Stop it, Amber. You're being ridiculous.
As if my mother can sense it, she reaches over and places her hand on top of mine. "It's going to go great."
"You don't know that."
"Of course I do," she says, winking. "I know everything."
I laugh in spite of my nervousness, which is exactly what she's aiming for.
A woman in a sharp suit steps out of one of the offices. "Amber Dwyer."
My stomach plummets to my feet and I think that I'm going to pass out, but I pick up my folder and head toward her. I hear Mom's whisper behind me. "Knock 'em dead!"
I was expecting something other than a fairly plain office that looks like every other office in the history of time. Maybe part of me expected there to be electrodes that I'd be hooked up to in order to make sure that I was giving the right answers. That it would look more like an interrogation cell than an office. But it's just an office. Desk, two chairs in front of it, some degrees and photos hung on the wall.
The most notable part of the room is the view from the window down onto the New York City street. But we're not that high up, so I wouldn't label the view as impressive. The normality of it all calms me a little. I'm not totally together, but at least I'm not completely freaking out.
The woman closes the door behind me as I take a seat. "How are you today, Amber?" she asks.
Honesty. Always go with honesty. "Nervous."
She chuckles. "You're going to be fine. If you end up studying with us, I'm sure you'll find that the interview is probably the easiest part of this degree."
"I look forward to that."
She smiles while she opens a plain folder in front of her. "I see that this is a deferred application from last year. What happened?"
"It was a medical deferment," I swallow. "I have an arrhythmia. Bad enough that I had to have pacemaker surgery, physical therapy, and recovery."
"Wow," her eyes go wide. "They mentioned it was a medical deferment but not the actual problem. How are you feeling now?"
"Really good. I'm eager to be at school and doing something besides just worrying about my heart. But I have my current medical records with me," I say, opening my own folder and handing her the papers. "Along with a signed statement from my medical team that I'm healthy."
She takes the papers and glances over them. "Thank you. I asked how you're feeling because our program is strenuous. Any degree in the arts is, but it's long hours and lots of work. Are you sure you're ready to take that on?"
"Absolutely," I say. "I was ready last year because this is what I want to do. And even though I'm really grateful that I'm alive and okay, I'm desperate to get back to doing what I love."
She smiles. "Okay, so tell me why you want to direct and more importantly, why you want to study at NYU to get there."
This, I can do. I take a deep breath and launch into the rehearsed speech that I've prepared—the one that I kept reciting in the car. But I'm suddenly making edits on the fly about how much I want to do this, and they're true. This version of the speech is more passionate, because now that I'm here, I can once again taste the creative freedom that this will bring, and I want that. More than I've ever wanted anything. Well, almost.
In an instant my mind flashes to Peter, because being with him was easily the one thing I wanted most. And then I shove him out of my head because he doesn't belong here. It feels like I'm talking for a long time, but I have a lot to say. More than I realize.
Finishing up, I kind of end awkwardly, but the woman smiles. "I can tell you're serious about this."
"I am."
She clears her throat and glances over all the papers in front of her. "Normally our admission team likes to see a little more hands-on work on an application. But this," she reaches down and opens a drawer, putting a large manila envelope on the desk, “really shifted the scales."
I know it's impossible because of the pacemaker, but it feels like my heart skips a beat. What is that? I've never seen that package before and I have no idea what's inside it. She could have my birth certificate in there, or anything, really. I swallow. "What is that?"
"We received it shortly after your initial application, and it was stored with it during your deferment. It's from Mr. Davidson, your drama teacher." Opening the envelope, she pulls out an envelope and a three ring binder. "He sent us all the preparations you had made for your senior show, and explained all the work that went into preparing it. He also explained that your medical emergency prevented you from performing, even though you fought them tooth and nail."
She grins at me. "And even though it's unfortunate that it's not completed, this kind of work ethic and passion are exactly what we're looking for here at NYU. It has certainly helped your application, and we were eager to interview you to see if that passion could be shown in person."
I can't breathe. I thought I was prepared for every outcome in the interview, but this I didn't see coming. "Thank you." It's the only words that seem to come out.
"I'm not the person who makes the official decision, and that will come by mail, but I can tell you that I will be highly recommending you to our admissions board." She reaches across the desk, and it takes me a second to realize that she's reaching out to shake my hand. I take it, and give as firm a handshake as I can. "Congratulations, you can breathe now."
"Thank you," I say, laughing.
She stands, and moves to open the door. "I hope you enjoy the city while you're here, and just between you and me, I hope you get a chance to resurrect your senior piece here at NYU. It sounds like it would have been amazing."
All I can do is nod. I'm too stunned for anything else, and I walk out into the waiting room in a daze. She calls the next name, and I hear the door close behind me. My mom waits until that happens to come over. She sees the look on my face and is concerned. "Amber. How did it go? Are you okay? You're scaring me."
I nod. "It went great."
She puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the elevator while I briefly recap what happened. She's just as surprised as I am that Mr. Davidson sent in something. I never asked him to. How did he even know where I was applying? This is so weird.
