Off the Record

by Camryn Garrett

  “Okay,” Savannah says when I pick up. Her voice is fast. It reminds me of someone from an Aaron Sorkin movie. “I’ll be on the record, but we can’t talk on the phone. I’ll send you my address and we’ll talk here. Okay?”

  I’m already putting my coat on.

  * * *

  Most of what I’ve seen of New York has been from movies—Times Square and the Plaza and Union Square, Christmas decorations, Central Park. The address Savannah gave me is in a completely different area. We could take the subway, like Marius says he does, but I would get lost. For once, I’m actually glad Alice comes with me.

  The longer we drive, the more things change. I already know this isn’t a white neighborhood. There aren’t doormen standing outside buildings or fancy cupcake shops or clothing stores. It’s almost like our neighborhood at home: people with brown skin walking on sidewalks, more brown than I’ve seen since we’ve been in New York, with only a handful of white people scattered around.

  “It used to be a lot different when I lived up here,” our driver says when Alice brings it up. “Look, over there, you see that white lady with her baby? You never would’ve seen that up here when I was here. Probably why I can’t afford it anymore.”

  Alice nods like she’s had the same issue and completely understands. I guess she’s putting that psychology major to use.

  Savannah’s apartment is on the fifth floor. I have my recorder and my notebook in my bag, but it feels intrusive to be meeting Savannah in her home, a place that tells me so much before she’s even said a word.

  It’s not a bad building, but I know it’s not as expensive as where Marius lives. There’s no doorman, and the chipped beige paint looks like it hasn’t been touched up in at least twenty years. It just looks like a place to live. And it’s filled with comforting sounds: someone speaking Spanish, little kids talking loudly, a TV playing Judge Judy, and one lady who sounds so much like Mom that Alice and I have to bite our lips to keep from laughing.

  I knock on the door, even though I want Alice to, because I have to fight the anxiety somehow. I force myself to breathe. In and out.

  The door swings open to reveal an older woman with tan skin and dark hair pulled up in a bun. She’s wearing a pair of scrubs, which I definitely didn’t expect. Before I can say anything, she turns her head and starts speaking Spanish to someone inside. I see people move past—a kid around my age wearing a hoodie, two little kids who duck at the sight of strangers, and finally a younger woman.

  Immediately, Alice wraps her in a hug. Savannah grips her hard. I bite my lip.

  “Come on,” Savannah finally says, nodding at me. “We’ll talk in my room.”

  Inside is cozy with bursts of color everywhere, almost like Marius’s apartment, except with more people. Three of them sit on the couch in front of the TV. While we walk past, the little kids stare at us, but only when they think we aren’t looking. The older woman watches us for a moment before leaving.

  “She has to head to work,” Savannah says once we’re in her room. There are two twin beds. Half the room is decorated with dozens of movie posters, while the other is cluttered with JoJo memorabilia. “I’m supposed to be watching the kids, but I figured this wouldn’t take too long.”

  “Thanks again,” Alice says. “Josie has a couple of questions, but we should be out of your hair soon.”

  Then she glances at me. I guess this is my deal.

  “Right,” I say, reaching into my bag. “I just wanted to record this, if it’s okay—”

  “Where are you putting this again?” Savannah’s eyes are narrowed, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks much more serious than I’ve ever seen her. “Are you putting my voice up on some website?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s just easier for me than taking notes, and it’s good to have solid proof to refer back to.”

  “Okay.” She glances at Alice, then back at me. “So where are you gonna put it?”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Wait a second.” Savannah holds up a hand. “Josie.”

  “It’s just—”

  “I don’t understand,” she says, talking over me. “You’re seventeen. You want to write a story about Lennox groping people. And you don’t even have a place to publish it? You think that’s gonna work? Does Deep Focus even know you’re doing this?”

  I swallow, forcing myself to stay calm. I can’t help but feel defensive when people talk about my age. I know I can write. I’ve been doing it my whole life.

  “Deep Focus doesn’t own me; it’s not like I have to tell them everything,” I say, even though my tongue feels heavy and dry. “And I think we have a real shot at getting this published. I’ve gotten four other people to talk—two of them are Oscar winners.”

  I wince as soon as I’ve said it.

  “Josie.” Alice smacks my side. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s fine.” Savannah folds her arms. “I knew that. I’m asking if your age is going to keep the story from being seen.”

  “I have a background in journalism.” I force myself to hold eye contact. “Before I won this contest, I mean. They don’t need to know my age. I have contacts already, and then some of the women I’ve spoken to can help get the story out. It’s an important story. I’m sure it’ll get attention.”

  Savannah rubs her thighs. “Come on, sit down. Sorry there aren’t any chairs. I didn’t want to talk about this in front of them.”

  “In front of your siblings?” Alice asks. I glance at her in surprise. I figured she would just sit back like normal. “I used to lock the bathroom door to keep Josie from coming in and spying, but she always found a way.”

