Meg
“Do all the McAllister kids know how to cook?” I ask Cassidy as she peeks into my oven at the chicken she made. She mixed it with a dry rub of Indian spices before roasting it. Then she made a cucumber salad with yogurt and cherry tomatoes.
I keep her wine glass full and just watch.
“Yep. We all cook because our parents can’t. No lie.” She closes the oven door and rolls her eyes. “They hire everything out. In the days before Grubhub, that meant paying a personal chef or sending the nanny to fetch takeout. So we all grew up wishing for the homemade food on our friends’ tables. And now we all cook. Liam is probably the best, though.”
I’ve seen Liam in action in my sister’s kitchen. It’s pretty sexy, I have to admit. There’s something about having a man cook for you.
“Are your parents excellent cooks?” Cassidy asks.
“They are,” I admit.
“That’s probably why you aren’t. Just saying.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “Is that also why I’m not an overachiever? Oh, wait—my sister is, though.” She’s a shrink with her own practice. “Can achievement skip a generation?”
“That’s an interesting question, but…” Cassidy breaks off. “Did you hear that?” she whispers. “It sounded like moaning.”
Ooh! It’s showtime, apparently. I clap my hands together, then beckon, urging my friend closer to the screen door.
Cassidy’s pale eyebrows lift. “Omigod,” she whispers. “Are they starting up?”
In the two weeks I’ve lived here, I’ve heard more sex than a sound tech on a porn shoot. Clearly the cop next door and his girlfriend are sex fiends. She lives there now, too! I’ve spotted her in the hallway, arriving home from work, a shiny new key in her hand and a happy smile on her face.
I’d be happy too if I were getting it from Mr. Stamina every few hours. I swear, they’re like rabbits on steroids. Every night as I lay in bed, I can hear all the dirty things he whispers to her. Put your hands up. Do as I say. Ride me, sugar.
Just thinking about his deep, gruff voice makes me feel all tingly.
And that nickname? Sugar. He must really love her.
Sigh.
Cassidy has heard all about the sexual soundtrack in apartment 503, although she hasn’t experienced it. She won’t right now, either. Because the sounds next door aren’t sex. There are a couple of unfamiliar bumps to the wall. And I hear the girlfriend’s voice.
But not his voice. Hot Cop is disappointingly silent. Ah, well.
“So tell me about your new man,” I say, wiping down the countertop.
“Oh.” Cassidy’s face is solemn. “Date number two is coming up.”
“God, could you look any less excited?”
“It’s early,” she says flatly. “We don’t really know each other yet.”
Oh dear. Her lack of enthusiasm tells me everything I need to know. But I can sense that Cassidy isn’t ready to hear it. “Well, if you’ve snagged a good man in your life, it’s my turn next.”
“Deal,” she says.
“I could make the thin walls shake, too.”
“Loudly,” she agrees.
Although that only makes me think of Maguire next door. Would it be too much to ask if the man I end up dating looked like him?
When dinner is ready, I plate everything up and carry it ten paces to the living area, where I’ve set out napkins and silverware on the new coffee table. “Thanks for cooking. I feel spoiled.”
“Anytime.” Cassidy sits down on the couch beside me. “Well? Tell me how it tastes. And then tell me what’s happening with the Chicago audition.”
I take a bite of chicken. It’s succulent and spicy. “This is terrific. Wow.” The cucumber salad is a nice contrast, too.
“You didn’t answer both questions.”
“I’m avoiding my email, to be honest. My agent sent something, but I’m afraid to read it.”
Cassidy sets down her fork at once. “Where is it? I’ll look. I have a good feeling about this one.”
If only I did, too. Right before I moved into this apartment, I drove to Chicago to audition for a tampon commercial. Don’t laugh. A single tampon commercial can earn enough for a house if it gets enough airplay. Cassidy rode along with me for fun, and to do some shopping.
We ended up staying an extra day, though, because I got a callback. And then another one. By the time they were done with me, it was down to three women, and they said they’d be in touch.
Today.
I take another bite of chicken and sigh. Then I fish the phone out from under the couch cushion, unlock it, and open my email. While it’s tempting to make Cassidy read it for me, I’m a big girl.
A big girl staring at bad news.
Megan, we loved meeting you! And we were impressed with your poise. But ultimately we went in another direction.
Wordlessly, I hand the phone to my guest.
“Oh!” she gasps. “No! I was so sure. This is awful. How could they? I mean, when you were pretending you had those cramps, I totally believed you! I tried to give you ibuprofen and rub your head, remember?” As I watch, Cassidy’s eyes get red.
Mine don’t, though. I’ve had a good ten years to get used to this kind of rejection. “It happens to every actress. Even Emma Watson.”
It must. Or at least it used to. Maybe.