My mom is ecstatic. "This is so exciting! Let's go get some food, and you can freak out as much as you want while you're there, then we can figure out what to do with the rest of the day.”
I shake my head, nod, blink. "Yeah," I say. "Let's do that."
We're in New York, so mom decides that we need pizza, and she finds a place that's listed online as the best pizza in the city, and it's not too far from NYU. My mind is swirling as we go. I don't understand what just happened. It basically sounded like that woman said that I was an okay, average applicant, but that letter and packet showing my work from last year is what put me over the edge.
I let my mom navigate to the pizza place and pull me along while I pull out my phone. We parked our car in a lot for the next couple of days, so we're on foot. I search through my phone, and sure enough, I still have Mr. Davidson's phone number. I was checking in with him a lot during the process of my show, and sometimes it was easier to text.
"Mom, I think I need to call Mr. Davidson."
She looks over at me. "Okay, why?"
"Because it's going to drive me crazy if I don't know how he knew or why he did it."
Mom nods. She knows me well, and if I say something is going to drive me crazy, it absolutely is going to. "Well, wait until we get to the pizza place, you're not going to be able to hear anything with all the traffic."
"Good call."
It doesn't take us long to get there, and it's a sit-down place, which I don't think is normal for pizza places here, but something I'm sure my mom looked for so we didn't have to eat on the street with paper plates. She looks at the menu and orders with the waiter while I dial. Who knows if this is still his phone number, but I have to know. After a few rings, he answers.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Davidson?"
"Yes, speaking."
I clear my throat. "Mr. Davidson, this is Amber Dwyer."
"Oh!" There's recognition. "Hi Amber, how are you?"
"I'm good," I say, and I mean it. "I know it's a little strange for me to be calling, but I had a question."
"Sure," he says.
"I'm in New York City. I just had my first interview at NYU, and the admissions office had a package from you. I was just curious how I knew where I was applying, because I never asked you for a recommendation. Not that I mind, they really loved it, but I was just curious."
"Oh," he says, clearing his throat. "I thought he would have told you."
Sudden nerves pop up in my stomach. "What?"
"It was Peter. He felt so awful about everything that happened with your show that he begged me to send those to every school you applied to. He gave me a list, and even paid for all the shipping. I was happy to do it, Amber. You deserve this. If it made a difference, then that's amazing."
I thought I was confused and swirling before, but this...this is something I can barely think about. "I guess that explains it. And yes, it did make a difference, so thank you."
"Not a problem! I hope you're doing well. Drop me a line sometime and tell me what you're up to when you're rich and famous."
I laugh. "Will do, Mr. Davidson. Thanks."
"Bye, Amber."
Hanging up the phone, I stare at it for a second. Peter did this. He made him send the packages. Not package.. Packages. Mr. Davidson said he'd sent one to every school I applied to. I applied to fifteen schools because I wanted to cover my bases. I'm sure he's not saying it, but I know deep in my gut that Peter was the one who got the three ring binders and made the copies and put everything together. Because he never does anything half way.
And he never told me, because he didn't think I'd want to hear, didn't mind that I'd never know if he made the difference between acceptance and rejection.
"Amber?" my mom asks. "Did you find out?"
I nearly choke on my words. "It was Peter. Peter asked him to do it. He paid for Mr. Davidson to send a package to every school." The look on my mom's face is one of awe, and emotion breaks me open. "I need to go to the bathroom," I say, standing quickly.
She doesn't stop me. I find my way into a stall and just sit on top of the seat. It takes a few more seconds for it to hit, but it does. And then I cry, because I don't know what else to do.
6
Amber
Present
I take a deep breath. Then another one. I can’t seem to catch a full one in my chest, and my heart rate is faster than normal. I need to calm down but I can’t seem to.
Gloria appears at my side with a glass of water. "Are you okay?" she asks. "You seem kind of off this morning."
"I'm fine," I lie.
"Okay," she says, even though she sounds like she doesn't believe me. "I just got a call. Rebecca was in a car accident and won't make it in today. She's fine, but she broke her leg. She says she can be back by the end of the week."
Rebecca is the stand in for Harley, the actress who plays Genova, our heroine. That's not great news, but we can make it work. "Harley's not in today, right?"
Gloria shakes her head. "No, she's in New York doing press for Cold Day in Heaven, the movie she shot last year."
Crap. That means I'll have to find a new stand-in. But we can rearrange the shooting schedule for the day since everything is on the same set. "Okay, tell the crew we're going to move up the Peter's solo scene so they should light for that, and we'll figure out someone who can do it by the time we get to the other one."
"Got it."
She heads off to relay orders, and I go back to trying to calm my fraying nerves. Peter's agent did call me to say that he'd be here, but I'm still terrified of seeing him. The way he walked out of my apartment, he was so angry, and so done. I can't believe that I ruined this so fast.