  “Yeah, little brothers and sisters can be like that.” Savannah snickers. I set up my recorder, trying to take notes with my brain. “But yeah. I—I’m the first one to go to college. I worked two jobs to get myself through City College. And I wanted a job in film production, but it’s not real practical, so I picked business.”

  “I feel that. I worry about what I’m gonna study,” I say, flipping open my notebook. “Before you keep going, can I just ask your full name and age? I’m not gonna use it—I know you want a fake name—but it’s just so I can fact-check and everything.”

  “No using it.” She raises a brow. “If you do, I’ll deny everything.”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Savannah Rodriguez. I’m twenty-two.”

  “So is our sister,” I say, leaning back. “And she’s going to college next year, but I’m not sure what she’ll major in.”

  “Running her mouth, probably,” Alice says.

  Savannah smiles, but only a little bit.

  “Okay,” I say, pressing the recorder out on the bed between us. “So you go to a state college and study business. How did you get in touch with Lennox?”

  “It was an internship two summers ago.” She rubs her arms. “Like the one I’m doing now with Spotlight Pictures. I wanted to get experience in film and there was an opportunity to work with his production company. I was basically another assistant—I did the coffee runs and answered phone calls and made copies. I was really excited when I heard he’d be shooting in New York. I thought the job meant he could be, like, a mentor. I thought I’d learn from him.”

  “Did you?” I glance up. Her lips are pressed tightly together. “Learn from him, I mean. But take your time.”

  “He wasn’t really in the office a lot,” she says. “But I still thought it was a great opportunity to get my foot in the door.”

  “But that’s not what happened.” My voice is soft. It’s hard to see the emotions flickering across her face, almost as hard as the silences on the phone.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t the only one—there were other women in the office, but they wouldn’t want to talk abo
ut this sort of thing. I don’t know when it started. Maybe when scenes were getting more complicated and we were over budget? I don’t know. But he’d always come in when there was just one of us in the office.”

  “Just you.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Just me. And that’s why it feels like I imagined it sometimes. He’d come in around lunchtime and tell me not to work so hard, call me sweetheart or whatever. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  Her lower lip trembles. My throat goes dry. I don’t know what to do, so I grab her hand in mine. She startles, staring down at our intertwined hands, but doesn’t pull hers away. Alice puts hers on top. I guess I won’t have written notes for this interview, but it doesn’t matter.

  “I’m so stupid, but I liked him a little bit. He seemed nice.” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “So stupid. When he kissed me, I thought it was a little forward, but I didn’t tell anyone or anything. But then he wanted to do more and he didn’t know my name and wouldn’t listen when I said no.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re not stupid.”

  “I don’t know.” She squeezes my hand. “He didn’t rape me or anything. Just started groping me, pulling down my shirt, and I told him I’d yell if he didn’t stop. He said he’d make sure I never worked in the industry again.”

  “Did he stop?” I ask. “After you told him to?”

  “After he threatened me? No.” She grimaces. “He only stopped pulling down my shirt because one of the other workers came in. But everyone just pretended like nothing ever happened. I told my manager, but she pretended like nothing happened, even when I quit.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, gripping my pen uselessly in my other hand. “I’m so sorry, Savannah.”

  “I’m glad I’m talking about it.” She looks up at the ceiling. “I just told my mom today. Before then, it felt like I made the whole thing up. It’s scary. I don’t know. We prayed about it.”

  “I’m glad you could talk to your mom,” I say. “You’re so brave for talking about this. Seriously—so fucking brave.”

  I glance at Alice, but her eyes are red-rimmed, and it just makes it harder to swallow down my own tears.

  “Thanks,” Savannah says. “I want to be. I try to be. I mostly fucking hate him for ruining my experience, you know? My brothers make fun of me for liking his movies because they’re boring and super white and everything, but he was a poor kid from the city like me. I figured I could be like him.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I never thought I’d be like him, but I never thought he’d be such a fucking douchebag. Like, I thought only having white people in his movies was bad, but this is different. This is—taking from other people.”

  That’s the difference between being problematic and assaulting or harassing women. Savannah was lucky enough to get another internship, but Julia’s career is a mess, and even Tallulah, who is still getting roles, has had something taken from her. When that boy followed me into the bathroom, he took something from me. That’s what happens during harassment and assault and shitty touching of other people when they don’t want it.

  “I feel like he ruined that whole experience for me,” Savannah says. “My whole, like, initial love for movies was based on Roy Lennox’s work. It’s been hard to deal with.”

  “He stole something from you,” I say. “So we’re gonna take something from him. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”

  @JosieTheJournalist: Marius Canet is going to win an Oscar in like five years and you’ll all remember me for interviewing him first (probably) (idk) (maybe)

  I wake up on Sunday to the sound of a phone ringing.

  “Alice,” I say into my pillow, “can you get it?”

  She groans, but I hear her bed creaking, so I snuggle deeper under the covers.

  “It’s your phone, Josie,” Alice says, dumping it on top of me. “Not mine.”

