“Boy, do I know.” She snorts again. “Well, what do you want to hear about?”
“Do you mind if I record you?”
“Whatever you need.”
“Uh.” I clear my throat. “Can I ask what happened? When it happened?”
“The set of Touch of the Heart—that was more than twenty years ago now,” she says. I’m not sure whether Penny told her how old I am or not, but something about the way she says it makes me think she knows. “It was my first really big movie, and I could already tell it was going to be Oscar bait. Lennox was…nice, I guess, at first. He knew everything was new for me and said he’d help make things easier to handle. I was in his trailer all the time.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t feel good about this. And there’s something heartbreaking about how clearly she remembers this, when I worked so hard to block what happened to me in middle school.
But it makes me feel like she’s spent years, more than two decades, reliving this story over and over again. Like she can’t escape it.
“One day, I fell asleep in his trailer,” she says. “He had this really nice couch. I loved it, since it looked like it’d been made in the sixties and reminded me of home. When I woke up, he was on top of me.”
My breath hitches. This conversation feels too intimate, too revealing, for us to be having over the phone. And I feel like shit for even asking.
“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “You should only tell me as much as you feel comfortable with. If you want to take a break or—”
“I didn’t just get bullied into telling you,” she says, voice like steel. “I’ve been thinking about this long before Penny brought it up. If you don’t write it into your story, I’ll write it myself. This isn’t a pity project. I want this guy to burn.”
I force myself to breathe. She’s right. It’s about taking Lennox down, making sure people see the real him.
“Okay,” I say. “What else do you want to tell me?”
@JosieTheJournalist: pay your interns!!!!!!!!!!!!
New York City is dark and slushy, not as glittery as I’d expected when we were still on the plane. Everything looked beautiful from up high.
It’s even worse when we actually leave the airport. Snow blows everywhere, but it isn’t crisp and white, not like in the movies. It’s dirty from sloshing underneath thousands of pedestrian feet. I guess the weather isn’t bad enough to keep everyone inside, because there are still crowds of people wandering around and beeping and yelling at each other. For some reason, it makes me think of Julia, and that makes me even sadder.
We spoke for a few hours on Monday before Alice and I had to catch our flight. By the time Alice had finished her shower, I’d moved out into the hotel hallway because I couldn’t stop pacing back and forth. I know Julia told her costume designer right after she woke up with Lennox on top of her, and the designer told her not to tell anyone. I know everyone on set avoided her afterward, as if they knew what had happened. I know she kept trying to talk about it, but the more she did, the harder it became to get jobs.
“Lennox,” she said. “He did it. He told me he’d make sure I never got hired again if I told, and he did.”
I don’t understand how one person can have so much power. But he does. Tons of women know it. Julia knows it. My phone call with her made everything seem more real, a gigantic weight that has settled at the bottom of my belly. It’s the reason why his behavior isn’t public knowledge. It’s the reason why no one has written about this before. It makes me think someone smarter than me should be writing this.
But I already know I can’t just toss the story to someone else. Penny asked me. I’ve already become attached to Julia. Even if part of me feels like I can’t handle it, another part feels like I’m the one meant to write it.
I don’t know. My head is a mess.
Today the main cast is being featured on The Morning Show with Amy and Mike, which means everyone is up at five in the morning, including me. I’m not sure how going with them to the show helps me write the story, but I guess the idea is that I’m supposed to follow them almost everywhere. I’m barely awake when Alice and I shuffle into the studio’s greenroom. There’s a TV mounted so we can see what’s being broadcast to TVs across America live: the hosts, Amy and Mike, sitting at a table and chatting casually with each other.
Producers are running around and talking to Art, giggling like he’s some sort of god. Someone puts makeup on Marius’s face. Since Penny isn’t a member of the main cast, she isn’t here. I wish she were. Alice and I basically stick in the corner, barely even acknowledging each other because we aren’t actually awake. I can’t even bring myself to look at my phone. There’s stuff to eat—pastries and fruit on a table—but I just nurse a cup of coffee instead. It doesn’t seem to be helping. I’m tired enough to seriously consider dropping my head to Alice’s shoulder, but I know she’d probably kill me.
My eyes fix on Marius as the makeup artist brushes something onto his cheeks. I’m too far away to hear, but he says something to make her laugh. I almost smile.
“You look a little dead.”
I blink. A girl with dark hair and tan skin is standing in front of us, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s smiling at Alice, who grins back at her with recognition before jumping up to hug her. They do that thing a lot of girls do where they pretend that they haven’t seen each other in decades when it’s really only been days since they last spoke.
“I thought you weren’t coming?” the girl asks, pulling away. “You said you wouldn’t get up this early if I paid you.”
Alice glances at me. I frown.
“I didn’t make you do anything,” I say. “You could’ve just stayed at the hotel.”
“I decided to come,” Alice says, shrugging. “When will I get to watch The Morning Show live ever again?”
“A lot, if you decide to be an intern like me,” the girl says. “Is this your sister?”
