Off the Record

by Camryn Garrett

  I’m sort of embarrassed, but at the same time it’s kind of nice. My parents talk about my writing like it’s a hobby. Technically it is, but they’re more focused on college. Marius talks about me like I’m already a journalist—and I guess I am. He’s one of the few people who agree with me. In any case, I’m smiling so big that Eddie must think I’m a friendly young lady.

  We take the elevator to get up to his floor—sixth, not a penthouse, which would’ve been really cool—and I try to think of what I’m going to say. His parents aren’t supposed to be home, which knocks off a ton of anxiety. I sneak a glance at him, and suddenly I’m anxious in a different way, chest tightening.

  “You’re so quiet,” he says, glancing back at me. “I promise I’m not leading you to my evil lair or anything.”

  His voice, too, is hard not to melt at. I want to bottle it up. He could just talk to me and I’d stand there, entranced.

  “I’m not scared,” I say, which is a lie. “Just busy…buffering.”

  He snorts.

  I’ve only seen New York City apartments on TV, so I’m expecting the hallway to look like the one in Friends or How I Met Your Mother. It’s actually nicer than that. The colors are deeper, like someone recently went through and decided to paint the walls a rich maroon. Some people have decorations on their doors—a menorah, Christmas trees.

  I always thought growing up in an apartment would be kind of sad—not having a house and trees and a backyard—but this apartment isn’t sad at all. It’s airy and open, without many walls. Everything is warm, yellow or red or orange, and we walk right into the kitchen.

  Where two adults are sitting at the table. Fuck.

  For a second, I’m sure Marius planned this, but then I remember his promise to avoid anything that would make me anxious. Surprise is written all over his face, anyway, his mouth dropping open and his eyes flicking between the two of them. My hand slips into my pocket, gripping my recorder. No one says anything.

  It’s odd to see him right next to his parents. His father has close-cropped curly hair with gray mixed into the brown, glasses resting on his nose, and dark eyebrows. His mother, on the other hand, looks more like Marius—dark brown curls tossed up in some sort of twist, brown eyes, a frowning red mouth. The lines under her eyes and around her chin seem to give her character. Unlike her son, she knows how to wear a guarded expression.

  “Marius,” she says, resting her chin on her knuckles. There’s the French accent I was waiting for, but it’s less Beauty and the Beast than I thought it would be. “I did not know you were inviting a friend over. Is this Josie?”

  I’m holding my breath. Actually, it’s more like I can’t breathe. I don’t know where to look—should I make eye contact with her or the father or Marius? She might not want me to look at her, but the father might be more sympathetic.

  How does she know who I am? And why are they here when he said they wouldn’t be?

  “Yes,” Marius says, glancing at me. I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “This is Josie. We were just here to get out of the cold.”

  His mother hums. I take a random guess and force myself to stare at the father. There’s a gentle smile on his face. At least he’s safe, for now. I’m hoping he doesn’t feel pity for me.

  “Marius,” his mother says again, pushing away from the table. “J’aimerais te parler.”

  I press my lips together. The father frowns, glancing at her, but she’s already walking into another part of the apartment. Marius mirrors his father’s face. His touch on my elbow is light but still manages to make me jump.

  “She just gets grumpy sometimes,” he says, glancing at his dad, as if asking him to confirm. “I’ll be right back.”

  I watch him walk down a hallway after her. I guess this place is bigger than I thought it would be. My recorder is on. I don’t know if I should turn it off, but I definitely don’t want to whip it out in front of Mr. Canet.

  “I am so sorry,” he says, pulling off his glasses. His accent is stronger than his wife’s, but there’s something endearing about it. “Isabelle can be a bit brusque, I’m afraid. Sit, sit, don’t just stand there. I am Henri. We know your name. Marius says it often.”

  My cheeks burn as I sit down across from him, holding my bag close to my body. He isn’t so bad. It’s just that I can hear quick speaking from the other room in a language I don’t understand. I don’t get it. I’m sure she’s upset he brought a journalist to their home, but I still wonder if this is because I’m an American Black girl or fat or both.

  “Marius has told us much about you,” Mr. Canet says. The skin under his eyes crinkles when he smiles. “Your work is impressive for someone so young. Are your parents proud?”

  I nod, trying to force myself to calm down. Just breathe. Just breathe.

  “That is good.” He nods, pleased. “Parents should be proud of their children.”

  “Are you proud of Marius?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Immensely. I see him on-screen and feel awe.”

  There’s something about the way he says it—so intense, so eager—that reminds me of Marius. This must be where he gets it from. It’s sweet. I’m glad Marius isn’t one of those kids who have to weather the long, scary journey to Hollywood alone.

  “Yeah,” I say, rubbing my fingers together. “He seems to have that effect on lots of people.”

  Henri beams just as Marius appears again. His mother follows. I can’t read her expression, but she seems less angry than she was before. It’s Marius who looks irritated.

  “Ne sois pas si fâché. Elle est belle,” his mom is saying. Marius shakes his head, taking a seat at the table. “Je veux juste que tu comprennes—”

  “Maman.” He shakes his head. “Not now.”

