by Elle Kennedy
I stifle another sigh. “Spit it out, Allie-Cat.”
“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”
That catches me off guard. “No. Of course not.” Once again, the reassurance falls on deaf ears. She’s even warier now. “I’m not,” I say firmly.
She studies my face as if she’s playing Where’s Waldo, except she’s hunting for a lie instead of a weirdo in a hat. Then she lets out a breath. “We probably should’ve had this conversation before we had sex again. The whole are we or aren’t we exclusive.”
I suppose she’s right, though it’s not a discussion I have often. Everyone I hook up with already knows it’s not exclusive. On both sides, because it’s not like they’re staying true to me either. I fucked a cute sophomore a few months ago who openly admitted she’d just come from a date with someone else.
With Allie, I just assumed it was exclusive. I wouldn’t dream of playing games with Wellsy’s best friend.
“We’re exclusive,” I tell her.
“You seriously haven’t been with anyone else?” She doesn’t even try to hide her surprise, and I don’t know if I should be insulted.
“Not since the first time you and I were together.”
She nods. “And you’re cool with that?”
“Are you?”
Another nod. “I want it to be exclusive. I mean, I understand that this is a fling, but I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of you sleeping with anyone else. Same goes for me—I won’t do it either.”
“Okay,” I say easily.
Allie remains unconvinced. “You’re being too agreeable about this.”
“Would you prefer I throw a tantrum and demand to fuck other people?”
“No, but…” And there she goes, biting her bottom lip again. “You’re saying you’re perfectly content to just be with me for as long as this lasts? What if I get busy again like I was these past couple days? You won’t go out and jiggle down with someone else?”
I was good with this talk up until this point. Now I’m annoyed. “What, you don’t think I can keep my pants zipped for a couple measly days?”
“We didn’t see each other for three days, Dean, and you wouldn’t stop whining about how hard up you’ve been.”
“Just because I like having sex on the reg doesn’t mean I’m crawling the bars every second of the day looking to get my nut off.”
“Okay. Sorry,” she says ruefully. “But I had to ask.” She fidgets with the bottom of her towel. “Look…do me a favor, all right? If someone hits on you when you’re out and you’re dying to sleep with them, or if you just feel like, um, taking another lover…will you shoot me a text saying ‘fling over’ or something?”
“I will,” I promise her.
But honestly, I don’t envision that ever happening. I haven’t thought about anyone else since Allie bulldozed her way into my bed that first night. Which is disconcerting. I figured that if we hooked up enough times, I’d eventually get her out of my system, but this girl turns me on something fierce. Even now, in the midst of an awkward conversation about ‘taking other lovers’, my body is primed for a second round.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get her out of my system.
*
Allie
I went on my first casting call when I was twelve. I was super pumped about it, and although I didn’t get the part, I still had a blast reading for the casting director, who was the loveliest woman I’d ever met. She gave me valuable feedback I still remember to this day and advised me to keep at it because she saw “something” in me.
It wasn’t too long after that when I realized the audition process isn’t always kittens and rainbows. Doesn’t matter if you’re reading for commercial gigs or day player jobs or juicier roles—you’re bound to face this particular hurdle at least once: the difficult acting partner.
Yep, there’s one of those at every audition. The person who tries to sabotage you even though you’re reading for different parts. Or out-act you because they need to look better. Or behave like an unprofessional ass and forget all their lines, making you look bad in the process. Or sometimes they’re just jerks, and you’d rather boil every inch of skin off than be in the same room as them, let alone read a scene together.
I’ve encountered all types of scene partners over the years, and the best advice I ever got about how to handle it came from Jack Emery, the acting coach at the drama camp where I volunteered.
He told me to use the negative energy.
You can’t control how the other actor is going to behave. You can’t force them to remember their lines, or force yourself to make nice with someone who, frankly, doesn’t deserve the energy it takes for you to fake a smile. Jack instructed me to take that negative energy and channel it into my own performance. Sure, the advice doesn’t necessarily apply when you’re reading for a cereal commercial and you’re supposed to be happy-go-lucky, all smiles as you shovel sugar into your mouth.
But it absolutely helps if your characters have a combative relationship. In that case, it’s easy to use the anger or irritation or just plain hatred and bring it to the performance.
Which is what I’m desperately trying to do at Thursday night’s rehearsal with the senior who’s playing my sister.
I’ve had classes with Mallory Richardson in the past, but this is the first time we’ve acted together on stage. Last week, we had our scripts on hand because it was the start of rehearsals.
This week, our student director wants us to perform sans script. Not the whole play, but a couple of script-free scenes to jumpstart the memorization process. I’m fine with that, because I’ve memorized half the play already.
Mallory? She can hardly string together a full sentence.
“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak,” Mallory says flatly. “Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t—” She stops. “Line,” she calls to the front row, where our director and two student producers are seated.
There’s no mistaking Steven’s frustration. I don’t blame him. This past hour, I’ve heard Mallory shout “Line!” so many times that the word has lost all meaning.