Alice nods, holding her cup up to her lips. I try to smile at the girl, but it’s still a bit too early and the coffee hasn’t hit me yet, so I’m sure I look like I’m faking it. But she smiles back like she gets it.
“I’m Savannah,” she says. “Alice has been hanging out with me and some of the other interns while you do your journalism thing. That’s pretty cool, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Um, your intern thing is cool, too.”
Alice snorts into her cup. Savannah shakes her head at her.
“If running around and getting coffee for everyone counts, then sure,” she says. “Are you staying back here during the show?”
“Um, I think so,” I say. “I don’t know where else we would go.”
“Makes sense,” Savannah says. “They usually don’t have room on the soundstage for too many people at once.”
Part of me wishes that I’d be out there with Art and Marius, that I’d be able to see the magic of the show as it’s happening, or that I could even be in the audience. But I’m not part of the story. I’m the one who’s supposed to be documenting it. At the thought, I dig around in my bag for my notebook.
“She takes tons of notes,” Alice says by way of explanation. “Like, all the time.”
I frown as I start jotting down notes about my surroundings. I’m too tired to argue with her right now.
“I mean, she should, shouldn’t she?” Savannah asks. “If she’s a reporter and everything.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little too loud.
Marius glances over at me and waves. I smile back.
“Oh God,” Alice says. “Not this again.”
I give her the sharpest look I can. No way I’m letting her make a comment about Marius when Art Springfield is getting miked up five feet away.
Savannah glances between the two of us, a small smile on her face.
“Sisters are great, huh?” she asks.
“Oh, sure,” I say. “Absolutely. Completely.”
Alice rolls her eyes.
@JosieTheJournalist: losing a breath when they enter a room: romance or anxiety? a novel by me
“Let me know when you need me,” Alice says as our Uber pulls up to my stop. Marius and I are having our next interview at a park. I should’ve asked to change it to somewhere indoors. “I can call a car for you or something. Maybe you’ll get done early so we can just hang out.”
I raise a brow, glancing over at her. This is the first time she’s wanted to hang out with me in a while. I smile.
“Okay,” I say. “See you later.”
Maggie made me pack a coat and hat, but I didn’t bring gloves and boots like Mom suggested. We have all of that stuff from the last time it snowed in Georgia, but I don’t really use them, because they’ve never really been necessary. I just wish I had actually listened to her. As soon as I step outside the car, I’m pretty sure my fingers freeze.
The park is more crowded than I thought it would be on a snowy day. It is set up as a holiday market, with high black tables and stands selling waffles and bread. A faint melody plays as people murmur and huddle together. Little kids laugh and run around. Some aren’t even wearing hats.
For a second, I consider calling Ms. Jacobson to see if we can move the location, but then I see him. There are snowflakes caught in his curls. He’s sitting at a table by himself, somehow able to stand the cold metal chairs, reading a book. I recognize the cover without reading the title: Sister Outsider. I smile despite the cold.
He glances up then, mouth opening as his eyes lock on me. I remember that I’m wearing a jacket that isn’t heavy enough to shield me from the weather and that I’m shaking from the cold. I shove my hands into my pockets to make up for my lack of gloves. At least Marius seems prepared—just a slight flush to his cheeks. I, on the other hand, can’t feel my limbs.
“Come on,” he says, standing up and bopping his shoulder against mine. Normally it would send sparks throughout my body, but I can’t feel anything right now. “I know a better place for us to talk.”
The café is a few minutes’ walk away. I breathe a sigh of relief when we get inside, warm air enveloping us like a blanket. It seems too small for all of the people inside. People type on laptops and drink from mugs. The man at the counter, a dude with a nice Afro, smiles when he sees Marius.
“What’ll it be?” he asks. “Hot chocolate?”
I glance up at the chalkboard menu hanging above us. Most of it is written in bright blue cursive. It strains my eyes.
“I usually get hot chocolate,” Marius says, voice a warm wind next to my ear. “Always have. It’s really good.”
“Oh, um,” I say. “Sure.”
After we pay for the drinks, Marius asks, “Do you wanna look for a place to sit?”
I maneuver around haphazardly placed tables and chairs. There’s an empty chair in the corner and I dump my bag on top, dragging another chair over in front of it. Perfect. I barely have enough time to pull out my notebook before Marius comes over with two mugs. The snow has melted in his hair, making it a little curlier. I bite my lip and stare down at the table as he pushes the mug in front of me.
Outside, snow is coming down even heavier than before. I should probably say something, but commenting on the weather is too awkward. Marius is already slurping from his mug. There’s steam rising from mine.
“I like what you’re reading,” I say after a few beats of silence, gesturing toward the green cover. “My grandma gave me a copy when I was, like, fourteen. She used to teach it in college.”
“Wow.” He glances down at it. “I don’t actually like reading. I just carry books around to look more serious than I really am.”
