by Leah Konen
I stare at the blank page, but the words won’t come. The cursor blinks at me, my very own demon. I grab my phone and tap out of the text chain and into Reddit. I start a new chat to Elm.
CarriesRevenge01: Real talk. I think I’m going to write a screenplay about a writer who can’t write to save her life . . . LITERALLY
I wait, staring at the phone, as nine thirty approaches. He writes back almost right away.
ElmStreetNightmare84: I’m pretty sure that’s already been done by Stephen King
ElmStreetNightmare84: Like multiple times over ;)
CarriesRevenge01: Great, even my jokes are unoriginal!
ElmStreetNightmare84: Aww, don’t worry. I’ve never written anything like that in my life! My two-page creative writing essay was teeth-pulling all the way. A screenplay is no joke. But hey, that’s what the program’s for, right? To help you do it?
That ache in my gut again, present as a ghost lurking in the shadows, messing with doorknobs. I hate that I’ve lied to him—not once but twice—but if I fess up and tell him I’m not at the program, he’ll want to know what I am doing. Obviously, I can’t tell him that—I’ll have to make up another excuse—because if he knows I’m in his proximity, he might want to meet; no, he’ll definitely want to meet, and then he’ll know that Carrie is Olivia.
I’m split in two, like the villain in Split, that M. Night Shyamalan movie I actually liked—only that guy was split in twenty-four. Instead, I’m Carrie, a girl who hasn’t been honest about where she is and what she’s doing. And Olivia, a girl who told Jake that she doesn’t even like horror movies. But that’s what I’ve decided. Because the other alternative—disappointing Jake—I don’t like at all. I stare at the screen. I need to say something.
He types first.
ElmStreetNightmare84: I know it’s scary, but I know you can do this.
I feel it, like I did yesterday, the warmth of his encouragement, deep in my gut.
CarriesRevenge01: Thanks, ok signing off to get back to it!
I return to my Google Doc.
I know I can do this, so long as I stop getting in my own way.
After all, yesterday, I jumped headfirst into the great unknown, just like that.
I pause, because I kind of like that line. I’m not sure where it goes, how it fits in, but I know I like it.
I hit the return key a few times, making space on the page.
And for the first time in ages, I write.
Close Encounters of the Carrie-Olivia Kind
I don’t get that far, but I write until I run out of time, getting in a good, solid page. Then I get ready, pack myself a turkey sandwich, and leave Carrie behind.
I’m Olivia now, Olivia, who is decidedly not at an NYU program. Olivia, who doesn’t even like horror movies, those lowbrow gory flicks!
The check-in office is empty when I arrive, so I clock in at the computer station, like Steinway showed me yesterday, and kneel down, tucking my things in the bottom shelf of the cabinet behind the front desk and shoving my lunch into the tiny bit of space available in the communal fridge.
“Are you Olivia?” I hear behind me. When I turn, there’s a woman, one about my mother’s age.
I stand, tugging at the hem of my shirt, which already looks wrinkled—I shouldn’t have tossed it so haphazardly on the floor when I got home yesterday. “Yes.”
She smiles wide, showing perfectly white teeth. “I’m Marianne,” she says, reaching out her hand to shake mine. Her nails are painted shiny red, her hair cut into a neat bob, and she’s wearing a seamless black dress, not the Zipline Experience T-shirt I have on. She’s nothing like I’d expect the owner of a zip-line company to look like, nothing at all. “Your mom and I were camp counselors together when we were in high school, if you can believe it. Ages ago.”
“Thanks so much for”—Hiring me? Taking pity on me?—“giving me this opportunity,” I say. “Especially so last-minute.”
She leans against the counter. “Your mom told me what happened with NYU. You know, I wanted to go there back in the day, didn’t even get in. I totally feel for you.”
I freeze. As she says it, Jake walks through the front door, smiling at both Marianne and me.
Don’t say anything more. Not another word, Impossibly Chic Marianne! Not another word!
“That school has gotten so competitive these days. And for a high school summer program. I mean, really? Shouldn’t they be happy so many people want to go into the arts? Perhaps they should widen the program if there’s so much interest.”
