by Leah Konen
It was strange, as her best friend, to watch her. She didn’t sound anything like herself, truly. It was almost like she opened her mouth and another person came out. One who was sad, scared even, but witty and cheeky all the same. But the weirdest part was, she didn’t sound like she was acting at all. She was a natural. Her delivery was seamless. Beautiful. When she finished, there was a collective pause, as if we were all waiting to see if she had anything more to give us that day.
She didn’t even say thank you, just walked off the stage, back along the aisle, and plunked down next to me. “How did I do?”
I could barely get a syllable out—how in the world could you describe perfection?—before they called my name. “Olivia Knight!”
I jumped up, climbing the steps quickly, and stood in the middle.
But the lights were so bright, Ms. Sinclair’s eyes too piercing. Everything looked different from up on the stage. And I couldn’t get Katie’s performance out of my head. It was blindsiding. She was so natural, so easy and cool, without even trying. Flashing to all my practices, my whole interpretation suddenly seemed overwrought.
“You can go ahead,” Ms. Sinclair said.
I cleared my throat. “Oh, I do feel so—”
I froze. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember. I do feel so what? I wanted to fill in the blanks with other words: “scared,” “embarrassed,” “ashamed.”
I took a deep breath. “Oh, I do feel so . . .”
It wouldn’t come. I didn’t even have the damn thing printed out, didn’t have something to check.
“Take your time,” Ms. Sinclair said. “No rush.”
I nodded, tears welling my eyes, then spit out the words. “Oh, I do feel so thin I barely cast a shadow . . .” This time it came, though it was garbled. I flubbed lines left and right, skipping around. When I was done, I scurried off the stage as fast as my legs would carry me. It was only back in my seat that the hot salty tears kissed my cheeks.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Katie said. “Really. You got through it in the end.”
We both knew she was wrong.
I hoped that maybe Ms. Sinclair would throw me a bone, give me Vampire Number Six or something, but I didn’t even get that.
Katie was cast as Lucy. Of course she was cast as Lucy.
I was given the position of stagehand.
The rest is history. Katie killed it in the production, while I moved the props around, setting a chair just right so she could properly deliver her lines. Afterward, she dove head first into the world of acting, while I realized that if I wanted to channel my movie love into something, it had to be in a different way. I’d always been a big reader—writing felt natural. I began to research screenwriters, to watch even more horror, to think about film school, to jot down script ideas, write my own scary short stories.
Still, there was always that feeling—of failure, of loss, most of all, of having the rug yanked from under me.
I’d thought I’d had Dracula in the bag. I’d tried so hard, I’d practiced so much, but when push came to shove, I’d made a fool of myself.
It’s hard to get the guts to trust myself again.
What Would Meryl Do: Part Two
The movie is better than I remembered, and come eleven, Katie and I are hugging each other goodbye while Alice calls me a Lyft.
As I walk up my driveway, I can see that most of the lights in the house are dark, but when I get inside, I notice a light on in the basement, hear the din of TV. Chrissy and my mom can agree on one thing—their love of I Love Lucy. It’s one they’ve imparted on me, one that’s kept all of us up many a night. I head for the stairs, eager to join them and forget everything that happened at dinner. But as I reach the first step, I hear talking, louder than anything on the TV.
“You should never have questioned me like that,” my mom says. If it weren’t for her tone, I would hardly be able to tell it was her. She and Chrissy have almost the same voice, but Chrissy doesn’t talk like that, all judge-y and uptight.
“I’m sorry,” Chrissy says. “I was only saying . . . You’re obviously trying to push her, but is this really the right way? Signing her up for something she’s legitimately scared of? What if Mom had made you, I don’t know, work at a spider exhibit?”
They’re talking about me.
“Can you not be completely ridiculous for one second?” my mom says.
“I’m just saying,” Chrissy goes on. “Our parents let us find our own way. They didn’t force it.”
