Project 17 (16 page)

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MIMI

AFTER OUR VISIT TO
the art therapy room, we head back to the reception room to decide our next move. The candles still glowing, we sit in a circle on the floor, waiting for Derik to change his camera battery and check out some footage. While Greta tidies up her gigantic cosmetics-case-might-as-well-be-a-suitcase (and Tony assists her), Liza sneaks Christine Belle's journal while she
thinks
I'm not looking, and Chet and I end up sharing a bag of peanut butter--filled pretzels.

"I really want to check out the J-wing," Derik says, replacing the old camera battery for a charged one. "I made up some storyboards for footage over there."

"I take it it's totally haunted?" Greta says with an eye roll.

"You got it," Derik says, scanning through some footage. I lean over to look, catching a glimpse of the exterior of this place--all the pointed roofs and steeples, wings

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that jet out on both sides like some giant flying insect, and the creepiest water tower I've ever seen. It's this tall bullet-gray tank with antennas that spout out from the top.

"And what kind of pleasures await us in the J-wing?" Greta continues. "More uplifting artwork? Or perhaps something a little bit cheerier--like shock equipment or leftover morgue supplies, maybe? Or better yet, how about some body harnesses between friends? Or another hydrotherapy tub, perhaps? Liza, are you getting all this?"

"Huh?" Liza asks, looking up from the journal.

"Ash, are you feeling okay?" Tony mumbles. He puts his hand on Greta's shoulder.

"My name is
Greta"
she snaps.

"Your name is
Ashley"
he corrects, trying to keep his voice low.

"Are you kidding?" My mouth drops open, mid-chew.

"So what?" Greta shrugs. "Maybe I was born Ashley, but lots of great actors change their names for the stage. Hence the term
stage name."

"That's so pathetic," I say.

"No it isn't." Liza looks up from the journal. "I know firsthand what it's like to want to change your name."

"You do?" Derik pauses from footage-checking to point his camera at her.

Liza nods. "My parents named me Elizabeth Blackwell.... After the first American female doctor?"

"Oh, right," I say, vaguely recalling the name,

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remembering something I might have been forced to read in history class.

"So it's sort of like a curse," Liza says. "Having a name like that. It's like my whole future was planned out before I was even born. It's like people have all these expectations of me as soon as they hear my name."

"For me it's the other way around," I say, offering her the bag of pretzels. "People look at me--at the way I dress, the color of my hair, at what I have on for jewelry--and they have expectations, too. I don't even have to tell them my name. I don't even have to open my mouth."

Liza nods, giving me the once-over.

"I mean, let's be honest," I continue. "If it wasn't for this project, there's no way we'd all be hanging out together like this."

"Why not?" Chet asks.

"Oh, please," I say. "Like any one of you would ever be caught dead hanging out with me. I mean, what did you guys even think when you first saw me?"

"Ax murderer," Chet admits, raising his hand to answer.

"Exactly." I sit back on my heels with a sigh.

"But I like ax murderers," he continues.

"I thought you were playing a role," Greta says, darkening in her mole with an eyeliner pencil. "I mean, I guess I assume that of everybody. We're all just actors in one way or another."

"What's with your voice?" Chet asks her, noticing the

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change in tone. It's been doing that all night, actually. One minute her voice is all high and whiney, and the next it's this deep and throaty rasp.

Tony laughs in response. "Greta likes to channel her inner Garbo."

"Her inner
what?"
Derik makes a face.

"Greta Garbo,"
Greta explains, rolling her eyes. "Just about the most talented, the most beautiful, the most prolific Hollywood actress who ever walked the planet."

"Never heard of her," Mimi says.

Greta lets out a sigh and begins the explanation: "Born in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1905, daughter of Anna and Karl Gustafson; started her career in silent film but then transitioned to sound; engaged once, but it fell through; starred in
Mata Hari,
not to mention
Anna Karenina, The Kiss, The Mysterious Lady--"

"Greta really digs her," Tony says, like we need the clarification.

"Hence the name change," Liza says.

"So you're a fan," I say. "Big deal. I mean, just because you really like someone's work doesn't mean you have to take their name and try and make your voice sound like theirs."

"That's just it," Tony says, surprisingly eager to dish on his mack mate. "It's not just the name and voice. It's her hair, her style, her mannerisms." He nods toward Greta's beret.

Greta grabs her mammoth-sized powder puff and tosses it at his face.

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"Oh, come on, sweet cheeks," Tony whines, unaffected by the powder in his eyes. "You know I'm your biggest fan."

"Well, get in line," she says. "Because Jimmy's a fan, too."

"Who?"

"Jimmy Zeplin," she explains. "The phone call I got in the tunnel earlier. He's been begging me to play Mrs. Warble in his off-off-Broadway show."

"You got a callback?"

"And you didn't," she bites.

"I don't know why you can't just be yourself," I say, interrupting their banter.

"Why don't
you?"
she zings me back.

"I
am
myself. I like the way I dress. I don't care what people think of me."

"Not at all?" Chet asks, his face falling slightly.

"Maybe what you like is negative attention," Greta continues before I can answer. "I mean, if I knew people were having all these preconceived ideas about me just based on how I look, I'd try my best to change it."

"Maybe what people should do is not judge others based on appearances in the first place." Tony takes a pretzel and pops it into his mouth.

I nod, noting his squeaky voice, zeroing in on his huge mass of curly brown hair, and knowing for sure that people must give him crap all the time.

"Some people have nothing better to do than judge

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others," Derik says, getting this all on film.

"And some people deserve the judgments they get." I eyeball him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He looks up from the camera.

