Lucid (23 page)

He makes little pizzas with fresh buffalo mozzarella on top of English muffins topped with fried eggs. Then he sautés prosciutto with garlic and porcini mushrooms. I almost lose consciousness it is so delicious.

As we are eating, I get a text from Thomas. He hopes I’m okay and apologizes again for last night, as if he did something wrong, which he didn’t. It is pretty sweet. I immediately get a second text (thereby separating business from business) apologizing for the late notice (forty-five minutes), but I need to get my scrawny butt down to a rehearsal stage because some actress they were flying in from LA missed her flight and Thomas has persuaded Macauley to give me a shot at a scene with Ryan O’Donnell, who has been cast as the male lead in
Innuendo
.

I just stare at the screen, having a total brain melt. But when I tell Andrew what’s up, he swings into action. Pulls me out of the chair, throws me toward the bathroom, telling me Carmen left makeup in there. He irons my shirt. Seriously. He even pulls a full-size ironing board from the depths of his closet.

We jump into the GEM. “You realize, of course, I’m wearing my walk of shame clothes, and Thomas will see them. And it will be over between us.”

“Okay. What exactly will be over between you? The not-having-a-relationship part? Or did he send you a text that made you fall in love?”

I have to smile. “Well, his text was pretty sweet.”

“Concentrate. How well do you know this scene?”

“That’s hard to answer. Since I have absolutely no idea what scene they want.”

“Excellent,” he says. “They will know this, and it will be easier for you to exceed their expectations.”

He weaves through traffic at what seems like three hundred miles an hour (the GEM tops out at a maniacal thirty-five), defying all traffic rules, and occasionally gravity.

“Just one question,” I say. “Is there anything I could say that you would interpret as bad news?”

“Absolutely not. Positive! Energy up! Confidence, confidence, confidence. You are going to absolutely blow this guy away; he’s gonna can Blake Lively and you’ll get the first lead.”

He drops me off at the place, and I tell him there is no way I can do this without him. He is clearly delighted. As we sprint through the lobby, he is inspired. “We’ll tell them I’m your dialect coach from a workshop at NYU!”

“Brilliant!” I exclaim.

Thomas isn’t buying it. He looks at Andrew (who despite being very tall does not look older than his nineteen years) and my clothes from the night before and draws a logical conclusion. At first, I think this means he’ll never speak to me again, after burying me with Macauley behind my back. But it eventually becomes evident that this has only fired up his competitive instincts; he’s certain that he can mop the floor with this nobody. I leave them to compare whose bicep is bigger.

The PA hustles me into a makeshift wardrobe room and puts me into a nightgown, which is basically see-through. I feel a little weird about it, but I want this role so much that I try not to care. She insists I take off my bra and offers Nippies (which are every bit as repulsive as they sound). Then we argue over my underwear. The best she offers is a nude-colored thong, because if my butt isn’t bare, they won’t even do the scene. I steady myself and tell her to ask the director to come in so that I can discuss this with him. She gives me a look that means I’m not only risking her job, but that she will personally make it her life’s work to ruin me.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll go ask him myself.”

The PA disappears. Macauley knocks on the door. When he comes in, he apologizes for Cheryl’s behavior, tells me that of course I can wear my underpants, and asks if I’m comfortable without my bra. I lie and say that I am. I would not be truly comfortable with this even if I didn’t personally know two of the guys watching the audition. More than the embarrassment that Thomas was fondling my bra strap last night, I’m so sorry that I invited Andrew to this rodeo.

Macauley then goes over the sides with me. It is a scene I know well, and it is pretty sexy. I have to hug the outrageously gorgeous Ryan from behind, nuzzle his ear, and sort of use my body to convince him to do what Robin wants him to do. He will then turn, kiss me, I will get incredibly turned on, he will tell me how beautiful I am, bury his hands in my hair, and that’s it. Nothing terribly intrusive, except for the way I’m not dressed.

I tell Macauley that I understand why he chose this scene. The dialogue reveals the complexity of Robin’s apparent desire being only a cover for her taking revenge on Blake Lively’s character, but in a subtle enough way that the viewer will only realize this in retrospect.

