When she is finished ranting, he offers his condolences. “Be the bigger person,” he says. “Show them what a pro you are.”
She sniffs and says, “I am a pro.”
“I know.” He nods encouragingly but then glances at his watch. “Sorry, ladies. But I have a marketing meeting to get to.”
“I have to go, too,” Angela says. “But thank you, Mr. Standish. Thank you very, very much. For your perspective.”
“Peter,” he says with a condescending smile that, based on her sensual stare in return, she reads as something else.
“Thank you, Peter … You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Super,” he says. “We’ll be in touch, okay?”
She smiles, shaking her chopped hair from her face and offering a final, coy, “I look forward to that.”
When the door is closed behind her, I roll my eyes and say, “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, it’s believable,” Peter says. “She’s a nutball, delusional actress. They all are. And what’s with the Pippi Longstocking look? What happened there?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get into that.”
He shakes his head and says, “She’ll calm down.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” I ask. “Do we meet her demands and fire Carrie?”
“Are you serious?” Peter asks, aghast. “You want to lose clout with everyone on your show? Including the other writers, actors, and crew?”
“I know, I know,” I say, wondering whether I’ve already lost all clout with him. “I was just asking.”
“Hell, no. Let’s just keep our eye on her. Closely monitor the situation. It could work to our advantage. Let’s be sure to fill in Anita in publicity so we can be ready to spin this thing. Also, call her agent at CAA and get them to rein her in before she goes rogue with this story.”
“Yeah. My girl Jennifer Peros at Us Weekly just e-mailed,” I say, glancing in my in-box.
He shakes his head and cracks his knuckles. “What a complete train wreck.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It sure is.”
Peter gazes at me across my desk. “I miss you,” he says. “But maybe this is for the best. A little time apart.”
I nod and pretend to agree with him when all I want to do is go give him a huge hug and bury my face in his neck.
“We both have a lot to straighten out,” he continues. “In our heads.”
I want to ask him what he has to straighten out, exactly. His feelings for me, my past, or our future? But I’m afraid of the answer I might get. I’m afraid to hear him say they are all inextricably, impossibly linked. Or, that he might just try to humor me as much as he just humored the star of my show.
* * *
When I get home that night, I find a package waiting for me. It is from Kirby, her St. Louis address written neatly in the upper left corner. I can’t imagine what could be inside, but my heart sinks as I slice it open, and see that it is filled with all the clothes I bought her, the tags still on. The wedges, too, are unworn, tucked neatly into the sturdy navy Prada box. I find the note last, written in cursive so tiny that I need to get out my reading glasses.
Dear Marian,
Thank you again for letting me stay at your place when I came to New York and for buying my plane ticket home. That was very nice of you. It was also nice of you to take me to your work. I enjoyed it and look forward to watching your show this season. (Especially Shaba. Ha.) As you can see, I’m sending back the clothes you bought for me. I really appreciate it and everything, but don’t feel right about keeping them. They are just too expensive of a gift, and besides, they aren’t really me anyway. I hope you understand. Thanks again for everything.
Sincerely,
Kirby K. Rose
I read it again, as it registers that there is no mention of Conrad. No mention of being glad to have met me. No indication that we are anything more than acquaintances. I fold it and put it in the top drawer in my closet, along with the picture of Conrad, realizing that this is all I have of hers. My heart fills with shame that I know so little about her. That I never took a single photo of her while she was here. That I actually thought it was a good idea to buy her gifts like these—even before I told her the truth. That Peter is right—secrets and lies are really the same thing, and so in many ways, my life has just been one big, giant lie.
Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up the phone and call her, actually hoping that she will answer. She does, sounding surprised, which only affirms my guilt.
“Hi, Kirby,” I say. “It’s Marian.”
“I know,” she says. “Hi.”
“I got your box,” I say.
“Yeah. I hope you didn’t think that was rude. I really appreciate it and all … I just…”
I shake my head, on the verge of tears. “Kirby. No. I get it. And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?” she says, but I can tell it’s more of a test than a question.
“For taking you shopping like that. When we had so many more important things to do. To talk about. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. I was just … trying to find my comfort zone,” I say, wondering what it says about me that Barneys is my comfort zone. “It was a really bad idea.”
“Yeah,” she says—and I can tell I just said the right thing. Finally.
“I was just so … terrified,” I confess.
“I know,” she says. “I was, too.”
“I still am,” I say as I’m hit with a wave of relief that I’ve not only told her the truth about what happened—but I’ve also told her the truth about how I feel. In some ways, it is an even bigger step. In some ways, it feels like our first truly honest moment.
We are both silent for a few seconds and then she clears her throat and says, “So … where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I hope we can figure it out together.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Me, too.”
17
kirby
“So. Confession,” Belinda trills as she fixes her bangs and lipstick in the rearview mirror. We’ve just pulled into the parking lot at the Tivoli, my favorite theater in town. “Don’t hate me.”
I raise my eyebrows as she continues her grooming, spritzing perfume in the crook of her arm and on the back of her neck. “Want some?” she says, holding up her small bottle of Vera Wang Glam Princess that she keeps in the car. She has one in her locker, and one in her room, as well.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m good … What’s up, Bel?”
