Off the Record

by Camryn Garrett

  “Um.” She pauses. “I hung out online for maybe ten minutes and felt like I had this gigantic weight on my chest. So maybe avoid that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “Jesus.”

  “The only person who is really looking online is Julia. Everyone else is just saying they confirm what they said in the story and don’t want to be bothered. I know I don’t want anyone asking me rude questions on TV. But people are starting to pull out of his movies, so there’s good stuff happening, too.”

  “What about Marius?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about him, except that he was just nominated for a Golden Globe,” she says, voice softening. “But I also stopped looking online a few hours ago. It was all pretty overwhelming. Like, you should just see the stuff about you.”

  “Me? I’m not even part of the story.”

  “Yeah, but people think you’re interesting,” she says. “They want to know who this wunderkind is. It’s like you’re Harriet the Spy—that’s what I saw on People magazine, anyway. Some people are being idiots about it, though.”

  “Idiots how?” I glance over at Alice. She’s on her laptop, looking up at the TV every few minutes. This must be what Mom is worrying about. “What did you see before you stopped looking?”

  “Just stupid stuff,” she says. “Stupid stuff, like that you probably couldn’t have written it yourself or that your age means that you probably didn’t report it correctly. But we know that isn’t true.”

  I wrote a story so good no one believes it was me. I have to laugh.

  @JosieTheJournalist: me: i have to wake up early so i should go to bed before midnight

  my anxiety: how about reliving all of your past mistakes instead

  The anxiety is back. Wait, who am I kidding? It never really left.

  Part of it is because Alice and Monique keep suggesting we watch movies or different TV shows on Netflix and I don’t care about any of them, which only gives me more room to think about what people must be saying about me.

  God, I’ve said so many things on Twitter that I can’t remember it all. People could comb through my account and come to a million different conclusions about the kind of person I am. I’m afraid to check it out myself. If I see the notifications, I might not be able to stop myself from looking through them.

  But without my computer to look at, I can’t stop thinking. I called each of the women in the story—short, emotional conversations with lots of tears—but I wish I could take them to a private island so we didn’t have to deal with the news. Instead, I’m stuck inside my head and don’t know how to get out.

  I wonder how Lennox felt when he saw my name in the byline. The thought of him being angry with me should be terrifying. But it isn’t. When I think of Lennox, my breathing doesn’t get faster and my heart doesn’t race. I just want to punch him, no anxiety involved. It’s kind of shocking.

  My phone rings and Alice picks it up. I glance over at her as she reads the screen.

  “Um,” she says, “I think it might be Marius.”

  “What?” My stomach drops.

  “That’s what the phone says.” She shrugs. “Do you want to talk to him or not?”

  I didn’t mention him in the Lennox piece, but he still must be having a hard time, just like everyone else with a story. Before I can allow myself to chicken out, I grab the phone and accept the call.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  His voice sounds deeper, but it’s probably just the phone. I bite my lip.

  “Marius—”

  “Look.” He takes a deep breath. “I heard about the Lennox…about what you wrote.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I was gonna ask my publicist to ask you,” he continues. It sounds like he’s rehearsed this. “But then I just…I thought I should do it. So I just wanted to make sure that in the Deep Focus profile, you didn’t mention anything about what I told you. It’s really…private. My parents don’t even know.”

  I blink, taking his words in. My throat is dry.

  “Of course not,” I say, standing up. “I’d never do that. Ever.”

  Monique glances over. I avoid her gaze.

  “Okay.” He coughs. “And, um, if you could cut the parts where I talk about him, that would be really helpful.”

  I want to ask if he’s still doing the movie. I want to ask how he’s doing. I want to ask if things are going to be this awkward forever—if we’ll even keep talking after this. But I don’t, because part of me doesn’t want to know the answer.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll talk to my editor about it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Marius,” I say. My voice is soft. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” he says.

  I want to say more—so much more—but the phone buzzes to let me know someone else is calling. The screen tells me it’s Mom.

  “Listen,” Marius says, “I have to go.”

  “Marius—”

  “But it was an amazing story.” His voice goes soft. “I’m really glad you wrote it.”

  He hangs up before I can reply. I suck in a shaky breath and accept the call from my mom.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. “It’s Josie.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Mom’s voice hits my heart. I want to be back at home, want her to hug me, want to rest my head on her chest. “Josie, I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. Are you all right?”

  “Mom,” I say, because it’s the first thing I can think of, “I—I’m with Alice. We’re okay.”

  “I know, baby,” she says. “We keep seeing you on the news. I can’t believe it. I’m so proud of you.”

  Something gets caught in my throat. I’m not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. Alice’s head whips around and I avoid her gaze. She’s trying, I can tell, but I don’t want to have this conversation in front of her. The only private place in this apartment is the bathroom. I take the two steps and close the door behind me.

