“Are you with that boy?” My mom’s voice is staticky through the phone. She always calls me on her cell because we don’t have a long-distance plan at home, and the signal is never any good in our house.
“Since when do you read tabloids?” I ask. I’m standing in the condo kitchen, looking at an article with the headline: RAINER DEVON AND PAIGE TOWNSEN ARE LOCKED IN LOVE IN HAWAII. They’ve reused the photo of us from the Fish Market—me and Rainer, foreheads pressed together. Didn’t that run weeks ago? How is that still relevant?
“Since my daughter ended up in them,” she says. Even through the not-so-great connection, I can hear the shortness in her tone.
“Do you really believe all this?” I ask. I don’t think about what has actually changed since then. The fact that Rainer and I have now kissed. A few times.
“I don’t know, honey,” she says.
I put the magazine down. “Did you actually subscribe to Star?”
I still don’t believe her. My mother wouldn’t know how to locate a tabloid if it were the only book in the school library. Which, obviously, tabloids aren’t. She shops at the local co-op, not the supermarket, and the only magazines there are Yoga Journal and a bunch of pamphlets on astrology. I have another theory.
“Cassandra called you,” I say.
My mother sighs. It comes out in a crackle. “Please answer my question, Paige.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
There is a suspicious pause in our conversation. Then: “She really cares about you.”
Cares about me. Right. That’s why she’s been so busy calling me since she and Jake came to set. “She just wants information,” I correct her.
“Honey, I think if she wanted information she’d call you. It’s very unlike you to doubt Cassandra. What’s going on?”
I imagine my mom standing in our kitchen where she always uses the phone, her elbows on the counter, or fussing in the refrigerator, and I think about how long it has been since I’ve seen her. The longest since I was born. I should tell her something. That I love her. “It’s not something I really want to make public,” I say instead.
“It’s Cassandra and your mother,” she says. “Which one of us, exactly, is public?”
“She’s dating Jake,” I blurt out.
I don’t hear a sigh or a gasp or even the silence of stopped words. “I know. I’ve seen them,” my mom says matter-of-factly, like I’ve just told her I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.
“So you knew?”
I imagine her pausing in the refrigerator, putting the milk back and sticking her hand on her hip. “Honey, you have all been friends for a really long time. Things change.”
“She’s dating Jake,” I say, slowly. Like if I place the words one at a time this will make sense to her.
“But don’t they have a right to be happy, too?”
I inhale. “Of course,” I say, “it’s just—” My mom doesn’t know about the times Jake and I kissed and how mad Cassandra got. “Cassandra always said it would ruin things if two of us got together.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I run my palms along the cool marble of the countertop. “It was just weird, having them out here and seeing them like that. I kind of freaked out.” I sit down on a stool and swivel outward, toward the ocean. I don’t usually talk to my mom about this kind of stuff, but it comes tumbling out. Seeing Cassandra and Jake on the couch. The dinners with Rainer. How awkward our good-bye was.
She doesn’t answer right away when I finish. “Mom?”
I hear her inhale, the slow sigh of her exhale. “I understand, honey,” she says. “But I think you need to give them a break. I don’t think you’re upset because they’re together; I think you’re upset because they moved on, too. Things change, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t think we would,” I say. There is a lump in my throat I didn’t know was there.
“You can’t blame your friends for carrying on life without you.”
“But did they have to carry it on together?”
I hear the slight jingle of her laugh. “Well,” she says. “I think the better question is whether it’s worth losing both friendships over.” She changes the subject to my sister and Annabelle, then says, “I gotta go. I love you,” and clicks off. I set the phone down on the counter. She’s right, of course. And I miss them. I miss both of them. I want to call Jake and tell him about the Clean Ocean Initiative that Wyatt just started to offset any environmental impact the film might have. I want to call Cassandra and tell her that Rainer finally kissed me, listen to her squeal and ask me what it’s like, whether his hair is soft, what he says to me when we’re alone.
But I’m due at rehearsal, and I’m supposed to stop by the editing room this morning and look at yesterday’s dailies. Yesterday we reshot the first scene of the movie, the scene where August washes up on the shore, bloody and broken. It felt better doing it this time, and I think Wyatt agreed. He actually asked me to take a look at the footage. He’s never asked me for my input before, so I want to make sure to be on time. Hair and makeup is in twenty minutes.