"Derik
LaPlaya
LaPointe?" I say, feeling my eyebrows arch.

Derik looks at Liza, watching for a reaction. But instead of giving one, she looks away, avoiding eye contact. And so I can't help but wonder if she already knows.

"I'm not like that anymore," Derik says, still looking at Liza, the camera angled toward the top of her head.

"Since when?" Greta asks.

"Since he set his eye on a brainiac?" I say, unable to resist.

"Let's just say I've done some things I'm not proud of," Derik says.

"You're a legend!" Chet cheers. But then the cheer melts into a frown when he notices that nobody else is cheering along with him.

"Maybe we should talk about something else," I say.

"No." Liza closes the journal. "I want to hear it."

"In my own defense," Derik says, trying to make light of it, "except for this one time, I never misled anybody. I never did anything with a girl who didn't understand up front that I wasn't looking for anything serious."

"Except for this one time?"
Liza asks.

Derik nods. "This one girl wanted more than I was

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interested in giving. I knew that. But I hooked up with her anyway."

"Kelly Pickerel," I say. After the incident, it was pretty much broadcast news around the school, mainly because Kelly was pretty popular herself. But after it happened, she got branded a slut. I can't remember a time when I'd go into a bathroom stall at school and not see her name scribbled across the wall, labeling her a whore, a bitch, a skank.

"Wow,
she's hot," Chet blurts, ever clueless.

Derik shrugs. "I actually wanted her to be part of this thing ... so we could patch things up, move on."

"Hold up," Chet says. "You can't tell me that a reputation like yours doesn't have its benefits. I mean, girls like the notorious
bad boy;
everybody knows that."

"Some girls do," I say.

"Yeah, and some girls look at guys like me as only good for one thing--the dreaded 'friend,' someone they can tell all their problems to, the buffer before they go running to guys like Derik. I'm telling you, man," Chet says to Derik. "You've got it made."

"Then how come I feel like I'm losing out?" Derik says. "No matter what you think, it's a lot to have to live up to."

"And that girl you were talking about," Liza begins, "you led her on?"

"It's not something I'm proud of," Derik repeats. "And it's really awkward now, because I see her all the time in

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school. I know how hurt she was about it afterward. And I know how pissed she still is."

"So here's a thought," I say. "Why not
apologize?"

Derik shakes his head and then buries it in his hands, enabling Tony to nab the camera and point it at him.

"I don't know," Derik says finally.

"Pride," Tony chirps, still filming. "A guy has pride. He doesn't like to admit his mistakes."

"Yeah, but a real man does," Greta says.

"I'm sorry for laughing at your Greta Garbo ways," Tony purrs.

"I'm sorry for not telling you about my callback," she purrs back.

"Just promise that when I make it big as a director, you'll be my leading lady--like Grace Kelly was for Alfred Hitchcock ... like Uma Thurman is for Quentin Tarantino."

"Forever, sexy."

Tony returns the camera to Derik, and he and Greta end up in yet another obnoxious make-up fest.

"I probably
should
tell Kelly I'm sorry," Derik says, continuing to film.

"I'm all about fresh starts," I say.

"Speaking of fresh starts," Chet pipes up. "Does this mean you're no longer pissed at me for my little joke?"

Derik smiles, glad for the tension relief. "No," he says. "I'm no longer pissed. So long as you let me frisk you on the way out."

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"Switching teams, are we?" Chet asks. "Hate to break this to you, but I'm as straight as a pool stick. And as long as one, too."

"Oh, really?" I perk.

"I'm serious," Derik continues. "I meant it when I said that I don't want you taking anything from this place. That goes for everybody." He glances at Christine Belle's journal.

"How is it any different from what
you're
doing?" Chet asks, sucking the peanut butter filling from one of the pretzels. "Breaking in here and taking footage for your own purposes ... Don't you plan to make money off this movie? Didn't you say something about RTV and becoming the next hot Hollywood
thang?"

"Maybe it started out that way," Derik says. "But now I have my own reasons for making this movie."

"And what are they?" Liza asks.

"It's not about
me
anymore," Derik says. "It's about
them."

"Who?" I ask.

"The people who lived here. I need to tell their story."

"My grandmother lived here," I venture.

"Seriously?" Derik and Liza say in unison.

I nod, telling them how she was an alcoholic, how she was left here by my family, and then forgotten. And how she died here.

"Is that why you wanted to come tonight?" Derik asks. I nod. "I wanted to find some piece of her here."

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"Like an ear or a thumb?" Chet asks. "Maybe we should head over to the morgue?"

"Yuck." I push him. "I mean a piece of her memory-- some shred of evidence that her last years didn't suck."

"And have you?" Derik asks.

I shake my head and look away. "I mean, I knew the chances were slim, but I still wanted to try."

"How old were you when she got checked in?" Liza asks.

"I wasn't even born yet--wasn't even a thought in my parents' minds. But it happened just after my sister Micki's fourth birthday. Apparently, Micki had this Cookie Monster-themed party, and all her friends were there. After she had unwrapped all the presents, my grandmother dismissed herself to go to the bathroom and then came out without any pants or underwear on."

"Just a granny patch?" Chet asks, grimacing.

I nod. "She was so drunk that she forgot to put her clothes back on after she was done. My mother checked her in after that."

I glance back at Chet, half expecting him to make another joke, but instead his face gets all serious--his lips rolled in and his eyes focused downward.

"What's with you?" I ask.

He shakes his head, staring down at his hands.

"Then how come you look about as happy as a granny patch," I joke.

He shrugs.