  “I’m freaking out, Mom,” I say. My voice wavers with tears. “And it’s so bad, because I shouldn’t be freaked out, because this is good. When I was writing it, I didn’t think anything like this would happen. But it’s so big and so fast and I don’t feel like I have any control of it at all and I’m scared of everything.”

  “Slow down, baby,” she says. Her voice is calm but stern. “It’s okay to feel what you feel. You’re my baby, so I’m almost as overwhelmed as you are. Understand?”

  I nod. She can’t see me, but I know she understands.

  “What are you worried about, Josie?”

  “Everything,” I say again, because there’s so much going on that I don’t even think I can list it. “I wrote about what happened to me in middle school and I’m not sure if I should’ve. And people think I couldn’t have written it because I’m so young.”

  “We know that’s not true.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s what other people think that matters—that’s what it feels like, anyway. And I want people to believe the women. But I don’t want my life to get ruined because I tried to help. I don’t want to get sued.”

  “Wait a second. You aren’t getting sued.”

  “Lennox said he was gonna sue the paper, which means I’m probably gonna get in trouble,” I say. My voice is hoarse with unshed tears. “And I’m only seventeen and I just want to write. I don’t want to worry about that.”

  “Well, there hasn’t been any sort of lawsuit that I’ve heard of,” she says. I can already picture her—the same face she makes when someone comes in with an overdue library book. “Anyway, your lawyer will take care of that if it happens.”

  “I don’t have a lawyer, Mom.”

  “You do now.” She pauses. There’s the sound of paper shuffling. “A woman named E
ve called earlier. She said she wanted to make sure you had legal counsel if necessary.”

  “Seriously?”

  When Eve said she’d help from the sidelines, I didn’t think she meant getting me a lawyer. And she’s paying for it with her own money. I’m pretty sure this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I let out a sigh, tension releasing from my shoulders.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, lowering my voice. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby,” she says. “We’ll talk more about everything else when you get home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes, your father and I had to book another flight for you girls after you missed the first one,” she says, sass pooling into her voice. “But I see why that happened now, so I’m not as angry.”

  Not as angry. But probably still pissed. I try my best not to snort. Even when I’m published in the Times, Mom is still Mom.

  “I emailed the tickets to Alice,” she adds. “Your flight is at nine. Don’t miss this one.”

  The clock on the wall says it’s 4:30 p.m. right now. That leaves us loads of time.

  “Right,” I say. “We won’t. I’ll see you soon.”

  Everything’s happening so fast.

  I leave the bathroom to see that Monique and Alice have flipped back to the news. It’s not CNN this time but another channel. A reporter speaks while a huge block of text appears on the side of the screen.

  “Roy Lennox has issued an apology to all of the people impacted by his actions,” she says. “His production company, Lennox Productions, has put him on indefinite leave in the meantime.”

  “Wow,” I say. The information doesn’t fully register. I think I’m in shock.

  Alice turns to look at me. Monique is on the phone.

  “Hopefully it gets a lot worse for him,” Alice says. She and Monique share a look. “We know this has been hard for you, but we’ve just been trying to make it easier by hanging out here all day.”

  “Well.” I rub my hands on my thighs. “I was hoping we’d spend our last day in New York reenacting all my favorite scenes from The Devil Wears Prada—”

  “Oh, stop. We know you’re going a little stir-crazy.” Monique snorts, hanging up the phone. “But Alice got a call from Lauren Jacobson, and she says she has something at the office for you. How do you feel about making a trip downtown?”

  I glance between the two of them, eyebrows raised.

  “Um,” I say. “Would this something happen to be a lawsuit?”

  “Not sure,” Monique says. “They’d be foolish to try it, but you never know.”

  I think back to my phone call with Ms. Jacobson, the way she dismissed the idea that I could be writing this story. It feels like that happened years ago or in a different dimension. I still don’t feel great about going to see her, but I can’t spend my entire last day holed up in Monique’s apartment. And despite all of the shit going on, I do feel a little invincible. Just the tiniest bit.

  “Sure,” I say, already looking for my jacket. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  It’s not like I’m expecting the paparazzi to follow us when we take the subway down to Deep Focus’s office, but I’m still expecting things to be different. I’m expecting people to look at me differently—maybe gape. But it doesn’t happen. This one guy with red glasses looks at me a little longer than normal, but then I realize it’s because my head is blocking the subway map.

  Deep Focus is housed in a gigantic skyscraper that reminds me of the Empire State Building, or at least the opening shots of Working Girl.

  Monique tells the man at the front desk our names, and he asks for ID before printing passes out for us. Once we get upstairs, it’s like the office from The Devil Wears Prada—all light and open and white. I seriously don’t think I see any sort of stain anywhere—and it’s eerily quiet, unlike the Times office. There are movie posters signed by people who worked on them and celebrity pictures and magazine covers all blown up. They also have those big, clear doors that you can see everything through.

