by J. M.
She continued down the stairs in her cloak, incongruously layered over a short, frilly dress. In her arms was a boxed toy—an inflatable Batman.
Polly stepped back against a wall and waited for her to come down. A few steps more, the view of her thigh changing, and he stepped forward. “Good afternoon!”
“Jesus!” She dropped the box.
Polly retrieved it for her as she tugged the sides of her dress. “Not Jesus,” he said with an ingratiating smile. He handed the box to her. “You know who I am.”
Dana envisioned her mother’s luminous eyes, that seemed to reflect the best back to the best and the worst back to the worst. “I know your name. I shudder to think who you are.” She took the box from his hands and slithered around him.
He followed her into a high-ceilinged solarium, still clutching the binder full of her e-mails. “Your friend.”
“I don’t remember picking you.”
“You seem awfully hostile these days. Outside Elsinore Canyon is one thing, but—”
“And you seem pretty much like your usual self.”
“Well, I—”
“How’s Phil?” The question was sincere.
“Phil?”
“Your s— forget it.” She regretted asking.
Polly followed her deeper into the solarium. “He got back from Alaska four days ago. You saw him, didn’t you? Yesterday.”
A wave of venom rose inside Dana—her mother’s thoughts again. But venomous mocking was the prerogative of the truly superior. This was the same mother who would smack Dana down like a bug if she heard her saying the things she was saying now.
“Polly, please drop it. Before I insult you to death.”
“I doubt you could do that.”
“I could try. Seriously, why are you stepping on my heels?”
“I don’t mean to. It’s just that we’re both concerned about my son, I think.” He waded further in. “What if he had to keep far away from you? Not speak to you or contact you at all?”
“You mean what if he were in prison?”
“Heh, no. He’s a good boy.”
“Then you mean, what if he were in a Swiss clinic being treated for a mysterious disease?”
“Well, maybe, yes, like that.”
Dana was in serious danger of having her mind fucked by Polly of all people. “Let’s see if you can answer a question,” she said. “How does it feel to be a coarse, unevolved, reptilian, failed experiment?”
“You have changed.”
“I’ve dropped my mask. Now answer my question, please. I want to know what it’s like to be green with envy that you don’t have a vagina. I simply can’t imagine, only one organ for excreting, engendering, and orgasming, and an ugly one at that.”
“Very…you’re speaking of…”
“All men, but you said you were my friend, so I’m hoping you’ll satisfy my curiosity.”
Polly switched the binder full of e-mails to one hand and slipped his phone out of his pocket. “Excuse me, I’ve got to answer this. Eh.” He thumbed in a reminder: drug test.
“Writing my epitaph?”
“No,” he laughed awkwardly as he slipped his phone back in. “You know, perhaps you should get out for a breath of sea air.”
“Or a breath of sea water. Like my mother.”
“I, ehm, I’m going to take off.”
“There’s nothing I’d rather you took.”
Polly bobbled by way of farewell, and disappeared.
“Except my so-called life,” Dana said, loud enough for him to hear.
No answer.
“Doofus,” she muttered.
Alone in the quiet, high-ceilinged solarium, she stepped to a mirror to see what she looked like angry. White and toothy. Doofus McBubbles Pokey Polonius, not worth one atom of her peace of mind and yet he somehow had the power to totally piss her off. Why did he have to be Phil’s father? She couldn’t wait for sweet, wonderful Phil to turn eighteen so he could be free of that stupid tyrant lardball. There were other things that would take time. Phil also had no mother now, plus he was only sixteen and still under the impression that a parent’s approval was a necessary thing. Dana had been there a year ago herself; Phil would catch up. She looked at herself again. Still white, less toothy. She was trying to imagine loving such a heinous father as Polly, or lord in holy everlasting heaven forfend, having that whale toad dancing hippo Jabba the Hut for a husband, when some stilted figures faded in, reflected, over her shoulder. She turned to see the human originals, and her face sparkled with glee. Two cool, penetrating smiles were aimed at her. “Whoa. Ladies!”
HOSTESSLY DUTIES
The three girls sauntered forward with curious smiles.
“You two!” said Dana. “Jeez, where have you been? I mean how have you been?”
“Hey, girlfriend.” “We were thinking about you.”
“Nice to see you. I can use some company.”
“We figured.”
“Except I look like a used tampon. Thanks for the advance notice.”
A tight, canny laugh. “We missed you the last time we were here.”
“The wedding reception from hell?”
“That was quite a day.” “Have things gotten any better?”
“Judge me by my acts.”
“So then, things are totally shitty.”
“You don’t have to rub it in. Never mind me, it’s too depressing. What about you guys?”
“Been better,” Gale shrugged. “When you’re having it all, you’re up for a fall.”
“What’s happened? You’re not flat on the ground, are you?”
“Just getting to my feet, actually.”
“So you’re right around God’s crotch.”
Gale cracked a bitter smile. “You’ve always got to blow someone.”
“I have dedicated myself to denying that necessity for some time now,” said Dana. “As you may have heard. So, is there a plan?”
“No, we were just in the neighborhood.”
