by Antony John
“I save my Nikes for special occasions. You can sit down if you want.” She pats the space beside her.
I join her. Even though this is a perfect copy of my room, it feels different—larger, or maybe just emptier.
She turns the video camera on the nightstand so that it’s facing us.
“You’re really doing that?” I say.
“If I can face a camera feeling like I do now, I can do it anytime.” She presses a key, and a tiny light comes on. “So, you want to talk.”
Yes, I do. But not like this. Not with the camera on, and only a few inches of bed between us. Trouble is, silence is uncomfortable too.
“Those photos Ryder sent me all came from the same party,” I explain. “From the same moment, practically.”
She looks bored, like she wishes this would all just go away. “I know,” she says.
“It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Sabrina wasn’t even my first choice for a hookup.”
Annaleigh hesitates. “She wasn’t?”
“No. But Kris was already taken.”
She hits me with a pillow, but she’s kind of laughing too. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah, I am.”
She looks at our hands, side by side on the bed. “When we showed up on the kiss cam tonight, that was crazy.”
“Kind of, yeah . . . being so public and all. But nice too.” It comes out sounding like a question.
“Definitely nice.” Annaleigh gives a tight-lipped smile. “You’re being very agreeable tonight.”
“Uh-huh.”
She moves her hand so that our fingertips touch. Every fiber of my body, every nerve ending feels like it’s being redirected to that one place.
“I guess we should get some sleep,” she whispers. “After all the camera flashes we just saw, tomorrow’s pictures might be hard to take.”
I don’t want to move, but I have to. Annaleigh and I were costars and acquaintances. Now we’re partners and friends. I need her to see that she can trust me. That I’m everything she thinks I should be.
I stop beside the door. “We’re going to be okay. I really believe that.”
She nods, but her expression is serious. “I hope you’re right.”
23
I WAKE EARLY. GANT IS FAST asleep on the other side of the bed. Kind of a bummer that the first time I share a fancy bed with someone, it’s my brother.
Dad opted to sleep on the sofa, but he’s up too. He’s even showered and dressed already. He leans against the sofa, his battered duffel bag packed beside him.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“Interview,” he says.
I’m about to remind him that he doesn’t need to put himself through this—I get fifty grand in less than a week—but he looks different than usual. He’s smiling, for one thing. More than that, he seems confident.
I throw on some clothes and head out with him.
In the foyer he picks up a complimentary newspaper. “I-I’ve been reading things,” he says, waving it.
“It’s just stupid stuff, Dad. Comes with the territory.”
He nods, but doesn’t smile. “You’d t-tell me if something was . . . wrong.”
“Yeah. I’m just finding my way still.”
Now he smiles. “You and me both, son.”
We walk toward the main entrance. It’s early, but several people are milling around.
“So,” he says. “K-kiss cam, hmm?”
I try to laugh it off.
“Y-you were one of SportsCenter’s Top Ten Plays.”
“What?”
He ruffles my hair. “Just kidding. Annale-leigh is nice, though. Your mother . . . she would’ve liked her.”
Two paparazzi hover on the street outside the hotel. The first gets up in our faces as soon as we hit the sidewalk. He’s like a school bully, invading our personal space, daring us to push back.
Dad, visibly uncomfortable, climbs into a taxi. I want to hug him and wish him good luck, but there’s nothing personal about this moment anymore. Even as I wave good-bye, I feel observed.
“Want to make a comment, Seth?” says the second paparazzo, microphone in hand.
“About what?”
“Annaleigh.”
“What about her?”
He acts like I’m joking. Then, as it dawns on him that I’m serious, he tosses a newspaper to me.
I glance at the front page, and freeze.
There are two photographs. The first is of Annaleigh, but she looks different—long hair, and baggy sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder. The second is of a middle-aged guy with short hair and thick wire glasses, and it’s no ordinary photograph.
It’s a mug shot.
The two guys photograph my reaction, so I turn away. Inside the hotel, I continue reading. Words leap off the page, a laundry list of indictments that set my heart pounding: father . . . stolen goods . . . repeat offender . . . awaiting sentencing. But all of them fade away as soon as I read the phrase first-degree assault.
Annaleigh’s family has distanced themselves from him, according to the report, but none of their neighbors has anything good to say about either parent. Even Annaleigh’s boyfriend is quoted as saying that her father is better off behind bars.
Of all the words on the page, boyfriend should be the least problematic for me. I can’t stop reading it, though.
There are two more photographs at the bottom of the page, both of Annaleigh and me. One is of the kiss cam. In the other, we’re walking along Rodeo Drive on Christmas Day. The pictures feel tagged on, irrelevant, but they bring me into Annaleigh’s story—make me a character in a drama that I didn’t even know existed.
I thought I knew her, this girl I kissed in front of eighteen thousand witnesses.
Turns out, I don’t know anything.
I’m early for the rehearsal, but I’m not the first to arrive. Brian welcomes me with half a nod and a whole frown, and I head back to the rehearsal room.
