Seeing Stars

by Diane Hammond

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop trying to scare Bethany. I mean it. Stop it right now. Was there ever anything in the bushes?”

  “Sure. It was something big, like a man, maybe, or a bear. I think it’s gone now, though.”

  Ruth gritted her teeth. “Can you swear to me that there’s nothing there?”

  “Yeah,” Allison said, clearly bored with the conversation.

  “All right. Put Bethy back on, please.”

  Bethany got back on the line. “Are you calmer?” Ruth said. “Show me how you’re breathing.” Bethy inhaled and exhaled several times into the receiver. “Good,” Ruth said.

  “I’m still kind of scared, though.”

  “Listen to me. You’re both fine. Allison is just trying to scare you. I want both of you in bed and with the lights out as soon as you hang up the phone. And I mean immediately. That goes for Allison, too. Have Mimi call me in the morning.”

  “You sure there isn’t anything to be afraid of?”

  “Well, you can be afraid of Allison, but otherwise, no, nothing.”

  “Do you think we should wait up for Mimi?”

  “No,” said Ruth. “I don’t. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked, and then go to bed.”

  “Okay, Mom. I love you,” Bethany said in her little girl, bedtime voice. “Do you want to say good night to Allison, too? Here.”

  Ruth could hear the phone being handed off, and then Allison said, in a crisp, womanly, maddening voice, “Hello?” As though she didn’t know who was on the other end of the line.

  “If you ever do that again, and I mean ever, there will be hell to pay. Am I clear?”

  “Okay. Well, good night. We love you,” Allison said in a singsongy imitation of Bethy.

  Ruth suspected that the girl was mocking her. She hung up thinking that she should never, ever have left Bethy down there with those people. What on earth had she been thinking? And now there was nothing she could do but try to hurry Hugh through his crisis and get back to LA as quickly as she possibly could.

  Hugh rolled toward her and said sleepily—he could sleep through a tornado—“What was that about?”

  “Nothing. It’s all right,” Ruth said. “Go back to sleep.”

  BY THE THIRD DAY, BETHANY LOVED ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING about Allison. For one thing, she had flawless skin, whereas Bethany had begun having outbreaks, and in noticeable places. She scrubbed and scrubbed, using a variety of exfoliating products that Allison didn’t want anymore, but it was going to take more than that, at least from what Allison had told her when they were talking in bed last night: it was going to take Accutane, and she couldn’t get that without a prescription, which she couldn’t get until Ruth took her to a dermatologist, which couldn’t happen until Ruth got back, which just frustrated Bethy to death. How was she supposed to book anything if she had pimples? You could slather on foundation and concealer—both of which she’d now learned to apply, under Allison’s close supervision—but you really couldn’t fool anyone. “They can still tell you have zits,” Allison had said. “They’re just zits you’ve covered up. If the person who books a role comes down to either you or me, they’re going to choose me, especially if it’s a movie role, because in movies they do insanely tight shots that are your face like six feet high on the screen. They don’t want people sitting in the theater going, Look at that gross zit!”

  And of course she was right. Allison had already gotten Reba and Hillary started using Proactiv, which was just one step down from Accutane, and neither of them even had breasts yet. Bethany didn’t exactly have breasts, either—at least not like Allison’s, which Bethany had caught a glimpse of when Allison left the bathroom door open a little bit while she was taking her shower—but at least they’d started. She bet she’d get her period any minute. Allison had told her a ton of things it turned out she needed to know, to be ready: why you should always carry a tampon (because otherwise you could stand up at some random time and leave a big sticky pool of blood behind without even knowing it, and how gross was that); what brand of tampon was best (one with an applicator, because otherwise you just had to shove the thing way up inside you with your own finger, which Allison said she was pretty sure God never ever intended you to do), and what cramps felt like and what to do about them (ibuprofen, immediately). She’d also begun instructing Bethany about what hair styles and accessories made you look the oldest, what it felt like to smoke a cigarette, why you should always carry Purell hand sanitizer and Tic Tacs, and what an erection was (though Bethy was pretty sure Allison was making that one up). It turned out there was a whole world that Bethy hadn’t known was out there, but which she now understood was very important if you were going to be liked and admired, never mind if you were going to book anything.