My mouth fixes into an awfully forced smile—I’m petrified, about to be mortified—as Jake comes around the counter, checking in, tossing his stuff into a cabinet, and grabbing a walkie.
Marianne stares at me, waiting for an answer.
I never even considered my mom would have told Marianne the truth. Steinway said everyone loves her. Marianne will probably bring it up again. Maybe she’ll even start some zip-line employee email thread this afternoon, introducing me along with my NYU-failed-application backstory.
Stop it, Olivia. Be cool. Be cool!
“I’m just happy to be here,” I say finally.
Marianne’s smile grows wider. “That’s the spirit. Don’t know what they’re missing, I’m sure!”
Jake stands up then, turning to us, interest piqued. “Who doesn’t know what he’s missing?”
Time stands still, like it’s a sports game—even though I never really watch sports, except for the Super Bowl—when everything is all slo-mo. Marianne is the offense and I’m the defense. And Jake is the ball (or something). Point is, I see her mouth open, to explain that he heard her wrong, that NYU doesn’t know what they’re missing. I can’t let her say what she’s about to say next.
“It doesn’t matter!” I exclaim, too quickly, too loudly. Jake and Marianne both turn to me, staring, and I try not to come off as a complete weirdo on day one of meeting my new manager, who (a) seems cool, and (b) is my mom’s friend. Eesh.
I tug at my collar. “I just mean, onward and upward! I don’t like to dwell on the past.”
Jake narrows his eyes but then immediately turns away. Marianne, on the other hand, nods her head appreciatively. “You have your mother’s spirit, that’s for sure. Now, I heard you did the course to get the hang of it.” I steal a grateful look at Jake, but he’s no longer looking our way. “Did Steinway give you the rundown on the check-in process?”
I nod. “She showed me everything yesterday.”
“Great,” Marianne says. “Tennyson will be at the office with you for the first couple of hours, so if you have any questions, you can ask him.”
Almost on cue, Tennyson walks in, ducking his head to get through the door without messing up his bandana, which is now tied around his head like he’s about to do some sort of hippie exercise class.
“Newbie Olivia,” he says, giving me a mock salute.
Marianne clasps her hands together. “All right, team. The nine o’ clock tour will be finishing up soon, and the noon tour will be kicking off. Jake, you’ve got what you need? Bryson and Steinway are finishing the tour now.” He nods.
“Tennyson, you’ll be here with Olivia for the first part of the shift and running the lift when Cora leaves. All good?”
“All good,” Tennyson says.
Marianne digs into a cabinet and comes out with a walkie. She hands it to me. “Just push this button to talk, this one to listen. It’s easy. And if you get tripped up, Tennyson can help you. I’ll be in my office if anyone needs anything.” She disappears into the back.
Jake, still avoiding my eyes, asks Tennyson to help him untangle a huge knot of carabiners and ropes, and I mentally run through all Steinway told me yesterday about checking people in.
When they finish up, Jake smiles wide and gives Tennyson a comically dramatic high five. He really is a nerd, I think. Just like Elm.
Tennyson starts messing around on his phone, and Jake makes his way around the counter and
toward the door. “By the way,” I say before Jake goes. “Thanks for helping me on the zip line yesterday.”
“No worries,” Jake says. He smiles, but it seems, for some reason, forced. Not like the smile he just gave Tennyson, or the smile he gave Marianne as she was explaining our roles. Or the one in the photo he sent me. It’s like the mood has changed with him, like happy helpful Jake has turned nervous, awkward.
He pauses a second, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he wants to say something else, and I look at him, confused, wondering if he’s somehow figured it all out—my whole charade—but then he turns on his heel, heading out the door.
My first full shift goes as smoothly as could be desired.
I learn from Tennyson that there are two shifts, early morning, eight to three, and late morning, eleven to six. Steinway works both because she’s training to be Marianne’s assistant manager—not of her life, of course, like Katie is to me—just of the zip-line company.
As groups file in, I hand them waivers, hook them up with the basic gear, and ring up any T-shirts they want to purchase, while checking their names against our online reservation system.
