Lucid (8 page)

Meanwhile, her boyfriend has packed up and is ready to go. He glances at me.

“You weren’t only mouthing the lines, your face was in character.”

He looks at me so directly. His eyes are deep brown with nice lashes I hadn’t noticed before. Then a smile, which is somehow shy and lopsided. I instantly want to be his friend.

“I was trying to pretend I wasn’t watching you,” he says, “but I was. You were really good. I mean, in that moment when she says, ‘It’s been a while,’ your eyes went straight to anger, which I think was the best choice.”

“Then why did you wait a take to suggest it?”

“I wanted to see if she’d find it for herself.”

For a second he looks as if he’s afraid he was being disrespectful, and he quickly adds, “She’s very experienced. She did eight films in Spain, including two with Almodóvar.” I nod, impressed. He keeps looking at me as if he has something more to say. But instead says, “Nice meeting you.”

“I’m Maggie,” I say.

He smiles. “Nice meeting you, Maggie.”

And heads off toward his day.

Boris is now humping a labradoodle of indeterminate gender, who doesn’t even seem to notice. I pull out my phone to snap some doggie porn for Jade and notice a text from, oh my God, Thomas. It says:

Drinks at 6?

Now. There’s an art to this. Which unfortunately I have yet to master. Boris will be no help. Andrew probably wouldn’t have either. Where is Carmen when you need her? If I write
Yes
, does that seem too perfunctory or, on the other hand, too eager? How about
Why not?
Nope, too obviously straining for casualtude. Okay, let’s go with
Sure
. It’s incredibly boring but avoids any negative I can think of at the moment. Wait a minute. What if I try
Love to I just have to move something around
? Less available, but dishonest. And I’m saying it’s so important that I’d cancel something else. Is that bad? I mean, I do want him to know that I’m desperate for the role. Maybe
Can’t make six, let’s do six thirty.
Only if he has a seven o’clock, he’ll just cancel and who knows if I’ll get another chance.

And then, a whole other debate crashes down on me. What kind of drinks are these? Professional—or personal? Is this a
date
?

If I keep this going until six, I won’t have to worry about it.

I text
I think I can make that work. Looking forward
. A little bit of everything.
Push send. Push send.

“Boris?” I say. “What do you think?”

Thomas chooses a place that is notoriously impossible to get into. Not that the doorways are small, but they are guarded by snippy hostesses whose only pleasure in life is to pretend that they are better than you because they won’t let you into a restaurant that nobody would let them into either.

I’ve actually made it past the sphinx guards of this joint before. A celebutante named Crystal in my acting class likes to take me and Andrea places. I would say that Crystal, like Genghis Khan, has been sadly misjudged by history, but she has been sadly correctly judged by Page Six. I like her, though. And I love the truffled mac and cheese at this place.

I find Thomas at a quality table in the garden. He’s dressed impeccably but casual, and I can’t help but wonder how I’d look in his cashmere sweater. His hair sits soft and perfect, his face relaxed and handsome. The garden is lit with a glow, and I feel like I’m walking into a romantic movie where Thomas is the hunky lead.

Seeing me, he pockets his BlackBerry, stands, kisses one cheek, and holds my chair. He smells good. He asks what I’m drinking. I ask him what this meeting is going to be about so that I can properly select. He likes that. He says, “Chapter one of you taking over the world. Or at least New York.”

I order champagne and immediately feel the stab of fear in my
belly that I might get carded. Then I remember he already knows my age. The waitress doesn’t ask and leaves us to the business at hand.

In these situations, an actress has to consider, or act by reflex or instinct, with respect to certain bodily movements. Does one touch one’s hair? Does one cross one’s legs so as to carelessly reveal only the knee or a hint of thigh? Does one lean forward while touching (though certainly not unbuttoning) the top button of her shirt? What is expected? What will be interpreted in what way? Body language while being interviewed by a male casting director can be a type of nonsexual foreplay. Having said all this, at my age I think all of the foregoing is risky. Consequently, I have to be careful not to do it. Which is not as easy as you might think. Particularly when confronted with someone as foxy as Thomas.