  “Ugh. Can’t you just answer for me?”

  “Oh, hey, Marius.”

  I shoot up. Alice is standing on her bed, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “Alice,” I say, “give me the phone.”

  “I don’t know why she hasn’t been answering you,” she says, ignoring me. “I’m sorry. That’s horrible of her.”

  “Alice.” I lunge for her, but she easily avoids me.

  “Oh, I know.” She steps to the side as I jump on her bed. “It sucks that we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Alice,” I say, reaching for the phone. She shoves her elbow in my face. “Alice, come on!”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you at your apartment to discuss the profile.”

  “Alice.”

  I launch myself onto her back. We collapse onto the bed in a heap.

  “I hate you,” I say, jabbing my shoulder in her side. “Why are you so obnoxious?”

  “Trouble in paradise?” She shakes her head. “It’s such a shame.”

  “Shut up.” I hide behind my hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But I obviously do. That’s what makes me so nervous to talk to him.

  * * *

  On the way to Marius’s apartment, I decide I’m going to ask thoughtful, professional final follow-up questions that will allow me to complete my profile on time. But he opens the door to his apartment, with his golden-brown curls and his brown eyes and the most open expression, and all I can do is kiss him.

  His hands cup my cheeks, and I lean into his touch. For once, I’m not worried about anything. I just want to kiss him. I just want to enjoy this, to live in the moment without thinking about what will come next. Eventually, he pulls away.

  “You haven’t been answering any of my messages,” he says. “I thought you were gonna leave without talking to me again.”

  “Yeah, well.” I stare at his mouth. “I’m not—not very good at this.”

  He bites his lip. I can’t tell if he’s thinking about the ignored texts or the kissing or my sister’s embarrassing phone call. My fingers twitch at my sides, anxiety returning. I could be the one to end the silence. The problem is, I have no idea what to say. None of my plans seem appropriate anymore. I don’t want to talk about being professional or even Lennox. I want to look at him as much as I want, without it being creepy. I want to kiss him again. Kissing Marius in an empty apartment, everything silent except the sound of our breathing, should count as a form of therapy.

  “Did I do something?” he asks, breaking my trance. “To bother you?”

  “No,” I say. “Not at all.”

  I watch him nod, just the slightest movement of his head. There’s still a worried crease between his eyebrows. I want to smooth it away.

  “I just…” My voice trails off. There are so many reasons and I don’t want to get into any of them. “I saw your texts. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. It’s just—I’m supposed to work on the story. I thought I’d have a few days to finish it and that I’d never see you again. If I answered, I thought I’d miss you more.”

  I’ve shown more of myself than I meant to. I stop breathing. A panic attack is coming. He’s going to think I’m weird, because normal people answer texts, because it shouldn’t be a big deal, because we only kissed a few times and holding hands doesn’t even count and—

  “Hey.” He tugs on my hand. “Come on. Sit down.”

  I nod. Marius sits first, and I slowly lower my body next to his, as if the couch will collapse under my weight. He’s warm. It releases some of the tension in my shoulders. This time, he leans in, almost in slow motion. I pull him forward by his hair and kiss him again.

  My first kiss was during a game of Truth or Dare in seventh grade. I don’t remember the boy who kissed me, and it only lasted for a second. My lack of experience means I don’t really know th
e difference between good kissing and bad kissing. That hasn’t stopped me from worrying—about open mouths, and tongues, and, God forbid, herpes.

  It’s different with Marius. I don’t worry about much of anything when I’m kissing him. I tangle my fingers in his hair, so soft, and pull him closer to me. He bites my lip and a moan escapes my mouth. He moves back a little more with each kiss. One minute we’re both sitting up, and the next he’s spread out underneath me. It doesn’t really hit me until I come up for air, fear—and something else—pooling in my gut.

  You’ll snap him in half.

  I freeze.

  “Josie?” Marius stares up at me. “Are you okay?”

  I rest my weight on my knees so I don’t squish him, but I don’t think he notices. His lips are stained red, shining like someone just put gloss on them. His eyes are a little hazy and his hair is fanned out around him and he’s beautiful. Incredibly beautiful. As much as I tell myself I’m beautiful, I know Marius doesn’t have to speak into the mirror every morning to remind himself. It’s obvious.

  He reaches out for my hands, pulling them close to his chest.

  “You can touch me,” he says. “If you want to, I mean.”

  I always want to touch him—his face and his neck and his hands and his arms, the smooth skin, the mole, everything. This is something I want and have wanted almost since the day I met him. I force myself to stop thinking for just a second, running my thumbs over his hands. They’re warm, soft. These are Marius’s hands and no one else’s.

  Then I run my hands up his arms. I feel his gaze on me the entire time. I’m pretty sure our arms are the only parts of our bodies that match, at least in width. He doesn’t have any marks anywhere, just light, faint hairs I have to squint to see. I push up the sleeves of his shirt as I go, but by the time I’m up to his elbow, he’s already pulling it off.

  “You don’t have to…”