Macauley nods like he appreciates I actually have a brain, but we are really all here to judge my ass. He is honest enough to say that the wardrobe choice is because he needs to see if we are physically right together on camera. Which means, can I play hot enough for the role. Which also means that I will have to really work it.

Quite an experience. Naked, in the arms of a godlike beautiful twenty-five-year-old man with a twelve-pack, while my once-and-possibly-future
boyfriend watches alongside my platonic-friend-you-could-cut-the-sexual-tension-with-a-knife.

I have to get into Robin’s sexuality, which is hard for me because I need to make it just manipulative enough to show a hint of hidden agenda while being totally hot on the surface. And, let’s face it, I’m still fumbling through my own sexuality. Someone might ask if it’s a turn-on to have Ryan’s hands on my body. Sure. But at the same time, I don’t have to think about where this is going or what is going to happen between us, so my mind is on my performance while my hormones are on autopilot.

Thomas thinks I’m wonderful, and very sexy. And tells me that was the biggest question to be answered in Macauley’s mind. When we are alone back in wardrobe, Thomas asks if we are okay. I tell him, of course, and that all the apologies were on my end. He kisses me very sweetly and tells me we can take it as slow as I need to.

Then he gives me the grand inquisition about who is Andrew, how long has he been my dialect coach, what are his credentials, why have I never mentioned him, and why am I in last night’s clothes.

I lie. Like a Persian rug.

Andrew is a friend of the family, who used me once for a student film, where he coached me on my Inuit accent. We became friends, and he needs me to see him through his breakup with a Latin bombshell. As to the clothes, I point out to Thomas that he gave me thirteen seconds notice, and I made the snap decision that last night’s clothes were the best outfit to present myself to Macauley, all things considered. And by the way, what the hell is he implying? That I slept with Andrew last night?

He laughs and answers my lies with one of his own. That’s the last thing on his mind.

This settled, he leaves my dressing room, Macauley enters, gives me an enthusiastic hug, and tells me I was nothing short of perfect. He thanks me for coming in and tells me that the role is now between me and the girl from LA, whom he still will have to read because he committed to her agent. I can’t believe it. I feel giddy. And so grateful to Thomas for making this happen.

As Andrew and I are leaving, a male voice calls my name. I turn to see Ryan hurrying toward me in a shirt unbuttoned down to his pants. He looks too good to eat. An innocent smile lights his face as he takes both of my hands in his.

“Mags, you were magical. Where have you been? I mean did you feel it too?” He stares deep in my eyes.

“The gentleman asked you a question,” says Andrew in a pleasant and neutral voice.

So gazing into Ryan’s eyes with the required “I would do you right here on the floor” look, I say, “My God, I so did. All I’ve been wondering was whether you felt it too.”

“How could you doubt it? I’ve been talking to Macauley and telling him that you can’t waste chemistry like this. The show deserves it.”

“Well.” I smile. “Anything for the show.”

“Mags. I want you. To work with me.”

Andrew and I skip downstairs.

Doing a reasonable imitation of Ryan’s voice, Andrew waggles his eyebrows: “Mags. I want you. To have sex with me. So that you’ll think I’m getting Macauley to give you a role, but I’m also having sex with five other actresses, promising them the same thing.”

“Hey. At least I’d get to have sex with him.”

That stops him cold. It also reveals that he is utterly and overwhelmingly jealous. I love, love, love that.

He has schoolwork and a life to deal with. I promised Jade that she could pick a matinee, so of course she picks the debut feature of some chick from the Disney Channel who has yet to become a star, develop any discernible talent, or go to rehab. Although the film sucks and is completely cringe worthy, Jade loves it. To the point where she nearly loses my respect. She does bust me on humming along to one of the power ballads.

Afterward, she asks if we can have dinner with Andrew. I say, “Andrew who?”

“I made him cinnamon buns to thank him for my skates. I was only the fourth-worst skater at the party, so I fit right in.”

So she texts him, he comes over and makes bucatini for us, and we have Pillsbury cinnamon buns for dessert. Nicole has a date with a bald guy in a turtleneck (don’t even ask). Jade and Andrew have a dance-off with Wii Just Dance! He wins to a raucous rendition of Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary.” She asks if he’ll put her to bed, and once she’s asleep, I make tea and we plop on the couch.

