Off the Record

by Camryn Garrett

  “Uh, hi,” the girl in the front says. “You’re Marius Canet, right?”

  Someone grumbles as they shove through us. I step to the side, up onto the grass, but no one follows me until Marius does the same.

  “Yeah,” he says, smiling. He can’t even say anything else before the other girls squeal.

  “Oh my God, okay,” the girl in the front says. “We saw some clips of Incident on 57th Street online and you were amazing.”

  “Oh, wow,” Marius says. His cheeks are pink, but I’m guessing it’s not from the cold. The smile on his face gets wider. “Thank you so much.”

  “Could we have a picture?” a girl in the back asks. “All of us together?”

  “Oh.” Marius glances at me. “Do you mind?”

  One by one, each girl looks at me. My stomach tightens and my air constricts and I’m immediately sure they’re thinking the worst things about me: trying to figure out what Marius is doing with me, what I’m wearing, why I’m standing the way I am.

  “You can be in the picture,” one of the other girls says to me. “If you want.”

  I stare at her. These girls look perfect, like they walked out of a glossy magazine ad for the Beautiful College Student Store. I don’t see any blemishes or scars or pimples. When they smile, they look like they could be models. They look like sisters. Meanwhile, everything about me is different—my hair, my skin, my belly, my thighs. At the back of my mind, I know being different doesn’t mean I’m ugly. Staring at them just makes it harder to believe myself.

  These girls are everything I always wanted to be. Even when I started complimenting myself in the mirror, a big part of me wanted to look like these girls. I wanted straighter hair and a flat stomach. Looking at them makes me want to be like them, but I know I can’t. All of the diets I’ve tried—Weight Watchers, Atkins, drinking nothing but lemonade for an entire day, counting calories until I was eating nothing at all—only kept the weight off for a few weeks. My hair doesn’t look like theirs, even after I straighten it. I’m never going to be them. I’m never going to be skinny or have good hair or be white. I’ve known this, but it still hurts, especially looking at them next to Marius.

  “It’s fine,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “You guys go ahead.”

  “Actually, could you take the picture for us?”

  I take the pink phone and hold the screen up so I can see. They all look like they belong together, especially with Marius in the center. As time goes on and Marius’s career takes off, there are going to be more and more people coming up to him and asking for pictures. Will I still be around, standing behind the camera, taking pictures of people who belong in them?

  “Smile,” I say. One of the girls blinks. I take the picture anyway.

  @JosieTheJournalist: queer kids are the coolest

  The next day, the entire cast is doing an event for LGBTQ youth. It’s in a big auditorium with flyers advertising after-school programs and different Pride flags all around. There are tons of teenagers here. It’s kind of weird. At almost all of the events up to now, everyone has been adults, but these people are my age and younger, waiting in line when everyone is ushered into the screening room. There are people with braces, green hair, pins on their jackets, backpacks. It’s almost jarring how much it feels like I’m back at school.

  “We have a very special treat for you,” the guy on the small stage up front says. “I’d like to welcome you all to an advance screening of Incident on 57th Street, hosted by GLAAD and The Center! Sit back and enjoy!”

  The cast sits in the very back while the movie plays. I wonder what it’s like to watch yourself on-screen, seeing the same scenes over and over. I hate hearing the sound of my own voice; seeing your entire body up on a gigantic screen must be a thousand times worse. I wish I had another interview with Marius so I could ask about it.

  As the closing credits roll, the lead actors get up onstage to thunderous applause. It’s loudest when Marius walks on. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s the best one in the movie or because he’s the youngest person there—or just because he’s Marius. Kids in the audience line up behind a microphone to ask questions. It looks like a ton of people from back here, but it must not be, since they’re letting every single person go up.

  There weren’t enough seats on the stage for Penny, so she’s sitting in the front row with me. If she’s feeling slighted or pissed about the mix-up, she doesn’t show it, smiling widely and clapping along with the rest of the crowd.

  “Do you ever feel jealous?” I ask. I’m not sure why; it just jumped out of me. “That you aren’t called up to stuff like this with them?”

  Cameras are flashing all over—professional cameras with big, dramatic gear and smaller phones. A young kid stands next to Marius, saying something that makes him grin. On the other side of the stage, Art Springfield talks to an older audience member.

  “Yes,” she says almost instantly. “Not all of the time, but definitely during stuff like this.”

  I’m not surprised that she feels that way, but I’m surprised she told me.

  “It’ll get better,” I say, even though I’m not sure. “You’ll get another movie, right?”

  “I don’t know.” Penny shrugs. “That’s what I tell myself.”

  I can’t read her expression. Before I can think of something reassuring to say, she changes the subject.

  “Listen,” she says, lowering her voice. “Do you know when you’ll have a draft of the story ready?”

  My stomach squirms. With the murmuring and laughing, it’s hard for anyone to hear what we’re saying. Still. Talking about this in a public place makes the hair on my arms stand up.