The door is closed, but I can make out Annaleigh’s voice. Sabrina’s too. They’re keeping the volume low, but there’s no doubt they’re arguing. I stay outside and try to catch a little of their conversation.
“No need to wait,” says Ryder, joining me. “We may as well get started.”
The argument stops as soon as I open the door. Annaleigh sinks lower in her chair. Sabrina returns to her place on the opposite side of the table.
For a while, we focus on the new script, complete with expanded role for Andrew’s best friend. But no one’s in the mood to improvise and the scripted dialogue sounds trite against the backdrop of Annaleigh’s truly dramatic home life.
Thirty minutes in, Annaleigh’s phone rings. She rummages in her bag and pulls out two phones—one old, one new. The old one is ringing. She looks at the number on the screen, and at us. I can’t tell if she wants permission to answer it, or for someone to tell her to turn it off. Which would be kinder?
She takes the call as we pretend not to listen. The woman’s voice on the other end is loud and insistent. When there’s a break, Annaleigh doesn’t offer a word in self-defense, so the woman resumes yelling.
Finally Annaleigh speaks up. “I didn’t tell anyone, Mom,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how they found out.”
Her mother takes over again. This isn’t supposed to be a conversation. This is judgment and punishment in one.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Annaleigh fights back, “Dad’s charges aren’t exactly the kind of publicity we want right now!”
For a few seconds Annaleigh keeps the phone pressed against her ear, but it’s clear her mother has hung up. Then she stands abruptly and leaves the room. Ryder follows her.
I push my chair back.
“Let her go,�
� says Sabrina.
“She’s freaking out.”
“Ryder can handle it.”
“So can I.”
I head along the corridor and out into the sun-smog L.A. air. When she sees me, Annaleigh wraps her arms around me and buries her face in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“This isn’t your fault.”
She doesn’t say anything after that, just holds on to me, her whole body shaking.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” says Ryder gently. Then, turning to me, he adds, “Stay here. Work on those new scenes.”
What he means are the scenes with my new best friend, Sabrina. He’s several days too late for that relationship to ring true.
Annaleigh slopes toward his car like she’s sleepwalking, and Ryder follows, seemingly as dazed as she is. He’s probably calculating how much this news will affect the movie. Hard to put a positive spin on a story like this.
The car pulls away. I can’t see Annaleigh through the glare on the windshield, but I imagine her sitting inside, quiet and pensive. I feel like I did when Maggie leaked the story about Kris and Tamara—worried and frustrated and lost. Difference is, there’s no one to blame this time, and I really want to blame someone.
A door closes behind me. Sabrina leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette. She blows a stream of smoke high into the air.
“How’s she doing?” she asks.
“How do you think?”
“Well, it was an intense scene, but all things considered, she did pretty good.” She takes a long drag on the cigarette. “I’d give her seven out of ten. Timing’s a little off, but the instincts are there. Probably just needs practice.”
I never thought that Sabrina could say something so cruel.
“She must’ve known this would come out, right?” Sabrina murmurs. “That’s a lot of time to prepare a reaction.”
“Not everyone prepares for bad news.”
“Then she’s crazy. Or delusional. And I don’t think she’s either.”
I want to fight back. I want to say how unfair it is that Sabrina emerges from her dysfunctional home life stronger than ever while Annaleigh suffers for her father’s crimes. But I can feel the entire movie hanging in the balance. It’s no secret that Sabrina and Annaleigh aren’t getting along. One angry word from me, and Sabrina might pull out completely. Without her, who knows if there’ll be any movie left at all?
24
I KNOCK ON ANNALEIGH’S DOOR, BUT she isn’t answering. I try her phone but go to voicemail. Call Ryder, who assures me that he saw her to her room before leaving.
I ask the desk clerk if there’s any way to check on her. “I’m worried,” I explain.
“She looked okay on her way to the fitness center earlier,” he replies.
Sure enough, Annaleigh is on a treadmill. She told me this relentless need to run is an attempt to escape her home life. One week in L.A. and it has caught up with her.
The display reads 9.2 miles. She’s been running for an hour and twenty minutes. She should be coated in sweat, but she isn’t. She should hear me approach, see me standing right beside her, but she doesn’t. She just stares at the TV screens above her—a talk show wading through the day’s juiciest gossip.
There are familiar photos of Annaleigh and her father. Annaleigh and me on the kiss cam. Then pictures of me: stills from Romeo and Juliet, a short clip from my first commercial, with Kris at the party, all moody looks and fancy clothes. The sound isn’t on, but it’s obviously an attempt to show that we’ve grown up on opposite sides of the tracks.
“Annaleigh?”
My voice seems to awaken her, but she keeps moving. She must be dehydrated. I wasn’t able to face breakfast. What’s the likelihood that she has eaten today?
“Annaleigh,” I say, firmer this time.
She blinks, but doesn’t stop. So I press the stop button for her, and watch her strides contract until she’s only walking, then standing. When she steps off the machine, she almost falls.
