphone, and it makes this horrible shrieking sound. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  My hands are sweating. It feels like the microphone is going to slip out of my hand.

  “Um,” I say again. Grace Gibbs leans forward like she can’t hear me—or, worse, like she’s trying to get a good look at me. “So. Um, I guess I was wondering, um, how Peter’s Blackness factors into his jo
urney, for you?”

  Grace Gibbs looks at Art Springfield, who looks at the director. Penny Livingstone quirks her mouth to the side. After a second, Marius Canet pulls one of the microphones closer to him, but then Dennis Bardell, the director, speaks into his own.

  “I actually don’t think I know what you mean,” he says. “Could you expand on that?”

  Oh God. I swallow. How do I expand on that? I don’t even know why I asked it. I should’ve asked my question about high school, even if it made me seem basic.

  “So, like,” I say, shifting on my feet, “uh, if you watch the movie—”

  “I think we all have,” Art Springfield says. Everyone laughs. I try to join in, but it sounds more like I’m panting.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Right. But, um, Peter and his mom are the only Black people living in their town, so I was sort of thinking that maybe that would add more tension, and even if we don’t explicitly see it on-screen, that could add to the way that, um, you know, the actors would play the—”

  “I’m so sorry,” the moderator says. “I would love to let you finish the question, but the cast has another event right after this that they can’t be late for.”

  “Oh,” I say. It echoes throughout the room.

  I feel tears in my eyes, but I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I’m not a baby. I force myself to sit down and ignore the pitying looks Grace Gibbs and Marius Canet give me from the dais. I ignore the way Alice stares at me like she can’t believe I made such a fool of myself.

  “Well, everyone,” the moderator continues, “let’s give it up for the cast and crew for being here!”

  Everyone around me claps, but I don’t. I’m too busy trying not to melt into a pool of embarrassment.

  @JosieTheJournalist: oui oui mon ami i’m lafayette and i took spanish in school instead of french

  According to the itinerary, I’m supposed to interview Marius today, but I have no idea how to get through it without making an even bigger fool of myself.

  “Seriously,” Alice says, already waiting on the curb for our Uber. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as last night was.”

  I want to say something like Gee, thanks, but I can’t really breathe. I settle for glaring at her instead.

  Last night, after the embarrassment that was the press conference, I lied to Mom and Dad on the phone and told them everything was going great. I bounced between wanting to look over my questions and wanting to ignore them and pretend that today wasn’t happening.

  I finger my notebook in my bag. I’ve been buying the same type ever since I was thirteen, a classic black Moleskine, and the familiar sight has been with me through everything. Hopefully it’ll bring me some sort of luck now.

  When the car stops fifteen minutes later, I still can’t breathe. I hate when it gets like this. I forget all the coping skills my therapist or guidance counselors or social workers have ever taught me. I’m just there, a tight ball of intricate knots, and I’m not sure how to untie myself.

  Sometimes I try to imagine myself in the future, weeks or months from now, far away from this moment. Where will I be in six months? Will I know who I’m rooming with at Spelman? Will it be easier to breathe?

  The car has pulled up in front of a line of stores. Alice doesn’t hesitate. She’s out of the car before I can grab my bag. I force a breath, but it’s shallow. Then I follow her out the door.

  I can’t help but think about the negatives—that I’m already sweating, that I look backward with my long messenger bag at my side, that my tummy is already showing. Mom is always talking about how my shirts aren’t big enough for me. I’m not sure if it’s because of my boobs or stomach or both, but my stomach tends to peek out when I stand.

  I pull my leggings up. They never stay, but I still have to try.

  Alice stands at the café door.

  “Just texted Mom,” she says in a tone suggesting I should’ve texted Mom. “She says to have fun and call when we get back to the hotel.”

  I nod. I can’t speak. Alice frowns, opening the door.

  My eyes aren’t sure where to go. Inside is like Starbucks on a slow day. It smells like coffee beans and wood. A few chairs are open, but many are filled. There are abstract paintings on the walls—people twisted up into odd shapes—and pan flute music playing. I look everywhere except at the people sitting down.

  “There,” Alice says, nodding her head forward. “Okay, try not to look so nervous. And stop staring. Just look normal. And don’t say sort of or like when you’re asking questions. Be confident in yourself.”

  She says it as if it’s easy.

  I hold my breath and turn my head half an inch. Once I see him, I can’t look away. He’s getting up. There’s an easy smile on his face, one that’s pretty hard to look away from.

  I pull Alice forward, practically stumbling in my haste to move.