  “I don’t know,” I say, which is the truth. “I still feel like we need more people.”

  “We do,” she says. “But we also have to start figuring out where we’ll get this published. We can show them what you have already, right?”

  What I have already is a bunch of interviews that I’ve only halfway typed out. I don’t think she needs to know that, though.

  “It’s pretty rough,” I say instead. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

  Penny looks back onstage. Marius is signing a kid’s arm, laughing. I smile.

  “Right,” she says. “Busy.”

  “I’m supposed to write a story about him!”

  “I didn’t say anything,” she says, folding her arms. “But is it so much to ask that you write a draft? Even if it’s just a rough one? And then maybe I could—”

  “Do you think it’s safe?” I ask. “To, like, have the draft floating around? Especially with the stuff that’s in it?”

  Penny bites her lip.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just saying. You don’t want the wrong people to see it. Especially with the names.”

  “You could remove the names?” she says. “Just for now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll just send it to one person,” she says. “Or I won’t even send it right away. I’ll pitch it first.”

  Part of me wants to bring up pitching to Deep Focus again, but it doesn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. Then the magazine will know exactly what I’ve been doing on the side. What if they tell me to stop?

  “That makes sense.”

  “Great. We have that done.” Penny grins, looking extremely similar to the little sister she played on Disney Channel a few years ago. “Now spill the details on what’s going on with you and Marius. He won’t tell me.”

  My heart does a weird floppy thing. I feel like one of those fair maidens from old books who fainted at the mention of violence. I really need to deal with that.

  “It’s…” I don’t know what to say. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s…” My voice trails off.
I’m not sure how to articulate what I’ve been thinking about. “I don’t know. Thinking about all this stuff with Lennox and then the guys at my school, it just makes me feel like guys are bad. And it makes me feel, like, irresponsible for liking them. Like I shouldn’t be attracted to guys because of what can happen.”

  “Oh.” She frowns. “I—I don’t—I really don’t know, Josie. Maybe it’s just guys with a lot of money. A lot of the guys I worked with were really sweet when we were younger and then went through horrible phases when we were teenagers. But they’re better now. At least that’s what I think.”

  She sighs like an old woman. It’s hard not to feel for her. Penny is only a few years older than me but has already had so many different experiences. I wish she hadn’t had some of them. Girls have to deal with so many things boys don’t even have to think about.

  “I guess the problem is that you don’t know,” she says. “Guys are a case-by-case thing. On the whole, they’re horrible. I guess there are nice ones. I’m just not willing to risk it, so I don’t date.”

  “What if you do meet a nice guy?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I would wait to see what he’s like when he’s not nice.”

  @JosieTheJournalist: #ProtectWomenOfColor

  “It’s just weird. Like, they all know each other and have talked about what’s happened with each other and everything. But they didn’t notice the same thing happening to women of color?”

  “I mean, white women pay attention to each other most of all,” Alice says, leaning back against my pillows. “I don’t know. There’s no way I’d tell a white woman if something like this happened to me. At school, there’s a reason I only hang out with Black girls.”

  “Alice,” I say, taking a deep breath, “you go to a school that’s only for Black girls.” I try to ignore the mild sense of panic that sneaks up my neck. Mom and Dad are supposed to let me know if I get a letter from Spelman, but I haven’t heard anything about it yet.

  It’s Saturday evening and we have two more days until we fly back home. I’m trying to put all of the Lennox story pieces together—both for Marius’s profile and for the story I’m working on with Penny—and I have no idea how I’m going to finish when, as it stands, it’s all about privileged white women.

  It’s hard to articulate why it bothers me so much. Obviously, the women I’ve spoken to have suffered and been hurt by Lennox; it’s not a contest. But I know how easily—and how often—Black women and other women of color are left out of conversations about “women’s issues.” If there’s even one woman of color who went through this and I don’t get to talk to her, I won’t be telling the full story.

  “Yeah, for a reason,” Alice says, glancing up. “Look. We both have white friends. Our town is pretty white. Sometimes you just don’t want to be the odd one out. It’s nice to be in the majority.”

  “I get that,” I say. “But that doesn’t help me with the article. I’ve been searching literally every single corner of the internet and haven’t found any women of color he might’ve worked with. I tried to ask Penny and even she didn’t know. That’s impossible, right?”

  Alice snorts. “Definitely not impossible.”

  My phone buzzes and I glance down, hoping for a lead. But it’s just Marius texting me again. Well, not just Marius. I barely saw him at the LGBTQ event earlier, and I haven’t answered any of his messages since then. I know it’s kind of mean. It’s just hard to focus on this Lennox story and him at the same time, especially when it’s not just him I have to focus on, but my feelings about him, too.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I just have a gut feeling. There must’ve been women of color affected. It’s crazy that we can’t find them.”