“I’m a little nervous,” he says, which makes me feel better.

“Don’t worry,” I respond with my best smile. “I promise I’ll take the part.”

He does seem nervous. He keeps unfolding and refolding the napkin in his lap.

“I’d like to see you have a real shot at this role. The truth is Rosalie or either of the two other actresses could knock you straight off the list. There are high stakes on this show, and networks tend to go for safer choices, which means faces they know. Although with the fourth lead they might well take a chance, particularly if we can lock in the star we want for Lara. I want to be completely honest, I don’t yet know if you’re best for the part or not.”

“Look, I appreciate the lack of bullshit. And I appreciate the shot.”

“I want to be honest about something else,” he says, and my heart jumps. “I want to get to know you better. There are nine years between us, and if that doesn’t scare you, it sure scares me. But I hate the game of pretending I’m not really interested. Like you say, all the bullshit we all live through every day.” At this point,
I
must have been the one to look nervous because he adds, “I swear to God that nothing about any of this will affect your chances in the slightest.”

The first bullshit. Even if he doesn’t mean it to be. He just rang a bell that can’t be unrung, and my response will not only affect my chances, it well might determine them completely. I’ve been here before, though never with stakes like these. Still, I made my rule on this long ago and promised myself I would never reevaluate it on the spot or on impulse. The rule is to only respond with complete honesty about the personal side of it, with no business considerations whatsoever.

“Okay, I’ll be honest too,” I say. “You’re obviously very attractive. I’d like to get to know
you
. But I’m not at all interested in casual dating. I only want to be with someone I care about right now. And that takes time.” I know that what I’m saying is totally dorky, but I barrel on. “Truthfully, with me, considerable time. If all that is something you’re really comfortable with, I’d like to know you better.”

He stares in my eyes, and I try hard not to blush. I feel really nervous and a little excited.

“Are you free for dinner Saturday night?” he asks.

“It’s my birthday,” I say, instead of answering.

“Thank God, fourteen at last!” And I laugh. He says he has a
business thing and can’t pick me up until eight thirty, but if that was okay, he would be “so honored” to have dinner with me on my birthday.

For the next hour we talk about business. He makes several strategic suggestions, including a way for us to encounter Rosalie socially, that he might never have made without my having agreed to a dinner date. He also talks about a pilot and two films that he is involved in casting and how I might be considered for roles. I have an idealistic heart, but it’s latched to a practical mind. As I listen to Thomas, I have to put aside my illusions about the ideal platonic relationship between casting agent/mentor and little me. If he doesn’t want what he wants already (and he does), he’s going to eventually. And I’d better start thinking about how I’m going to feel about that.

The problem is that I don’t know.

The other problem is, I’ve been thinking about this for so long that I’ve lost track of what he’s talking about, and since I’ve been doing that actress audition thing of looking deeply into his eyes and leaning slightly forward, I’m in trouble.

“So what do you think?” he asks. How convenient.

“Actually, I’m torn.” Please fill in the blanks. Please. Please.

“Well, it’s more a basic career choice.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Two roads diverge in a yellow wood and all that. But which path to take?”

“My advice is, follow your instincts.”

“Thank you. My instinct is to take your advice.”

Boy, he loves that. He changes the subject (to something else I’m not following) and I never do find out what I was covering
my butt about. Before I can decide whether he’s a letch in sheep’s clothing or the future father of my future children, he stands up. So I do too.

He kisses me on both cheeks, asks if he can drop me, and when I tell him I’m good, he actually says, “A lot better than good.” Ugh. Okay, nobody’s perfect.

When he offers to put me in a cab, I suppress the instinct to say that it’s only a couple of blocks and I can walk, for fear that he would walk me home and try to kiss me or something. Or something. So I get in the cab, go around the block, overtip out of guilt. And go to bed thinking about him.

Unfortunately, I know I won’t be able to dream about him.