  But the thing Bethany really loved about Allison was that she was a woman of the world. She’d kissed boys, been drunk, had her own debit card, had had a makeover at the MAC counter at Macy’s (which Bethany was going to put on her list of musts when Ruth got back), and traveled alone between Los Angeles and Houston as fearlessly and casually as Bethy took a school bus.

  They’d shared lots of other secrets, too, since Bethy had been at Mimi’s. (“You can’t tell any of it to Reba or Hillary when they get back, because they’re just little kids,” Allison had told her firmly, a fact that Bethy knew would make Hillary just crazy if she ever found out.) One of them was that sometimes Allison cut herself with a box cutter. She even let Bethy watch her once. She put the blade against the blue-white skin on the underside of her upper arm and pressed, and as Bethy stared in horrified fascination, a line of blood had bloomed, as delicate as a cobweb. Allison had just laughed and said it didn’t hurt. She’d turned her arm over so Bethy could get a better look at the delicate cross-hatching of scabs and scars. Sometimes, Allison told her, she’d sit there and work on it for hours. Bethy said she thought it was awful, but Allison said there were tribes in Africa that did exactly the same thing to their faces, and no one thought a thing about it. Look at Seal. It was no different than tattoos. Bethy thought there was plenty of difference, but she kept it to herself. Instead she said, “But why?”

  Allison had just shrugged. “Sometimes I get, I don’t know, jumpy. Like I’m waiting for something bad to happen. So I cut, and it calms me down.”

  The earliest they turned their light out was one in the morning, and Mimi didn’t even care. Her rule was, you could get up whenever you wanted, and if there were two of you or more and Mimi had already gone to work, you could call a taxi and take a cab to the studio whenever you were ready, as long as you had the money. Allison not only paid, but she also tipped the driver, which Bethy didn’t even know you were supposed to do, never mind how much it should be, because she’d really been in a cab only a few times in New York City, and Hugh had paid; and Allison’s voice, when she was talking to the driver, was cool and impersonal, like she’d had someone driving her around all her life. In her mind, Bethy already saw Allison as a movie star, she was that worldly.

  She’d have to tell all of this to Rianne when she saw her, which who knew when that would be, especially because Bethy didn’t miss her as much as she used to. She figured Rianne would still be all about finding neat decals to put on her notebooks and other tween stuff, and Bethy was way beyond that now. She talked to producers and casting directors like it was no big deal, and a few of them were starting to remember her.

  Yesterday, both Bethy and Allison had auditioned for an independent film with a well-known director of family films who, of course, Bethy had never heard of because, she now realized, she used to be clueless, just clueless, about things like that. Allison was having her spend at least half an hour every day on IMDbPro.com to cram on who produced, directed, and starred in what movies, and then she drilled Bethy until she got it right. Allison knew it all by heart, of course, but she told Bethy that she shouldn’t feel bad because she’d been in LA for years, so naturally she knew a ton of stuff Bethy didn’t, and ma
ybe wouldn’t, ever.

  This afternoon they both had an audition for Carlyle, one of the leads in After, a to-die-for feature-length film being directed by Gus Van Sant. Allison said Gus Van Sant was one of the greatest movie directors of all time, and he liked to use nonactors, or barely actors, even for some of his movies’ major roles. So now, on the morning of Bethy’s fifth day at Mimi’s house, they were taking turns running the lines in the kitchen. They were sitting on opposing countertops in the kitchen, each with a copy of the sides in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee (Allison) and hot chocolate (Bethy) in the other. They’d agreed that Bethy would read first, and then they’d switch.