“‘He couldn’t stomach your sniveling,’” Steven supplies, his baritone voice carrying through the cavernous room. “‘You’re pathetic. You—’”
Mallory interrupts. “Thanks, I know the rest. I tripped up on the sniveling part.”
Steven signals for us to start again.
“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak. Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t stomach your sniveling. You’re pathetic. You fall apart… line!”
I resist the urge to lunge across the stage and tackle her to the ground. Maybe scream the words into her ear at top volume so they sink into her lazy brain.
Steven rattles off the next line.
We start again.
“I’m tired of being the one who has to hold your hand and wipe your tears and—”
“Bobby is dead!” I roar, staggering toward her. “If I want to cry about it, I’m damn well allowed to! And nobody asked you to hold my hand. I didn’t ask you to come here, Caroline.”
“I’m here because…”
I wait for it.
“Line!”
And on and on it goes.
Line.
Line.
Line.
We have the auditorium until ten-thirty, which leaves us another hour to rehearse. Normally Steven makes use of every available second. Tonight, he’s clearly had enough. He stands up and announces that rehearsal is over.
I’m surprised it took him this long.
“We’ll regroup tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve got the space from noon til three, so we can cover a lot more ground then. Read over the scenes a few more times, Mal. You really need to nail down your lines.”
“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Mallory moans. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t get a chance to study the scene last night. I was preparing a monologue for Nigel’s class.” She sighs loud
ly. “I’m swamped right now.”
Welcome to college, I want to say, because come on, does she think she’s the only one with a heavy workload?
I’m taking a screenwriting course that requires me to write two scenes a week. My film theory prof assigns so many readings my eyes are starting to cross. For my audition workshop, we’re expected to prepare monologues every week; the seminar is designed to help student actors get comfortable and build confidence for the audition process, but apparently it’s too “easy” to let us use existing material to fake-audition with.
Needless to say, I’m equally swamped, but you don’t see me making excuses. Nope, I still find time to memorize a few measly pages of dialogue.
I’m happy that rehearsal is over, though. I’m too close to throttling Mallory, who doesn’t even say goodbye as she leaves the stage.
“We’ll do better tomorrow,” I assure Steven. I feel awful that we let him down today, because I know how serious he is about directing.
The first time we met, I teased him that he should be in front of the camera and not behind it. Seriously, the guy is gorgeous. Dark-chocolate skin, flawless features, mesmerizing eyes. He reminds me of Idris Elba minus the sexy British accent. But Steven isn’t interested in being an actor. He once told me that his goal is to win a Best Director Oscar by the time he’s forty.
“You’re not the one who needs to get better,” Steven replies. “You’re doing a terrific job.”
I tuck the compliment in my proverbial back pocket and exit the stage through the wings, digging into my bag as I walk. I find my phone, and my heart flips when I see a missed call from Ira. I’d called him last night for an update about the Cavanaugh play that I’m dying to audition for. I’m not certain it’s even happening or if it was just a rumor buzzing around Broadway, so I asked Ira to look into it.
I check the time. It’s nine-thirty, so that means six-thirty on the west coast. I know he’s still in LA because he texted earlier that he was “doing lunch” with the producer of the Fox pilot. I don’t know if I’m happy or disappointed that the producers let me send in a screen test. Luckily, I probably won’t hear back from them any time soon, since they aren’t officially casting until February.
“Hey, Ira,” I say when he picks up. “It’s Allie. I wanted to check if you had any news about the Brett Cavanaugh play.”
“Actually, I do.”
Then why didn’t you call me?
“The production process has definitely started. I know one of the producers, so I reached out to her.” He pauses. “It’s not good news.”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “Oh. What did she say?”
“It’s an all-male cast. Bold move, huh?”
Very bold. Not to mention devastating. I suddenly find myself desperately wishing for a penis.
“Unfortunately, that means there isn’t a role in it for you—” No kidding. I’m penis-less! “But I told Nancy you’re interested in working with Brett again. She promised to pass that along, so who knows? Maybe he’ll give you a ring when he has something else brewing.”
That cheers me up. A little. I’m still mega-bummed by the news.
I send Dean a message on my way out of the building.
Me: Such a crappy day! Might vent to u later. How was the game?
He doesn’t message back. Granted, it’s only been three seconds, but he’s usually pretty quick to reply.
Five minutes into my walk to Bristol House, and there’s still no answer. His game would be over by now. Hannah said it started at six. It’s nearly ten.
Five more minutes pass. I’m almost at the dorm. Why isn’t he answering?
It’s been ten minutes, crazy pants. Relax.
Instead of relaxing, I grow even more distressed because something troubling has just dawned on me.
I didn’t contact Dean because I wanted sex.
I wanted to vent about my day.
Oh shit. Hannah is absolutely right—the word “casual” doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. I had a crappy rehearsal, and my first instinct was to reach out to the guy I’m sleeping with and tell him all about it. Have him listen to me and comfort me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.
Repeat after yourself, Allison Jane. He. Is. Not. Your. Boyfriend.
“He is not my boyfriend,” I say firmly.
“What?” A tall guy in a parka slows his gait and glances over at me.