Though I can’t really see Emma Watson selling tampons.
Cassidy tosses the phone onto the couch between us. “I’m disgusted for you. Those other women were so boring. I wouldn’t buy a sandwich from them. Let alone something intimate. Don’t you think?”
“I think…” I set my fork down, too. “There’s no way to tell you what I think without sounding like a crazy person. But it’s starting to get to me.”
“What is?”
“I’m tired of wondering why I don’t get cast. Is it my talent? Is it my preparation? Or is it my skin color. I mean—they say they want diverse casting, you know? But what they really mean is a really tan white girl and not an actual woman of color.”
“Shit,” Cassidy whispers. And this girl never swears. “I think that would make me crazy, too.”
“Sometimes it’s all I think about,” I confess. “Leading roles are very white. It’s even more true for women than men.”
Cassidy chews slowly. “But Meg. You’re so beautiful. And talented! I just don’t understand why you’re not cast in anything you show up for.”
“That is a very nice thing to say. But beauty is subjective. And it’s also making me crazy.”
It was my choice, though, to pick a job where looks matter so much. As a consequence, I probably spend more time looking in the mirror than your average accountant or veterinarian. When I do, I see features that are a really nice blend of my mom, who is a white Dutch lady, and my dad, who’s Jamaican American. I’m a striking mixture of the two of them. And my gut is 90% sure that it’s holding back my acting career.
But it’s even more complex than that. Sometimes, casting wants someone who is ethnic but not too ethnic. Take my sister, Sadie. People think she’s Indian, or Spanish, or just really tan. She has a golden hue that’s quite popular in Hollywood right now. She’s ethnic in a way that, to them, is interesting without specificity.
But I look more like our father. I press my hair for auditions, but it naturally has a lot of texture. And my skin tone is darker than Sadie’s. My gut says that a pharmaceutical executive somewhere decided not to alienate his white tampon consumers by putting me in that ad.
Or maybe my audition just wasn’t as good as I thought it was. I don’t know which. And the soul-killing truth is that I never will.
But I know two things for sure. One: I’m not supposed to say these things out loud. Because it sounds like whining and blaming other people for my career failures.
And two: this kind of circular thinking can really drive a girl insane. Which I know because I’m already there.
“I don’t think…” Cassidy says slowly. “I don’t think I ever want a job that depends on someone’s biased opinion of whether or not I’m pretty.”
“You’re…” I almost say you’re beautiful. Because she is. But that’s not the point. “You’re wiser than I am, then. Because it’s a real drag having to trade on your face. And that’s why I’m trying to find something else to do with my life. I need to get off the audition treadmill before I lose my mind.”
We both pick up our wine glasses at the same time. I take a deep gulp.
“What’s the weirdest thing anyone ever said to you at an audition?” Cassidy asks.
I let out a sigh. “Usually they don’t bother telling you why you didn’t get a callback. They just say ‘Next!’ But one time I handed over my audition card and the woman said—‘We already have a black girl.’”
Cassidy makes a horrified gulping sound and then chokes on her sip of wine. So I pound her on the back.
Me, I don’t choke anymore. I just get sad.
When I was in my early twenties, rejection didn’t bother me so much. I knew success wouldn’t be easy, and I was prepared to wait. But lately I’m just tired. I’m no longer sure if I’m auditioning out of love or out of pure stubbornness.
How do you know when it’s time to give up? What should I do with the rest of my life?
I don’t think those answers are going to find me tonight. Right now I just want to drink this wine and eat good food with my friend. It’s a good start.
“Oooooh.”
When the first moan arrives, I don’t even hear it. I’ve grown accustomed to living in a sex palace.
“Aaaaaah! Aaaaah!” the woman next door says. She sounds like she’s stepping into really cold water.
But Cassidy sits up straight, her eyes popping wide.
“YES! YES! YES! YES! HARDER!” screams the woman next door.
“Oh my,” Cassidy says, blinking behind her glasses. “That’s...loud.”
“Trust me, it’s louder in my bedroom. Or on the deck.” And I should know.
Cassidy fans herself. “Maybe we should leave. I feel like a pervert right now.”
“Pfft!” I wave away her objection. “Finish your dinner. Besides, you’re just walking a mile in my proverbial kicks. It’s like this every night, and some of the daytime hours, too. Just wait until the finale.”
I get up and head for the kitchen to bus my plate. The sound of Hot Cop’s lucky girlfriend grows even louder.
But I don’t hear his voice this time. That’s unusual. Where are his gruff commands? The manly grunting? And then the panty-dropping moment of silence before his satisfied moan?
And—sue me—I miss it. That voice stars in all my dirty fantasies these days. I don’t even feel guilty, either. If he didn’t want me to hear, he’d keep it down. He’s lived here longer than I have. He must know how sounds carry.