But if I can just talk to him, just let him know that I got caught up in my own head and that I overreacted, maybe he'll understand. Maybe he'll give me another chance. I drain the glass of water that Gloria brought me in one go. Shit, I need to relax. I can't run a set like this.
I barely finish that thought when Peter walks onto set. His costume today is low-slung jeans and a tight henley that shows off everything that I love about him. I'm seriously screwed. But even if we don't talk about us, I need to talk to him about the change in the schedule.
I hop off my chair, careful of my ankle. I'm down to a brace, but I still need to be careful. I approach him slowly. "Peter?"
He turns, and his eyes run up and down me quickly, without any emotion. "Amber."
I swallow. "Rebecca was in a car accident and Harley is in New York, so we're going to do your solo scene first so we can find another stand-in."
"That's fine, thank you."
His manner shouldn't surprise me, but it does. He can't really be this cold, can he? I push off the overwhelming fear. "I was also hoping we might be able to talk later."
"I'm sorry," he says, "the scenes today are pretty intense, and I need to prepare."
He turns back to his script, which I see is covered in scribbles and notes, the same way they always used to be. He obviously got another script after he left my apartment. "Of course," I say. "But it's good to see you."
He nods, nothing more. I close my eyes and breathe for a second before I turn and walk back to my chair. This is my job. My job. I pushed him away to protect it, and he's listening. The least I can do is perform that job to the best of my ability. So I walk away and let him prepare.
The lighting for this scene isn't that different, so it's not long before we're ready to start. I have another brief conversation with Peter, all business, just notes. It's a simple scene, some close-ups of him doing work, combined with an emotional moment of him looking at some pictures.
It goes well, and quickly, and before I know it I'm calling a wrap on it. Peter moves off the set to his chair and I make a point of not watching him. I won't do it. I won't.
"Well done, darling!" A brash, bold voice comes from behind me. I twist in my chair to find Clay Markham striding up. "Watched the scene. Excellent work, just excellent."
"Thank you, Clay," I say, smiling. I had no idea he was here, and it's comforting, in a way. Clay is always so over the top that it's endearing and amusing if you know him. "We're shooting out of order today. One of our stand-ins was in a car accident, and the actress is in New York. So we're trying to figure that out."
"I'm sure one of the agencies will send someone over."
"I'm sure," I say. "Gloria?"
"Yeah?" She comes over from the craft services table. "What's up?"
I take the glass of water she holds out to me. Gloria constantly keeps me hydrated. It's one of the things I like about her. "Where are we on a stand-in?"
"No luck so far," she says, rolling her eyes. "Seems like a lot of redheads are booked today."
"It's Los Angeles. You can't walk thirty feet without tripping over an actress, and we can't find one?"
Clay clears his throat. "That's probably my fault. Since you got inserted into my contract, the studio is probably keeping to the same restrictions I required. There's only a few agencies that I like to work with."
Gloria makes a finger gun gesture. "That's exactly it. The agencies we're allowed to pull from don't have anyone available."
"Well, shit," I say.
Clay laughs. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll find someone."
"Honestly, Amber, you should just do it. I'm willing to bet you have the entire script memorized, and you're a redhead."
I freeze, looking over at her. "What?"
She shrugs. "It's one scene. Read the lines with Peter."
"There has to be some other option."
"You can't push it off," Clay says. "It's a huge waste of budget to have to prep this again."
I give him a look, as if he didn't teach me most of what I know about running a practical set. "I can't exactly be in front of the camera when
I'm supposed to be behind it, Clay."
That's the reason I'm going to give, but that's not the main reason. The real reason is that this is an important scene, not to mention one of the sexiest. It's filled with sexual tension, and the couple's first kiss. Two days ago I would have done this in a heartbeat, professionalism be damned. But now, even though it's something I need to do for the show, Peter could interpret it as me trying to force his hand. To torture him. I don't want that.
But I'm looking at Clay and he's smiling, arms open like he's ready to hug me. "But darling, I'm here. You don't need to be behind the camera when you have me to oversee everything."
My heart sinks. I was hoping he wouldn't offer. But he's Clay, so of course he will. He wants to see me succeed, even in this non-conventional circumstance. "Gloria, make one more set of calls and see if the agencies have found anyone. If not, we'll go with plan B."
"Okay." She pulls out her phone and moves away.
"How's everything going besides your unfortunate stand-in situation?" he asks.
"Fine," I say.
He raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a lie."
"Everything on the show is fine," I say. "I've got some personal stuff going on. Nothing to worry about though."
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Good girl. I know it's hard to keep it separate, but it's for the best."
"I hope so." I glance toward Peter, who's making notes in his script. I want nothing more than to go over and talk to him. But if we're possibly going to have to do this, I don't want to make it any worse.
"Sorry, no dice," Gloria says as she comes back over. “They're really apologetic, but they just don't have anybody who fits what we need. They're all too tall or brunette or something else."
"Well, I guess that settles it," I say, sighing. "Can you bring Peter over here please?"
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