  “Hi,” I say, sticking out my hand. My voice cracks. God. How did I think I could do this?

  “Hey,” he says, grabbing my hand. The contact almost makes me jerk. At least his voice is as easygoing as his smile. “Hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding this place. I know it’s out of the way, but my agent took me here the first time I came to L.A., and it’s just been, you know, like a home base since then.”

  I wish I had a home base. Alice is supposed to be a piece of home, but she just stands there, looking between the two of us. I wish she would say something. I wish time would slow down so I could catch my breath. Instead, I stare down at Marius’s hands. They’re bigger than mine, warm brown. I can’t stop staring. It’s easier than looking at his face.

  “So you’re Josephine?”

  I can’t speak. Alice clears her throat.

  “Yeah, she is,” she says, taking a seat. “I’m her older sister. Just here to chaperone.”

  “Wow.” He sits, and I figure I should, too. “You were at the press conference yesterday, right?”

  My throat goes dry. What do I say to that? I can’t lie. But I don’t want to admit to being that awkward kid, either. I force myself to nod.

  “I thought your question was really interesting,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it since then. Sorry you didn’t get the chance to finish.”

  I can’t tell if he is just saying that to make me feel better or if he really means it.

  Marius clears his throat.

  “So you must be pretty young, right? That’s so cool. When I heard Deep Focus wanted to do an interview, I thought it would be this journalist my dad’s age asking me questions about sex scenes or something, but then they told me about the contest.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. “I’m seventeen.”

  “Really? That’s crazy.”

  I need something to do with my hands while we talk, so I tug at my bag, pulling out supplies—my notebook, a pen, and my recorder. Alice takes out her phone, something familiar, and it gets a little easier to focus.

  “Uh, do you mind if I record you?”

  He waves his hand and scoots his chair forward.

  “So,” he says, “how did you get started? Writing and everything?”

  I blink. Most people don’t ask about me when I’m interviewing them. Marius is staring at me like he actually wants me to answer, like he’s not just making small talk. It’s hard not to stare back.

  In real life, his lips are pinker. His hair is longer—or taller, really—but still dark brown. Sunlight streaming through the windows bounces off the silver hoop at the side of his nose. That definitely wasn’t in the movie. I make a mental note and file it away for later.

  “Josephine?”

  Alice steps on my foot. I squeak.

  “Sorry.” I clear my throat, glancing up. Brown. His eyes are brown, like the rest of him, except darker. “Uh, i
t’s Josie. Josephine is my grandma—well, was, before she died.”

  “Right, okay.” He nods, smiles. Easy. “So how’d you get started with this?”

  I feel Alice’s gaze on my face. Is this how this entire interview is going to go? Not only will she have tons to tease me about later, but it’ll just make me feel like even more of a baby.

  “Alice.” I turn my head a fraction, barely moving my mouth. “Could you, like, sit somewhere else? Anywhere else? Just till we’re done?”

  Her eyes narrow. Both of Marius’s brows rise, his entire face going with them. His fingers are lazily folded together on the table.

  “It’s no big deal,” he says. “Really, I don’t mind if she stays.”

  Alice smirks.

  “No,” I say, glaring at her. “She needs to go. Like, I need her to.”

  We glare for several long seconds. I’m not sure what this will cost me—maybe more whining when we get back to our hotel or tattling to Mom and Dad. Whatever. I just know I can’t work when she’s sitting right under my ass.

  Eventually, she pushes herself to her feet with the most dramatic eye roll I’ve seen in my life. “Ungrateful,” she mutters as she walks toward the other side of the room, where several young people with intern badges are clustered. It takes no time for her to launch into conversation with one of them.

  “Sorry,” I say, turning back to my notebook and opening to a fresh page. “It’s just a little weird to have her sitting here.”

  “That’s okay.”

  I pause. My eyes dart up. He’s staring, expectant. I tug at my hair before forcing my arm down. Laura, my therapist, is always hounding me about self-harm, about how scratching or hair pulling counts, even if I don’t think so.

  “So,” he says, smiling like I’ve made a joke. “How’d you get started?”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burn. “Right, right. Uh, I wrote stories for my school newspaper. Well, I don’t think that really did anything, ’cause no one reads it except the parents. Then I started this blog and I posted on Twitter, and then I started pitching essays to different websites. Sometimes my blog posts went viral, so that helped me get pieces on bigger websites, like BuzzFeed and Vox. After a while, an editor for Essence contacted me, so I’ve been writing there a lot lately. But, uh, yeah, I won this contest to be able to be here, and that’s sort of…it.”