“Okay—”
“But this isn’t a game.” Her voice isn’t harsh, but there’s something firm about it. “You need to understand that. And if you print anything I say, I’ll deny everything and send my lawyers after you. Understood?”
“Oh.” I swallow. “Uh, okay. That’s understandable.”
“I want to believe you’re trying to help.” Exhaustion is plain on her face. “There just comes a point when that’s not enough.”
“Of course.” I’m nodding like some sort of broken doll. “I know this must be difficult—there’s no denying that. But I think it’s really important that we do something to make sure you’re all heard. And it might help to know some other people who have gone through the same thing.”
“There are a lot, from what I know,” she offers. “But it doesn’t matter, since no one is going to talk about it.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m glad you are.”
I hold my phone up, already open to the voice recorder app. Tallulah takes a deep breath and nods.
“Can you tell me how you first met Roy Lennox?”
She’s silent for a long moment. I almost want to hold her hand, but I’m not sure how she’d feel about it.”
“The thing is,” she starts, “well, Roy is the reason why I have an Oscar.”
“Okay.” I glance down at my phone, ready to Google. “It was 2011, right?”
“Burning Heat,” she says, more like a sigh. “It was my third movie, but it really catapulted me. A lot of people have said he made my career. That’s what—what makes it—so hard.”
I can’t see well enough to tell if she’s crying or if I’m just imagining it. I hope she isn’t. If she’s crying, I’ll start to cry. Gently, I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Do you need to stop?” I ask. “We can take as many breaks as you need.”
“No,” she snaps. “No, I’m fine.”
“All right,” I say. “So on the set of Burning Heat, how did he behave around you?”
“He tried to force me to give him a blow job,” she says. She shifts and I see tears on her cheeks. Shit. “Never when we were filming. I know it was different for Penny. But it was during the press tour—I could just never get away from him. He was everywhere.”
I didn’t expect her to share this so fast. I quickly scan through the list of questions in my brain to catch up.
“Was there anyone else around?” I ask. “Anyone who could’ve seen or overheard?”
“No.” I wish I could give her a tissue. “I was drinking the first time it happened. Never did that again, because I figured something would happen—not that it made anything better. He’d go, ‘Tally, what’s wrong? Why are you so worked up? Relax.’ And I couldn’t do anything because he’d be touching my knee under the table at press conferences. If I freaked out, he’d just turn it around on me.”
“What a bastard.” It slips out before I can stop it. “I’m sorry, but not really, because he’s such a fucking piece of shit. I don’t even have the words.”
Everything feels hot—my chest, my forehead—and I just want to slam my fist into a wall.
Someone laughs, loud, and Tallulah jumps. My body goes stiff. I guess we could run into the bathroom, quick, before anyone notices us—
The sound is gone almost as quickly as it appeared. We stand in silence for a few more moments. Tallulah starts to wipe her cheeks.
It’s hard to swallow. I want to cry along with her. I want to tell her about what happened to me, but it’s different. The boy who followed me into the bathroom was horrible—probably still is—but he was a boy. Roy Lennox is a man. Not just a man, but the man. He snaps his fingers and gets millions of dollars for a movie without even telling the studio what it’s about. He makes and breaks careers.
When Ryan King followed me into the bathroom, I scratched his arms and his face. I tried to bite him. I kicked and bucked like a wild animal, even though I was still in middle school and didn’t understand what rape was, because maybe something inside of me did. He didn’t do that—he said he would, he joked, but he didn’t use that word—but he touched my boobs over my shirt, and when I tried to slap him away, he tore it. After that, everything went into overdrive. Afterward, I was embarrassed, felt like I’d overreacted. I cried, I couldn’t stop crying, but the principal made the whole thing go away, even if everyone thought I was a crazy girl who was making a big deal out of a joke.
Telling on Roy Lennox—that’s like willingly becoming a pariah. In an industry where it’s so hard to succeed, if someone got the chance to work with him, how much would they deal with? How much would they lose if they told?
I force a breath through my nose.
“Did he have you sign an NDA?”
Tallulah nods. “Before we started filming. I feel sort of guilty. Just because—well, I wish I could just come out and say something. It’s not even about being sued—Julia started talking and look at what happened to her. Everyone thinks she’s crazy. And he’s the one behind it.”
“I know.” I bite my lip. “I already talked to her about it.”
“And it’s— I know this is horrible. But I just kept thinking I could smile and bear it and never have to deal with it again. Then I read Penny’s email, and I started thinking about the stories I’ve heard….” Her voice trails off.
“I mean, I get where you’re coming from,” I say. “But it’s not your fault, Tallulah. He’s the one who started this.”
“Right.” She clears her throat, though her words are still watery. “I know. It’s just…hard to remember sometimes.”
“I know.” I squeeze her shoulder. “But we’re going to end it. I promise.”