  My first instinct is to loiter around the elevator until someone asks what we’re doing, but Monique walks straight in. There are people sitting around at desks and typing away on shiny laptops. Up in the corner, there’s a TV playing the news. It’s still all about Lennox.

  I can’t wrap my mind around it. This is something I had a gigantic hand in. I’m not just watching someone else report the news. I did it.

  “Josie!”

  I blink before I’m wrapped in a woman’s arms. She’s a few inches taller than me, and her hair smells like lemon. As soon as she steps back, I realize it’s Ms. Jacobson. I stumble away with surprise.

  “When did you get in from California?”

  “Just this morning,” she says. “The magazine flew me in when we realized…Josie, you’re so talented. The profile is excellent.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”

  I was just starting to forget about Marius, too.

  “I read it all in one sitting. The edits are honestly so minimal. The piece really made me feel like I was meeting Marius, becoming friends with him. Do you know what I mean? I just wanted to hug him by the end.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Um, he definitely has that effect.”

  “So,” Alice says, breaking up our little lovefest, “what did you call us down here for? I remember you threatening Josie a few days ago.”

  “Alice,” I hiss. God. I can handle myself.

  “Threatening?” Ms. Jacobson looks back at me, brow furrowed. “That’s definitely not what I meant to do. I wanted to give you a heads-up about…what was going on with Lennox. I can’t believe…”

  She stops, shaking her head. Her lips do something strange: they press together, then droop to the bottom of her face before they start trembling.

  “I figured he was an asshole,” she admits. “But I never thought it would’ve been this bad. When he called us about you, well, my first instinct was that he was completely off base. I figured it was a power trip.”

  “It was,” I say.

  “It was,” Ms. Jacobson agrees. “But he was also trying to shut down a valuable piece of reporting.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Alice still looks unimpressed, but I can’t help being touched. On one hand, I feel embarrassed and awkward when I think about that phone call. On the other hand, I can believe that Ms. Jacobson was doing what she thought was right.

  “We’re all very pleased with Josie’s work,” Ms. Jacobson says, meeting my eyes. I stare back at her, and after a second, she looks away.

  “Oh!” She claps her hands together. “Speaking of Marius, that’s the reason I called you over. We received a package for you a little while after you went to his fitting. Do you remember that? It’s just been sitting in our mailroom. But things have been so hectic with the holidays, as you can probably understand.”

  Ms. Jacobson leads us to a closed-off office with huge windows overlooking Manhattan. The big white box on the desk makes my mouth go dry. I know what it’s going to be before she even opens it, but that doesn’t keep my jaw from dropping. It’s the dress—the one I tried on when we went to the fitting. Those embroidered roses feel like they’re from another time. An easier time. They’re still just as beautiful.

  “Oh my.” Monique’s jaw has also dropped. “That’s an original Christina Pak.”

  Alice is staring at me; I feel her eyes on the side of my face. I just don’t know what she wants me to say. We both know I could never afford the dress. That doesn’t stop me from picking it up, letting it unfurl in graceful folds, holding it up to my body. This time, it looks like it’ll fit. My eyes sting.

  “Did she leave a note?” Alice finally asks. I can’t read her tone. “That’s an expensive gift.”

  “It just says ‘For prom,’ ” M
s. Jacobson says, handing a card over. Alice reaches for it before I can. The fabric is still soft against my fingers, even as I fold it and put it back in the box. “Maybe it’s something you guys talked about when you were there?”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “We talked about it.”

  I didn’t think she was paying much attention to me at all. Turns out she was. Today has been full of different women being nice to me, and I eagerly soak it up, like a plant being watered.

  “Excuse me,” I say, picking up the box. “I have something I need to do.”

  If I’m going to pull this off, it has to be now, before I second-guess myself. I sneak into the bathroom and take out my phone. Like I thought, Marius is supposed to be at the Independent Infinity Awards tonight. Good.

  I quickly change out of my clothes. My gut tightens, waiting for the dress to get caught on my thighs or my stomach, but it doesn’t. It slips over easily. I’m used to wearing clothes that are a little bigger, just so I’ll have room, but this one hugs my hips and my thighs. I look like the fat models I love. This must be their secret—tailors.

  When I step out of the stall, I grin because I can’t help it. I feel the dress, and it’s better than anything I’ve ever worn. This is just like shopping with my sisters, only a million times better. It’s what I hoped it could be. I turn to glance in the mirror, and my feelings are confirmed. My legs look fucking amazing with the slit. My hair still looks like normal, but this is more dressed up than I’ve ever been. Even if I weren’t going to see Marius, I’d want people to see me. I look fucking great. I grin before jetting out of the bathroom.

  As I push my way out of the office, I hear someone call my name. I don’t look back.

  I have an award show to catch.

  @JosieTheJournalist: french is the softest language when spoken by the softest person