The computer’s a dinosaur, so it’s a little slow going, but no one, least of all Tennyson, seems to be in any sort of a rush. Instead, the pace is easy. When we get through one group, we move on to another, and when there are lapses, Tennyson pulls out his phone, and I do, too.
Part of me knows I shouldn’t—it feels too risky—but I can’t help it. This is the new me, after all. The one who throws caution to the wind. The one who threw my body into the wind, even if it was connected to a zip line.
CarriesRevenge01: How’s your day going?
I tuck my phone into my pocket, half afraid of what I’ve done, that some sort of alert will tell Jake I’m messaging him from halfway down the mountain. Instead, I focus on the sunshine filtering in, the cool mountain air breezing through the window, too afraid to do anything else.
At one thirty, Tennyson tells me to take my lunch.
I grab my sandwich and my water bottle and head through the hallway and outside. I wave to Steinway as I make my way past Ropeland, packed with rowdy kids in helmets and gear, to a few bales of hay on the edges of the clearing, near the second lift, the one that doesn’t run in the summer.
It’s quiet and peaceful, the mountains strong and blue, like giants standing guard, the lift floating upward toward the summit, a flock of birds V-ing across the sky . . .
And Jake, Jake walking toward me.
He takes a seat at the adjacent bale of hay. “I see you found our designated lunch spot,” he says.
“Oh?”
“Everyone comes out here. It’s the best place to get away from the people but still be outside.” He pulls out a bottle of Gatorade and two cold slices of pizza, and I stare down at my turkey sandwich, my fingers leaving indentations in the whole wheat bread, desperate for something to say.
There are so many things I could tell him. Ask him when he’s going to watch Nosferatu, which I wholeheartedly recommended last night. Tell him how I conquered my writer’s block, at least a little bit, this morning. Get details about the film collective—where he interns, when he interns, how it’s going, what his aunt is working on now. Only, these are things Carrie knows, not Olivia.
I feel that tug, the one I felt last night, to hear about my other half, to get a glimpse of myself through his eyes. It’s strange, but I swear I’m almost jealous of Carrie in this moment. “Are you tired?” I ask, remembering how late we stayed up talking, but as soon as the words are out, I know they’re all wrong.
“Huh?”
“I mean, did you get much sleep last night?” An awful pause. “Given that you’re afraid of the dark and all.”
“Oh,” Jake says, forcing a laugh that’s not remotely convincing. He shifts nervously, tugging at the hem of his shorts. “Not a ton, honestly.” He doesn’t say a word about my other half. Instead, he turns back to his stale pizza.
I glance over surreptitiously as he makes his way through the last of the slice and the hard cardboard crust. His eyes catch mine briefly. “So, uhh, what did Marianne mean this morning?”
“Huh?” I ask.
“When she said someone’s missing out.”
My heart thumps in my chest. Shit, shit, shit. What can I even say? “I thought maybe you got in a fight with your boyfriend or something.” Jake says, his eyes returning immediately to his pizza. “Or your girlfriend. Or whatever.”
“Oh,” I say, “No, I mean. I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say, my words hanging in the air. A tickle of excitement, of surprise, sparks in my belly. He wouldn’t be asking if I had a boyfriend if he didn’t actually want to know.
And he wouldn’t want to know unless . . .
“Sorry,” Jake says. “Everyone’s up in everyone’s business at this place. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You weren’t prying.”
He stands up quickly. “I better get back to it.” Then he downs the rest of his Gatorade in one gulp.
“Enjoy the rest of your shift!” I say, but it sounds all wrong, too forced, too not-me.
“You too,” Jake says. He walks off, sunlight catching the waves of his hair, the breeze making the grasses fan back and forth.
As I watch him go, I feel myself smile. Even if what just passed was decidedly awkward, he wanted to know whether I had a boyfriend. That has to mean something.
But not five minutes after he walks away, I get a message on my phone.
ElmStreetNightmare84: Not much, you? P.S. I started Nosferatu last night! Got 20 mins in before I fell asleep. Will catch up on it after my work shift is over. How are you? Did you make any progress writing?
The excitement I normally feel from getting a message from Elm is clouded. Just minutes ago, he seemed super keyed in to whether Olivia had a boyfriend, but now, it’s like all he wants to know about is Carrie’s progress.