Then his girlfriend starts barking. Actually barking. Cassidy and I look at each other, wide-eyed, and then bust out laughing.
“Oh, wait!” I say, barely being able to speak. “That’s an actual dog. I think.”
Cassidy surprises me then. “Let’s go find out for sure!”
I look at her for a beat. This is not the Cassidy I’ve grown to know and love. Cassidy is a rule-follower. A good girl. Then I notice that her hair is starting to come out of its topknot. And her cheeks are flushed. This is drunk Cassidy. All hail drunk Cassidy!
“Okay, let’s!” I agree.
Five minutes later, they’re still going at it. Which is good, because that is how long it’s taken me to convince Cassidy to strap on my old rock-climbing gear. I’m holding the pulley system with a carabiner. The plan is that I’ll hold onto her, secured with climbing gear, while she leans out as far as she can around the divider. With the binoculars, she should just be able to see into the apartment. If the windows are open.
Please, lord, let them be open.
“Oh, I don’t know about this,” Cassidy says as I check the straps.
“Shush. Drink this. It’s Courage Juice.”
“It’s wine,” she says, clearly not fooled.
“Whatever. It’s Friday night and this is the most exciting thing to happen in either of our lives since Aquaman hit the theaters.”
Cassidy nods. It’s go time.
“Climb over the railing now,” I whisper.
She puts a foot on my folding chair and lifts herself up.
I might be officially drunk right now, but it’s okay because I’ve secured the climbing gear around my own body. I have so many questions. Did Hot Cop get a dog? Or are they doing a little bit of role play? And why is he so quiet?
Wait. Maybe the girlfriend is home alone? Is there such thing as a barking vibrator?
Ew.
“Cassidy,” I whisper. I’m in a deep lunge and Cassidy is slowly leaning over the balcony. “Cassidy!” I try again. I’m straining all my muscles to hold the rope in exactly the right position.
She’s carefully focusing the binoculars. When Cassidy is on task, there’s little that can distract her. Not even earthquakes or orgasms, or both.
“I can see them!” she whispers back. But it’s one of those stage whispers that’s actually incredibly loud. Drunk people aren’t subtle.
“Is it just her?” I ask. This lunge is starting to burn. I really need to work out more. Or at all. I give a little more slack on the rope.
“Nope. There’s two of them! And hooooo boy!” Cassidy gives me the thumbs up.
I have never wanted to see anything so badly.
“Your cop friend is really skinny,” she says. “Or is she a giant?”
“What?” My cop...my next-door neighbor is not a small man. He’s huge. I imagine all of him is huge.
“So scrawny! I thought you said he was hunky?”
Even though I’m drunk right now, something clicks into place. There is sex happening next door, in Hot Cop’s apartment. But Hot Cop isn’t the one who’s having it.
Holy hell! Hot Cop’s girlfriend is cheating!
“Omigosh!” Cassidy cries. She’s really leaning out over forty-five feet of airspace, now. “Is this what it’s like to watch porn?”
“You don’t know?” I ask, forgetting to whisper. We have got to get this girl some more life experience.
She leans out a little farther, and now I’m starting to question our life choices. “You have to come back now,” I say, straining in my harness. “You’re heavier than you look.” She has a glassy look in her eye, though. “Cassidy, don’t go toward the light.”
“He’s got three legs!” She sounds overjoyed.
“Three legs?” What the...
Then Cassidy realizes her mistake. “OH MY GOD THAT’S NOT A LEG! It’s not a leg!! Abort mission! Pull me in! Pull me in!!”
I’m using all my strength to pull her back. But that’s difficult when you’re both drunk and dying of laughter. Who is this skinny, little man with a penis so large that Cassidy thought it was another appendage? There’s no way that it’s my cop.
I give one final heave, and Cassidy reels back toward me. I try to catch her. I really do. But momentum is a scary thing. The moment she lands in my arms, we both just crash to the deck, a jumble of ropes and limbs and shrieks of laughter.
That’s when I hear the skitter of claws coming toward us on the other side of the fence. “ARF ARF ARF ARFFFF!” yips a dog.
“YES YES YES!” screams the neighbor lady.
She doesn’t even care. She’s banging a skinny dude with a dog, while her boyfriend is at work, and I am not okay with it. Does she not know how good she has it? Does she not know how hard it is to find a gruff-voiced dirty talker who holds your plant in the elevator?
Is she out of her mind?
I stand up and dust myself off. I’m disgusted for Mac Maguire. But on the plus side, I think I’ve finally figured out what I want to do with my life, at least short-term. There’s something rare in Hot Cop’s gray eyes, and it makes me want to help him. I know what it feels like to be lied to. He needs to know the truth. And she needs to go.
My new mission in life: take that bitch down.