“Well, maybe if they had forced it, you wouldn’t be pushing forty-five and still stumbling home from bars at three a.m.”
“Jesus, Cam,” Chrissy says. “That’s totally uncalled for. It’s my life, okay?”
“I’m just pointing out that you’re still living the life you were twenty years ago. I’m not.”
“Yeah, I know you’re not, Cam. Neither am I, actually. All I care about is what’s best for Olivia. That’s all I was saying.”
“Yes, and by saying it, you’ve completely made me the bad guy,” my mom says.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Besides, what’s best for her is to get out of the damn house. She’s been wasting away in front of the TV and internet all year. I don’t want her to do the same thing but with mountains in the background. She needs this, and if you were her mom, you’d know that. But you’re not, okay?”
“You don’t have to be so cruel about it,” Chrissy says.
“If you wanted your own kids,” my mom says, “you should have had your own. Don’t try to parent mine.”
Silence. And then a shuffle of steps.
Quickly, I turn around, rush to the front door, pull it open and shut—loudly—as if I’ve only just walked in.
“Olivia,” my mom says. Her lips are pressed tightly together, but in her eyes, there’s a sheen of moisture, like she’s about to cry if she doesn’t hold it together properly. She forces a smile. “How’s Katie?”
“What are you doing up?” I ask.
“Chrissy and I were just watching I Love Lucy,” she says. “She’s got to work early, though. She’s about to leave.”
Chrissy comes up the stairs next, her lips pressed together just like my mother’s. But she smiles when she sees me. “How was your movie?”
“Good,” I say quickly, feeling my face go hot at all I’ve just heard. “I’m tired, though. I’m going to bed.” I dash up the stairs before either of them can say anything else.
Back in my room, I shut the door tight and get on my laptop.
I can’t get my mom’s words out of my head.
She’s been wasting away all year.
That’s what she thinks of me. My own mother, who is supposed to, you know, love me unconditionally and all that. She thinks I’m a total loser.
An awful thought strikes me. Is she right?
I grab my phone and open Reddit. I should write to Elm, apologize for getting off so suddenly earlier.
I create a new message, unsure quite what to say. Everything I can think of sounds just awful.
Sorry for not sending you a photo . . .
I was preparing to stuff my face with Italian food in a sad attempt to avoid the mess I’ve gotten myself in.
My best friend has decided that this is my Death Becomes Her moment, and honestly, she’s kind of right, except I’ve already had one of those and that was embarrassing enough.
My mom thinks I’m wasting away, and my self-esteem admittedly ain’t the greatest right now!
A chat pops up, blinking at me.
ElmStreetNightmare84: Hey stranger, still waiting on that photo ;)
ElmStreetNightmare84: Unless you are sixty-five, which is cool and all, just, uhh, lemme know, OK?
ElmStreetNightmare84: Also, with no photo to go on, it’s like I’m trapped in a room with a two-way mirror . . . you can see me but I can’t see you! AND THE POLICE COULD GET ME AT ANY MOMENT
He’s right. No photos would be one thing, but since he’s gon
e ahead and sent his with the promise of mine in return, our whole balance will be off if I don’t immediately send one over.
Katie’s words pop into my head. What Would Meryl Do? She’d probably just send the damn photo and not give it another thought.
Only Meryl, like Katie, is blond and beautiful. With easy popularity and natural confidence. The type to deliver a Dracula monologue flawlessly. If I were Meryl, or Katie, this whole thing would be a hell of a lot easier.
A text appears. From Katie. Miss you already. It comes with a photo of her smiling—half silly, half cute. Katie knows how to take a proper selfie. She knows how to not fail at summer before it’s even started.
Alice would never say about Katie what my mom said about me.
Heart racing, fingers tingling with nerves, I make a snap decision, because What Would Meryl Do only works if you’re someone like Meryl.
I go back to the Reddit app, and before I can stop myself, I load Katie’s photo into the chat with Elm and hit Send.
He writes back immediately.