I shake my head. It’s too damn complicated, and I’m already in so deep.
All that’s left now is to roll with it, keep on throwing caution to the wind and hope the proverbial zip line doesn’t snap.
Carrie vs. Olivia: Part Two
My new way of life is strangely . . . kind of wonderful.
In the mornings, I stumble out of my room, dazed from lack of sleep, grab a bowl of cereal, while my mom peruses the local art pages and my dad pores over the daily crossword, asking us to help him with everything from a six-letter synonym for VIP (bigwig) to a nine-letter birdman (Hitchcock, duh).
And then back in my room, munching my cereal, I write. It’s not like I’m Stephen King or anything, words pouring out of me, but guess what? I’m doing it. Turns out that thinking about writing and agonizing over it are actually more difficult than just doing the damn thing.
There’s my main character, Onyx, a badass feminist woman, the first one to realize something’s wrong. Then there’s her woodsy friend, who, the deeper I get, acts more and more like Steinway—minus the red braids, which would be way too obvious. And the male lead, a Jake type—I call him Jimmy now—who’s handy and good with an axe, who knows how to give Onyx the encouragement she needs to do what she has to do. There’s the stoner kid, tall and lanky like Tennyson, playing the role of the clown in Shakespeare, acting like an idiot the whole time but then saying, at the end of the first act, exactly what needs to be said.
It’s not like I don’t get stuck. Only when I do, I think about having to step off that cliff, how scary it was to me, but how wonderful it was once I was flying. And I remind myself that putting a few words on a page is far less scary than catapulting through the air. I’ve already had two Death Becomes Her moments now, and this is my Bridges of Madison County.
Not to mention, I have plenty of fodder. At eleven every weekday, I leave Carrie and the screenplay behind to work at Hunter Mountain, where I am Olivia, simple, easygoing Olivia, and no one even knows I’m trying to write a screenplay. Most of my shifts are easy, spe
nt checking people in. I haven’t had to help out at Ropeland, either—the most I’ve had to do there is blow a whistle and tell the next group of kids to wait their turn.
At one thirty each day, I take my lunch, and more often than not, Jake takes his at the same spot, something I try not to read too hard into, given that I’m living a double life and I can’t very well strike up a real relationship with him.
Sometimes others join us, Steinway sitting on a bale of hay, chewing on beef jerky and nutty trail mix while redoing her French braids, fingers working deftly, only pausing to yell at Tennyson for saying something problematic. But sometimes, it’s just us—Jake and me.
Careful not to say anything to give myself away, I tell him about Brooklyn, about the crowded streets and the flourishing beauty of Prospect Park, the way the subway trudges along slowly, full of the sweat of humans packed together, the nervous energy of people about to be late.
He tells me about North Carolina, about the swampy humidity and the suburban sprawl, shopping center after shopping center speckled along highways. He tells me that, after his aunt hooked him up with the internship, he applied here because he worked at a zip-line place back in North Carolina, and he thought he’d be a shoo-in, which he was. He explains that his internship is only two days a week, and I can’t help but laugh to myself, because as Elm, he made it sound like that was all he was doing. It makes me feel a little bit better, like we all fudge the truth a teensy bit.
That’s not to say there haven’t been hiccups. Last week, Jake walked in to the check-in office to get new batteries for his walkie, and after shuffling through the drawer, he began typing into his phone. The notification popped up on my phone instantly, the device thrumming against the counter. Jake spotted it, and, hardly able to think straight, I pretended to stumble, crashing into the counter and sweeping my phone to the ground. It landed with a thud, my extra-tough case preventing it from cracking. I was safe, but I vowed to be more careful, to never leave my phone out like that again.
A few days later, on a day when Jake was working at the film collective, Marianne started asking me how I got into screenwriting. Steinway was right there, and, much as I’ve come to adore the girl, she’s a talker. I knew if she heard too much, it would eventually get back to Jake. When Steinway asked me about it afterward, I claimed that Marianne must have been confused, thanking my lucky stars when Steinway’s only response was to laugh.