“Thought you’d drop in and do a little hard time?”
Two still, fixed faces.
“Like in a prison,” Dana explained.
“You’ll be out of here soon enough.”
“Will I? I’ve stopped thinking about the future.” Dana wandered to a towering window and curled up on the ledge, her cloak trailing down. She looked like an aloof, exotic cat. “The problem is, everyone here is either living a nightmare or having one. Be warned.”
Rosie wandered over to her. “What are you dreaming? Maybe it’s Freudian.”
“What if it’s not? That’s what I’m afraid of. I mean, what if there literally are demons that come up from hell and tell you to do unspeakable things, and what if I’m literally falling off a cliff and drowning in those waves out there?”
Rosie and Gale followed Dana’s gaze apprehensively. There was an ocean out there all right, which definitely contained waves, where a person could definitely drown.
Dana chuckled softly. “This is frazzling me.” She slid off her spot on the ledge. “Did you say something about going shopping?”
“Ehhr.” “I think so.”
“I need to do something civilized. Do you s’pose I could hit town in this Darth Vader outfit?”
“Get something else.”
Dana stepped between them and linked arms on both sides. “Okay. But I have a ton of junk to throw away before Stanford so I’m watching what I buy, and I—I can’t do this.” She dropped their arms.
“What?”
“What are you really doing here?”
“Hanging with you.”
“I can see that.”
“Then what…?”
“Why? Why are you hanging with me?”
“Why not? We’ve barely seen you since before graduation. Including at your mom’s funeral and your dad’s wedding reception.”
“I thought we covered that. What do you want, an apology for failing my hostessly duties?”
�
�No.”
“What I mean is, did someone tell you to hang with me?”
Two baffled glares.
“As a lawyer’s daughter, I am sensing a reluctance to answer.”
Rosie shifted her weight. “So how are we supposed to?”
“Answer?”
“Yes, answer.”
“Truthfully. Look, it’s no offense to your lying abilities, but I’m pretty sure my aunt and dad called you.”
“Why would they do that?”
“You tell me. I mean, the three of us have been friends forever, and it was always us kids versus the hypocrite fuckhead grownups. I can’t imagine the day I’d go all Hunger Games on you.”
No answer.
Dana snapped. “What, are the fuckheads smarter than us?”
Gale’s eyes traveled to Rosie’s. “Fuck this.”
Rosie shook her head at Dana. “They’re concerned. All right?”
“All right.”
“Oh, fuck. Listen, Dana, we’re sorry—”
“No, no,” said Dana. “They’re the hypocrite users. They’re on a campaign to turn my friends into snitches and bitches—so I’ll tell you what: I’ll game their game and out myself to you. Because—” She stopped, and looked at them curiously. “Do you really think they’re concerned about me?”
“Shit, maybe.”
“And what about you?”
“Yeah,” said Rosie. “I’m concerned. I was running for Stepdaughter of the Year and you’re ruining it.”
Dana laughed. “Sorry for that. Heck, I’ll give you the secret of my success. It’s my abysmal depression.” Her voice cracked, and she snorted back a sudden burst of tears—where had they come from, damn it? “I don’t like dancing anymore, I haven’t been down to the beach in ages.” She fled back to the window and looked out through wet, burning eyes. “There’s nothing for me out there. It’s a big, cheery-ass, go-along pep rally in hell. ‘Move on!’ My mother died and they treat me like I lost a five-dollar Lotto ticket. ‘It’s in the past, nothing to be done about it now. Pick yourself up and better luck next time!’ My feelings. My memories. And they’re all liars. They wouldn’t live that way themselves.”
She dashed to a fountain in the center of the solarium, and gripped a marble goddess with her fingers. “My mom was the model for this. She looked the same when she died. She could still be a sculptor’s ideal. Or a poet’s—but all along she was nothing but a box of ashes waiting to happen.” She pulled her phone out of an embroidered pouch that she wore at her hip, clicked the camera on, and stared at her face. “I treated her like one.” She hauled back and slung the phone into the fountain with all her might. The metal smacked the marble, the glass shattered. She stared sullenly at the delicate shards.
A sing-songy voice jarred the air. “Delivery for Miss Rosie Schrey-eyy.” Polly stood in the entry with his heels pressed together and an oily smile on his face. He held out a square envelope.
Rosie frowned at him. “What?”
“A certain DVD.”
“Oh. Yeah. I asked my dad’s assistant to bring it over. It’s a screener of Second Generation.”
Dana stepped away from the sculpture. “Second Generation. How super awesome.”
“If you don’t want—”
“No, no, I do. Nice work, Rosie. I mean it.”
Rosie closed her fingertips over the envelope, but Polly held it fast. “There was a message,” he smiled. “The screener won’t be available until Saturday, so they sent a compilation of dailies instead.” He released the envelope.
“Right.” Rosie turned to Gale and Dana. “Dailies?”
“Dailies are good,” said Dana. She mugged at Polly. “So nice of you to deliver it personally.”
“Enjoy your Cooper-o-rama,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rosie said.
He bowed away.
“Jesus,” she whispered. The three girls watched Polly’s furry head bob down the hall.