ElmStreetNightmare84: Well hello there, Carrie, nice to meet your photo! Glad to see you are indeed not sixty-five!
CarriesRevenge01: Indeed I am not! Got to go to bed now. Talk tomorrow!
I close the app, already partially regretting what I’ve done.
I know it’s wrong, I know I shouldn’t have, but just for a moment, it was nice to pretend I was as beautiful and pulled together and self-assured as Katie.
It was nice to pretend I wasn’t wasting away.
I half want to message him again, tell him it was a lie, but it would sound ridiculous at this point. Embarrassing.
Besides, it’s only a silly little online friendship. He’ll never find out, and Katie won’t, either.
It’s not like we’re ever going to meet in real life.
The Bad Decision Handbook
You could definitely set a horror movie here, that’s for sure.
I gaze out the window of my room, just after eleven a.m., the third morning of my Catskills summer, and all I can see is trees and the light trickle of the stream that borders our property. The cottage is small—only two bedrooms plus the attic—one you reach by a drive that winds in the shape of a snake. It’s got green slats on the outside and all sorts of wood on the inside, uneven planks on the floor, rough-hewn beams on the ceilings. Last summer, I did my best to make this room mine, adding horror movie posters, knickknacks I picked up in town, and two coats of purple paint, which came out darker than I intended and only served to up the creep factor, which I secretly kind of love, despite my mom’s attempts to get me to brighten it up with a lighter accent wall.
If the horror movie were actually set here, a group of friends would arrive for vacation, or a reunion, or a weekend far away from their parents if they’re teens—or their regular lives if they’re in their thirties—or what have you. Only, and here’s the kicker, there would be a deranged killer, either lurking in the woods (Friday the 13th), or maybe even inside, among the people who’ve gathered here (The Invitation). Or maybe there’s not a human killer, maybe there’s a body snatcher deep in the forest, just waiting to take over one of the cabin’s inhabitants (Honeymoon), or perhaps there are flesh-possessing demons, gearing up for their rise from the ground (The Evil Dead). Sometimes, you’d even get them all, a mixed bag of horror movie tropes, wrapped up into one delicious package (The Cabin in the Woods).
Of course, here there are no monsters like that. Here there is only one presence casting shadows over me—the screenplay that’s still waiting to be written.
Even though I told myself I’d write every moment I could up here, yesterday and the day before didn’t exactly go as planned. I traded writing time for helping my parents get the house in order and accompanying them to antiques stores, finishing off each night with horror movies that skip endlessly, given the slow internet.
But today I’m going to change that. I have to.
Groggy but determined to get in at least one line before noon, I open up my laptop and load my screenplay. The first thing I do is cut the mess of words I practically vomited onto the screen the day I submitted my NYU application, moving them to another document. I’ll deal with that cluster later. For now, I’m starting back on the only thing that’s even remotely decent—the first page.
INTERIOR CABIN – DAY.
The cursor blinks demonically at me, a challenge.
I rest my hands on the keyboard, ready to go, but my fingers tense up.
I glance to the title of my screenplay, at the top of the page in capital letters.
THE BAD DECISION HANDBOOK
My stomach feels weighty as a brick and my eyes beg me to return to sleeping. The idea is there, in my head—a satirical horror, playing off all the bad decisions characters typically make in horror movies—but actually writing it, that’s a different story. The longest cohesive thing I’ve ever written is an essay on Emily Brontë. It was eight pages, double spaced, and filled halfway up with Heathcliff quotes. Right now, walking out to the backyard, digging my own grave, and carving up a headstone that says SHE WANTED TO BE A WRITER, ONE DAY seems easier than typing even a single word into this damn document.
I should be able to do this, do what every other writer in history has done and use my time “away from it all” to create something worthwhile. The whole Stephen King up in Maine thing.
I stare at the cursor.