“We-ell. I kinda sorta invited Jake and Philip to join us. And there they are!” she squeals, pointing excitedly toward two boys just getting out of their car.
“Oh. No. You didn’t,” I say, realizing now why she insisted on doing my makeup and tried, unsuccessfully, to talk me into wearing one of her low-cut sundresses.
“Come on! Look at them, Kirby. They’re hot! Total lacrosse bods!”
I narrow my eyes and take a closer look. Only one of them looks like a jock with his broad shoulders and cocky walk. The other is shorter, skinny, and Asian. But regardless of their type, I don’t want to talk to either of them. I fold my arms, shake my head, and tell her to take me home.
Belinda gives me a fierce look, jabs her finger into my shoulder, and says, “Get out of the car, Kirby. Now. You’re going on this date whether you like it or not.”
I sit motionless for at least thirty seconds as the guys disappear toward the theater entrance, making her sweat, then whine, then beg. I glare at her, slam my way out of the car and trail behind her, mumbling that she is going to be sorry, and that I can promise her that the night is going to be a complete disaster.
“Please have an open mind and a positive attitude,” she chirps, checking her reflection in her compact mirror, one final time, before we reach the ticket booth.
“Ja-aake!” Belinda calls out as he and his sidekick turn toward us. She waltzes over to him, then stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek.
I gotta hand it to her—it’s a pretty strong move. But still.
“Hey, Belinda,” he says as I give him a once-over. He is tall, muscled, blond, and good-looking in a way that nobody can miss. It seems pretty clear that he knows it, too, as he is wearing a very fitted T-shirt, along with a CHAMINADE LACROSSE cap and Ray-Bans, the mirrored lenses making me trust him even less than I already did.
Sure enough, when he finally removes the glasses after a purposeful boob-brushing hug from Belinda, I catch a fleeting cocky look that she often elicits from boys she’s teased, then satisfied. The “I’ve just been blown in the Taco Bell parking lot” look that Richie Hayworth flashed me last summer after the two finally emerged from the backseat of his mom’s Audi. I suddenly don’t believe that this is the first time Belinda’s seen him since the mall—it also isn’t the first time that Belinda has told me a white lie about the boys she’s “dated.” It’s weird. Sometimes I have the feeling she is exaggerating her sexual prowess, the next minute I think she’s hiding something from me. Which leads me to believe that she isn’t quite sure whether to be proud or ashamed of her escapades.
At least this Jake does have some manners, though, which is an upgrade from most of the others, as he promptly introduces me to his friend, shockingly remembering my name with no help from Belinda.
Philip nods and flashes me a knowing smile. I have the sudden sense that he’s mocking the whole arrangement and that he, too, was dragged out tonight, but is more annoyed than pissed. In that second, I decide that he is actually pretty cute with his toast-colored skin and longish, shiny black hair.
“I hear you don’t like blood or guts in your movies,” he says with another wry smile.
“Yeah. Gratuitous violence doesn’t do it for me,” I say, catching the slight attitude still in my voice.
“Well, I vetoed gratuitous sex,” Philip says, turning to look at the now canoodling Jake and Belinda. “But I guess they didn’t get that memo.”
I bust out laughing, and decide to give him a chance, or at least give the night a chance. We fall behind Jake and Belinda, the four of us sauntering inside. After our tickets are inspected and torn in half, Belinda takes the stubs from Jake and wedges them into the back pocket of her tight, white jeans. She glances over her shoulder and winks as if to say, “We’re one prom date away from these things becoming mementos.”
“So what are we seeing?” Belinda asks, turning to look at Philip.
“A Brazilian film,” he replies.
“Hope you ladies took Spanish!” Jake bellows.
“Dude. Portuguese,” Philip says. “And it has subtitles, moron.”
I smile, scoring another one for Philip.
Belinda makes a face. “Subtitles?”
Jake shakes his head, turns and slaps Philip on the shoulder so hard that he takes a stutter step to keep his balance, then says to me, “Yo, Kirby. My boy’s trying to look smart and impress you.”
“I am smart,” Philip retorts, grinning. “I’m tryin’ to make you look smart. But you’re sort of fuckin’ that up, aren’t you?”
“Whatever, dude,” Jake says. “Anyone want popcorn?”
I tell him no, thanks, but Belinda says she’d love some, which I know she only wants so she can get the touchy-feely stuff started early. I know all her tricks. As she and Jake get in line at the concession stand, Philip gives me another pointed look, then smiles and says, “You sure you don’t want anything?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, though.” I search for something else to say, landing on, “So did they trick you into coming, too?”
He laughs and says, “No, I guess I was sort of in on it. Jake showed me your picture … So I was game.”
I feel myself blush, actually believing the compliment as it sounds too matter-of-fact to be a line.
“But I’m sorry if you’re not here by choice,” he says.
“No. I didn’t mean that,” I say, remembering something Belinda once read to me from her magazine—“boys have feelings, too.”
“So what year are you?” I ask, fumbling to make acceptable date small talk.
“A senior. You are, too, right?”