  “Josie speaks English,” Henri adds. Something tells me that’s why she’s using French in the first place. “It is not fair to her.”

  “I am sorry, Josie,” she says, looking at me for the first time. “I just had something urgent to discuss with my son. You understand.”

  I nod, even though I don’t really get it. What was so important to talk about that she couldn’t wait until I left?

  “We were just discussing Marius’s accomplishments,” Henri says, smiling as he puts his glasses on. “And how proud we are.”

  Marius groans, tilting his head as he pushes back his chair, balancing it on two legs. His mother grins, pushing the chair forward so he doesn’t fall. It all seems so normal that I have the sudden urge to take a picture.

  “Incredibly proud,” Isabelle says, staring down at him. “You cannot possibly begin to understand.”

  Something passes between the two of them. Isabelle’s face softens. Marius covers his eyes, smiling up at her with most of his face hidden. Henri shakes his head, fond. I don’t understand, but I don’t think I’m meant to, and that’s fine with me. Some things are just nice to watch.

  @JosieTheJournalist: do you ever look back on things that happened to you and realize they weren’t okay and then, like, have an existential crisis

  The next day, Penny and I meet at a coffee shop.

  It’s sort of a gallery and an eatery where you’re supposed to look at the art and eat at the same time. I get in line and Penny shuffles behind me. Standing in line normally freaks me out, because I have to know what I’m eating and how I’m going to pay for it and how much money to give all before it happens so I don’t fumble and mess up, especially when I’m given change.

  I clear my throat. There’s something I need to ask Penny, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

  “So…,” I say. “How many women, um, do you think…?”

  “Have a story like mine?” Penny bites her lip. “I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to make a list of people I know.”

  I reach in my pocket, pulling out a messy pile o
f bills. There’s a twenty. Will that be enough? I glance up, looking for the cheapest thing on the menu.

  “How did talking with Julia go? She said it was cathartic to have someone listen.”

  I wonder again if I’m the right person to do this. I don’t want Penny to see my uncertainty, though. Not right now.

  “It went pretty well. As well as talking about sexual assault can go.”

  “That’s so good! Julia will talk about this to anyone.”

  “Not anyone.”

  “Obviously not anyone,” she says. “But you made her comfortable enough to ask around for other people who want to come forward. That’s a really great step, Josie. I’m trying to think of who else to reach out to. I sent a few emails to Tallulah because we’re at the same agency—”

  “Tallulah Port?”

  “Yeah,” Penny says. “We’ve met once or twice. She hasn’t answered yet, though.”

  “Next?”

  We step to the front of the line. As Penny places her order, I think back to everything I know about Tallulah Port. I’ve always thought she was cool, but everyone did in 2011, when she won basically every award for her leading role in Burning Heat. She’s gotten another Oscar nomination since then and she’s not even thirty yet.

  “And for you?”

  I blink. The server stares at me.

  “Um,” I say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  After paying, Penny and I head toward the seating area. There’s art everywhere—gigantic prints of plants hanging from the walls, glass sculptures and figurines encased on tables around the room, and a watercolor mural of a map.

  “Anyway,” Penny says, tossing her hair back and sitting down, “I’m not sure how many women there are, like, overall. But I’m sure there are a lot. We should try to include anyone who wants to talk, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.” I click my pen. “I’ve never done this before. If everyone talks as much as Julia—”

  “I don’t think everyone is going to talk as much as Julia.”

  “Yeah, well.” I rub my forehead. “I don’t blame them. If it happened to me, I would never want to talk about it again.”

  Penny pauses. I shift, my pen tumbling next to me. I don’t really need my notebook. It’s not like there’s anything to write down. It’s impossible for me to forget what happened to Julia and Penny. For some reason, I can remember their stories while forcing myself to forget my own.

  “But it did, though,” she finally says. “That’s what your text was about.”

  I hold in a sigh. Part of me recognizes that Lennox hurting her and Ryan King hurting me are similar. But it still feels wrong, almost disrespectful, to call them the same.

  “I mean,” I say, “yeah, but not really. It’s not like it’s, like…It’s not a real thing.”

  “What?” Her eyes snap up. “What’s a real thing?”

  “I don’t know.” My shoulders tense. “Like. It was in middle school. It was—I don’t know. A boy being stupid.”

  Penny stares at me for a long time. My face burns under the attention.

  “You know that’s not true,” she says. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  I stare down at my lap.

  “It’s…” She sighs. “What happened to Julia was worse than what happened to me, if you want to put it that way. But it happened to both of us. He did things to both of us. It’s not—it’s not like it’s a contest. You don’t have to hit a certain amount of points to be included. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

  Sort of. It feels ridiculous to include myself with Penny and Julia, but I get what she means.

  “I get it,” I say. “But it’s just different. I don’t know. It’s different when it’s someone who can make or break your career with the snap of his fingers. For me, it was just a shitty kid I went to school with. It wasn’t the same for you.”

  “Yeah,” Penny says, voice soft. “That’s true.”

  “I just kind of don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say. “Let’s, um, just talk about the story. Can we do that?”