Editing is located in conference rooms on the first floor of the condos. The blackout curtains are always drawn, so I feel sorry for the editors. They’re stuck staring at these screens all day long while we’re in Hawaii. At least we get to work outside pretty regularly.
Gillian, the special effects editor, greets me when I get there. She’s incredibly tall with henna-red hair and multicolored wire-rim glasses. I’ve never told her this, because I don’t really know her too well, but she reminds me a little of home.
“Hey, kid,” she says. She puts a firm hand on my shoulder. “We got the whole thing set up for you. My office.” She kicks the door closed with her foot and leads me into a room with gray walls and a large plastic desk with four computers and three keyboards on it. A frozen picture of the beach is on the screen.
“Sit.” Gillian rolls a desk chair toward me, and I plunk down into it. She leans over and starts typing on the keyboard. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “Rainer joining you?”
“No,” I say, craning around to glance at the doorway. “I don’t think so, anyway.”
Gillian flips a desk chair around next to me and sits, her chest pressed up against the back. “You ready?”
I smile to say yes. Give her a thumbs-up.
We go through the takes. It’s strange to see myself on-screen like this. I have before—in commercials, and a few community theater plays that were filmed, but this is totally different. The special effects aren’t even in yet, but there is no pretense of a stage or a set. It’s just us, like watching a home video of yourself except it isn’t you, exactly.
“It’s raw,” Gillian says. “But pretty cool, right?”
“Very,” I say, nodding.
She winks at me, and clicks through to another take. Wyatt is always talking about matching shots, how my hand has to hit the same point in space when I say a certain word, so that later, when they slice the film together, they’ll be able to match things up. I sort of got it, in theory, but now it actually makes sense. A movie is like a giant puzzle—pieces scattered on the living room floor. It’s only later, after it’s together, that you realize it makes one single story.
Gillian’s cell phone blares. “Dancing Queen” by Abba.
“Favorite seventies song,” she says. “I’m old. Don’t tell anyone.” Gillian snaps the phone open. She nods a few times, then covers the receiver with her hand. “I’m gonna go grab footage from set,” she says. “Can you hang for five?”
“Sure.” I should probably head out, but I want to stay. It’s fun spending time with Gillian. She reminds me of the cool aunt character from the movies. The kind that lets you drink wine at dinner, and helps you “borrow” your parents’ car to sneak out on the weekends. Both my parents are only children, so I never had that. One time my brother offered to buy me and Cassandra vodka for a sleepover we were having. We said okay, mostly because we were trying to look cool, I think, but he ended up not following through. What happened was that I asked about it, my parents overheard us, and we were both grounded for a week.
I’m not saying Gillian would encourage underage drinking, exactly, but there are some adults who just don’t seem to have the same reverence for rules. Generally they’re the ones with no kids.
She leaves, firing some directions into her phone, and I’m left alone with me on the screen. It’s a close-up shot of my body, still as silence, on the beach. I’m bloody, and my hair is splayed out like a spider web that’s still being spun. I feel like I’m bleeding to death, or she is, which is ridiculous because (1) August doesn’t die, and (2) it isn’t even blood. I was there when they mixed the hair gel with the chocolate syrup and food coloring, told me to lie down, drew an X on my abdomen, and started pouring the mixture right over it.
But still.
There’s something about watching my body like this—my legs scissored out, my hand unfolded, the fingertips still reaching—that reminds me of the act of death. This is how it happens. You float up, above your body, and watch yourself like you’re in some kind of movie.
“Strange, huh?”
I didn’t hear him approach, but now I can feel Jordan’s voice at my ear. It shocks me twice as much as what I’m seeing on the screen.
I brush my hair back and turn around to look at him. “A little,” I say, trying to keep my voice level.
Jordan nods. He’s watching the screen, his eyes flitting left to right. I’m incredibly aware that it’s me lying there, that it’s my half-naked body he’s looking at. I want to throw a blanket over the girl at the beach, and one over me now, too. Because I can’t separate us. It feels like he’s not staring at the screen, but at me. When his eyes graze over her abdomen it makes me suck in my breath, and when he looks up to her still face my cheeks flush red, and when he reaches out and gently touches the screen I can feel his hand on my shoulder—like a spark plug.
“How come you’re not at rehearsal?” I ask. My voice comes out hoarse, and I clear my throat.
“It’s just you and Rainer today,” he says. He turns from the screen to look at me, and I wonder if he’s seen all those stupid magazines, too. I have the intense desire to tell him it’s not true. To lie.