“I bitched at him today,” said Dana.
Rosie aped him. “Cooper-oh-rah-mah.” She bent herself in his servile pose. “Cooper-oh-rah-mah for Miss Rosie Schrey.”
The three of them cackled. “God, it almost ruins it,” Dana said. “He’s probably going to hole up in his cottage and picture us watching it. With one hand on his joy stick.”
“Oh, stop!” “Heinous!”
Dana laughed. “Anyone got a spliff?”
Rosie had two. Town was out, dailies were in. They danced up the stairs to Dana’s room, pausing for fits of hilarity.
“Oh Jesus. Holy shit.” Sticky eyes—tears of laughter, dehydrated, gummed up in the corners. Two movies had been played. It was either forever ago or just now that they ended, but one of them lasted two hours, thirty-nine minutes, and the other two hours, seventeen minutes. Dana’s frilly dress lay on the floor. She kicked it across the room with her bare foot, whooped, and twirled, stopped by gravity as she faced the mirror: her almost-eighteen-year-old self, squeezed into a plaid skirt and a plain white short-sleeved blouse. Rosie and Gale in similar costumes—William of Bourges uniforms that had fit their thirteen-year-old bodies.
Gale lurched across an alpaca rug in her four-inch heels. “Is this a porno flick or what?”
Where was Rosie? Whoa, on the floor, was she—no. She did splits in the air. “I’m ready for my close-up!”
Dana shucked off her skirt. “Wait a minute.” Mountains of old clothes. She shimmied into a black skirt, tra-la! Then a black jacket.
“It’s backwards, you retard.”
“Hooold on.” Dana plunged into a dresser—success, a white beret, which she pulled low on her head. She pinched her face up like a piece of dried fruit. “Now! My name is Sister Matthew Mark Luke John.” Pinched voice. Hurricanes of laughter. How did she keep that face? “I will be your substitute teacher while Sister Betsy is recovering from being hit by a car, struck by lightning, falling off a cliff, stabbed by a porcupine, and catching leprosy and pneumonia. God has blessed her greatly.”
“Siiissssterrrr! Rosie put her tampon in wrong!”
Dana pinched on. “Excuse me. Sister Betsy has been thinking of you, and she wanted me to bring you this gift. She has. Made you. This lovely. Skirt.” She flourished the plaid one she had shucked off.
“No!” “God!”
Dana peered at her plaid-clad audience sternly. “Young. Lady. In. The plaid.” And then it was too much. She wiped off the beret and felt around for something to eat.
Project Video happens tomorrow: shoot, post, and burn a 3-min music vid. One camera. Prize $10k, good pay for cast (2 female, one male) and crew. Script attached. Bonus: you’re the only entrant. E-mail or skype me, do not call as my phone is effed.
Dana tapped Send and shoved the tablet out of sight. Exhausted. Nothing like a messy bed with a million pillows and the lighting just right. One hour and forty-seven minutes of dailies had played, and she and Rosie and Gale were lolling in their favorite state of dress, the clothes-collage. Also a carrot cake, a pan of lasagna, and a box of pears lay by, partially destroyed. The three girls all stared straight at a large screen on the other side of the room.
A British actor with tangled black curls and a flowing cravat turned slowly towards the camera. Fiery eyes blazed against an early morning sky. “May she wake in torment!” he thundered. “Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there,” he smoldered, looking up, “not in heaven, not perished. Where? Oh, you said you cared nothing for my sufferings. And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens.” His eyes reddened and his body shook with rage. “Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you. Haunt me then!” The screen went blank.
“That’s a single shot,” said Rosie. “Those tears are real.”
“Go to the next track,” said Dana.
Rosie pressed a remote. Once again, the fiery-eyed actor filled the frame. “The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe,” he said huskily. “I know that ghosts have wande
red on earth. Be with me always,” he said, looking through a stand of damp trees. “Take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” He raked his head. “Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”
The screen went blank again. Dana nudged Rosie. “You can get the screener for sure on Saturday?”
“That or something better.”
“Ah, fuckit,” said Gale, throwing her legs down to get off the bed.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Dana.
“It makes me think of my ’Vette. Now I’m going to cry.”
“Get a grip,” said Rosie. “You could see the edge of the matte painting in that last take.”
“But my parents taking my ’Vette away is real.”
Dana wanted them to spend the night, but they didn’t have clothes or facewash or makeup, so Dana offered them hers, but they wanted their own brands, but Dana didn’t think they were okay to drive, but they assured her they were, and they all ate some more and drank some water and thought again about staying and decided not to, so they went to get dressed for real and discovered their actual clothes had somehow disappeared in the massive donate pile so they gave up and put on some of Dana’s donate things and laughed their heads off about that, and finally made plans for Saturday and went outside and called it a night at Gale’s crappy used Porsche. She could barely get the top to close—lame car should have been drunk-proof.
“And one last thing,” Dana said as the engine vroomed. “My parents are only half-right about my psych sitch.”
In the passenger seat, Rosie leaned over Gale’s lap and looked up at Dana. “Which half?”