I just hope I can keep my word.
@JosieTheJournalist: i’m so fucking angry
When I get back to the hotel, Alice is giggling on her bed with the interns. They stop laughing at the sight of me. Savannah waves. I give her a small smile back.
“I’m working,” I announce, grabbing my laptop and sprawling out on my bed.
Alice doesn’t say anything. One of the girls, with brown skin and long brown hair, whispers something to her. Alice nods and turns on the TV.
The clock reads 6:00 p.m. Perfect. I’m still full from all the finger food at the cocktail party, so I can work through dinner. The tour ends Monday, the same day the profile is due, but I also need to see what I can do about my project with Penny. I need to be doing something.
It’s hard to stop thinking about Tallulah. It felt like we talked forever. She’s a lot older than me, but at the same time I related to her. She told me about her addiction to Skittles and how she watches episodes of Avatar: The Last Airbender when she has free time. It should be comforting to know we’re so similar, but it isn’t. It’s scary. I turn to my Marius project instead.
My Google doc labeled “Profile” isn’t exactly a first draft yet. It’s more like a dump of quotes organized by topic: production on the movie, Marius’s childhood, his acting, and so on. So far, I’ve only listened to recordings from my talk with Penny and the first few conversations with Marius. The recording from when I met his parents feels too personal. I’ll check it out later.
I’ve barely started organizing a first draft when I get the urge to switch projects again. Marius is great and all, but I just— The story about the survivors feels more pressing. Everyone will know how talented Marius is once they see the movie. No one has talked about what these women went through. But the profile is the story I’m actually getting paid for. I hold back a groan and flip to the Word document with the Lennox story.
Maybe I’m being dramatic, but Google Drive feels too open for a story like this. It feels like anyone can hack into my account and steal Julia’s and Penny’s words. At least with Word, their stories are on my hard drive and not on a cloud.
/> Penny’s and Julia’s stories are already typed up. Instead of writing blocks of quotes, like I did for Marius, I wrote out their memories exactly how they shared them, in sequential order. I don’t want to change anything if I don’t have to. Already, I have ten single-spaced pages, but I know deep down it won’t be enough for some people. They’ll say that two women are a fluke or a misunderstanding or a lie. Not worth taking seriously. Even if I find a hundred women to talk to, some people will write the women off. I want to give their stories the best chance possible, and that means we need more women. I just don’t know where—or how—to find them.
Alice’s friends get up and start filing out the door. One waves, but I’m too focused on my work to pay attention. Alice lingers by the door after it closes. I type for another minute before realizing that she’s staring at me.
“What?” I say, not looking up. “I wasn’t mean. I just said I was working, which is true.”
“I can help you transcribe.”
I glance up. Alice is holding her phone in one hand. A reality show plays on the TV. Now that her friends are gone, she must be bored.
“I’ll use my laptop,” she continues. “And you can keep working on—whatever—in the meantime.”
“How are you going to hear?”
She pulls an earbud out of her pocket.
I pause, fingers hovering over my laptop keys.
On one hand, it’ll be humiliating if she listens to everything that happened at Marius’s apartment, especially since she just lectured me about being professional a few days ago. But on the other hand, I hate transcribing interviews. The awkward silences, wanting to skip around but needing to listen to the full recording, even hearing the sound of my own voice…I want to take Alice up on her offer, but something about it makes me anxious. When she’s around me, I feel like I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Savannah and Ashley and Jessica—none of them were trying to be weird when you walked in. They thought you might be mad at them. You looked a little pissed when you came in.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say. “It’s just weird that you’re hanging out with them.”
“I mean,” she says, “I get lonely when I’m by myself.”
I glance up at her. She isn’t scowling or laughing at me. She’s being serious.
It’s not like she’s been going to events or interviews with me anymore. I figured she’d go out and explore the cities by herself, but maybe she isn’t into that. Maybe she needs to be around other people. I don’t know. This is the first time she’s apologized in a while. I’m not even mad, so it’s more than surprising.
I email her the audio file.
I’ve never had someone help me out with work. Alice puts in her earbuds and I go back to organizing Marius quotes. The hotel room is silent save for the sound of typing and Alice’s occasional question. But it’s a nice quiet.
“Hey,” Alice says after a while. I don’t glance up from the computer. I’m in the middle of an essay on French film theory, which doesn’t exactly have to do with Marius but might make for a great opening paragraph.
“Hey,” she repeats. “Josie. Did you listen to any of this?”
“No. That was the point of you typing it out.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She gives me the side-eye. “Anyway, they were talking about you.”
“Who?”
“Marius and—I think his mom?”
I stiffen.
“I figured,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on my laptop. She’s shared two whole typed pages of Google docs with me. “Did they say anything horrible?”
“Shouldn’t you be able to tell?”
“I take Spanish, not French.”
“Maggie took French.”