I wrap an arm around her and lead her away. She should feel hot against me, but she doesn’t. All the way to her room she leans against me for support. I’m certain that if I let her go, she’ll collapse.
I tell her to lie down on the bed. Remove her shoes and socks, and cover her with the sheet. She pulls it tight against her—more for the feeling of security than need of warmth, probably.
“My full name is Rebecca Annaleigh Ware,” she says. “But I always wanted to go by Annaleigh.”
I sit beside her. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t looking at me.
“I hoped it would be enough, using my middle name. Figured that with a new haircut and clothes, there was a chance no one would make the connection. I even kept my new cell phone number a secret from everyone back home, like I could make that life go away. Start over. How stupid does that sound?”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is. I should’ve used a completely different name, but I wanted it to be my name in lights. I wanted something to be proud of. Why wasn’t I satisfied with just getting away?” She clicks her tongue—dry, parched. “At home, it never matters what I do. Nothing ever changes. But this movie could’ve made all the difference.” Anger flares across her face, but it’s quickly extinguished. “Now I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
I fetch a glass of water. “You should’ve told me.”
“About my father? How he lost his job and started dealing stolen goods to make ends meet? How sometimes he’d come home with injuries he couldn’t explain? I was afraid that if Ryder and Brian found out, they wouldn’t want me anymore. Especially not once I told them I’m using the money to pay for his lawyer.”
It never occurred to me that she might still feel connected to her father.
“He’s family,” she says, interpreting my silence. “I hate my parents, and I’m so angry at my dad. But he wouldn’t hurt someone like they say he did.”
As she takes the glass from me, our fingers brush together. “Did Brian tell you to check on me?”
“No.”
“He already called. Wanted to know how long I’ll need to get my head straight. That’s how he said it, like I’m some kind of flake. It’s only a matter of time before Sabrina gets my role.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Oh yeah? How are you going to stop her?”
“I don’t know. But you and me, we’ve dealt with too much crap to give up fighting now.”
Annaleigh shrugs. “You’d be really good together.”
“No, we wouldn’t! Look, I’m not who you think I am.”
“So who are you? I don’t know anything about you, either. Where do you live? Where’s your mom? What crap have you dealt with?”
I don’t want to talk about me—the timing doesn’t feel right—but there’s no camera recording us now. As Annaleigh squeezes my hand, I realize that maybe the right time to open up is when someone cares enough to listen.
“I grew up in Ohio,” I begin. “Summer before high school, Mom got a job at UC–Northridge. Something big in human resources. She had a month between jobs, so we took a road trip. We were in New Mexico when she got sick. Stomach pain. We tried to get her to go to the hospital, but she wouldn’t. Toughed it out for three more days. Turned out, her appendix had perforated. They operated immediately. She seemed to be getting better when she became septic. She died the next day.”
I’ve told the story so many times that it has an almost clinical efficiency, like the synopsis to a play. I don’t even cry anymore. But then, I don’t need to. Annaleigh is crying for me.
“Why didn’t your mom listen to you?”
It’s what everyone asks—the seventy-eight-thousand-dollar question. “Because her new health insurance didn’t kick in for another couple weeks. We wer
e supposed to close on a house in Encino, but the bank pulled out when they realized we were on the hook for the hospital bills. Dad’s stroke happened a few weeks later. He wasn’t insured either. Gave it up when he quit his old job, because he was going to be covered by hers.”
Annaleigh runs her thumb in slow circles across my wrist. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“How could you? Like you say, it’s not something I talk about.”
“How did you get over it? I mean, something like that . . . I just can’t imagine.”
“I didn’t. Not at first. But then I realized, you can’t control everything. Stuff happens, and it’ll happen again. There’s nothing you can do about it. You just have to keep going.” I savor the feel of her thumb against my skin. “This movie isn’t over, Annaleigh. It’s a dark moment, but we’ll survive.”
Annaleigh stares deep into me. “We?”
“Yeah. We.”
Her thumb stops moving. Her bare arm rests on the sheets, fading summer tan against bright white. She watches me watching her.
I want to hold her. She’s beautiful and strong and determined, and she cares about me. I care about her too.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” she whispers. “I was going to, at the party, but then Sabrina arrived . . .” She takes my hand and we twine fingers. “I won’t compete with her, Seth.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I’m just saying, I’ll never be Sabrina Layton.” She rolls away, so that I can’t see her face. “I don’t have a boyfriend, just so you know. The guy in the article, he dumped me last summer. Did it by text. Hasn’t said a word to me since. But I guess I’m worth knowing again now.”
Our hands, still joined, rest on her hip. Her skin is warm beneath the sheet and the thin material of her shorts.
“Yes,” I say. “You are.”
25
DAD CALLS ME AROUND DINNERTIME. I expected him to be back already. Job interviews don’t usually take all day.
“I g-got it,” he says.
I’ve already prepared a sympathetic response, and it takes me a moment to switch gears. “That’s . . . amazing!”