He takes a
New Yorker
from the coffee table and flips pages so he can look casual when he asks, “You wouldn’t really date that guy, would you?”

I laugh. “Depends on my alternatives. Which brings us to, what’d you think of Thomas?”

“Let’s change the subject.”

“Let’s not.”

“I think he’s boring, I think there’s a lot less there than meets
the eye, and I think his manicure cost more than his hair goop, his eyebrows have been tweezed within an inch of their life. He’s shallow and high maintenance. That was my first impression. The longer we spoke, the less I liked him.”

“Then I guess we’re back to Ryan. I mean I don’t have other alternatives. At least not that I know of.”

“Well, we don’t want to disrespect Sloane’s new boyfriend, do we? What’s his name?”

“His name is James Waters.”

“Who do you think James would prefer if he had the choice? Sloane or you?”

So I actually think about that. “Maybe me.”

“Fascinating! I’m sorry, I know I promised not to bug you about this, but it is the single coolest thing I’ve ever heard of. Has James kissed you, I mean her, yet?”

“Yes.”

“Yes which? You or her?”

“Her, of course. He hasn’t met me, yet.”

“So how are you and Sloane different, besides the blond and the boobs?”

“Um, would it be okay if that’s enough about Sloane for tonight?”

“Sure. Sorry.”

Then I make the mistake of offering, “Don’t pout. You can ask one more question.”

And straight back like a shot, “Who would I like better?”

I pause and pretend to be thinking it over, but really I’m digesting my annoyance at the question.

“I’ll have to think about that,” I say.

And I’m overwhelmed with a desire to have him leave. I can’t say that, of course, and he stays for a few hours while we watch TiVo’d
Dancing with the Stars
, which he gets really into. I am totally shut down. Can barely engage in his game of creating wild-ass backstories for the professional dancers who work with the celebrities. The worst part is he doesn’t even seem to notice.

During the third show, I pretend to fall asleep. He shakes me gently, and I open one sleepy eye; he says good night and lets himself out.

My eyes open. And stare into distance at the truth I now know.

I am in love with Andrew. And have been from the first moment.

I
wake up and look out my window. There’s my tree. She doesn’t look different, but not a single molecule of my tree or my body or the world feels the same any longer. I’ve looked up
schizophrenia
online, and I think this is it. I know on the one hand that last night actually happened. Burned into my memory is every microsecond of his face, the fear in his eyes that I didn’t want him, the sound of his voice so hopeful; it is absolutely true. And yet, it is of course completely impossible. I mean, I own a mirror. And that’s just the outside of me. Obviously, he is making assumptions about the inside of me, matching some dream girl to the little glimpses that he’s had. He doesn’t know me yet. And I’m sure that when he does, he will be deeply disappointed. But for today, for this morning, James has chosen me. Unless of course he changed his mind overnight.

I turn on my phone. Maybe he’s left a message like they do in
those cheesy romantic comedies, where he says, “I’m halfway home and I miss you already.”

There is a message. And it’s much better. He’s going to pick me up at eight thirty and take me away to places of his choosing until my curfew. He says he might be tired because he kissed a girl last night and it kept him awake for hours.

I text back:
Yes! Yes! Hell, yes!

And there’s a knock on my door. My dad comes in all smiling and happy. First, he thanks me for how much I took our little heart-to-heart to heart. I don’t even know what he’s talking about until I realize my mom must be really happy about me not ripping her head off anymore.

Then he offers to drive me to my SAT prep course for which I paid $200 (my vet salary for like four weeks), which starts in one hour and fifteen minutes and which (along with everything else in the world) I have totally forgotten.

Okay, time to lie. Course was postponed, nope. He might call and check. I promised Kelly that I’d take her to have both her legs amputated, nope, too much. To buy her prom dress? Nope, too little. There is only one option that seems realistic.

“Daddy there’s something else I want to do today. There’s a boy.”

The smile on his face doesn’t change, but I feel his body straighten.

“And I really like him. And he likes me. And I want to spend the day with him. And it won’t hurt me on the SAT, I’ve studied a zillion hours already, so the whole thing is overkill.”