  “Sure,” Penny says, but her expression is sour, like she drank bad milk. “We probably should anyway, because I spoke to someone and they said they might be here.”

  “They might?” I rub my temples. “Penny, you have to stop doing this to me. You can’t just spring people on me at the last second.”

  A waiter comes over, dropping off our food. Penny goes silent. I didn’t even pay attention to what I was ordering, but now I see that it’s some sort of fancy salad, full of leafy greens and bright fruit.

  “I’m sorry,” Penny says, looking at her plate. “I’m not doing it on purpose. Eve answered last-minute, and then Julia could only talk that one afternoon—”

  “Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Who is Eve?”

  Penny spears some salad with her fork.

  “Penny?”

  “Cassidy.” Penny finally looks sheepish. “Eve Cassidy.”

  My eyes go wide. Eve Cassidy is hard enough to get normal interviews with. It’s not surprising, since she’s a member of one of the most famous families in Hollywood. James Cassidy and Alexandra Taylor, her parents, have at least two Oscars each. Eve has one of her own and a few nominations to go with it. I haven’t seen her around in a few years, though. The last movie she worked on was a Roy Lennox project.

  I’m pretty sure she only talks to big publications, reporters with degrees and experience. I have so many questions—does she know that this is a freelance piece, that we don’t have a publication yet? Does she even know who she’ll be talking to?

  “Don’t worry,” Penny says, watching my hands on the table. “She’s really nice. At least, she’s always been to me when I run into her.”

  Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better. I’m sure rich celebrities are always nice to each other. That doesn’t mean Eve will be nice to me. I don’t even need her to be nice. I need to be able to talk to her without messing everything up before it’s even started.

  “It’s just a lot,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I’m just thinking…if we’re going to do—I don’t know—five more women, let’s say, there’s going to be so much stuff to write. If we can get this published, we probably need to do it as a series. It might be too overwhelming if it’s all there for people to read at once.”

  “I understand.” Penny takes a bite of her salad, talking around her food. “We should start thinking of places to pitch to. Maybe I can ask around for some help.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I can ask Deep Focus.”

  It’d be weird to pitch such a huge magazine, but I already won their contest, so they must think I have at least some talent.

  “Maybe,” she says. “You’re such a good writer. I’m sure everyone will want to publish it.”

  A couple a few tables away laughs loudly. I try not to stare, but it’s hard. They look so happy. I wish that were me right now.

  “I don’t know. It’s not exactly something that people normally like to read,” I say. “What if we got everyone to talk and no one reads it? Or people read it but then Lennox calls lawyers or something?”

  “If he gets lawyers involved, he’s practically admitting his guilt.” Her face blanches and she swallows. “It won’t just be me or Julia. If there’s a group of us, they can’t say we’re all lying.”

  I know that. She knows that. But it won’t matter if people don’t want to listen.

  My hands grip the inside of my jacket. It’s all too much. I force my eyes shut, taking deep breaths. It’s okay. I’m okay. Penny is right. Everything is going to be fine.

  I reach for my water glass, draining it in one go.

  “Hey,” Penny says, glancing toward the door. “Eve is here.”

  I turn my head. Eve Cassidy is beautiful
in real life, even more beautiful standing against the watercolor mural. Most famous people look different on-screen, but she looks exactly the same as she does in the movies. Her hair is blond, like most of the women in Lennox’s movies, and she has dark brown eyes. Something about her demands attention, even though she isn’t speaking.

  She’s also here by herself. I figured someone as big as Eve Cassidy would bring a publicist. Unless something else is going on.

  “It’s nice to see you,” Penny says, moving her chair to let Eve in. “I’m so glad you came. I know this is all last-minute.”

  Outside, a camera flashes, a lone paparazzo taking pictures. Other customers glance over every few seconds and whisper to each other. If Eve Cassidy doesn’t seem to mind, I guess we shouldn’t, either.

  “Of course,” Eve says. She sits completely straight, hands folded on the table between us. “I respect what you’re trying to do and would love to talk with you. Julia told me about your project at brunch the other day. I think it’s a really valiant effort you two are making.”

  She makes eye contact, switching between the two of us as she speaks. I can’t look away when her eyes lock on mine. It’s like she’s captured everyone. Maybe that’s how she has commanded so many screens. I reach into my bag for my recorder.

  “But, sadly, I won’t be able to participate.”

  I freeze, eyes darting over to Penny. She’s still holding her fork and blinks a thousand times a minute.

  “Oh.” I clear my throat. “I know it must be really difficult. If it makes you feel better, though, you wouldn’t be alone. Penny and I would support you as much as possible, and Julia is already on the record—”

  “But I’m not Julia.” Her voice isn’t loud but is definitely firm. “I can’t do this. I can’t talk about these things and share specifics with the entire world.”

  “Will you say he harassed you?” Penny asks, faster than I can. “I mean, you don’t have to go into details. It’s just having your support that’s really important.”

  The laughing couple a few tables away has gone silent. For a second, I wonder if they’re listening. Would it have been better to do this somewhere else?