“Got it,” I say. “What’s up?”
Jordan turns Gillian’s chair around and sits down. “I like to come in here and see how things look up there.” He gestures to the monitor. “You?”
“Wyatt wanted me to take a look,” I say. “I’ve never seen dailies before.” Embarrassing. I should be in here. I should be taking advantage of every learning opportunity being on this set has to offer.
Jordan keeps looking at the screen. “I think it’s interesting to see the process, you know? There is so much that goes into it.”
He turns his head to look at me. “I’ve always liked watching how things come together. It’s probably the thing I love most about acting. How collaborative it is.”
“I guess,” I say. “But acting itself isn’t really collaborative.”
He scans his eyes over my face. “Of course it is.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t feel that way.” I have no idea why I’m being contrarian. All I’ve wanted is for him to talk to me, to not treat me like a leper. And now it’s actually happening and I’m pushing back at him.
“This is the thing I can’t understand about actors,” Jordan says. “How you don’t see that what you do is impossible without the help of dozens of people. No art takes place in a vacuum.”
“But when you act, shouldn’t it just be for you? I mean, does it matter who watches your play or movie or whatever? Don’t you just do it because you love it?”
Jordan leans back in the chair and hooks his hands behind his head. “No,” he says. “At its best, art is a dialogue. You do this thing so people can see it, and enjoy it, and engage with it. It’s for other people.”
I can see from the way he speaks—carefully yet easily, fluidly—that this isn’t the first time he’s considered this. It’s an opinion developed through years of being thoughtful about his process. It makes something inside me tighten—a combination of admiration for his commitment, and disappointment at my own lack of the same.
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
He looks at me and squints, like he doesn’t fully understand the question. “It’s my life,” he says. “Of course I have.”
He has an ability to make me feel off-kilter, like the things I thought about the world—what I believed in and knew to be true—are all just a smoke screen for other things, bigger things. Talking to him makes me feel like I’m pulling back a curtain and I’m not sure what’s behind it.
I’m trying to figure out how to respond when Gillian comes bursting back in. “Hey, J,” she says.
He smiles at her. It’s the first time I’ve seen one on him, and it changes his entire face. It’s like how his eyes turned from black to brown—the smile softens him. “And I jacked your chair.” He stands, and she waves him off.
“Sit. This one has to go, anyway.”
“Me?” I ask.
“Wyatt’s waiting, kid. We’ll finish up later.”
I mutter under my breath, and stand. I don’t want to leave. “Well, thanks,” I say. “I’ll come back.”
“They always do,” she says, and winks at Jordan. She sits down in my chair, arms crossed. Jordan grabs the keyboard. The images on the screen move, my body coming back to life. He starts flipping through shots like Gillian did.
“Bye,” I say. I expect him to keep his head down, to ignore me, but instead he looks up. “Bye, Paige,” he says. “Nice talking to you.” I try to find a hint of sarcasm in his tone, but I can’t. It’s possible he actually means it.
“You’re late, babe.” Rainer greets me as I walk into the hair and makeup trailer. He’s dressed as Noah, and he looks amazing. He’s shirtless, and his skin is perfectly tan. What you’d imagine those Greek gods would look like, come to life.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Lillianna says. “We’ll make up the time.” But I’m not worried. I don’t feel like I need to scramble right now. After all, Wyatt was the one who wanted me to spend some time with Gillian.
“I should stop keeping you up so late,” Rainer says, and my face immediately heats up with memories of last night. Us on my lanai. Me in his lap.
“I was in editing,” I tell him.
“Editing?” He’s looking in the mirror, adjusting some hair. “Why?”
“Wyatt wanted me to. Plus, it’s interesting. Being a part of the process.… Acting isn’t a vacuum,” I say lamely.
Rainer looks amused. “I trust you,” he says.
“I just like knowing more,” I say.
“Cool.”
I slump into the chair next to him. He reaches out and grazes my knee with his hand. “Hey,” he says.
I lean my leg into his fingertips. He bends down for a kiss, but I turn away, smiling apologetically at Lillianna.
“I’ve seen worse, hon,” she says. She pats the top of my head with her palm. “You make a darling couple.”
“We do, don’t we?” Rainer says. He lets go of my knee and hops down from his chair. “I’ll go keep Wyatt off your back. See you down there?” He leans in again, but this time I let him get my lips. “Later, gorgeous,” he whispers.