“Thank you.” I hug the book to my chest before looking down at the cover again.
“Have you ever heard of Stella Adler?” Monica asks.
“She wrote this book,” I say, hoping the obvious answer is the right one.
Monica smiles, but not in a way that makes me feel stupid. “She was one of the most important and highly respected acting teachers in the country.”
“Did she teach you?”
“Not directly, no. But I took classes at a studio where they teach her method.”
“Wow.” I open the book to the table of contents and scan the names of the chapters: The World of the Stage Isn’t Your World; Acting Is Doing; Instant and Inner Justifications; Learning a Character’s Rhythm. “There’s so much to learn.”
“This is only the beginning, but it’s a good start.”
“Thank you.” I wish there were better words to show just how much I mean it. “This is the best present anyone has ever given me.”
Monica smiles and I smile and we’re smiling together, and I wish I could freeze this moment, where things feel so good I can almost forget how bad everything really is.
When Gary the waiter comes back to take our lunch orders, Monica asks for the Tropical Chicken Salad with the dressing on the side and I get the same thing because as much as I love their crab cakes, I love saying, “I’ll have what she’s having,” even more.
While we wait for our salads, Monica tells me about all kinds of things—like the fact that she left Florida and moved to New York with just two suitcases to follow her dreams. That winter, she moved out to L.A. when it got too cold for her Florida blood. She said it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t always pretty, but she did it thanks to her stick-to-itiveness.
“There are some parts I’m still sad about not getting,” Monica tells me.
“Which ones?” I ask.
She lifts her chin and looks down at me, as if she’s trying to decide whether or not I’m worthy of hearing her deepest, darkest secrets. She smiles and glances around to make sure no one is listening, then she brings her voice down just above a whisper. “Let’s just say I would have been starring in a major motion picture opposite George Clooney.”
Monica lifts her hand and waves it like a fan in front of her face.
“Wow,” I say, trying to think through all the movies George Clooney has been in. Maybe one of the Ocean movies?
“It’s not all about talent, you know,” Monica says. “A lot of it has to do with hard work, and a little luck from being in the right place at the right time.”
“I know all about that,” I say. “If I hadn’t forgotten my towel at home that day, I never would have known you were my stepmom.”
I wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth, but I obviously can’t, so I take a giant sip of water instead. I wait for Monica to say something, to correct me. When she doesn’t, I look up and see her smiling, her eyes a little misty. Maybe she likes thinking of me as her stepdaughter, too.
Before I can say anything else stupid, our salads arrive. The conversation shifts back to the book, and Monica tells me more about Stella Adler and how her acting method teaches you to make your connection with a character more intense by emotionally recalling moments in your life when you had a feeling similar to the character’s. She says you can use your imagination, but it’s the connection to something real in your life that can push you from good to great.
While listening to her every word and trying to remember everything she says, I’m also studying everything she does. The way she cuts her lettuce into tiny, bite-size pieces, how she sets her fork down between each bite, dabbing the corner of her lips every so often with a napkin. Mom doesn’t look that ladylike when she eats a salad. And even though she orders her dressing on the side, she ends up dumping it all on, which makes it just as bad for you as a cheeseburger.
Monica only eats half of her salad, so I only eat half of mine, even though I’m still hungry. And when Gary asks if she wants a box for the rest, she says no. So I do, too.
After lunch, I say we should do it again sometime, and Monica says, “Absolutely,” before giving me another kiss on the cheek. “Next time, maybe you can come down to the set first?”
“Oh my god, really?” I say, trying not to squeal.
“It would be fun.”
But she’s wrong. Lunch was fun. Going to the set would be epic. The only thing that could make this day any better is if one of the people here who I could totally tell was sneaking a picture of us sent it in to TMZ. That way I wouldn’t have to brag for everyone to know that I’m someone important now.
I know that probably won’t happen, but a girl can dream.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alexis
Tommy and I are sitting around the puzzle table when CeCe walks in the house wearing a cute black-and-white sundress. Her cheeks flush when she sees us, and I wonder if she’s up to something. Whatever it is can’t be that bad since Liam is three hundred miles away and Monica is even farther, according to the Google Alert I got last night that showed her out on the town in Beverly Hills. The show must be on break for the holiday.
“Hey,” CeCe says, giving me a bright smile. I glance behind my shoulder to make sure it’s me her sunshine is directed toward. Things have gotten a bit better between us since our chat a few nights ago, but this is new.
She sits down at the table and admires the puzzle. Tommy made quite a bit of progress while she was at work this morning. The sky with all its clouds is complete and so are the palm trees on the left side. All that’s missing is the right side and the bottom, where the water meets the sand.
CeCe picks up a piece and rubs it between her fingers like it’s a lucky charm. “Remember when I used to hide pieces around the house?” she asks.
“I’d find them everywhere.” I smile at the memory. “Why’d you do that?”
“So we’d never finish,” she says, as if it’s the most logical explanation, but I can’t fathom why anyone would want to work so hard on a project without finishing it.