“And you took it because she did. I decided to branch out.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “His mom said you were beautiful. It sounded like she was sort of mocking him, but she didn’t say anything mean.”
I pause. She can probably see the pink in my cheeks. I hate this. If she’s messing around with me, I might actually cry.
“But it’s not like you’re fluent in French,” I say instead.
“Josie.” She kisses her teeth. “I’ve been taking French since sophomore year in high school. And I’m minoring in French at Spelman. Didn’t you hear me talking about it at Thanksgiving?”
Oh. I must’ve tuned her out. Now I feel like a bad sister.
“Well,” I say after a second, “what exactly did she say?”
“I told you,” she says, glancing back at her own laptop. “She mentioned you being beautiful. But she told him to be careful. So maybe it’s because you’re obviously not French or because you look like you’re thirteen. I’m not sure.”
I toss a pillow at her, hoping it will draw attention away from my cringy expression; I want to smile, but my lips aren’t sure where to move. I’m not surprised, exactly. It’s a very mom thing to say.
“Oh my God,” Alice says, tossing her head back dramatically. “This is disgusting. You should see the look on your face. I’m gonna have to tell Maggie about this.”
“No way,” I say. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m gonna Snap her.” Alice holds up her phone. “Say cheese!”
I flip her off. She takes the picture anyway, grinning as she types.
“Jesus,” I say, a laugh in my voice. “Keep your mouth shut for once.”
“I’m morally obligated to share. It’s big-sister privilege.”
I toss my other pillow at her face, and she falls off the bed with a laugh.
@JosieTheJournalist: i feel like there’s a difference between problematic faves and faves who ruin other people’s lives but whatever
On Thursday, I’m supposed to meet Marius at some old movie theater, but all I can think about is the other story I’m working on. About the interviews I went through last night.
We don’t seem similar on the surface; those women are rich, white actresses who live in California. Julia is more than twice my age. Penny had a completely different childhood. Tallulah seems like she was grown in a lab, a perfect, beautiful movie star.
But we all want.
Penny wants to continue her career, be a real actress who wins awards and gets leading roles. Tallulah wanted an Oscar. Julia wanted her career. I know what it’s like to be a girl who wants. I want so much that sometimes it tears me apart. I want to be a writer and to be successful, to feel fulfilled. I want to make things and be seen and understood, at least by a few people. What girl doesn’t want that? What person doesn’t want that?
I hit the next song on my phone. Marius still isn’t here. It’s cold, but I’d rather wait outside the theater than go in.
I’ve been trying to listen to happy music to calm myself down, but it makes me feel guilty. Should I be able to feel calm when these women are dealing with this every day? I used to tell Maggie how anxious I get about things like police brutality and institutional racism. She’d say I can’t do anything if I’m not healthy myself.
She’s right. But I still feel bad that I can sit here on this bench listening to Outkast while Tallulah is keeping this gigantic secret to herself. I force a deep breath. “Ms. Jackson” is playing. I rewind to the beginning, shutting my eyes as I start to sing.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson
I am for realllll”
My eyes open as I hold my hands to my chest, popping and locking, but he’s here. Standing in front of me. Trying not to smile. I almost fall off my seat.
“Hey, hey,” Marius says, a laugh in his voice. “I’m sorry! I like ‘Ms. Jackson,’ too. I just didn’t want to bother you because you looked like you were having fun.”
“Yeah.” I yank the earbuds out, shoving them into my pocke
t. “You could say something next time, though.”
“Right.” He presses his lips together, but he’s still smiling. “Next time.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing!” He frowns, too dramatic to be real. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything. Hey, you’ve seen my horrible dancing, so we’re even!”
I can’t help but smile. After all, I’m still kind of pissed at him. I pull my recorder out of my pocket, waving it as I turn it on, but Marius barely takes notice.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Your parents are nice.”
He groans, tossing his head back. It’s so theatrical, I smile despite myself.
“I’m sorry about them,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “My mom—she’s protective, is all. And she knows you’re a journalist and doesn’t want you to take advantage of me.”
“Wow.” I bite my lip. “She’s not a fan of journalists?”
“It’s because I’m young, I think.” He shrugs, looking down. “She’s seen what can happen. But that doesn’t mean she had to be a jerk. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, shrugging in turn. “My mom can be protective, too—that’s why she made my sister come with me. Your dad is sweet, though. I like his accent.”
“Yeah.” He smiles like he has a secret. “I like yours.”
“What?” I say. “I have an accent?”
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. “A little one.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never heard my own accent, but I guess I wouldn’t, since I’ve never lived anywhere but Georgia. My chest and cheeks feel warm.
I clear my throat. Now isn’t the time to get tripped up by a crush. Especially since I have four days until I have to go home. I need to write a profile for my favorite magazine, but I also have to get answers for myself.
Off the Record Page 16