I
was so distracted this morning I forgot my lunch, so I’m destined to try to digest this slimy-looking cafeteria pizza. In line to pay, I scan the tables for the one face I hope to see. No sign of him. I take my sorry-looking lunch outside. In the past week, I haven’t actually spoken to the guy. More to the point, he not only hasn’t spoken to me, I don’t believe he has ever once looked at me or acknowledged my existence. Admittedly, it seems completely unintentional on his part, as if I’m just any other kid in a world of kids to which he is simply indifferent. It’s a weakness of mine that I take this kind of thing personally. In other words, I would have preferred that he avoided me instead of forgetting that I exist. After all, hadn’t we had this titanic battle of wits? Hadn’t we proved to be two genuine literary intellects at a mediocre school?

I suppose thoughts like that are more about my insecurities and need to bolster my own self-esteem than about the worth of
our school and its student body. I’m so panicky about Columbia, worried that my straight-A credentials from our tiny pond will be laughed out of the running in comparison to my competition, which will be from the very best schools in the very biggest cities. The facts are only 9 percent of applicants get in, and 97 percent of the applicants are in the top 10 percent of their classes. Factor in that 57 percent of those admitted are Asian, African American, Latino, or Native American. And that only 7 percent are from New England. So 7 percent of 9 percent means that my chances of getting in are 0.63 percent, which is 1 out of 160. My mind can go on like this for hours. Days, really.

Just to beat this poor dead horse so that it can never come back to life, I’m not an athlete, I don’t debate, play chess, cheerlead, sing a cappella, or really do anything except volunteer at the vet’s. I just study hard and take photographs for yearbook. In short, I’m irresistible. I have literally cried myself to sleep over how vanilla and translucent I am and how achingly devoid of accomplishments that could let me stand out from the crowd.

Which is, I guess, why I feel so down about being ignored by Sparrow Boy. He did something more memorable in that offhand moment than I will do in my entire life. And I suppose that if he recognized a special connection between us, that would give me a little fairy dust. So, I’m not really upset about wanting attention from him; it’s just a crushing confirmation of my own averageness. It’s certainly not that I like anything about him. Without even trying, the guy is completely obnoxious. For example, having arguably (slightly) won our first skirmish, he retired victorious. He suddenly is quiet in class and answers only when called upon, at which point he delivers a
brilliantly polished one-liner and then steps back to leave the field to lesser beings. Unfortunately, now that includes me.

Worse, he sits in the back of the class, never anywhere near me, let alone next to me. So I can’t see what he’s up to.

Picking up my Faulkner paper from Ms. Lambert’s desk, I notice (as in, shuffle through the papers to find) his A+. Next to which, my naked A looks like a C–. So I casually stop by after school to ask Ms. Lambert what is missing in my paper to make it less than an A+ effort. Annoyingly, she tells me not to be so hard on myself, she’s only given one A+ in her life. I decide not to warn her she has spinach stuck in her tooth and ask casually, “Anyone I know?”

She gives me a look confirming that she knows that I know who the hell I’m talking about. She then volunteers that she asked James to dial it back in class. Having me speak all the time was a great thing for the class, sort of a backboard for the other students to bounce their ideas off. With James, she fears it would be a tennis match between the two of us, which would inevitably freeze the others out.

“I get the theory just fine. I only wonder why you didn’t ask me to dial it back. Or is that a request one only makes to the A+ caste?” I ask with a smile I hope doesn’t look too snide.

She looks at me for a long moment and decides to tell me the truth. After leading with, “This isn’t a criticism,” which is always English for, “Hope you can take it,” she tells me James isn’t a student who
needs
to put himself forward all the time.

I will stop talking in class. I’ll show her.

After two days, he has taken over my role. Answering every question with a fresh and insightful observation on everything from the question to some thought of his own that seemed completely
random until he draws it all together in this synthesis that I honestly feel only I can fully appreciate. And Ms. Lambert, a little. It is just as well; I wouldn’t be able to enter into the discussion anyway, because all I can think about is him.

Maybe he is the sorcerer outside my window. And his earthbound ability to render me helpless in English class is hiding some deeper, more terrifying, and worse intoxicating power that I don’t even want to think about, even though I can’t stop thinking about it for fifteen seconds.