I nod as he asks the next unavoidable question about college and where I’m going.
“I haven’t decided,” I say.
He laughs. “You’re cuttin’ it kind of close, aren’t you? What are your choices?”
“Mizzou,” I say. “Or nothing. I think I’m going with nothing.”
Rather than instantly dismissing me as a life loser, he surveys me with curiosity. “Why’s that?”
I shrug and say, “I don’t know. The idea of going to college with half my high school doesn’t seem that appealing.”
“I feel you on that,” he says, and then asks why I didn’t apply anywhere out of state.
“Money,” I answer truthfully. “My parents can’t afford it. And I’m not exactly in the running for a scholarship of any kind.”
He nods without judging and I ask where he’s going. “Ivy League?”
“I’m only half Korean,” he says with a laugh. “My math scores were shit. And I don’t play the cello or chess.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I say sheepishly, realizing that I probably was stereotyping a little, although it honestly had more to do with the fact that he goes to Chaminade and picks foreign films.
“Just kidding,” he says, giving me a look that says he is not at all offended. “I’m going to Colorado.”
“Cool,” I say.
“Yeah. I’m from Denver originally. We moved here six years ago when my dad got transferred. He’s an engineer for Boeing.”
“So you like it better out there?”
“Yeah. It’s awesome. I love the water and mountains and just being outdoors.”
“What about this summer?” I say, wondering if he’s found a job or if he’s one of those spoiled Clayton boys who spends his summer lounging at the country club or partying at his parents’ fancy house at the Lake of the Ozarks.
“I’m going to Alaska,” he says as his face lights up even more. “I got an internship working as a student field assistant for UNAVCO. At the Plate Boundary Observatory.”
I ask him what that is and he tells me it’s an organization that installs GPS stations to track the deformation of the Pacific and North American plate boundary.
“Cool,” I say, too confused by his answer to ask any follow-up questions.
“Yeah. I’m super stoked. My buddy did it last year and said it’s pretty intense labor. They use power tools, ride around in helicopters, and haul around heavy-ass gear.” He flexes a nonexistent bicep and says, “Gotta get buff for the college chicks, right?”
“Why don’t you just work for a moving company? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
He laughs.
“Kidding. That sounds really amazing.”
“Yeah. Even though there’s a lot of grunt work, I also get to travel to remote parts of Alaska and learn about geology and geophysics.” He gives me a shy smile and says, “I hear it’s crazy beautiful.”
I nod, getting the feeling in my chest that I got as I walked up Fifth Avenue and around the Guggenheim and into the writers’ room. A feeling that I know so little about the world. And maybe the tiniest bit of excitement that there are real possibilities in life, too.
A second later, we are rejoined by Jake and Belinda carrying an enormous box of popcorn, a bag of strawberry Twizzlers, and Cokes so large they could drown a squirrel. To her credit, Belinda also follows the advice: Boys don’t like girls who only eat salads.
We all make our way into the mostly empty theater, Philip taking the lead up the stairs and selecting the first row on the balcony. I sit beside him, Belinda next to me, Jake on the other end. As we continue to talk about his trip to Alaska, I overhear an inane snippet of conversation from Belinda and Jake about the merits of various movie theater candy, and realize that so far, our unofficial date is off to a better start than their planned one.
“So what about you?” Philip asks. “Do you have any summer plans lined up?”
“Stuck in the Lou. Working at Schnuck’s,” I say, wishing I had something more interesting in my arsenal, then realizing that I do. “I just got back from New York City, though, and that was really fun.”
“Cool. What’d you do there?” he asks, staring at me so intently that it makes my stomach feel funny.
“I was visiting my birth mother,” I say.
“Your birth mother?”
“Yeah. I’m adopted,” I say, aware that I’m using her to make myself sound more interesting.
“Oh. Right on,” he says, nodding and smiling.
“Yeah. I just found her. I called the agency. Got her address and went to New York City. Manhattan,” I say. I feel a tiny bit hypocritical bragging about my glamorous birth mother after I returned the glamorous clothes she bought me with something of a chip on my shoulder. But still. The fact remains she is my birth mother. And I did find her on my own. And that part, alone, does make me pretty damn cool.
Sure enough, Philip gives me an openmouthed, frozen smile, clearly impressed. It is the way Mr. Tully looked at me, but it is different coming from someone my own age, in a darkened theater on a date, real, pretend, blind, or otherwise. “That’s wild,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s a television producer.”
Belinda, eavesdropping on our conversation, leans over me, spilling popcorn onto my lap. “Her mom’s totally famous,” she informs Philip. “You know the show South Second Street?”
Philip nods. “I’ve heard of it.”
“That’s her mom’s show!” Belinda shouts. I feel a wave of affection for Belinda’s unwavering loyalty and enthusiasm. And maybe even for making me come tonight.
A moment later, when the lights are further dimmed, the commercials end and the real previews begin, Philip pulls a pair of dark-rimmed glasses out of his front pocket. “I can’t see for shit,” he says, putting them on and giving me a sideways smile. I decide he looks good in them.
“So?” he whispers. “How do you think it’s going so far?”