  “I bet Quinn’s going out for the brother. He’d be really good,” Allison said, taking dainty sips of coffee. Bethy had watched her put three soup spoons full of Splenda in the cup—“Never use real sugar,” she’d told Bethy, “ever”—so it was probably palatable. Allison had made a face when Bethy said she wanted hot chocolate—“Really? I didn’t think anyone drank that anymore, except for maybe Reba”—but on this Bethy had stuck to her guns.

  “Go,” Allison said now, so Bethy did.

  BUDDY

  I’m not buyin’ it.

  CARLYLE

  What do you mean, you’re not buying it? It’s the truth!

  BUDDY

  Yeah? So where’s your wand?

  CARLYLE

  (with infinite weariness)

  Buddy. That’s only in Harry Potter. Harry Potter is a book.

  BUDDY

  So show me something. If you were a real witch you’d be making something happen!

  CARLYLE

  (sweetly)

  I am. I’m making us argue.

  BUDDY

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  CARLYLE

  So, okay. Do you remember before, when Nana left her dentures in a glass and the next morning they were blue?

  Allison said, “I think the brother’s kind of a douche. I mean, he sure whines a lot.”

  “I think it would be awful to have your mom die.”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Well, I mean, it would be hard and everything, because where would you keep all your stuff? Plus you’d probably have to go live in an orphanage, at least until you could get emancipated.”

  “What’s that?”

  Allison dipped her finger in her coffee and idly colored in one of the countertop tiles. “It means you divorce your family. It means you have money and stuff so you can be on your own even if you’re not eighteen yet. I think Quinn should get emancipated. I mean, he never even goes home anymore except for Christmas and Easter. When he goes back they totally ignore him and stuff. Jasper thinks Quinn should just tell his family to take a flying—”

  “Who’s Jasper?”

  “—fuck. What? He used to work at the studio sometimes. I haven’t seen him in a while, though, so maybe Mimi fired him. He wasn’t booking anyway. I heard he wasn’t even getting callbacks anymore. Plus he’s like twenty-five and he isn’t even SAG yet.”

  “I haven’t booked anything in a while,” Bethany said apprehensively.

  “Mimi would never fire me,” Allison said.

  “Do you think she’d fire me?”

  “Nah. Not yet. I don’t think she likes your mom very much, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But when they talk on the phone Mimi rolls her eyes sometimes and stuff.”

  “I don’t think that’s very nice.”

  “Whatever. So do you think Quinn is cute?”

  “He’s sixteen,” Bethany said.

  “He’s almost seventeen,” Allison acknowledged, dipping her finger in her coffee again and licking it. “That’s what I mean.”

  “That’s old.”

  Allison smiled.

  “I mean, I think he’s pretty cute for an old person,” Bethany ventured.

  “Everyone says he’s gay. He pinched this kid’s nipples once, but what does that prove?”

  “He did?”

  Allison just shrugged, slapping her dangling flip-flops against the soles of her feet with her toes. “Anyway, Quinn doesn’t come around here anymore. I miss him. He’d be really good as this character, though. As Buddy.”

  “Yeah,” said Bethany.

  Then it was Allison’s turn to read, and she did, and they both agreed that hers was the best.

  THE NEXT MORNING, MIMI DROVE THE GIRLS TO THE Universal Studios back lot, pulling up to a ghetto of modular trailers that were used as overflow casting studios. Mimi stayed in the car, talking on her cell phone, while Allison led the way to the right trailer and then inside. A tough-faced redhead with a chain of skulls tattoo running all the way up her arm had them sign in, deposit their headshots and résumés on a sloppy pile, and take two of the plastic folding chairs ringing the small room. The floors were so flimsy the girls bounced when they walked. Bethy had a sudden vision of them trampolining right out the window, as though they were wearing those shoes with springs on the bottoms that she’d been asking for since she was six years old. She smiled. Sometimes she just cracked herself up. She thought about telling Allison, but decided not to. Allison would probably just think she was being juvenile. She was always saying that about Hillary and Reba. “You’re just so young,” she’d tell them—or, worse, “I remember when I was your age,” like it had been a thousand years ago instead of just two.