  “I mean, if something like that happened to me, I don’t think I’d wanna tell anyone. Let alone someone I didn’t feel close to,” Alice says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I just—I don’t want other women to be left out, you know? Because Penny was telling me about how this is making her feel better, and if it helps another woman feel better—”

  Alice is making a weird face. It’s the face she makes when Cash farts or when Mom gets disappointed in her.

  “Wait,” I say. “Do you know someone?”

  I try to think back to all the times I saw her hanging out with different interns, if they were all white or if there were women of color. Would any of them know anything about Lennox? Have any of them worked with him directly?

  “Why would I?” she asks, but it’s a little too fast. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” I scoot closer to her. “Don’t you see how important this is?”

  “Of course I do,” she says. “But I don’t think you can just call up brown ladies and ask them about sexual assault allegations. Especially brown ladies I like.”

  “So you do know someone.”

  “Josie,” Alice huffs. “Listen. I’ll ask her. But if she doesn’t want to talk, I’m not badgering her about it, and neither are you.”

  “Who says I’d badger her?”

  Alice ignores me and starts typing on her phone. I feel like I should keep working on the stories, but now that I’m waiting to hear back from this girl, I can’t focus. I write a line and then erase it a minute later. I fool around on Twitter. After a few minutes—it feels like an hour—my phone buzzes. I’m expecting it to be Alice’s friend, but it’s Ms. Jacobson.

  Hi, Josephine! I wanted to check in and see how your profile of Marius is coming along. I really don’t want to rush you, but you should keep in mind that I’ll need your draft by Monday so we can edit together before sending off to our editors. Is there a time a phone call would work for you? Thanks!

  It feels like I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I really don’t want to rush you? But what else would I do except rush when Monday is just two days away?

  It shouldn’t be such a big deal. I’ve written pieces for Monique in less than a day. But those were always different. If I needed quotes, it was usually from some film expert at a college somewhere, and I could do it over the phone in thirty minutes. This is a celebrity profile for a major magazine. That should have my complete attention, but the piece I’m working on with Penny keeps pulling me away. It’s more serious than anything I’ve ever written.

  “Ugh,” I say, tossing back my head. “I hate everything.”

  A phone starts to ring. I glance up to see Alice holding it to her ear.

  “Hey,” she says. “Are you sure?”

  After a second, she nods, silently handing me the phone.

  “What?” I say.

  “Just do your thing,” Alice says. “And don’t be obnoxious.”

  I want to tell her that I’m never obnoxious, but I put the phone up to my ear instead.

  “Hi,” I say. “This is Josie Wright.”

  “Um, yeah, I know,” Savannah says. “Alice told me you wanted to talk? About Lennox and stuff?”

  I glare at my sister. She’s turned on the TV and seems intent on watching an episode of Real Housewives I’m sure she doesn’t really care about. I cover the phone speaker, pushing it away from my face.

  “Alice,” I hiss. “Are you fucking serious? Savannah?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to a woman of color!”

  I stare at her in response. Alice shakes her head, making a face that says, What were you expecting? I honestly don’t know what I was expecting. Alice has been spending time with so many of the interns during this entire trip; I didn’t think it would be one I knew. I didn’t think it would be Savannah. I guess we aren’t exactly friends, but this feels personal, closer to me than talking to the other women did.

  “Josie?” Savannah says. “Are you still there?”

  “Oh God, yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “Savannah, thank you so much for tal
king to me. You really don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t know if—”

  “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to,” she says. “But I have a condition.”

  “Of course.” I sit up straighter. “What is it?”

  “I need you to change my name.”

  “Oh, that’s totally fine.” I chew my lip. “But are you okay being on the record?”

  There’s a long pause. I feel like I can’t breathe, like all the air has been sucked out of the room, while I wait for her answer.

  Alice glances over.

  “I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Wait,” I say, but she’s already hung up. Shit. She was my best chance so far. It seems like this is the day everything goes wrong for me.

  I toss myself on the bed next to Alice. She looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was gonna be her?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, looking down at her phone. “I didn’t want you to be weird about it.”

  “I wasn’t weird.”

  “You were, a little.”

  “I don’t know how to act when it’s someone I actually know,” I say, resting my head on her shoulder. She usually moves when I make displays of affection like this. Surprisingly, she lets me stay. “I keep wondering if I’m doing the wrong thing. Like, Penny is into it and I care about her and I don’t want to let her down. But what if I’m not doing it the right way?”

  “What’s the right way?”

  “I don’t know.” I groan again. “I know this is going to be something big, something we might not be able to handle once it’s out, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

  “It sounds like a big story,” Alice says, muting the TV. “But you’ve been working really, really hard on it. If the people in your story trust you, then I think you’re okay. And it’ll probably get better once you have an editor behind you.”

  I don’t have the chance to reply, because Alice’s phone rings. I recognize the number from a few minutes ago.