Problem is, I’m not Stephen King. The blank page makes me feel frozen, like in one of those dreams where you can’t move. Or in a horror movie, where the quaking main character knows that the killer is just around the corner but they, for whatever inane reason, stand there, stock-still, refusing to run.
Or a Dracula audition, lines erased from my brain.
I slam my laptop shut, push it aside, and get out of bed.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” my dad says as I walk into the kitchen, looking up from his iPad. He and my mom are sitting at the round walnut table, drinking coffee and taking in the view of the mountains from the front window, like they always do. “The mountain air has got you sleeping, hasn’t it?”
The truth is, I spent half the night trying to watch a movie, but it took me almost three hours to get through it, because our janky internet kept skipping. Once I finished, of course I had to chat to Elm about it. I finally signed off sometime after three a.m.
“The air is nice,” I say, pouring coffee into my mug and adding a big splash of French vanilla creamer and three sugars. I make myself a bowl of cereal, then sit down between them, filching a piece of turkey bacon off my dad’s plate. “That said, the internet is slower than the R train. I was up half the night trying to get my movie to play.”
My mom crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. “Would you like to fix it, Miss There’s Always Something?”
I ignore her jab. “Sure,” I say, forcing a smile. I stir my cereal and take a bite. “Take me to Best Buy, and I’ll get us a Wi-Fi signal booster. I’ll go today if you’ll go with me.”
“Internet’s fine for me,” my dad says, tilting his iPad toward me. “By the way, there’s an article in today’s Times about the economics of independent cinema. You might want to check it out.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say. “I’ll give it a read.” I take another bite of cereal. “It’s just, it’s different when you’re streaming a movie than reading an article. I could barely get anything to load last night.”
My mom taps her spoon on the side of her cereal bowl, almost like she’s trying to hypnotize me, like the mom in Get Out, and come to think of it, she probably is. To somehow convince me to be the active, hike-loving, ultra-productive daughter she never had. Chrissy is always telling me how my mom was always a go-getter, even when she was young, whereas Chrissy was the one who watched too much TV and drank too much light beer. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but maybe you should spend a little less time on the internet?”
If I had a nickel for every time she’s told me
she doesn’t want to tell me what to do and then proceeded to do exactly that, I could pay Jordan Peele to write the damn screenplay for me. I take another bite of cereal. “And fill my time how? The job doesn’t start for a little bit, right?”
Writing your screenplay, you idiot.
My parents exchange a look. “Well, the thing is,” my mom says. “Marianne actually called this morning, saying she might need you sooner. I know I said it wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks, and I know you wanted to work on your screenplay, but if you’re up for it, she needs you.”
I stare at my cereal bowl. On the one hand, the thought of willingly subjecting myself to the zip-line job—and earlier than necessary, at that—seems hellish, but all the same, the last forty-eight hours have been . . . difficult. There’s been nothing to do, I can barely even get a movie going, and the silence, the emptiness and stagnation of it all, it’s weighing on me. My chats with Elm are bright spots, but though he does check in during the day, the messages are few and far between. He’s busy most days with his internship already in full swing, and it’s not until the evening that our chats kick into full gear.
Plus, if I have something to do, I don’t have to feel quite so bad that I’m not making any progress on my screenplay.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess I can start earlier. I mean, if she really needs me.”
“Perfect,” my mom says, clasping her hands together. “Marianne says you can come in for training this afternoon.”
Fresh Meat
As a reward for my “flexibility,” my parents make the twenty-minute drive down to Best Buy to get the signal booster, ensuring I’ll be able to actually watch Elm’s recs after my zip-lining shifts (oy). Afterward, we go by Target, stocking up on shorts and tees and comfy sorts of things to wear to my new place of employment.
We stop for a bite at this breakfast-all-day place in Woodstock the three of us are obsessed with, and after walking around town a bit—past galleries I won’t be interning for, the record store that my dad can’t pass without a stop, and the housewares shop where everything looks like it came out of a photo shoot about living in the mountains—it’s one thirty, time to go. My training shift starts at two.