She smiles again, clearly reading the confusion on my face. “When we finished the puzzle, summer was over.”
“And if we never finished,” Tommy says with a smile in return, appreciating her childlike logic, “summer would never end.”
“And we’d never have to go home.”
I watch the sad smile settle over CeCe’s face as she looks at just how close they are to finishing this puzzle. She looks at the piece in her hand and sets it back down on the table.
“You know, I think we have pictures of some of the finished puzzles in here.” I open the piano bench and start digging through all the old five-by-seven photographs that have found their way here over the years.
CeCe kneels beside me and we look through memories tracing back to before either of us was born. My eye is drawn to a copy of a photo that used to hang on the wall by the stairs, of Gran and Gramps standing in front of the house the day they bought it. I trace her face with my finger, missing her fiercely.
“Is that Great-Gran?” CeCe asks. “She was beautiful.”
I nod and hand her the photo, and one I spot behind it. “Here’s one of her holding you when you were little.”
“I wish I remembered her,” CeCe says, looking longingly at the photo.
“She was crazy about you,” I tell her. “I think she must have known that you inherited her acting chops.”
A flash of confusion crosses CeCe’s face. “She was an actress?”
“I told you that.” I can’t imagine never mentioning her great-grandmother’s acting legacy. “Didn’t I?”
“And you said there were no more family secrets,” CeCe teases.
“It’s not a secret.” I turn back toward the piano bench and keep digging until I find what I’m looking for. “Here, look.”
I hand CeCe a bundle of theater programs, bound together with a thick rubber band that falls apart when she tries to take it off.
A shiver
runs down my spine, and I hope it’s a sign that Gran is here, seeing this. CeCe looks back up, her eyes shimmering with tears, and I know that she feels it, too.
“Can I keep these?” she asks, clutching them to her chest.
“Of course,” I tell her. “Gran would have loved that.”
CeCe smiles and gets up, still holding on to the old programs. “I’m going to go sit outside and look through them—how cool would it be if we were both in the same play?”
“The coolest,” I agree.
I close the piano bench and use it for support to stand up. Tommy pats the chair next to him, and I sit back down, looking over the puzzle. I run my hands over the blue sky, feeling the contrast between the smooth pieces and the jagged parts where they fit together.
“You picked a good one this year,” I tell Tommy. “It’s beautiful.”
“Looks like heaven,” he says.
Before I can stop it, my smile turns into a frown. “I don’t want to talk about heaven.”
“What should we talk about instead?” Tommy asks, fitting a piece with the whitecap of a wave into place.
I shrug. “I can’t remember what we used to talk about.”
“We talked about all sorts of things,” Tommy says.
“Name some,” I challenge.
“We talked about making more time to come down here,” he says.
“Which we finally did.”
“We talked about reality TV and what it is about those shows that makes people forget everything their mothers taught them,” he says.
I smile. “And why people like us can’t get enough of watching them.”
“People like you,” Tommy corrects me.
“Hush, you watch, too.”
“Only so I can spend more time with you, my love.” He leans over to kiss me.
“Oh, stop,” I say. “But keep going.”
Tommy laughs, the sound I once loved. But now it’s laced with the rattling in his chest that used to be there only when he coughed. It’s creeping into everything.
“This sucks.” I lean into his shoulder, and just like that, we’re back on the subject I don’t want to think about. The thing I can’t get away from, no matter how hard I try.
I close my eyes and try to picture Tommy the way he looked six weeks ago, but I can’t erase the image of him looking sick, with the oxygen tubes from the cannula going up his nose and tucked behind his ears.
It’s getting harder and harder to pretend it’s not happening. And even though I’m not ready, it might be time to start talking about it, or at least letting him talk. Like I told CeCe a few nights ago, he’s been so strong for me—it’s time I start being strong for him.
“So how are you feeling? Really?”
From the look on his face, I can tell the question surprises, and maybe even relieves, him. “I feel okay. I just wish I had more energy, and that I didn’t get out of breath so easily. I hate that.”
“I hate that, too,” I say. “For you, I mean.”
“That’s probably the worst part, other than the coughing. And the dry mouth, my mouth is always dry.”
“Did you tell the doctor about that?”
Tommy shakes his head. “Seems a little like complaining about a paint chip on a totaled car.”
I frown. “And how are you feeling, you know, emotionally?” I hope I don’t sound as uncertain as I feel. This is his territory, not mine.
“Those feelings aren’t so easy to explain,” he says.
“Try.”
Tommy takes a deep breath, coughing a little as he exhales. “I feel like I don’t want to take a single second for granted, I want to make the most of the time I have left.”
“Your Kick the Bucket list,” I say.
“Exactly.” He smiles. “It’s like I want to live as many moments as I can, like I’m filling my heart and my mind with all the memories I can get, so I can take them with me.” He reaches over and caresses my cheek. I roll my head back, moving with his touch like a cat, begging for more. “I want to remember the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking hard about something. The way your face lights up when you get a good idea. The way you sing when you don’t think I’m listening.”