I smirk. He smiles. I don’t even remember what questions I was going to ask. It feels like I asked them all the first time we met.
“So how long have you been coming here?” I ask. “It’s nice.”
“Ever since I was little,” he says. “My parents live a few blocks away. I used to come in after school.”
“Oh.” I hold up my recorder. “Do you mind?”
He shakes his head, sipping again from the mug.
“How did you like school?” I ask.
“A lot,” he says, something faint about his smile. “I went to a performing arts high school, so it was sort of the first place where I met people who were interested in the same things as me.”
“That sounds really cool,” I say, writing it down in my notebook. “Do you think you’ll be able to have similar experiences at college?”
“I honestly don’t know.” He traces the rim of his mug. “All my friends say it’s so different. And Brown did seem different when I visited. At my high school, everyone was focused on the arts. Everyone at Brown was interested in so many different things. It just— Everything feels so vast, you know?”
“Yeah.” My voice is soft. That’s how this trip has felt at times—like hidden parts of the world are opening up. “I know what you mean.”
I’m not sure how long we talk—about favorite movies, about the plays he was in when he was a kid (not many that I recognize). He finishes his hot chocolate before me.
“So were your parents, like, strict?” I ask, pulling my mug toward me. My jacket has melted off and so has his. “Did they make you do all your homework before you went to rehearsal?”
“No.” He snorts. “I usually did my homework there, at the theater. They’re strict about other things, like keeping in touch with family from France and speaking French when I’m at home and keeping them in the loop about what’s going on. They don’t like that I’ve been in L.A. so much lately.”
“Because it’s L.A. or because you’re far away?”
“My mother says it’s because L.A. is affreux,” he says, rolling his eyes. “My father says it’s because they miss me. I guess it’s because I’m their only kid. But I’m not staying there forever, you know? I’ll be back.”
“Is it ever lonely? Being an only child?” I glance down at my notebook. There are short notes that make no sense, a lot of drawings. I don’t think I’ll be able to understand what I mean until I’m listening to the recording. “I get lonely in my house, and I have two sisters.”
“Sometimes,” he admits, tracing the rim of his mug again. “But we’re close. I spend a lot of time with them—or I used to, anyway. When I wasn’t with them, I was with Wes and my friends, so I didn’t really feel alone.”
Right. That’s the difference between us. He has friends and I don’t.
I clear my throat. “So when you go back to France in the summer, what’s that like?”
“We don’t go to Paris or anything,” he says. “All our family is in Bordeaux, so that’s where we go, to see the cousins and the rest of the family. My nickname is the American.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “Kids can be so cruel.”
He grins, glancing out the window. The snow is still swirling, and I start to drift. I feel warm and happy and safe. Like I belong, without having to try.
“Hey.”
I startle, head snapping over to him. There’s something daring in his eyes.
“Do you wanna come home with me?”
@JosieTheJournalist: other people’s parents are always scary. it’s been scientifically proven
“Technically, I’m not supposed to bring a journalist home. So, uh, maybe you shouldn’t touch anything.”
I nod, eyes wide, as I scrunch into the corner of our taxi. It’s the first real New York taxi I’ve ever been in. It’s cleaner than I expected it to be. And more cramped.
“Sorry,” Marius says, shifting his body away from me. “I’m not trying to take up your space. I just
have long legs.”
And he does. It’s like he’s Slender Man or a cartoon character.
“It’s fine,” I say, holding my bag close to my chest. We really don’t need to take a taxi if his parents are just a few blocks away, but I’m grateful he hailed one anyway. I’d rather not walk in the snow anymore. “You’re so skinny, you barely take up any space.”
It’s silent for a second. I can tell he’s staring at me, and I pray he doesn’t say anything about my weight.
“Well,” he says eventually, voice soft, “it’s not a crime to take up space.”
I can’t help but stare back at him. His eyes are brown and light and dark at different times. I don’t know if he’s talking about himself or me, but it feels like he’s talking about me. It feels like he knows things no one else even tries to comprehend. My heart clenches and so does my stomach. I want, I want so badly, but I know I can’t have, not when it comes to this. No one ever wants the whole me, all of the parts, not just a few.
The spell is broken as the cab slows to a stop. Marius pays the cabdriver, and I make a mental note to pay him back at the end of all this. The building is nice, tall, going up and up and up. There’s even a doorman standing outside. It’s all very fancy. His mother is a theater director, but his father teaches scenic design at NYU, which I doubt brings in much. Maybe there’s family money. I could ask him about it, but that would feel rude, especially since he offered to take me here in the first place. But he had to know I’d be asking questions and taking notes the entire time. I’m a journalist. It’s what I’m supposed to do.
My recorder is still on, but I’m sure it’s mostly picked up the sound of driving, muffled from being in my pocket. My fingers ghost over it as I follow Marius to the door.
“Eddie, this is Josie,” he says, pausing in front of the doorman. He’s an older man with tan skin and a cap like in the movies. “She’s a journalist.”
Off the Record Page 13