  Bethy waited for Allison to pick a chair and then took the one beside her. She’d found that if she fell back until she was six or eight inches from Allison’s right shoulder, she could follow her without seeming to follow her.

  There were already four other girls waiting, and then two more arrived. The mean-looking casting assistant told the women who were with them that they’d have to wait outside because there was room for only the girls auditioning. When one of the mothers started to protest, the assistant snapped, “Out!” and the woman pressed her daughter’s shoulder, whispered, “You’ll do fine, just remember—” and lifted the corners of her mouth to make a smile, then turned around and left. Allison rolled her eyes at Bethany.

  Through the thin, hollow door between them and the audition room they could hear a girl saying, “That’s only in Harry Potter. Harry Potter is a book.”

  Allison leaned into Bethany and whispered loudly, “So she sucks.”

  Bethy nodded vigorously, because she did. On the other hand, Bethy wondered how she would sound when it was her turn. What if she wasn’t any better?

  “So, okay. Do you remember before, when Nana left her dentures in a glass and the next morning they were blue?”

  “Are you nervous?” Allison whispered.

  “No,” said Bethany, because she hadn’t been until Allison asked. “Why—are you?”

  “I never get nervous.”

  “Shhhh,” hissed one of the girls, the one whose mother had told her to smile. Allison made an ugly face at her, at the same time elbowing Bethy conspiratorially in the ribs. Normally Bethy was very respectful of other people, but she didn’t want to seem like a Goody Two-shoes, so she smirked at the girl, too, and then felt bad about it when the girl turned bright pink and hunched down in her seat. She’d probably only been trying to concentrate, to stay in character. Bethy would hate for someone to do to her what they had just done to the girl, but she couldn’t think of any way to take it back except maybe to wink if she could catch the girl’s eye—we didn’t mean it; you’re one of us—which she couldn’t because all of a sudden the girl seemed to be crying. Surely they hadn’t done anything bad enough to make her cry? Bethy snuck a look at Allison to see if she was watching the girl, too, but Allison was diving deep into her Coach tote, rummaging around for a nail file. Bethy had noticed that she put a lot of time into her nails. She had pretty hands with long, tapering fingers, so that was probably why. Bethy’s hands were blocky and utilitarian, and she hated them. “These are good, honest hands,” her grandmother had been telling her f
rom the time she was little, taking them in her own hands and turning them over and back, over and back, as though there were some secret message printed there. “These are hands that God loves.”

  The girl on the other side of the room seemed to be trying to pull herself together. She sat up straight, cleared her throat, and surreptitiously wiped her nose on her sleeve. Bethy willed her to look up, but the girl didn’t. Allison brushed the fingernail dust off her hands, then buffed her nails on her pants.

  The three girls ahead of them on the sign-in sheet each went in and read and came out without redirects or anything besides a perfunctory thank-you. They came out with emptied faces, grabbed their things off the chairs, and slammed the trailer door closed behind them. Every time they did, the windows rattled and the mean casting assistant flinched. Bethy thought she might get mean, too, if she had a door slamming right in front of her twenty or thirty times a day. She’d try to remember to close it gently when they left.

  Since Bethany had signed in first, she was called into the audition room ahead of Allison. She hadn’t been able to see inside before, but when she went in she saw that the casting director was Joel E. Sherman. She broke into a smile. “Hi, Mr. Sherman! I didn’t know we were going to be auditioning for you.”

  He motioned for her to shut the door. “Yeah, well, I’m just filling in.” He walked behind a video camera the size of a deck of playing cards, found her in the viewfinder, picked up a mangled copy of the sides, and said, “Okay, go.”

  He was all business, which was confusing. Didn’t he recognize her? She thought about saying, “It’s me, Lucy!” but that would probably just make things more confusing, so she took a deep breath and slated, using Rabinowitz for her last name. She was always Rabinowitz now. Mimi had even had them print a whole new stack of headshots with Rabinowitz on them instead of Roosevelt. Bethy thought he’d appreciate that, since he was the reason, but he didn’t react except to look up at her and say, “Go.”