I jerk in surprise. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you.”
His gaze rests on my ear, and I realize he’s searching for a Bluetooth. When he doesn’t find one, he gives me a strange look and keeps walking.
“Talking to yourself doesn’t make you a crazy person,” I call out after him. Well, unless you’re the homeless guy I used to see around Brooklyn, who would scream about government conspiracies and how aliens are stealing our brain cells via our phones.
Then again, who’s to say Lou isn’t perfectly sane? Maybe aliens are doing that. I can’t prove otherwise.
I trudge the rest of the way home and let myself into the darkened suite. Hannah isn’t home yet. I know she went to the hockey game tonight, so I give her a call to find out what she’s up to now.
“Hey!” Wherever she is, it’s loud. I hear a cacophony of voices in the background, and a pounding bass line that thuds in my ear. “I’m at the bar. You want to join us?”
I put on a casual voice. “Who’s there? Garrett and the guys?” And Dean?
I stop myself before the question pops out. Damn it, I’m acting like a girlfriend again. An incredibly nauseating girlfriend to boot, the kind who checks up on her man when he isn’t with her.
“Yup. Most of the team is here. We won tonight, so everyone’s celebrating.” Another wave of music swells over the line. “Garrett keeps trying to challenge me to a shot contest.”
“What are the others up to?” I ask with feigned nonchalance. “Logan…Tuck…Dean…?”
I hate myself right now. I really, really do.
“Tuck isn’t here. Logan’s playing pool. And some girl is trying to eat Dean’s face off.”
My entire body goes cold.
Um…excuse me?
“Anyway, I can barely hear you,” Hannah says. “Text me if you’re coming.”
My hand trembles as I put down the phone. Dean is at the bar making out with someone else?
Two days after we talked about being exclusive?
Oh hell no.
18
Allie
My mother was a beautiful woman. I’m not saying this because I’m her daughter and therefore saw her through rose-colored lenses. I’m saying it because it’s true—Eva Hayes was a beautiful, stunning, exquisite woman. She modeled when she was in her twenties, and though she wasn’t tall enough for runway work, she was a high commodity in the print market. I still have every catalogue and magazine spread she ever did in a scrapbook I keep on my bookshelf.
I inherited her blond hair and blue eyes, but my features aren’t flawless like hers. Mom had one of those classically beautiful faces that would make men, women and children stop and stare whenever she walked by.
Me, I’m more cute than beautiful.
But I’ve learned that the right makeup and the right clothes can transform any girl from cute to sex bomb.
I don’t know what my plan is. Dean and I aren’t dating, first off. And since I don’t want anyone to know we’re fooling around, I can’t storm into Malone’s and dump a pitcher of beer over his head.
What I can do is show him exactly what he’s giving up.
I won’t lie—it hurts that he didn’t give me advance warning like he’d promised. And it definitely stings that he’s with someone else tonight when I would’ve been happy to keep flinging with him. But I knew going into this who I was getting involved with. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis sleeps around. The End.
My ego, however, refuses to stand for this, which is why thirty minutes later I find myself sliding out the backseat of a taxi and stepping onto the
curb in front of Malone’s.
My peacoat keeps me toasty as I linger near the door debating my plan of action. A couple of college guys pop out of the bar, and I’m gratified when both of them stop to check me out. Ha. And their appreciative gazes are based solely on my makeup and fuck-me-silly updo. They’d probably be salivating if they saw what was underneath my coat.
I reach for my phone. Here, I tell Hannah. Where r u?
Her: Pool table.
Taking a breath, I walk inside and make my way through the crowd. The music vibrates in the floor beneath my heels as I pass the booths on the left and head toward the archway where the main room opens onto the game room.
There are half a dozen more booths and tall standing tables in this section of the bar. I instantly spot my best friend. She’s talking to Logan and Hollis, while Garrett circles one of the green-felt tables with a pool cue in his hand. Holding a beer bottle, Fitzy is watching Garrett line up a shot, his own cue resting on the wall beside him.
I finally catch a glimpse of Dean. He’s almost hidden from view in the corner, talking to a curvy brunette in skinny jeans and a low-cut sweater.
Nice sweater, sweetie, but I can beat that.
I unbutton my coat, slip it off, and tuck it under my arm. Then I square my shoulders and saunter up to the pool table.
A wolf whistle slices through the music, courtesy of Logan. “Je-sus,” he marvels at me. “You look bangin’.” His blue eyes twinkle. “What’s the occasion?”
I smile demurely. “Just felt like looking pretty.”
Hannah snorts. “Babe, you look more than pretty. I think every dude in this bar just sprung a boner.”
I shrug. I only care about one boner in particular. I wonder if Little Dean has noticed me yet.
“So you won the game, huh?” I say to Logan.
“Damn right we did.”
“Nice. You guys are back on track, then.” I know Big Dean was upset about their three-game losing streak.
“Yeah, don’t get ahead of yourself. We were up against a Division II team. And even then we barely squeaked out the W.”
“Yo, Logan!” Garrett shouts. “Think I can make this shot?”