“I always know you’re listening.”
He takes my hands in his. “I want to remember how soft your hands are, and how there’s always at least one chipped nail.” I pull my hands away self-consciously, but Tommy reaches for them again. “I want to remember the way you look right before you fall asleep at night and when you wake up first thing in the morning. I want to remember the taste of your lips.” He leans forward to give me a kiss. “And this spot right here.” He kisses the curve of my neck and I can’t stop myself from laughing. I’m not used to this much attention, even from Tommy.
“CeCe’s right outside,” I tell him, but I don’t pull away and he doesn’t stop. “I love you, Tommy Whistler.”
“I don’t need to try to remember that,” he says. “That, I know.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
CeCe
Hold your hands at ten and two o’clock,” Dad says.
I bring my hands up to where I think they should be. Someone should really come up with a more modern reference—who even uses clocks with hands anymore?
“A little higher.” He guides my right hand up a bit and I bring my left one up so they’re even. Now if I could just figure out what to do with my feet.
We went over the different pedals and what they are for earlier, but now that I’m actually sitting in the car, I’m a little scared to touch them. The car’s not on yet, but still.
“Put your foot on the brake pedal,” Dad says.
The brake, I remember, is the one on the left, so I bring my left foot up and hold the pedal down.
“Your other foot,” Dad says. “Always your right foot.”
“Always,” Mom says from the backseat.
I shoot her a dirty look in the mirror. This was supposed to be one of the things on Dad’s list for us to do together, just the two of us. Except he can’t really drive anymore, and I obviously can’t drive yet, so Mom had to drive us over to the Belk parking lot behind the Commons.
“Okay, now focus,” Dad says. “Remember, slow and subtle movements. You don’t have to turn the wheel a lot to make it move.”
“Got it.” I open up my hands to stretch my fingers out before wrapping them around the wheel, holding on tight.
“Foot on the brake?”
I nod.
“Now slowly bring your foot over to the gas and apply a little pressure. Not a lot, just a little.”
I move my foot to the right and rest it on the gas pedal.
“A little more than that, but slowly. Remember, everything slowly.” I put a little more pressure on the gas. “Now back to the brake,” he says.
I move my foot back to the brake and press down.
“Good, you’ve got it. Ready?”
“I think so,” I say, even though this is all happening two years before it’s supposed to.
“Keep your foot on the brake,” Dad says, and I push down even harder. “Now push the start button.”
I reach for the button to the right of the steering wheel, letting my finger hover over it for a second. I’m about to drive a car! I push the button and the engine roars to life, the wheel shaking beneath my hands.
From the backseat, I hear Mom gasp. I shoot her a look in the rearview mirror and she shrugs an apology.
“Now push the button on top of the gear shift and move it into D for drive.”
I push the button and move the lever to the right, then down two notches. It feels like the controller to one of Beau’s games. “It’s like a video game.”
“It is not a game.” Dad sounds mad.
“I know, I was just saying.”
“Driving is a privilege and a responsibility. Do you understand that?”
“I understand.” I keep my eyes straight ahead, hoping I didn’t ruin this moment that I’m
supposed to remember fondly for the rest of my life.
“Okay, now ease your foot off the brake. Slowly,” he says, back in his normal voice.
Slowly, like Dad said, I lift my foot up. It’s not even all the way off the brake when the car starts to move. It freaks me out, so I push back down, a little too hard, apparently, because we all jerk forward along with the car.
“And that’s why we always wear our seatbelts.” Mom can’t pass up the opportunity for one of her stupid teaching moments.
“Lex,” Dad says. “Don’t make me make you wait outside.”
Another reason he’s my favorite. I turn around and watch as Mom brings her hand up to her mouth, pretending she’s zipping her lips shut.
“Eyes on the road,” Dad says, back in his mean voice.
“Sorry,” I mumble, turning back around.
“Okay, now let’s try that again,” Dad says. “Gently off the brake, the car is going to move, but that’s okay.” This time, I take my foot all the way off the brake. It’s not as scary now that I know what’s going to happen. “Now, gently on the gas. Just a little tap.”
I tap my foot on the gas, but nothing happens.
“Good, a little more pressure.”
“Oof!” The car lurches forward as I hit the gas.
“Now ease up,” he says.
I lift my foot a little and we slow down. “I’m driving!” I look over at Dad, and even though he’s smiling, his eyes look sad.
And then it hits me, harder than the jerk when I hit the brake too hard, why we’re doing this in the first place.
“You okay?” Dad asks.
“What? Oh yeah.” I shake it off, because the last thing I want is to make him even sadder than he already is.
“Put your blinker on,” he says as we approach the end of the parking lot.
“No one else is around,” I say.
“Put your blinker on,” Dad repeats and I do what he says.
“Now turn the wheel to the left, harder, harder, good.” The blinker shuts itself off on its own as I straighten the wheel out. I had no idea it did that.
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